with every fibre of body and soul.
"Don't cry, dear girl, please don't! I want to make you happy."
Rosemary released herself, wiped her eyes upon a coarse handkerchief,
then asked the inevitable question:
"Will she care?"
"No, she'll be glad. Mother will too."
[Sidenote: A Promise]
"Grandmother won't," she laughed, hysterically, "nor Aunt Matilda."
"Never mind them. You've considered them all your life, now it's your
turn."
"It doesn't seem that I deserve it," whispered Rosemary, with touching
humility. "I've never been happy, except for a little while this Spring,
and now----."
"And now," he said, taking her into his arms again, "you're going to be
happy all the rest of your life, if I can make you so. If I don't you'll
tell me, won't you?"
"I can't promise," she murmured, shyly, to his coat sleeve. "I must go
now, it's getting late."
"Not until you've told me when you'll marry me. To-morrow?"
"Oh, no!" cried Rosemary. "Not to-morrow."
"Why not?"
"It's--it's too soon."
"In a week, then?"
"I--I don't know. I'll see."
"Make it very soon, my dear, will you?"
"Yes--just as soon as I can."
"Is that a promise?"
"Yes--a promise."
"Then kiss me."
[Sidenote: Half Afraid]
The white fire burned in Rosemary's blood; her heart beat hard with
rapturous pain. Upon the desert wastes that stretched endlessly before
her, Spring had come with the old, immortal beauty, and more than mortal
joy. Half afraid of her own ecstasy, she broke away from him and ran
home.
XXIV
The Minister's Call
[Sidenote: Just Wait]
"Rosemary!"
Grandmother called imperiously, but there was no answer. "Rosemary!" she
cried, shrilly.
"She ain't here, Ma," said Matilda. "I reckon she's gone out
somewheres."
"Did you ever see the beat of it? She's getting high and mighty all of a
sudden. This makes twice lately that she's gone out without even tellin'
us, let alone askin' whether she could go or not. Just wait till she
comes back."
Matilda laughed in her most aggravating manner. "I reckon we'll have to
wait," she retorted, "as long as we don't know where she's gone or when
she's comin' back."
"Just wait," repeated Grandmother, ominously. "I'll tell her a thing or
two. You just see if I don't!"
The fires of her wrath smouldered dully, ready to blaze forth at any
moment. Matilda waited with the same sort of pleasurable excitement
which impels a child to wait under the open window of a house in which
there is good reason to believe that an erring playmate is about to
receive punishment.
[Sidenote: Tense Silence]
"What's she been doin' all day?" Grandmother demanded.
"Nothin' more than usual, I guess," Matilda replied. "She did up the
work this morning and got dinner, and washed the dishes and went to the
store, and when she come back, she was up in the attic for a spell, and
then she went out without sayin' where she was goin'."
"In the attic? What was she doin' in the attic?"
"I don't know, I'm sure."
"She's got no call to go to the attic. If I want her to go up there,
I'll tell her so. This is my house."
"Yes," returned Matilda, with a sigh. "I've heard tell that it was."
"Humph!" grunted Grandmother.
For an hour or more there was silence, not peaceful, but tense, for
Grandmother was thinking of things she might say to the wayward
Rosemary. Then the culprit came in, cheerfully singing to herself, and
unmindful of impending judgment.
"Rosemary!"
"Yes, Grandmother. What is it?"
"Come here!"
[Sidenote: Grandmother chides Rosemary]
Rosemary obeyed readily enough, though she detected warlike
possibilities in the tone.
"Set down! I've got something to say to you!"
"I have something to say to you, too, Grandmother," Rosemary replied,
taking the chair indicated by the shaking forefinger. For the first time
in her life she was not afraid of the old lady.
"I've noticed," Grandmother began, tremulously, "that you're getting
high and mighty all of a sudden. You've gone out twice lately without
askin' if you might go, and I won't have it. Do you understand?"
"I hear you," the girl answered. "Is that all?"
"No, 'tain't all. You don't seem to have any sense of your position.
Here you are a poor orphan, beholden to your grandmother for every
mouthful you eat and all the clothes you wear, and if you can't behave
yourself better 'n you've been doin', you shan't stay."
A faint smile appeared around the corners of Rosemary's mouth, then
vanished. "Very well, Grandmother," she answered, demurely, rising from
her chair. "I'll go whenever you want me to. Shall I go now?"
"Set down," commanded the old lady. "I'd like to know where you'd go!"
"I'd go to Mrs. Marsh's; I think she'd take me in."
[Sidenote: Rosemary's Rejoinder]
"You've got another think comin' then," Grandmother sneered. "Didn't I
tell you to set down?"
