Where was the pale Rose, the faded Rose, that crept noiselessly down
from her room, wanting neither to speak nor to be spoken to? Nobody ever
knew. She vanished forever, and in her place a thing of sparkles and
dimples flashed up the stairway and closed the door softly. There was
a streak of moon-shine lying across the bare floor, and a merry ghost,
with dressing-gown held prettily away from bare feet, danced a gay
fandango among the yellow moonbeams. There were breathless flights to
the open window, and kisses thrown in the direction of the River Farm.
There were impressive declamations at the looking-glass, where a radiant
creature pointed to her reflection and whispered, “Worthless little pig,
he loves you, after all!”
Then, when quiet joy had taken the place of mad delight, there was a
swoop down upon the floor, an impetuous hiding of brimming eyes in the
white counterpane, and a dozen impassioned promises to herself and to
something higher than herself, to be a better girl.
The mood lasted, and deepened, and still Rose did not move. Her heart
was on its knees before Stephen's faithful love, his chivalry, his
strength. Her troubled spirit, like a frail boat tossed about in the
rapids, seemed entering a quiet harbor, where there were protecting
shores and a still, still evening star. Her sails were all torn
and drooping, but the harbor was in sight, and the poor little
weather-beaten craft could rest in peace.
A period of grave reflection now ensued, under the bedclothes, where one
could think better. Suddenly an inspiration seized her, an inspiration
so original, so delicious, and above all so humble and praiseworthy,
that it brought her head from her pillow, and she sat bolt upright,
clapping her hands like a child.
“The very thing!” she whispered to herself gleefully. “It will take
courage, but I'm sure of my ground after what he said before them all,
and I'll do it. Grandma in Biddeford buying church carpets, Stephen in
Portland--was ever such a chance?”
The same glowing Rose came downstairs, two steps at a time, next
morning, bade her grandmother goodbye with suspicious pleasure, and sent
her grandfather away on an errand which, with attendant conversation,
would consume half the day. Then bundles after bundles and baskets after
baskets were packed into the wagon,--behind the seat, beneath the seat,
and finally under the lap-robe. She gave a dramatic flourish to the
whip, drove across the bridge, went through Pleasant River village,
and up the leafy road to the little house, stared the “To Let” sign
scornfully in the eye, alighted, and ran like a deer through the aisles
of waving corn, past the kitchen windows, to the back door.
“If he has kept the big key in the old place under the stone, where
we both used to find it, then he has n't forgotten me--or anything,”
thought Rose.
The key was there, and Rose lifted it with a sob of gratitude. It was
but five minutes' work to carry all the bundles from the wagon to the
back steps, and another five to lead old Tom across the road into the
woods and tie him to a tree quite out of the sight of any passer-by.
When, after running back, she turned the key in the lock, her heart
gave a leap almost of terror, and she started at the sound of her own
footfall. Through the open door the sunlight streamed into the dark
room. She flew to tables and chairs, and gave a rapid sweep of the hand
over their surfaces.
“He has been dusting here,--and within a few days, too,” she thought
triumphantly.
The kitchen was perfection, as she always knew it would be, with one
door opening to the shaded road and the other looking on the river;
windows, too, framing the apple-orchard and the elms. She had chosen
the furniture, but how differently it looked now that it was actually
in place! The tiny shed had piles of split wood, with great boxes of
kindlings and shavings, all in readiness for the bride, who would do her
own cooking. Who but Stephen would have made the very wood ready for a
woman's home-coming; and why had he done so much in May, when they
were not to be married until August? Then the door of the bedroom was
stealthily opened, and here Rose sat down and cried for joy and shame
and hope and fear. The very flowered paper she had refused as too
expensive! How lovely it looked with the white chamber set! She brought
in her simple wedding outfit of blankets, bed-linen, and counterpanes,
and folded them softly in the closet; and then for the rest of the
morning she went from room to room, doing all that could remain
undiscovered, even to laying a fire in the new kitchen stove.
This was the plan. Stephen must pass the house on his way from the River
Farm to the bridge, where he was to join the river-drivers on Monday
morning. She would be out of bed by the earliest peep of dawn, put on
Stephen's favorite pink calico, leave a note for her grandmother, run
like a hare down her side of the river and up Stephen's, steal into
the house, open blinds and windows, light the fire, and set the kettle
boiling. Then with a sharp knife she would cut down two rows of corn,
and thus make a green pathway from the front kitchen steps to the road.
Next, the false and insulting “To Let” sign would be forcibly tweaked
from the tree and thrown into the grass. She would then lay the table
in the kitchen, and make ready the nicest breakfast that two people ever
sat down to. And oh, would two people sit down to it; or would one go
off in a rage and the other die of grief and disappointment?
Then, having done all, she would wait and palpitate, and palpitate and
wait, until Stephen came. Surely no property-owner in the universe could
drive along a road, observe his corn leveled to the earth, his sign
removed, his house open, and smoke issuing from his chimney, without
going in to surprise the rogue and villain who could be guilty of such
vandalism.
And when he came in?
Oh, she had all day Sunday in which to forecast, with mingled dread and
gladness and suspense, that all-important, all-decisive first moment!
All day Sunday to frame and unframe penitent speeches. All day Sunday!
Would it ever be Monday? If so, what would Tuesday bring? Would the sun
rise happy on Mrs. Stephen Waterman of Pleasant River, or miserable Miss
Rose Wiley of the Brier Neighborhood?