THE VOICE OF A ROSE
There were some marvellous ghost stories in those days, and haunted
houses as well. The society of Psychical Research would have found many
queer things if it had existed at that time. The sailors spun strange
yarns over the power we call telepathy now. Many of the families had a
retired captain or disabled first mate, or supercargo, who had seen
mysterious appearances and heard warning voices. And it recalled to the
little girl some of the stories she had heard in India that she pieced
out of vague fragments. Maybe there were curious influences no one could
explain.
Elizabeth improved a little. She had been moved from cot to bed, but now
they packed her in a big chair and pushed her over to the window where
she could see the vegetable garden and the chicken yard. They had not
had very good luck at the hatching this season. The hens had missed
Elizabeth's motherly care. She had trained them to an amusing habit of
obedience, and the little chickens were her delight. Was she never to be
out among them again?
One day Cynthia came up with two roses in a glass, most exquisite ones
at that.
"Cousin Elizabeth," she began, "do you remember the little rosebush you
put in my garden last summer? We thought it would die. It came out
beautifully in the spring and these are the first roses that bloomed. I
thought you ought to have them. Are you never going to get well enough
to walk around the garden? Cousin Eunice has kept it so nice."
Elizabeth Leverett's heart was touched and she swallowed over a lump in
her throat. She had taken up the rose from a place where it had been
smothered with those of larger growth and given it to the child who had
begged for "a garden of her very own." She had not supposed it would
live. And that Cynthia should bring her the firstfruits!
"I'm obliged to you," she returned huskily. "They are very beautiful."
And she wondered the child had not given them to Chilian.
"I wish you liked a few flowers every day," the little girl said
wistfully.
"Well--I might;" reluctantly.
"They are so lovely. The world is so beautiful. It's very hard to be ill
in summer, in winter one wouldn't mind it so much. But I am glad you can
sit up."
Was it tears that Elizabeth winked away?
She had many serious thoughts through these months of helplessness. She
had always measured everything by the strict line of duty, of
usefulness. There was a virtue in enduring hardness as a good soldier,
and the harder it was the more virtue it held in it. Her room was plain,
almost to bareness. There had been a faded patchwork top quilt at first,
until Mother Taft insisted upon having something nicer. But it had to be
folded up carefully at sundown, when the likelihood of calls was over.
And she did put one of the new rugs on the floor.
"That's beginning to go," Mrs. Taft said. "Some one will catch their
foot in it and have a bad fall."
"It could be mended, I suppose."
"Yes. There's a new one needed in the kitchen. I'll sew it up for that.
Land sakes! you've got enough in this house to last ten lifetimes!"
Friends came in to sit with her and brought their work. Sometimes she
sewed a little, but drawing out her needle hurt her back after a while.
She read her Bible and Baxter's "Saints' Rest" And she wondered a little
what the other world would be like. She had never thought of heaven with
joy--there was the judgment first. And now that she could begin to sit
up it did prefigure recovery.
Most schools had kept open all the year round, but now the higher ones
were giving a month's vacation. Altogether it had been a happy year to
Cynthia. She had really been adored at school. Her frocks were admired,
she let the girls curl her hair, usually she wore it tied in a bunch
behind--not unlike the queue. Then she had some rings that she coaxed
Rachel to let her wear, it was such a pleasure to lend them to the
girls. She was learning what was considered necessary for a girl in
those days; a good deal more with Cousin Chilian. She kept her love for
the Latin and often read to him. She began to draw and paint flowers,
she joined the dancing-class, which was a delight to her; but Chilian
suggested she should not mention it to Elizabeth. She pirouetted up and
down the path like a fairy, and he loved to watch her.
There had been parties among the girls, but he would rather not have her
go, it was a bad thing for children to be up so late. She went to take
tea now and then. The Turners were very fond of her and the Uphams
wanted her once a week. She wondered if she might ever ask any one to
tea.