"Yes," returned Rosemary, coolly, "but I'm not going to. I said I had
something to say to you. I'm going to be married next week to Alden
Marsh. I've taken enough of the money my father left me to buy a white
dress and a new hat, and the storekeeper has sent to the City for me for
some white shoes and stockings. I'm going to have some pretty underwear,
too, and a grey travelling dress. I've just come from the dressmakers,
now."
"Money!" screamed the old lady. "So that's what you've been doin' in the
attic. You're a thief, that's what you are! Your mother was----"
"Stop!" said Rosemary. Her voice was low and controlled, but her face
was very white. "Not another word against my mother. You've slandered
her for the last time. I am not a poor orphan, beholden to my
grandmother for the food I eat and the clothes I wear. On the contrary,
you and Aunt Matilda are dependent upon me, and have been for a good
many years. I have father's letter here. Do you care to read it?"
Shaken from head to foot, the old lady sank into her chair. She was
speechless, but her eyes blazed. Matilda sat by the window, dumb with
astonishment. This was not at all what she had expected. Rosemary had
drawn a yellow old letter from the recesses of her brown gingham gown
and was offering it to Grandmother. The sight of it had affected the old
lady powerfully.
[Sidenote: The Money]
"Very well," Rosemary was saying, as she returned the letter to its
hiding-place. "In case you've forgotten, I'll tell you what's in it. The
day father sailed up the coast, he sent you a draft for more than eleven
thousand dollars. He said it was for me--for my clothes and my
education, in case anything happened to him. He said that you were to
give me whatever I might want or need, as long as the money lasted. I'll
leave it to you whether you've carried out his instructions or not.
"Now that I'm going to be married, I've taken the liberty of helping
myself to a small part of what is my own. There's almost two thousand
dollars left, and you're quite welcome to it, but I won't be married in
brown gingham nor go to my husband in ragged shoes, and if I think of
anything else I want, I'm going to have it."
"Ma," said Matilda, tremulously, "if this is so, we ain't done right by
Rosemary."
"It's so," Rosemary continued, turning toward the figure at the window.
"You can read the letter if you want to." She put her hand to her breast
again, but Matilda shook her head.
[Sidenote: Grandmother's Decision]
"If you want me to," the girl went on, "I'll go now. Mrs. Marsh will
take me in, but I'll have to explain why I ask it. I haven't told Alden,
or his mother, and I don't want to. I won't bring shame upon those of my
own blood if I can help it. But what I've had, I've earned, and I don't
feel indebted to you for anything, not even a single slice of bread.
That's all."
Grandmother staggered to her feet, breathing heavily. Her face was
colourless, her lips ashen grey. "Rosemary Starr," she said, with long
pauses between the words, "I'll never--speak to--you--again as--long
as--I--live." Then she fell back into her chair, with her hand upon her
heart.
"Very well, Grandmother," Rosemary returned, shrugging her shoulders.
"You'll have to do as you like about that."
By supper-time the household was calm again--upon the surface. True to
her word, Grandmother refused to communicate directly with Rosemary. She
treated the girl as she might a piece of furniture--unworthy of
attention except in times of actual use.
She conveyed her wishes through Matilda, as a sort of human telephone.
"Matilda," she would say, "will you ask Rosemary to fill the tea-pot
with hot water?" And, again: "Matilda, will you tell Rosemary to put out
the milk pitcher and to lock the back door?" It was not necessary;
however, for Matilda to tell Rosemary. The girl accepted the requests as
though they had been given directly--with her head held high and the
faintest shadow of an ironical smile upon her face.
[Sidenote: Left in the Dark]
After supper, while Rosemary was washing the dishes, Grandmother took
the lamp. She was half-way to the door when Matilda inquired: "Where are
you goin', Ma?"
"I'm goin' up to my room, to set and read a spell."
"But--but the lamp?"
"I need it to read by," Grandmother announced, with considerable
asperity, "and you don't need to hunt around for no more lamps, neither.
I've got 'em all put away."
"But," Matilda objected; "me and Rosemary----."
"You and Rosemary! Humph! You can set in the dark or anywhere else you
please." With that she slammed the door and was gone. Rosemary came in,
after a little, humming to herself with an assumed cheerfulness she was
far from feeling. Then she went out into the kitchen and came back with
a match. The feeble flicker of it revealed only Aunt Matilda--and no
lamp.
"Where's Grandmother?" asked Rosemary, in astonishment. "And what has
become of the lamp?"
"She's gone up to her room and she's took the lamp with her," Matilda
laughed, hysterically.
