Arethusa flung herself flat on a mossy spot of ground underneath the
largest and tallest of the trees in Miss Asenath's Woods.
Like the vaulted ceiling of a huge green cathedral, the branches far
above her curved in graceful arches. And they were so thickly
interlaced and grown with leaves, that although this first slow-falling
rain of the storm could be distinctly heard in its noisy pattering on
those leaves, very little came through them, save an extra large and
splashing drop every now and then.
Having run every step of the way from the house, Arethusa was
completely out of breath: and she could only lie panting for some
moments, the Letter still clutched to her breast.
The wind had died down, and it was as hot and close out here in the
open under the trees as it had seemed in the shut-up sitting room. But
she was far from any thought of physical discomfort now.
* * * * *
At the beginning of Miss Asenath's Romance those many years ago, her
father, Arethusa's great-grandfather Redfield, had set aside this strip
of woodland in which to build his daughter a house.
It was not nearly so heavily wooded then, and the lovers had wandered
over it and selected a spot for the little home, mute evidence of their
choice of site remaining in a half-dug foundation, overgrown with vines
and weeds and almost indistinguishable save for the few heavy stones
that marked one side of the depression. But the walls of the little
house had risen in fancy for her with such reality, that, when the sad
ending to her love-story came and the building was abandoned, at Miss
Asenath's request the woodland was fenced off. Hence, its name of "Miss
Asenath's Woods." She had never gone there since the day when with her
own hands she had spread a layer of mortar between two stones "for
luck," but she knew every inch of it as it was now, every tree and
bush, from Arethusa's vivid description. Arethusa's imagination could
for herself, from Miss Asenath's telling, place the little house on its
ghostly foundation in all the actuality it was once to have had.
Arethusa loved the woodland quite as much as Miss Asenath did, even
apart from the significance of its connections with her aunt's
love-story. It was the only spot on the place that Miss Eliza did not
keep straight; the only bit of the Farm that was not inspected, often,
by that keen glance which, even if a trifle near-sighted, so little
escaped. But she never went near the woodland on any pretext.
There was nothing "combed" or "fixed" about Miss Asenath's Woods; no
white-washed trees or clipped grass. Bees droned and birds sang and
wild-flowers bloomed there all uninterrupted; squirrels chattered in
the trees, friends of Arethusa's that were tame enough to perch on her
shoulder if she sat quite still; and funny little, Molly-cotton-tail
rabbits often scampered in front of her while she was reading, so close
she could have touched them. It was a bit of nature that no human hand
had ever spoiled, the never finished foundation was only an addition in
its suggestion; therefore, the girl's woodsy heart claimed it as her
very own, although by name it belonged to Miss Asenath.
But, since the time she was a wee scrap and, running away from Miss
Eliza's scolding, had stumbled on this enchanted spot entirely by
accident and had brought her dolls down here for play, Arethusa had
found congenial occupation in the woodland. And now that she was older,
she spent long hours of reading and dreaming instead of play.
In her favorite position, flat on her stomach with her heels in the air
and her chin propped in her hands (which position Miss Eliza contended
was far removed from the dignity befitting Arethusa's years and had
forbidden in her, Miss Eliza's, presence) she read old-fashioned novels
that she smuggled out of the bookcase in the parlor. When the book was
closed, she invariably added long chapters of her own fancy to the
"lived happily ever after" ending. Yet all that she read did not, by
any means, end thus happily, for she loved sad stories also. She knew
"The Scottish Chiefs" almost by heart. It was foolish, perhaps, to lie
under the trees and read sobbingly until she could hardly see what she
was reading for the tears, and then dab at her eyes with a sopping wet
handkerchief; but ... it was Arethusa. She was most Incurably Romantick.
She kept a few of her greatest favorites here in this hollow tree in
the centre of the woodland, for a story one likes cannot be read too
often, thought this gentle reader.
Here also, for the hollow tree somewhat resembled a treasure chest in
its interior, she had a length of green of the same soft shade as the
lichen of the woods around her. It was a green ribbon so thoroughly
satisfying in its color that only to spread it out on the grass where
her eyes might gaze upon it delighted Arethusa's soul.
Some day.... Some day.... She would have a green dress of just that
identical shade. "And Aunt 'Liza may say all she pleases about my
hair!"
Of which bit of meditated defiance, Miss Eliza remained in total
ignorance.
For Arethusa's hair was an uncompromising red. It was a deep, rich
brown-red in shadow and a burnished coppery-red in the sunlight,
wonderful to behold, but still red. And there was a decided difference
of opinion between Miss Eliza and her niece as to the color most
suitable for the clothes that were to be worn with such a top-knot.