Then they planned what they would do in this wonderful vacation. Go off
for day's rides, take sails up and down, there were so many places. She
was brimming over with joy.
Chilian was called up in the night by Mother Taft.
"She's had a stroke. And she seemed so smart yesterday. She even laughed
over some school stories Cynthia told. That child's brought her flowers
every morning, and she's softened so much to her. I really think she's
been getting religion, as one may say, and being prepared."
Chilian heard the stertorous breathing. The eyes were half open and
rolled up, her face was drawn. He took the hand. It was cold and heavy.
"I'll go for the doctor. I think the end has come."
Dr. Prescott said the same thing, adding with a slow turn of the head,
"She will not last long."
What should he do with Cynthia? He remembered how careful her father had
been to shield her. She must not see Elizabeth, she must not confront
death in this awesome fashion.
When they came to breakfast he said:
"Cynthia, wouldn't you like to go in to Boston with me this morning?"
"Oh, it would be splendid!" She clapped her hands in delight.
"Well, Rachel must get you ready. We will take the stage. It goes early
now."
Of course, she was full of excitement. It had been planned as one of the
month's outings, but to take it as the first! Cousin Chilian was always
thinking up such nice things.
"Oh," she cried, tying the big Leghorn hat down, making a great bow
under her chin, "I must get my flowers for Cousin Elizabeth."
When she came in she would have flown upstairs, but Rachel stopped her.
"Miss Elizabeth is asleep. She had a bad spell in the night and the
doctor doesn't want her disturbed. I'll take them."
"Oh!" She looked disappointed. "Tell her good-bye and that I was sorry
not to come in and say it. And give her the flowers. I hope she will be
better to-night."
What a great thing it was to go off in the stage! It was a fine morning
with an easterly breeze. To be sure, the roads were dusty, but
travellers were not so dainty in those days. Cynthia had a dust cloak of
some thin material that shielded her white frock. There were three men
and two women. They sat on the middle seat, two of the men on front with
the driver, the other back with the ladies. Presently the driver blew a
long toot on his horn and they came to a little town with a tavern, as
they were called then, at its very entrance.
Two of the passengers left, one came in. The horses had a drink and on
they went over hill and dale, through great farms, where there were not
more than two or three houses in sight. The stage stopped for a man who
gave a loud halloo, and he climbed in. Then the horn gave another loud
signal.
So it went on. Some places were very pretty, great fields of corn waving
in the sunshine, potatoes, stubble where grain had been cut, stretches
of woodland, high, rather rough hills, then towns again. The sun went
under a cloud, which made it pleasanter. The passengers changed now and
then. One woman told her next neighbor "she was goin' in to Boston to
shop, because things were cheaper now. She always went after the rush
was over. There were cambrics, she heard, for one and ninepence, and
cotton cloth home-made was so much cheaper than the imported, but you
had to bleach it. And little traps that you couldn't get at a country
store."
Cynthia was tired and sleepy when they reached their journey's end,
which was Marlborough Street, where Cousin Giles had an office.
"Well! well! well!" he ejaculated in surprise. "Why, Miss Cynthia
Leverett, I'm glad to see you. Have you come to town to shop?"
Chilian made a little sign. "She has a whole month's vacation and we are
going to fill it up with journeys, taking Boston first."
"That's right. We shall have lots to show her. You'll hardly want to go
back to Salem. It was a long warm ride, wasn't it? Chilian, take off her
hat. Don't you want a drink?"
"I am thirsty," she admitted.
He fixed a glass of lemonade, and lemons were dear at that
period--scarce, too. While she was sipping it, being refreshed in every
pulse, the two men went down to the end of the room for a talk.
"She's dreadfully disfigured," Chilian said in a low tone. "And
Elizabeth wasn't a bad-looking woman. The doctor thinks she can't live
but a few days, her body is growing cold rapidly. I'd like to have the
child out of it all. Death is a great shock and very mysterious to a
child."
