"How weary are my spirits!"
Up to this time life had been a simple and joyous matter to Rosalind. She
had known her own small trials and perplexities, but her father or Cousin
Louis were always at hand to smooth out tangles and show her how to be
merry over difficulties. Now all was different. There were puzzles on
every side and no one to turn to.
The house behind the griffins was not exactly a cheerful place. Rosalind
found herself stealing about on tiptoe lest she disturb the silence of the
spacious rooms. She hardly ventured to more than peep into the
drawing-room, where Miss Herbert's liking for twilight effects had full
sway. There was a pier table here, supported by griffins, the counterpart
in feature of those on the doorstep, which she longed to examine, but the
shades were always drawn and the handsome draperies of damask and lace
hung in such perfect folds she dared not disturb them.
Where was the charm of her father's stories of Friendship? Was it because
her grandfather was dead that everything had changed? This was why her
grandmother wore black dresses and added that heavy veil when she went
out. Rosalind once drew a corner of it over her own face and the gloom
appalled her.
She ventured to say one day as they drove along a pleasant country road,
"Grandmamma, you don't know how bright the sunshine is," and Mrs.
Whittredge replied, "I do not wish to know, Rosalind; nothing can ever
again be bright to me." Yet if she would only look, she must see that it
was bright. This was one puzzle.
Aunt Genevieve's manner was another. It was as if she scorned everything,
and sometimes it made Rosalind almost angry.
On the day of her meeting with Maurice, she ate her lunch with a glance
every few minutes at her great-uncle Allan on the opposite wall. A very
black portrait, it seemed only a meaningless blur till in a certain light
the strong face and stern eyes shone out of the surrounding gloom with
startling effect. She sometimes wondered rather anxiously if the uncle to
whose home-coming she looked forward, could by any possibility be like the
person for whom he was named. It was not an agreeable face, yet it drew
her gaze with an irresistible attraction. She was convinced that on
occasion the heavy brows contracted and the eyes grew even sterner.
In the next panel hung Matilda, his wife, as the massive marble in the
cemetery said,--a youthful person with side curls and a comfortable smile.
Even with its southern windows the dining room was sombre in its massive
furnishings of Flemish oak. Very different from the one at home, with its
sunshine and flowers, its overflow of books from the study, and the odds
and ends of pottery picked up by father and Cousin Louis in their travels.
Rosalind was thinking that the plain little room of the magician was the
pleasantest place she knew in Friendship, when Martin entered with
something in his hand, announcing in his courtly way, "A book for Miss
Rosalind." It seemed to her that Martin, with his grizzled head and dusky
face, had the most beautiful manners ever seen.
"For me, Martin?" she exclaimed.
"The young gentleman from next door left it," said Martin.
"I did not know you knew any one next door, Rosalind," Mrs. Whittredge
remarked questioningly.
"I am not very well acquainted, grandmamma," Rosalind answered, seeing
suddenly in the handsome face a likeness to the dark portrait; "but I
talked to Maurice through the hedge this morning. I remember now, I had my
book. I must have left it on the grass."
"I believe Rosalind seldom loses an opportunity to speak to people. Miss
Herbert says she is on quite intimate terms with Morgan," remarked Miss
Genevieve.
"Father told me about Morgan," Rosalind began apologetically, adding more
confidently, "I like to know people."
"Your father over again," Mrs. Whittredge said, smiling. "What is your
book, dear?"
"'As You Like It.' Cousin Louis gave it to me." As she spoke Rosalind
caught the glance exchanged by her grandmother and aunt.
"When I was a little girl Cousin Louis told me the story because it is
about Rosalind, you know, and ever since I have called it my story,
because I like it best of all."
No comment was made on this explanation, and it seemed to her the next
time she looked in his direction, that Uncle Allan frowned.
When luncheon was over she went out to the garden seat under the birch,
carrying with her an old green speller found in a bookcase upstairs. In
the back of it she had discovered the deaf and dumb alphabet, so now she
would not have to wait for Maurice to teach her; she could learn it by
herself. It did not seem difficult. With the spelling book propped open in
one corner of the bench she went carefully over it, and then tried to
think of words she was most likely to want to use in talking with Morgan;
but this was slower work, and the thought that for some unknown reason her
grandmother was displeased with her kept claiming her attention.
When father was displeased with her--and this was not often--he always
told her, and they talked it over frankly, but grandmamma and Aunt
Genevieve only looked at each other and said nothing. It both puzzled her
and hurt her dignity to be treated in this way.
Presently it occurred to her that her grandmother might have been vexed at
her carelessness in leaving her book on the grass. It was careless; father
would have said so. Well, she could let grandmamma know she was sorry, and
feeling relieved at having found a possible solution of the problem, she
closed the spelling book.
Mrs. Whittredge looked up in evident surprise when Rosalind entered the
room and announced, "I am sorry I left my book on the grass, grandmamma."
"What do you mean, my dear?" she asked.