Miss Eliza was horrified at the bare thought of any but the plainest of
shades beside it; generally standing up strongly for blue, a very dark
blue. Arethusa, although she rather preferred other colors of an
infinite variety, would not have minded blue so much had Miss Eliza's
selections been less depressingly somber. Abortive attempts to enliven
her wardrobe were immediately crushed with scathing references to the
fiery locks. And the wardrobe remained of an unwaveringly dull tone.
According to Miss Eliza, Arethusa's red hair was wholly to blame for
her temper, which was of a somewhat quick and lively nature. She
seemed, at times, almost to consider it a deep disgrace to the family
that her niece should be so crowned. Arethusa was the only red-haired
person that had ever been in the whole family connection, so far as
anyone knew; an off-shoot, so to speak. But Miss Asenath dearly loved
its bright color, and she was never tired of running her fingers
through the ruddy masses and of curling and twisting the little shining
tendrils of curls that clustered in the nape of the girl's neck.
Arethusa had the warm white skin that nearly always accompanies red
locks, somewhat freckled, it is true, but not enough so really to
matter; and deep greenish-grey eyes, rimmed all around with the most
unbelievably long lashes. They were real Irish eyes, which excitement
darkened and made to shine like big stars. It naturally followed that
they were dark and starry the greater part of the time, for she was
Arethusa and in an almost constant state of excitement.
And she was quite tall and slender, very unlike the Redfields. They
were all small and compactly built; but Arethusa had got her height
from her father.
* * * * *
Having arrived almost at a state of natural breathing once more,
Arethusa rolled over and spread the Letter out before her. She studied
her father's bold handwriting with shining eyes, and kissed his
signature rapturously.
When she was a baby of about six months or so her father had given her
into Miss Eliza's keeping and started for a foreign trip, "of a few
months," he had said then. But that was nearly eighteen years ago, and
he was still on the other side, with never so much as the most flying
visit to the little daughter in America in all that time. Yet the love
and loyalty of that little daughter had never wavered from the day Miss
Asenath had put his photograph into her tiny hands, and taught her to
call it "Father," and to kiss it through the glass.
This love and loyalty were not founded upon memories, for she had none.
They were given a father created by her own vivid fancy, aided by the
photograph. This was a faded likeness of an unusually handsome man with
waving hair of an eccentric length and bold dark eyes smiling straight
out of the picture as if he were just about to speak to the Arethusa
who worshipped it. He wore a Byronic sort of collar, with a wide tie,
and his shoulders were draped in an Italian military cape, effectively
thrown back from the one wide frog that clasped it just below the
flowing ends of the tie. So he was not like other fathers; not at all
like those most commonplace male parents with which Arethusa was
acquainted. He was far more like the Hero in one of those sentimental
novels she never tired of reading. She could but give him all the most
desirable of the attributes of the men-folk who lived in those pages;
for they seemed so far superior to any man she knew in the flesh.
Miss Asenath, with her stories of him, had helped unconsciously in the
creation of this ideal. Miss Asenath had loved him very dearly,--loved
his bright youth as she did all youth. Miss Eliza's bark was always
much worse than her bite, and she, although she spoke very slightingly
of him at times, had been quite fond of him. So, too, had Miss Letitia.
The little daughter had grown up in an atmosphere that fostered her
hero-worship.
Arethusa's most carefully cherished Dream, through childhood to the
very present time, had been that some day this wonderful father of hers
would come home, here to the Farm. She had planned their meeting, to
the smallest detail, many and many a time. And he had written that he
was coming, over and over again; only to add a little later that "he
would not be able to get across this year." But these repeated
disappointments had in no wise chilled the glow of his daughter's
anticipation.
And now ... he was actually on this side of the Atlantic! No longer
the broad ocean rolled between them. If he had not come clear back
to the Farm, he had come much nearer to it than he had ever been In
Arethusa's recollection of him; and, moreover, he had come with a
_wife_!
Small wonder that Arethusa was excited!
But the Letter.... The Letter would tell her all about it.
"My dear Miss Eliza," it ran--
"I may as well come to the point at once--you always liked that
best, as I recall--and tell you that I am married; was married in
Italy, at the American Consulate at Florence, the second of last
June. My wife is the very finest woman God ever made, bar none;
save perhaps you ladies to whom I write. And I, who was ever for
peace, will fight to a finish him who avers aught to the contrary.
