POSEY BECOMES ROSE
Thus it was that Posey, who for so long had been drifted at the mercy
of adverse currents found herself, for a time at least, in a safe and
quiet harbor. Very quickly she fell into the simple household ways; she
washed the dainty old china for Mrs. Blossom; she dusted the carefully
kept rooms; she pulled bastings and whipped edges for Miss Silence;
she ripped braid and wound ribbons for Mrs. Patience, watching her the
while as with hat-block in lap her deft fingers “sewed over” a hat or
bonnet into a different shape—for at that time this was part of the
work of a village milliner; and last but by no means least she listened
to Grandmother Sweet’s gentle counsels and gentler admonitions. While
in this atmosphere of cheer and kindliness her young heart that had
known such scant measure of either, expanded like a flower in the
sunshine.
From the first time she heard it the name Posey had been anything but
pleasing to Grandmother Sweet’s Quaker ears, and the next day after
her coming, when she had given as full an account as she could of her
varied life, the old lady began to question her.
“And now what is thy real name, my child? For surely thy mother never
gave thee ‘Posey’ for a life name.”
“I don’t know as I have any other,” answered Posey in surprise, for
it was something she had never thought of before. “My mother, I can
remember, often called me ‘Rose,’ and her ‘little Rose,’ but she called
me ‘Posey,’ too; so did my father and the neighbors, and Madam Sharpe,
and I always supposed that was all the name I had.”
“Thee can depend upon it,” was the old lady’s decided answer, “‘Posey’
was only that foolish custom—a nickname—of which I cannot approve.
“And as to thy surname, does thee not know that either? It seems
anything but right that thee should continue to bear—especially as it
is not thy own, the name of that wicked adventuress.”
Posey shook her head. “You know I was so little when my mother and
father died, and Madam Sharpe called me by her name from the first. I
think she wanted me to forget all I could for fear I might find some
one who would take me away from her. I know whenever I asked her what
my name was she would say she had forgotten, but I didn’t believe her
then. Lately, I have tried to remember it, but I can’t. I know my
mother’s first name was Kate, because I have her Bible, and that is the
name written in it.”
“Will thee let me see it?”
Posey at once brought the little velvet covered Bible, and the book of
child verse, now decidedly the worse for wear and age. On the fly leaf
of the Bible was primly written, “Kate, from Aunt Sarah.”
In the other book was apparently no writing, but after examining it a
moment grandmother asked, “Silence, will thee bring me a damp sponge?
If I am not mistaken a leaf has been pasted down here.”
The sponge was brought, and the page when moistened readily lifted,
proving Grandmother Sweet’s suspicion correct, and revealing to the
onlookers, written in a delicate hand,
“To Rose Shannon, on her fourth birthday, December 12th.”
“There!” Grandmother Sweet’s tone was triumphant, “now we have thy
rightful name, and thee shall be Rose to us, as thee was to thy
mother,” and she patted the curly brown head.
“But why do you suppose she pasted the leaf down instead of tearing it
out?” questioned Miss Silence.
“I think,” replied Posey, or rather Rose, “it was because the colored
picture on the other side of the leaf was a favorite of mine, and if it
was gone I would be sure to miss it.”
So it was without any purpose of her own, or a thought on the part of
any one of concealing her identity, that with the very beginning of
life under new conditions Posey Sharpe became Rose Shannon, and, or so
it seemed to her, with the old name the old life also dropped away.
Rose was delighted to possess a name that was hers by right, that
was her very own, but at first it sounded strangely unfamiliar, and
sometimes she failed to recognize it as belonging to herself; but very
soon she grew as accustomed to it as to the placid round of the Blossom
household.
In a short time Mrs. Patience made her trip to Cleveland, and made the
promised call at the Refuge. Here she found that a letter had been
received from Mrs. Hagood, full of complaints that Posey was an idle,
troublesome, ungrateful girl, who had left her for no cause whatever;
but at the same time demanding that she be sent back at once. For Mrs.
Hagood had supposed, as Rose thought, that she would return to the
Refuge. Mrs. Patience’s account, however, put the matter in a very
different light. The superintendent was deeply indignant, and as the
Blossoms had friends who were known to him, he gladly consented that
she should remain with them till a more permanent provision could be
made.