"Oh, I'll be glad to keep her, if she will stay content. I wish you
could have brought that woman with you. Poor Elizabeth! How Eunice will
miss her. Chilian, you've been like a son to those women. Women ought to
marry and have children of their own, but children are not always kind.
Yes. After you're rested we'll go home. I'm going to change my office,
get nearer to the business centre, only this is so pleasant with a nice
outlook."
"You ought to retire."
"Oh, what would I do? Like that Roman fellow, buy a farm? I don't know a
bit about farming and don't want to. There's so much going on here."
Presently they returned to the little girl, who was quite refreshed, and
then they went out, as it would be dinner-time presently. Cousin Giles
lived in Cambridge Street in quite an imposing row, though it had no
such spacious grounds as at Salem.
An immaculate black man opened the door and took the men's hats. "Ask
Mrs. Stevens to come down," Cousin Giles said.
Mrs. Stevens seemed a great lady. Eudora Castleton's mother was like
this, always looking as if she was dressed for a party. She had a pretty
silk gown, with some ruffles about the bottom, short enough to show her
clocked silk stockings. The waist was short also, the square neck filled
in with lace, and great balloon sleeves--so large at the top they came
almost up to her ears.
"This is the little girl who came from India, that I told you about, and
who is going to be a great lady some day. When she gets older we'll have
to have her down here to Boston, and give balls and parties for her, and
pick out a fine lover for her; hey, Cynthia?"
Cynthia turned scarlet.
"I think you must be warm and tired with the long stage ride; wouldn't
you like to come upstairs with me?"
Cynthia rose as Cousin Chilian looked approval, and followed up the
stairway, where her feet sank in the carpet. There were several rooms,
with the air blowing through delightfully, and there was fragrance
everywhere from vases of flowers.
Mrs. Stevens took off her hat and inspected her. She was going to be a
big heiress and a pretty girl in the bargain, piquant with a slightly
foreign look, though perhaps it was more in her manner.
"Susan," she called to a girl sewing in the next room, "come and wash
this little visitor's hands and face. She has come all the way from
Salem this morning. I wish we had a fresh frock for you, but we have no
little girls."
The voice was so soft and charming that Cynthia looked up with a kind of
admiring smile.
Susan took off her frock, bathed her face and hands with some perfumed
water, brushed out her hair, and said, "What lovely hair you have, and
so much of it. A queen might envy you!"
The idea of a queen wanting anything she had! Oh, how nice and refreshed
she felt.
Susan shook out the frock and put it on again, pulled out the sleeves,
smoothed the wrinkled skirt, and took her in the next room.
"It rests one so much. Are you hungry? We shall have dinner in half an
hour."
"Oh, no," Cynthia said. "And--and I am very much obliged to Susan."
"Come and sit here. Tell me how the aunties are--the one with the broken
limb."
"I think she isn't so well. Yesterday she was so much improved. The
doctor was there this morning."
"Poor lady! She has been ill a long while. And you are quite at home in
Salem, I suppose? You had a long journey. Did you like India?"
"Father was there;" with a sweet, attractive simplicity. "And some of it
was very beautiful. Oh, I almost froze the first winter here, but last
winter I didn't mind. And the sleigh-riding was splendid."
"Are there many little girls to be friends with?"
"Oh, I go to a nice school. And we have so many funny plays and dancing
once a week. I didn't tease about it, though I wanted to go, and Cousin
Chilian said I might. It's queer, but in India they come and dance for
you, and you pay them. But it is lovely to do it for yourself;" and she
made some graceful motions with her hands, while her beautiful eyes were
alight with emotion, as if she heard the music.
"Did you ever want to go back?"
"At first. But when I heard that father had gone away, he had meant to
come to Salem, but----" she made a pause, "mother was there in India.
Only the bodies, you know, the other part that thinks and feels is in
heaven. He wanted mother so much. He used to talk about her. And now I
am going to live in Salem with Cousin Chilian all my life long."