[Sidenote: Aunt Matilda's Troubles]
Rosemary brought in the candle from the kitchen. As it happened, it was
the last candle and was nearly gone, but it would burn for an hour or
two.
"I'm sorry, Aunt Matilda," said Rosemary, kindly, "if you want to read,
or anything----."
"I don't," she interrupted. "I'd like to sit and talk a spell. I don't
know as we need the candle. If she should happen to come back, she'd be
mad. She said she'd put away the lamps, and I reckon she'd have took the
candle, too, if she'd thought."
"Very well," answered Rosemary, blowing out the candle. "I'm not afraid
of the dark." Moreover, it was not the general policy of the household
to ruffle Grandmother's temper unnecessarily.
"Rosemary," said Aunt Matilda, a little later; "Ma's a hard woman--she
always has been."
"Yes," the girl agreed, listlessly.
"I ain't never said much, but I've had my own troubles. I've tried to
bear 'em patiently, but sometimes I ain't been patient--she's always
made me feel so ugly."
Rosemary said nothing, but she felt a strange softening of her heart
toward Aunt Matilda. "I don't know as you'll believe me," the older
woman went on after a pause, "but I never knew nothin' about that
money."
[Sidenote: Pity for Aunt Matilda]
"I know you didn't, Aunt Matilda. It's behind a loose brick in the
chimney, in the attic, on the right-hand side. You have to stand on a
chair to reach it. If you want any of it, go and help yourself. It's
mine, and you're welcome to it, as far as I'm concerned."
"I don't know what I'd want," returned Matilda, gloomily. "I ain't never
had nothin', and I've sort of got out of the habit. I did used to think
that if it ever come my way, I'd like a white straw hat with red roses
on it, but I'm too old for it now."
Tears of pity filled Rosemary's eyes and a lump rose in her throat. Aunt
Matilda's deprivations had been as many as her own, and had extended
over a much longer period. The way of escape was open for Rosemary, but
the older woman must go on, hopelessly, until the end.
"It was sixteen years ago to-night," said Aunt Matilda, dreamily, "that
the minister come to call."
"Was it?" asked Rosemary. She did not know what else to say.
"I thought maybe you'd remember it, but I guess you was too little. You
was only nine, and you used to go to bed at half-past seven. It was five
minutes of eight when he come."
[Sidenote: The Minister Asks to Call]
"Was it?" asked Rosemary, again.
"Yes. Don't you remember hearin' the door bell ring?"
"No--I must have been asleep."
"Children go to sleep awful quick. It was five minutes of eight when he
come."
"Were you expecting him?"
"No, I wasn't. He'd said to me once, on the way out of church after
Sunday-school: 'Miss Matilda, I must be comin' over to see you some one
of these pleasant evenings, with your kind permission,' Just like that,
he says, 'with your kind permission,' I was so flustered I couldn't say
much, but I did manage to tell him that Ma and me would be pleased to
see him any time, and what do you suppose he said?"
"I don't know," answered Rosemary.
"He said: 'It's you I'm comin' to see--not your Ma,' Just like
that--'It's you!'" Her voice had a new note in it--a strange thrill of
tenderness.
"And so," she went on, after a pause, "he come. I was wearin' my brown
alpaca that I'd just finished. I'd tried it on after supper to see if it
was all right, and it was, so I kept on wearin' it, though Ma was
tellin' me all the time to take it off. Her and me had just cleaned the
parlour that day. It couldn't have happened better. And when the bell
rang, I went to the door myself."
[Sidenote: The Greetings]
"Were you surprised?"
"My land, yes! I'd thought maybe he'd come, but not without tellin' me
when, or askin' for permission, as he'd said. He come in and took off
his hat just like he was expected, and he shook hands with Ma and me. He
only said 'How do you do Mis' Starr?' to her, but to me, he says: 'I'm
glad to see you, Miss Matilda. How well you're looking!' Yes--just like
that.
"We went and set down in the parlour. I'd cleaned the lamp that day,
too--it was the same lamp Ma's took up-stairs with her now. It was on
the centre-table, by the basket of wax-flowers under the glass shade.
They was almost new then and none of 'em was broken. They looked awful
pretty.
"Ma came in the parlour, too, and she set down between him and me, and
she says: 'I've been wantin' to ask you something ever since I heard
your last sermon, three weeks ago come Sunday. I ain't been to church
since and I can't feel like I ought to go.'
"'I'm sorry,' he says, just as gentle. 'If you have any doubts that I
can clear up,' he says, 'about the Scripture----'
"''Tain't the Scripture I'm doubtin',' says Ma, 'it's you.'
"'That isn't as bad,' he says, smilin', but I could see he was scared.
