TWO STUBBORN PEOPLE
Rosemary West, on her way home from a music lesson at Ingleside, turned
aside to the hidden spring in Rainbow Valley. She had not been there
all summer; the beautiful little spot had no longer any allurement for
her. The spirit of her young lover never came to the tryst now; and the
memories connected with John Meredith were too painful and poignant.
But she had happened to glance backward up the valley and had seen
Norman Douglas vaulting as airily as a stripling over the old stone
dyke of the Bailey garden and thought he was on his way up the hill. If
he overtook her she would have to walk home with him and she was not
going to do that. So she slipped at once behind the maples of the
spring, hoping he had not seen her and would pass on.
But Norman had seen her and, what was more, was in pursuit of her. He
had been wanting for some time to have talk with Rosemary, but she had
always, so it seemed, avoided him. Rosemary had never, at any time,
liked Norman Douglas very well. His bluster, his temper, his noisy
hilarity, had always antagonized her. Long ago she had often wondered
how Ellen could possibly be attracted to him. Norman Douglas was
perfectly aware of her dislike and he chuckled over it. It never
worried Norman if people did not like him. It did not even make him
dislike them in return, for he took it as a kind of extorted
compliment. He thought Rosemary a fine girl, and he meant to be an
excellent, generous brother-in-law to her. But before he could be her
brother-in-law he had to have a talk with her, so, having seen her
leaving Ingleside as he stood in the doorway of a Glen store, he had
straightway plunged into the valley to overtake her.
Rosemary was sitting pensively on the maple seat where John Meredith
had been sitting on that evening nearly a year ago. The tiny spring
shimmered and dimpled under its fringe of ferns. Ruby-red gleams of
sunset fell through the arching boughs. A tall clump of perfect asters
grew at her side. The little spot was as dreamy and witching and
evasive as any retreat of fairies and dryads in ancient forests. Into
it Norman Douglas bounced, scattering and annihilating its charm in a
moment. His personality seemed to swallow the place up. There was
simply nothing there but Norman Douglas, big, red-bearded, complacent.
“Good evening,” said Rosemary coldly, standing up.
“‘Evening, girl. Sit down again—sit down again. I want to have a talk
with you. Bless the girl, what’s she looking at me like that for? I
don’t want to eat you—I’ve had my supper. Sit down and be civil.”
“I can hear what you have to say quite as well here,” said Rosemary.
“So you can, girl, if you use your ears. I only wanted you to be
comfortable. You look so durned uncomfortable, standing there. Well,
_I’ll_ sit anyway.”
Norman accordingly sat down in the very place John Meredith had once
sat. The contrast was so ludicrous that Rosemary was afraid she would
go off into a peal of hysterical laughter over it. Norman cast his hat
aside, placed his huge, red hands on his knees, and looked up at her
with his eyes a-twinkle.
“Come, girl, don’t be so stiff,” he said, ingratiatingly. When he liked
he could be very ingratiating. “Let’s have a reasonable, sensible,
friendly chat. There’s something I want to ask you. Ellen says she
won’t, so it’s up to me to do it.”
Rosemary looked down at the spring, which seemed to have shrunk to the
size of a dewdrop. Norman gazed at her in despair.
“Durn it all, you might help a fellow out a bit,” he burst forth.
“What is it you want me to help you say?” asked Rosemary scornfully.
“You know as well as I do, girl. Don’t be putting on your tragedy airs.
No wonder Ellen was scared to ask you. Look here, girl, Ellen and I
want to marry each other. That’s plain English, isn’t it? Got that? And
Ellen says she can’t unless you give her back some tom-fool promise she
made. Come now, will you do it? Will you do it?”
“Yes,” said Rosemary.
Norman bounced up and seized her reluctant hand.
“Good! I knew you would—I told Ellen you would. I knew it would only
take a minute. Now, girl, you go home and tell Ellen, and we’ll have a
wedding in a fortnight and you’ll come and live with us. We shan’t
leave you to roost on that hill-top like a lonely crow—don’t you worry.
I know you hate me, but, Lord, it’ll be great fun living with some one
that hates me. Life’ll have some spice in it after this. Ellen will
roast me and you’ll freeze me. I won’t have a dull moment.”
Rosemary did not condescend to tell him that nothing would ever induce
her to live in his house. She let him go striding back to the Glen,
oozing delight and complacency, and she walked slowly up the hill home.
She had known this was coming ever since she had returned from
Kingsport, and found Norman Douglas established as a frequent evening
caller. His name was never mentioned between her and Ellen, but the
very avoidance of it was significant. It was not in Rosemary’s nature
to feel bitter, or she would have felt very bitter. She was coldly
civil to Norman, and she made no difference in any way with Ellen. But
Ellen had not found much comfort in her second courtship.
She was in the garden, attended by St. George, when Rosemary came home.
The two sisters met in the dahlia walk. St. George sat down on the
gravel walk between them and folded his glossy black tail gracefully
around his white paws, with all the indifference of a well-fed,
well-bred, well-groomed cat.
