The Chronicles of Rhoda Part 1

The Chronicles of Rhoda.

by Florence Tinsley c.o.x.

I

A DETHRONED QUEEN

"YOUR name is Rhoda," grandmother said, with the catechism open in her hand. "Rhoda. Rhoda. It's quite easy to say."

"Ain't I the little pig that went to market?" I asked, anxiously, gazing up from her lap into her eyes, over which she wore gla.s.s things like covers. "And ain't I Baby Bunting?" I continued, with the memory of a famous hunt stealing over me.

"Once you were," grandmother answered, soberly. "Now you are Rhoda."

I liked to sit in grandmother's lap. She had such a soft silk lap, and in her pocket-hole there was a box which held peppermint drops. She never gave them to anybody but just me, when I was good, and if her arms were thin and fragile under the soft silk, she knew how to hold a little girl in a most comfortable fas.h.i.+on. Her white hair rippled down low at the sides, concealing her ears, but her ears were there for I had run my fingers up to see. She wore a lovely lace collar, and a breastpin with a picture on it, and when she walked the charms on her watch-chain clinked in a musical way. Grandmother was beautiful, and every one said that I looked just like grandmother. That was very nice, but puzzling, for my hair was golden, and my eyes were uncovered, and where grandmother had her wrinkles I had only a soft pink cheek.

I never sat very long on grandmother's lap. It was a function that meant catechism or extreme repentance, and then, also, I was too popular for one person to have me always. The family handed me around very much like refreshments. Now I would be with mother, and now with father, and now with Auntie May, who did not live at our house, but would run in on her way to school to pat my head. They were all so fond of me that it was quite gratifying.

"Where is Rhoda?" father would ask the very first thing when he came into the house at night, and I would sit up for him, holding on tightly to my chair for fear that they would put me to bed before he came.

Then we would have a little talk together, up in a corner by ourselves.

He was my confidant, and was more on a level with me than other people.

I had an idea that he would give me anything, quite irrespective of goodness or badness, for when I was naughty he never appeared to think any the worse of me, although the rest of the family might be bowed down with the sense of my moral shortcomings. He was my champion, and in the early twilight I had many stories to tell him, not always of the strictest veracity.

"And so I runned away, far, far away, and I only came home just now," I invented, in an airy manner.

"Did you see any one on the road?" he asked, with sudden interest.

He was aware of my love of a romance.

"There was a little old woman in a red cloak with a red pepper in her mouth," I answered, peeping up in his face with wide, truthful eyes.

"Mother Hubbard!" my father cried, clapping his hands like a boy.

"Mother Hubbard! But where was her dog?"

"Her dog was behind, and he had a red pepper in his mouth," I added, hastily.

"I wonder what they were going to do with them," my father said, luring me on.

"Don't you know, father?" I cried, delighted.

"No, I can't think."

"Pies! She was going to make pies out of them! Pretty red pepper pies!"

"Sure enough!" my father said, much surprised. "I never thought of that.

How I wish that I'd been along!"

The little old lady in the silk dress used to quake when I said these things. That was one of the reasons why she was teaching me my catechism at such an early age, and I could repeat some pretty hymns, too, which helped to comfort her. Always, no matter how extravagant the tale might be, she made her protest. She meant that, at least, there should be one strong hand to guide the child on the right road.

"That is not really so, Rhoda," she declared, in a severe voice. "You did not see an old woman with a red pepper in her mouth."

I looked at her with a pout.

"Well, I did see an old woman in a red cloak, grandma."

"No, you didn't see an old woman at all. Child, you have not been out of the house to-day!"

"I saw a dog with a red pepper in his mouth," I said, meekly.

"No, you did not even see a dog."

"Well, I saw my own red pepper!" I cried, breaking into sudden tears, for this was my last stronghold, and if the pepper was taken away all my charming fairy tale was gone.

"It's not a question of truth or untruth," my father said, tossing his head back as if he were displeased. "It was merely a story of adventure.

Pray did you never meet any heroic beasts yourself in your own day?"

I opened one wet eye, and stole a cautious glance at grandmother.

"Never, Robert, never!"

I began to cry again harder than before.

Then my father took me in his arms, and carried me upstairs to my mother.

"Grandmother has been making her tell the truth," he said, ruefully.

"She hasn't any sympathy with Rhoda's imagination."

So even in those early days I found that I had an imagination, just as I had a chair with long legs, and a blue plate, and a silver mug. It was a sleeping imagination as yet, for though I had a beautiful blue plate with a blue bridge over a blue and white stream, I never imagined until after years that those tiny figures on the bridge were lovers running away from a cruel parent. Then the bridge was the spot beyond which the gravy must not flow. When it swept over the boundary which I marked for it, I pounded the table with impotent rage, and would eat no more dinner.

"If she were a child of mine," grandmother said, sternly, "she should eat her dinner. It is simply preposterous that her temper should be allowed to go unchecked. What will she be when she grows up!"

"I don't think that Rhoda has a bad temper," my mother replied, plaintively. "It's only that she's the soul of order."

My mother always discovered an excuse that fitted my case, and that critical grandparent of mine found the ground swept from beneath her feet. I was the soul of order. She had seen me herself with my large basketful of toys wending wearily about the house. It was a large basket, a beautiful yellow one with a red handle, and when I began to play my things came out of it, and when I was through playing they went into the yellow basket again. I had a rag doll of a pleasing appearance, named Arabella, and a black woolly creature, which to the eye of affection was a dog, and some of the small bits of carved wood with which a wooden Noah intended to replenish his earth. I played the most delightful games with these toys, and my mother played with me like another small child.

It was with her that I lived most of my life. We were together, not only during the day, but also at night, for when I woke up hours after I had been put in my crib, she was always sitting in the lamplight, sewing or reading, or else quietly watching the fire on the hearth. There was a cheerful glitter from the bra.s.s andirons and fender, and on a shelf above a silver candle-stick with crystal pendants threw out rosy lights.

I did not know any of these wonderful things by name, but I vaguely enjoyed their engaging sparkle, and would lie feeling very safe and warm, with my eyes on the central figure which came and went, now large and mother-like, now lost in the misty depths of slumber.

Strong as was my feeling of proprietors.h.i.+p in that crib, however, there came a dreadful night when I awoke to find myself lost. I was in a new bed. I was in grandmother's big bed, where there was a faint smell of lavender which I liked without knowing why. Grandmother herself had me in her arms and was soothing me.

"Hush-a-by, baby," she said, in quite a new tone, somewhat like a grandmother, but more like an angel. "Hush-a-by, baby, in the treetop."

I sat up and looked about for the s.h.i.+ning fender. It was gone! The fire was gone, and my mother was gone!

"I want my mother," I said, sternly.