You know how Ma is--especially when you ain't used to her.
[Sidenote: Discussing Baptism]
"'I'd like to ask,' says Ma, 'whether you believe that unbaptised
infants is goin' to be saved.'
"'Why, yes,' he says. 'I do,'
"'I suspicioned it,' Ma says. Oh, her voice was awful! 'May I ask you
just what grounds you have for believin' such a thing?'
"'I don't know as I could tell you just what grounds I have,' he says,
'but I certainly feel that the God I humbly try to serve is not only
just but merciful. And if there's anything on earth purer or more like a
flower than a little baby,' he says, 'I don't know what it is, whether
it's been baptised or not. I don't think God cares so much about forms
and ceremonies as he does about people's hearts,' Them's the very words
he said.
"Well," resumed Matilda, after a pause, "Ma was bent on arguin' with
him, about that, and baptisin' by sprinklin' or by immersion, and about
the lost tribes of Israel, and goodness knows what else. He didn't want
to argue, and was all the time tryin' to change the subject, but it was
no use. I never got a chance to say a dozen words to him, and finally,
when he got up to go, he says: 'I've had a very pleasant evenin', and
I'd like to come again sometime soon, if I may,' he says. Just like
that.
[Sidenote: A Souvenir]
"And before I could say a word, Ma had said: 'I dunno as we feel
ourselves in need of your particular brand of theology,' she says. 'It's
my opinion that you ought to be up before the trustees instead of around
callin' on faithful members of the church, sowin' the seeds of doubt in
their minds.'"
"His face turned bright red, but he shook hands with Ma, very polite,
and with me. I've always thought he squeezed my hand a little. And he
says to me, very pleasant: 'Good-night, Miss Matilda,' but that was all,
for Ma went to the door with him and banged it shut before he'd got down
the steps.
"The day before he went away, I met him in the post-office, accidental,
and he says: 'Miss Matilda, I've got somethin' for you if you'll accept
it,' and he took me over to one side where there couldn't nobody see us,
and he give me his tintype. And he says: 'I hope you'll always remember
me, Miss Matilda. You'll promise not to forget me, won't you?'
"And I promised," she resumed, "and I ain't. I've always remembered."
There was a long silence, then Miss Matilda cleared her throat. "Light
the candle, Rosemary, will you?"
When the tiny flame appeared, Rosemary saw that the older woman's face
was wet with unaccustomed tears. She reached down into the bosom of her
dress and drew out a small packet, which she removed carefully from its
many wrappings. "See," she said.
[Sidenote: It Might Have Been]
Rosemary leaned over to look at the pictured face. The heavy beard did
not wholly conceal the sensitive, boyish mouth, and even the crude art
had faithfully portrayed the dreamy, boyish eyes.
"I want to ask you something," Aunt Matilda said, as she wrapped it up
again. "You're going to be married yourself, now, and you'll know about
such things. Do you think, if it hadn't been for Ma, it might have
been--anything?"
Rosemary put out the light. "I'm sure it would," she said, kindly.
"Oh, Rosemary!" breathed the other, with a quick indrawing of the
breath. "Are you truly sure?"
"Truly," said Rosemary, very softly. Then she added, convincingly: "You
know Alden's never been to see me but once, and I haven't even a tintype
of him, and yet we're going to be married."
"That's so. I hadn't thought of that. I guess you're right." Then she
added, generously, "I'm glad you're goin' to be married, Rosemary, and I
hope you'll be happy. You've got it comin' to you."
"Thank you," said Rosemary, choking a little on the words. "Thank you,
dear Aunt Matilda." Then someway, in the dark, their arms found each
other and their lips met.
XXV
A Wedding
[Sidenote: By the Sea]
The air was crystalline and cool, yet soft, and full of a mysterious,
spicy fragrance. Blue skies arched down at the vast curve of the horizon
to meet a bluer sea. Snowy gulls swept lazily through the clear blue
spaces, their hoarse crying softened into a weird music. Upon the
dazzling reaches of white sand, Rosemary was walking with Alden.
He had his arm around her and her face was turned toward his. He was
radiant with youth and the joy of living. It was in the spring of his
step upon the sand, the strong, muscular lines of his body, and, more
than all, in his face. In his eyes were the strange, sweet fires that
Rosemary had seen the day she was hidden in the thicket and saw him
holding Edith in his arms. But it was all for her now, for Rosemary, and
the past was as dead as though it had never been.