How simply sweet she was, with no self-consciousness.
Then they were summoned to dinner. The elegant black servant waited on
them, and that suggested India again. They went out on a back porch and
sat in the shade. Cousin Giles found an opportunity to explain the
matter to Mrs. Stevens, and after that the men went out for a while.
Quite in the afternoon there were calls from stylishly-dressed ladies,
and cake and cool drinks were brought in. Then Cousin Chilian told her
that he would like her to stay all night and he would come in to-morrow.
She didn't want to a bit. "Why, I would be very quiet and not disturb
Cousin Elizabeth," she said, with beseeching eyes.
"Will you not do it to please me?"
She choked down a great lump. "Oh, yes," she answered in a low tone,
without looking up. But it seemed very queer to her to be left this way.
There was company in the evening--quite a party playing cards. She had
a pretty story book to read until Susan came to put her to bed. And what
a delightful little bed it was, like her little pallet at home, so much
nicer than the big bed at Salem.
She would not show that she was homesick, for so many nice things were
being done for her. A note came from Chilian--Cousin Elizabeth was very
ill, and he hoped she would be content. Some clothes were sent for her,
some of her very best ones, and she was glad to have them.
There were so many things to see in Boston, really much more than at
Salem. They were putting up some fine public buildings. And there was
Bunker Hill and Copp's Hill, and, down near the bay, Fort Hill. There
seemed little rivers running all about and submerged lands.
There were many other entertainments and her days were full. Mrs.
Stevens sent out some cards and seven or eight young girls came in and
chatted quite like the grown-up ladies, asking her about Salem, and
being not a little surprised that she had lived in India. They had a
pretty sort of half tea, cakes and delicacies after the thin bread and
butter, and a most delightful cool drink that seemed to have all flavors
in it. One of the girls played on the spinet afterward. So she had her
first party at Cousin Giles', instead of Salem.
Notes came from Cousin Chilian, and at last the welcome news that he was
coming down for her.
She had come to like Cousin Giles very much. He was so different from
Chilian--breezy and rather teasing--and, oh, what would Cousin Elizabeth
have said to his fashion of getting things about, putting papers or
books on chairs, mislaying his glasses and his gloves, and she would
think the fine furniture, and the servants, and the little feasts
awfully extravagant.
Poor Elizabeth! She had never come back to consciousness. She had shrunk
intensely from the last moment when she would have to face death and the
judgment, though she had been striving all her life to prepare for it.
But God had mercifully spared her that, the two worlds had touched and
merged with each other and left her to God.
There had been a quiet funeral, though it was well attended, but the
coffin was closed and a pall thrown over it, for the poor face had never
recovered its natural look.
All this was softened to Cynthia, as she sat with Cousin Chilian's arm
about her. She had the sweet remembrance of that last day, and the smile
that somehow had made the wrinkled face pretty. It had been thoughtful
and tender in Cousin Chilian to spare her the rest.
They went over to Cambridge and he took her through the place that was
to be so much grander before she was done with life. And here was the
house where he had lived through the week, going home to spend Sundays,
for his father was alive then. And he told her stories about old Boston,
some quaintly funny, but she was rather proud that Salem had been the
first capital of the State.
"I've had such a nice time," she said with her adieu. "Every day has
been full of pleasure. I thank you both very much."
She was to come again, and again, they rejoined cordially.
"What a nice child!" Cousin Giles said. "She doesn't seem to consider
what an heiress she is. And she's enough like Chilian to be his own
child. He always had that dainty way with him, like a woman, and
everything must be fine and nice, yet he never was ostentatious. She'll
make a charming young woman. I wish I could persuade Chilian to come to
Boston."
Chilian had driven in with the carriage. There had been a shower in the
night and the travelling was delightful. He had missed his little girl
so much, yet he knew it had been better to save her the poignancy of the
sad occurrence. So her father had thought in his trusting appeal.