Was this the world, after all? Rose asked herself; and, if so, what
was amiss with it, and where was the charm, the bewilderment, the
intoxication, the glamour?
She had been glad to come to Boston, for the last two weeks in Edgewood
had proved intolerable. She had always been a favorite heretofore, from
the days when the boys fought for the privilege of dragging her sled
up the hills, and filling her tiny mitten with peppermints, down to
the year when she came home from the Wareham Female Seminary, an
acknowledged belle and beauty. Suddenly she had felt her popularity
dwindling. There was no real change in the demeanor of her
acquaintances, but there was a certain subtle difference of atmosphere.
Everybody sympathized tacitly with Stephen, and she did not wonder, for
there were times when she secretly took his part against herself. Only
a few candid friends had referred to the rupture openly in conversation,
but these had been blunt in their disapproval.
It seemed part of her ill fortune that just at this time Rufus should
be threatened with partial blindness, and that Stephen's heart, already
sore, should be torn with new anxieties. She could hardly bear to see
the doctor's carriage drive by day after day, and hear night after night
that Rufus was unresigned, melancholy, half mad; while Stephen, as the
doctor said, was brother, mother, and father in one, as gentle as a
woman, as firm as Gibraltar.
These foes to her peace of mind all came from within; but without was
the hourly reproach of her grandmother, whose scorching tongue touched
every sensitive spot in the girl's nature and burned it like fire.
Finally a way of escape opened. Mrs. Wealthy Brooks, who had always been
rheumatic, grew suddenly worse. She had heard of a “magnetic” physician
in Boston, also of one who used electricity with wonderful effect, and
she announced her intention of taking both treatments impartially and
alternately. The neighbors were quite willing that Wealthy Ann Brooks
should spend the deceased Ezra's money in any way she pleased,--she
had earned it, goodness knows, by living with him for twenty-five
years,--but before the day for her departure arrived her right arm
and knee became so much more painful that it was impossible for her to
travel alone.
At this juncture Rose was called upon to act as nurse and companion in
a friendly way. She seized the opportunity hungrily as a way out of her
present trouble; but, knowing what Mrs. Brooks's temper was in time of
health, she could see clearly what it was likely to prove when pain and
anguish wrung the brow.
Rose had been in Boston now for some weeks, and she was sitting in the
Joy Street boarding-house,--Joy Street, forsooth! It was nearly bedtime,
and she was looking out upon a huddle of roofs and back yards, upon
a landscape filled with clothes-lines, ash-barrels, and ill-fed cats.
There were no sleek country tabbies, with the memory in their eyes of
tasted cream, nothing but city-born, city-bred, thin, despairing cats of
the pavement, cats no more forlorn than Rose herself.
She had “seen Boston,” for she had accompanied Mrs. Brooks in the
horse-cars daily to the two different temples of healing where that
lady worshiped and offered sacrifices. She had also gone with Maude
Arthurlena to Claude Merrill's store to buy a pair of gloves, and had
overheard Miss Dix (the fashionable “lady assistant” before mentioned)
say to Miss Brackett of the ribbon department, that she thought Mr.
Merrill must have worn his blinders that time he stayed so long in
Edgewood. This bit of polished irony was unintelligible to Rose at
first, but she mastered it after an hour's reflection. She was n't
looking her best that day, she knew; the cotton dresses that seemed
so pretty at home were common and countrified here, and her best black
cashmere looked cheap and shapeless beside Miss Dix's brilliantine. Miss
Dix's figure was her strong point, and her dressmaker was particularly
skillful in the arts of suggestion, concealment, and revelation. Beauty
has its chosen backgrounds. Rose in white dimity, standing knee deep in
her blossoming brier bushes, the river running at her feet, dark pine
trees behind her graceful head, sounded depths and touched heights of
harmony forever beyond the reach of the modish Miss Dix, but she was out
of her element and suffered accordingly.
Rose had gone to walk with Claude one evening when she first arrived. He
had shown her the State House and the Park Street Church, and sat with
her on one of the benches in the Common until nearly ten. She knew that
Mrs. Brooks had told her nephew of the broken engagement, but he made no
reference to the matter, save to congratulate her that she was rid of
a man who was so clumsy, so dull and behind the times, as Stephen
Waterman, saying that he had always marveled she could engage herself to
anybody who could insult her by offering her a turquoise ring.
Claude was very interesting that evening, Rose thought, but
rather gloomy and unlike his former self. He referred to his grave
responsibilities, to the frail health of Maude Arthurlena, and to the
vicissitudes of business. He vaguely intimated that his daily life in
the store was not so pleasant as it had been formerly; that there
were “those” (he would speak no more plainly) who embarrassed him with
undesired attentions, “those” who, without the smallest shadow of right,
vexed him with petty jealousies.
Rose dared not ask questions on so delicate a topic, but she remembered
in a flash Miss Dix's heavy eyebrows, snapping eyes, and high color.
Claude seemed very happy that Rose had come to Boston, though he was
surprised, knowing what a trial his aunt must be, now that she was so
helpless. It was unfortunate, also, that Rose could not go on excursions
without leaving his aunt alone, or he should have been glad to offer his
escort. He pressed her hand when he left her at her door, telling her
she could never realize what a comfort her friendship was to him;
could never imagine how thankful he was that she had courageously freed
herself from ties that in time would have made her wretched. His heart
was full, he said, of feelings he dared not utter; but in the near
future, when certain clouds had rolled by, he would unlock its
treasures, and then--but no more tonight: he could not trust himself.
Rose felt as if she were assuming one of the characters in a mysterious
romance, such as unfolded itself only in books or in Boston; but
thrilling as it was, it was nevertheless extremely unsatisfactory.
Convinced that Claude Merrill was passionately in love with her, one of
her reasons for coming to Boston had been to fall more deeply in love
with him, and thus heal some, at least, of the wounds she had inflicted.
It may have been a foolish idea, but after three weeks it seemed still
worse,--a useless one; for after several interviews she felt herself
drifting farther and farther from Claude; and if he felt any burning
ambition to make her his own, he certainly concealed it with admirable
art. Given up, with the most offensive magnanimity, by Stephen, and not
greatly desired by Claude,--that seemed the present status of proud Rose
Wiley of the Brier Neighborhood.
It was June, she remembered, as she leaned out of the open window; at
least it was June in Edgewood, and she supposed for convenience' sake
they called it June in Boston. Not that it mattered much what the poor
city prisoners called it. How beautiful the river would be at home, with
the trees along the banks in full leaf! How she hungered and thirsted
for the river,--to see it sparkle in the sunlight; to watch the
moonglade stretching from one bank to the other; to hear the soft lap
of the water on the shore, and the distant murmur of the falls at the
bridge! And the Brier Neighborhood would be at its loveliest, for the
wild roses were in blossom by now. And the little house! How sweet it
must look under the shade of the elms, with the Saco rippling at the
back! Was poor Rufus still lying in a darkened room, and was Stephen
nursing him,--disappointed Stephen, dear, noble old Stephen?