It was on this one point of Rose’s history, the cause and manner of
her leaving Mrs. Hagood, that the Blossoms decided reticence to be
best. As Mrs. Blossom said, “Mrs. Hagood is a stranger to us, and
admitting that she was at fault, it seems to me neither kind nor right
to repeat what might give others an unfavorable impression.”
Gentle Grandmother Sweet’s advice to Rose was, “The best way to keep
from speaking of it is to put it out of thy thoughts, through that
spirit of forgiveness, which we who err so often should always be ready
to show.”
Not long after Mrs. Patience’s return from the city Rose received an
offer of a home for the winter, with fifty cents a week wages, and the
privilege of attending school afternoons. As she had seldom possessed a
cent she could call her own this seemed like a small fortune; besides,
as she had told Ben Pancost, she understood more than most of her age
what it cost to live, and so was the quicker to see that with all the
Blossoms’ generous hospitality, economy was carefully considered.
For they were far from rich, this houseful of women with no outside
breadwinner to depend on, and with her sturdy, independent nature
Rose shrank from being a burden on them, the more so because of their
affectionate kindness. Miss Silence and Mrs. Patience having taken Rose
under their wing were unwilling she should go, unless into a permanent
home, but Mrs. Blossom held that Rose should decide the question for
herself, especially as she would still be in the village where they
could watch over her. While Grandmother Sweet placidly observed,
“Providence seems to have opened the place for Rose, and the openings
of Providence are usually for some wise purpose.”
The offer had been most unexpected. Miss Fifield had come to Silence
Blossom to have a dress fitted, and in the familiar conversation which
accompanied the process she had remarked that she and her sister were
doing their work themselves as the hired girl had gone home sick. “Of
course,” she explained, “we have Ellen Gill in to do the washing and
ironing and scrubbing; not but that we could do it all, for it was my
father’s boast that his daughters were thoroughly capable. And they
all are but Eudora; she will not, and while I’m willing to do my share
I’m not willing to do mine and other people’s too. I don’t believe
Eudora would soil her hands if her life depended on it. If you’ll
believe me, Silence Blossom, she has gone and made a mop to wash dishes
with. It makes me sick, it positively does, to see her mopping the
dishes off, and lifting them out with a fork, for fear the dishwater
will make her hands rough.” And Miss Fifield, tall, spare, and angular,
who counted all attempt at personal adornment the sign of a weak mind,
gave a little sniff of contempt.
At this moment Rose came into the sitting-room to bring Grandmother
Sweet a piece of fresh sponge cake, her first triumph in real
cake-making under Mrs. Blossom. Miss Fifield through the partly open
door of the bedroom which also served as fitting-room, regarded her
neat gingham work-apron and animated, rosy face with evident approval.
“Who is that young girl?” she asked. “I don’t remember to have ever
seen her before.”
“She is Rose Shannon,” Miss Silence answered as well as she could
with her mouth full of pins. “She came to Farmdale with the idea that
she could live with Aunt Maria Ames, and is staying with us for the
present.”
Miss Fifield prided herself on her prompt decisions, and the idea at
once occurred to her that such a tidy little handmaid would be pleasant
and useful to have.
“If she wants to she can come to us; we will give her a home, and
something besides.”
Silence Blossom was measuring Miss Fifield’s bony arm for the sleeve.
“I don’t know,” her voice dubious; “Rose was planning to go to school
when it opened next term.”
“I think we could manage for her to go afternoons; there isn’t much to
do after dinner. I suppose,” she added, “that Eudora and Brother Nathan
will object. They never agree on anything only in opposing me, but what
I undertake I intend to carry through.”
But for once Miss Fifield was mistaken, Miss Eudora heartily agreed
with the plan. She could put on gloves to sweep, and cake and pastry
making were something any lady might do with dignity; but dish-washing
even with the aid of a mop, she viewed with horror. Furthermore, her
sister refused to wash the dishes a day over half the time.
Squire Nathan Fifield, the middle-aged brother who with the two
middle-aged sisters made up the Fifield family, caustically remarked
that he should think two able-bodied women could do the work for
themselves and one man, but if they couldn’t they would have to settle
the matter their own way. “Only,” he warned them, “it is very likely
this is the child of low-bred foreigners, and if she turns out to be a
little liar, and a thief, I want you to remember that it was you that
brought her here, not me.”
But the sisters, noways daunted by this foreboding, offered Rose the
place and, as we have seen, she accepted the offer.