“Did you ever see such dahlias?” demanded Ellen proudly. “They are just
the finest we’ve ever had.”
Rosemary had never cared for dahlias. Their presence in the garden was
her concession to Ellen’s taste. She noticed one huge mottled one of
crimson and yellow that lorded it over all the others.
“That dahlia,” she said, pointing to it, “is exactly like Norman
Douglas. It might easily be his twin brother.”
Ellen’s dark-browed face flushed. She admired the dahlia in question,
but she knew Rosemary did not, and that no compliment was intended. But
she dared not resent Rosemary’s speech—poor Ellen dared not resent
anything just then. And it was the first time Rosemary had ever
mentioned Norman’s name to her. She felt that this portended something.
“I met Norman Douglas in the valley,” said Rosemary, looking straight
at her sister, “and he told me you and he wanted to be married—if I
would give you permission.”
“Yes? What did you say?” asked Ellen, trying to speak naturally and
off-handedly, and failing completely. She could not meet Rosemary’s
eyes. She looked down at St. George’s sleek back and felt horribly
afraid. Rosemary had either said she would or she wouldn’t. If she
would Ellen would feel so ashamed and remorseful that she would be a
very uncomfortable bride-elect; and if she wouldn’t—well, Ellen had
once learned to live without Norman Douglas, but she had forgotten the
lesson and felt that she could never learn it again.
“I said that as far as I was concerned you were at full liberty to
marry each other as soon as you liked,” said Rosemary.
“Thank you,” said Ellen, still looking at St. George.
Rosemary’s face softened.
“I hope you’ll be happy, Ellen,” she said gently.
“Oh, Rosemary,” Ellen looked up in distress, “I’m so ashamed—I don’t
deserve it—after all I said to you—”
“We won’t speak about that,” said Rosemary hurriedly and decidedly.
“But—but,” persisted Ellen, “you are free now, too—and it’s not too
late—John Meredith—”
“Ellen West!” Rosemary had a little spark of temper under all her
sweetness and it flashed forth now in her blue eyes. “Have you quite
lost your senses in _every_ respect? Do you suppose for an instant that
_I_ am going to go to John Meredith and say meekly, ‘Please, sir, I’ve
changed my mind and please, sir, I hope you haven’t changed yours.’ Is
that what you want me to do?”
“No—no—but a little—encouragement—he would come back—”
“Never. He despises me—and rightly. No more of this, Ellen. I bear you
no grudge—marry whom you like. But no meddling in my affairs.”
“Then you must come and live with me,” said Ellen. “I shall not leave
you here alone.”
“Do you really think that I would go and live in Norman Douglas’s
house?”
“Why not?” cried Ellen, half angrily, despite her humiliation.
Rosemary began to laugh.
“Ellen, I thought you had a sense of humour. Can you see me doing it?”
“I don’t see why you wouldn’t. His house is big enough—you’d have your
share of it to yourself—he wouldn’t interfere.”
“Ellen, the thing is not to be thought of. Don’t bring this up again.”
“Then,” said Ellen coldly, and determinedly, “I shall not marry him. I
shall not leave you here alone. That is all there is to be said about
it.”
“Nonsense, Ellen.”
“It is not nonsense. It is my firm decision. It would be absurd for you
to think of living here by yourself—a mile from any other house. If you
won’t come with me I’ll stay with you. Now, we won’t argue the matter,
so don’t try.”
“I shall leave Norman to do the arguing,” said Rosemary.
“_I’ll_ deal with Norman. I can manage _him_. I would never have asked
you to give me back my promise—never—but I had to tell Norman why I
couldn’t marry him and he said _he_ would ask you. I couldn’t prevent
him. You need not suppose you are the only person in the world who
possesses self-respect. I never dreamed of marrying and leaving you
here alone. And you’ll find I can be as determined as yourself.”
Rosemary turned away and went into the house, with a shrug of her
shoulders. Ellen looked down at St. George, who had never blinked an
eyelash or stirred a whisker during the whole interview.
“St. George, this world would be a dull place without the men, I’ll
admit, but I’m almost tempted to wish there wasn’t one of ‘em in it.
Look at the trouble and bother they’ve made right here, George—torn our
happy old life completely up by the roots, Saint. John Meredith began
it and Norman Douglas has finished it. And now both of them have to go
into limbo. Norman is the only man I ever met who agrees with me that
the Kaiser of Germany is the most dangerous creature alive on this
earth—and I can’t marry this sensible person because my sister is
stubborn and I’m stubborner. Mark my words, St. George, the minister
would come back if she raised her little finger. But she won’t
George—she’ll never do it—she won’t even crook it—and I don’t dare
meddle, Saint. I won’t sulk, George; Rosemary didn’t sulk, so I’m
determined I won’t either, Saint; Norman will tear up the turf, but the
long and short of it is, St. George, that all of us old fools must just
stop thinking of marrying. Well, well, ‘despair is a free man, hope is
a slave,’ Saint. So now come into the house, George, and I’ll solace
you with a saucerful of cream. Then there will be one happy and
contented creature on this hill at least.”