As they walked, they talked, saying to each other the thousand dear and
foolish things that lovers have said since, back in the Garden, the
First Woman looked into the eyes of the First Man and knew that God had
made her to be his mate. Suddenly a white cliff loomed up on the beach
before them and from its depths came a tremendous knocking, as though
some one were endeavouring to escape from a hopeless fastness of stone.
[Sidenote: A Stroke]
They paused, but the knocking continued, growing louder and louder. Then
a hoarse voice called "Rosemary! Rosemary!"
The girl came to herself with a start, rubbing her eyes. Gaunt and grey
in the first dim light of morning, Aunt Matilda stood over her, clad in
a nondescript dressing-gown.
"Rosemary!" she whispered, shrilly. "Come quick! Ma's had a stroke!"
They ran back to the old lady's room. In the girl's confused remembrance
the narrow hallway seemed to be a continuation of the white, sunlit
beach, with the blue sky and sea changed to faded wall paper, and the
cliff gone.
Grandmother lay upon her bed, helpless, uttering harsh, guttural sounds
that seemingly bore no relation to speech. Her eyes blazed at the sight
of Rosemary and she tried to sit up in bed, but could not.
"When?" asked Rosemary.
"Just now," Aunt Matilda answered. "I was asleep, and when I woke up I
heard her. She must have woke me up. What shall we do?" she continued,
helplessly, after a pause.
[Sidenote: A Lie]
"I don't know," Rosemary whispered, almost stunned by the shock. "I'll
dress and go for the doctor."
In an hour she had returned with the physician, who felt the old lady's
pulse, and shook his head. In the hall, he interviewed the other two.
"Has she had any shock?" he asked.
For a moment there was no answer, then Matilda answered clearly: "No."
"No," echoed Rosemary.
"No unusual excitement of any sort? Or no bad news?"
"Not that I know of," Matilda replied, calmly.
"Nothing unusual," Rosemary assured him.
"Extraordinary!" he murmured. "I'll be in again this afternoon."
When he had gone, Aunt Matilda turned anxiously to Rosemary. "Do you
think we did right? Shouldn't we have told him?"
"I don't know what difference it could make," Rosemary replied,
thoughtfully. "I'd hate to have anybody know what she's done. Maybe it's
my fault," she went on, sadly. "Perhaps I shouldn't have told her."
"Don't go to blaming yourself, Rosemary. I don't know why you shouldn't
have told her. If I'd been you, I'd have told her long ago--or had you
just found it out?"
[Sidenote: Unable to Speak]
"I've known for quite a while. I don't think I'd have said anything,
though, if I wasn't going to be married. It didn't seem as if I could be
married in brown gingham when father meant for me to have everything I
wanted and the money was there."
"Don't worry about it for a minute," said Aunt Matilda, kindly. "You've
done just right and you ain't to blame for what's happened. It's her own
fault."
Rosemary prepared a breakfast tray and Matilda took it up. "It's better
for you to stay away, Rosemary," she said, "for we don't want her to get
excited." When she returned, she reported that the old lady had, with
evident difficulty, eaten a little oatmeal and choked down a cup of
coffee. She was calmer, but unable to speak.
The unaccustomed silence of the house affected them both strangely.
Grandmother might be up-stairs and helpless but the powerful impress of
her personality still lingered in the rooms below. Her red-and-black
plaid shawl, hanging from the back of her chair, conveyed a subtle
restraint; the chair itself seemed as though she had just left it and
was likely to return to it at any moment.
When the doctor came again, in the afternoon, Matilda went up-stairs
with him, while Rosemary waited anxiously in the dining-room. It seemed
a long time until they came back and held a brief whispered conference
at the front door. When he finally went out, Matilda came into the
dining-room, literally tense with excitement.
[Sidenote: The Doctor's Word]
"He says," she began, sinking into a chair, "that he don't know. I like
it in him myself, for a doctor that'll admit he don't know, when he
don't, instead of leavin' you to find out by painful experience, is not
only scarce, but he's to be trusted when you come across him.
"He says she may get better and she may not--that in a little while she
may be up and movin' around and talkin' again about the same as she
always did, and again, she may stay just like she is, or get worse. He
said he'd do what he could, but he couldn't promise anything--that only
time would tell.
"If she stays like this, she's got to be took care of just the same as
if she was a baby--fed and turned over and bathed,--and if she gets
better she can help herself some. Seems funny, don't it? Yesterday she
was rampagin' around and layin' down the law to you, and to-day she
can't say yes or no."
"She said yesterday," Rosemary returned, "that she'd never speak to me
again as long as she lived. I wonder if it's true!"
"I wonder!" echoed Matilda. "I'd forgotten that."
[Sidenote: The Way of Sacrifice]
"I hadn't," said the girl, with a grim smile.