I cannot expect you, who have never seen her, to share my
enthusiasm, of course. But if you knew her, Miss Eliza, if you knew
her!
"Words fail me in an effort at description, but will it suffice to
say that I am perfectly satisfied to gaze at her all day long, day
in and day out? This surely must convey something to you who knew
me well of old and will remember that I was ever most critical,
having the idea then that my bent was artistic.
"I could hardly believe in my own good fortune, Miss Eliza, when
she said she would have me. I asked her all over again,
immediately, just to make sure. So now the former Miss Elinor
Harvey is Mrs. Ross Worthington.
"To make a long story short, I have told her about Arethusa, and
she is most anxious to know her new daughter. As she is possessed
of considerably more of this world's goods than is your humble
servant--the one thing I have against her--she has insisted upon
herself enclosing a check for our daughter's immediate needs, and
this daughter is to come as soon as you and Miss Letitia can get
her ready. Don't be sparing with this check; I am instructed to
add, more will be sent if necessary.
"My wife--I do love to write that word, Miss Eliza,--says that she
will write, herself, very shortly. She is most busy at present,
turning her house upside down from garret to cellar, but she says
that when it is finished it will be a most beautiful house.
"Give my love to Miss Letitia and my darling daughter, Arethusa,
and my most knightly devotion always to Miss Asenath, bless her!
My wife joins me in all kind wishes for your household.
"Yours affectionately,
"ROSS WORTHINGTON."
Arethusa hugged herself ecstatically and then pressed her lips to the
Letter until the ink smudged. It was a wonderful Letter!
And the whole of the situation revealed in it appealed to her. The
Romance (a love story brought even nearer home than Miss Asenath's, for
it was her own dearest father who was living it right now); the Beauty
of the bride, so plainly stated, and Arethusa loved beauty with all the
fire of her romantic young soul; and the bride's Wealth, undoubtedly
intimated, which gave the necessary touch of luxury to the picture, for
Arethusa loved the fleshpots also, if an innocent liking for silks and
satins and baronial halls could be called "love of the fleshpots,"--it
was as perfect a situation as any created by any one of her favorite
novelists. She was visioning a Rarely Handsome Couple, hand in hand,
moving with slow and stately grace through the vast halts of a Mansion.
"Elinor" was a beautiful name; far more beautiful than any other name
she knew.
In short, being constitutionally unable to do anything by halves,
Arethusa fell most completely in love with the newcomer into the
family, when she might have had other feelings about her, perhaps just
as strong. But there was not the slightest trace of anything resembling
resentment in the daughter's heart that a strange woman had taken the
first place with her father; she would not have understood if anyone
had suggested to her that it might be permissible under the
circumstances. There was only a very deep gratitude that flooded her
whole being. She realised quite plainly from the Letter that it was
owing a great deal to the "New Wife" that her dream of so many years
was coming true. She had brought Ross back to America, so much nearer
to his daughter, and she had sent her, Arethusa, (sent it herself
because it was positively so stated) the money whereby she was to make
reality that long anticipated meeting.
But she did not waste much time in speculation as to the spending of
that "check for her immediate needs"; such would have been truly idle
dreaming. Miss Eliza would spend it. She would attend to the providing
of a wardrobe for the visit, and that wardrobe would be utilitarian
first and foremost, and durable. All of Miss Eliza's purchases had the
virtue of durability. For best, perhaps, Arethusa might have a silk
dress (her Sunday silk of the season before was almost worn out), but
it would be a dark blue one, undoubtedly; and one was convinced before
it was even bought that it would be a sensible dress.
Had Arethusa had the spending of the money her outfit might present a
very different appearance.
* * * * *
She had been so absorbed in her Letter that she had not noticed that
the storm had begun to increase in violence. The wind was rising again
and the rain was beginning to come rapidly through the leaves.
Suddenly, with a roar like the approach of some vast army across the
fields, it came from the northwest in a blinding sheet, and in just a
moment she was drenched. She scrambled hastily to her feet and thrust
the Letter far down in the hollow of the tree to keep it dry, and then,
flattened herself against the trunk to watch, as much protected as she
could be, and with the intensest admiration, this masterpiece of the
Storm King. She was not in the least bit frightened of the vivid
lightning that played almost incessantly about her, or of the rolling
and crashing thunder. She lifted up her face to feel the rain upon it,
and smiled in sheer joy of the wonderful beauty of the graceful long
sweep of that failing rain.
But with a crack of thunder which Miss Letitia would have said was
"near," most certainly, for it sounded as though the heavens themselves
were fallen, Arethusa's eyes closed involuntarily.