"I thought you didn't like it because I was careless."
"I suppose it was careless, my pet, but I had not thought of it. But tell
me what makes you care so much for that book. It seems to me there are
many stories that would be more interesting to a little girl. Suppose you
put it away and let me find you something else."
The color deepened in Rosalind's face. "It is my own, own book," she
cried, clasping it to her heart.
"Very well, you need not be tragic about it," Mrs. Whittredge said coldly,
turning to her writing.
Again Rosalind knew she had offended, and this time her resentment was
aroused. "I don't like to be spoken to in that way," she told herself, as
she walked from the room.
Before she had reached the head of the stairs her grandmother's voice
called her hack. Reluctantly she returned.
Mrs. Whittredge had risen and now came to meet her and put her arm around
her, and her voice was soft and full of affection as she asked, "Do you
want to go to the cemetery with me this afternoon, pet? Aunt Genevieve has
the carriage, and I think a walk will do me good."
The walk along the shady street and through the grassy lane to the gate at
the foot of the hill was as pleasant as a walk could be that summer day.
Rosalind kept sedately by her grandmother's side, and the face under the
drooping hat was grave. Behind them walked Martin with some garden tools
and a watering-pot.
The serious eyes brightened, and the lips curved into a smile at sight of
Maurice and Katherine playing dominos under the maple. How lovely it must
be to have a brother or sister to play with and talk to!
The cemetery was not new to Rosalind, for Mrs. Whittredge on her daily
drive usually stopped there, and its winding paths and green slopes, its
drooping willows and graceful oaks, and the flowers that bloomed
everywhere, around the stately shafts of marble and the low headstones,
seemed to her very pleasant. Here, however, her grandmother's sadness took
on a deeper tinge as she moved among the mounds that lay in the shadow of
the massive granite monument with "Whittredge" in letters of bronze at its
base.
As Martin went to work trimming the ivy under his mistress's direction,
Rosalind wandered away by herself across the hill-top, pausing now and
then to read an inscription and do a sum in subtraction, on the result of
which her interest largely depended. "Lily, born 1878, died 1888," stirred
her imagination, and she sat down to consider it at length. How old would
Lily be now if she had lived? She tried to think how her own name would
look on a stone. It was still and peaceful on that sunny hillside; it
reminded her of "Sharon's lovely rose." The idea of a grave here was not
unattractive. She was considering it pensively when her eyes fell on a
long-stemmed, creamy rose, lying not far from her on the ground. With
instant pleasure in its beauty she took it up and held it against her
cheek.
Where had it come from? Some one must have dropped it. She stood up and
looked around, but there was no one in sight. On the other side of a holly
bush, however, a number of just such roses lay on a grave. Rosalind walked
over and stooped to read the name on the low headstone. "Robert Ellis
Fair," she repeated half aloud as she laid her rose beside the others.
When she lifted her head she met the surprised gaze of a young lady, who
came across the grass with a watering-pot in her hand. She was decidedly
pretty to look at, and she smiled pleasantly as she began watering the
flowers in an iron vase.
Rosalind felt she must explain, so she said, smiling in her turn, "I found
a rose on the grass, and I thought it must belong here."
"Thank you. I suppose I dropped it. Won't you tell me who you are? I am
sure you do not live in Friendship."
"No, I am visiting my grandmother. I am Rosalind Whittredge."
A strange expression crossed the face of the young lady at this
announcement. Could it be that something displeased her? After a moment
she spoke gravely, "I think some one is looking for you," she said.
Turning, Rosalind saw Martin in the distance, and as there seemed nothing
else to do or say, she walked away. After she had gone some little
distance she could not resist looking back, and just as she did so she saw
the young lady fling something from her across the grass, and--it looked
like a rose! Could it be her rose? Rosalind felt her cheeks growing hot.
How very strange! Here was a puzzle, indeed.
Aunt Genevieve had come for them in the carriage, and as they drove home
Rosalind tried to describe the young lady she had seen, saying nothing
about the rose, however.
"It must have been Celia Fair, mamma, don't you think so?" asked
Genevieve.
"Fair was the name on the stone," said Rosalind, adding, "She was pretty."
Miss Whittredge looked at her mother, then as that lady was silent, she
remarked, in her usual languid tone, "I think you may as well know,
Rosalind, that we have nothing to do with the Fairs."
Why did it make any difference to Rosalind? Why did everything seem wrong?
Why did she feel so unhappy in spite of the blue sky and the sweet summer
air?
When they reached home she sat on the garden bench and looked up at the
griffins, and the fancy floated through her mind that it might be
comfortable to be as unfeeling as they.
"O, dear! I am afraid I am getting out of the Forest. What shall I do?
Perhaps the magician could help me;" she clasped her hands at the
thought. Why not go to see him? She knew the way.
"I will take my book to show him," she said; and running to the house for
it, forgetful of everything but her longing for sympathy, a few minutes
later she flitted down the driveway and out of the gate.