HOUSEBREAKING
Where was the pale Rose, the faded Rose, that crept noiselessly downfrom her room, wanting neither to speak nor to be spoken to? Nobody everknew. She vanished forever, and in her place a thing of sparkles anddimples flashed up the stairway and closed the door softly. There was astreak of moonshine lying across the bare floor, and a merry ghost, withdressing-gown held prettily away from bare feet, danced a gay fandangoamong the yellow moonbeams. There were breathless flights to the openwindow, and kisses thrown in the direction of the River Farm. There wereimpressive declamations at the looking-glass, where a radiant creaturepointed to her reflection and whispered, "Worthless little pig, heloves you, after all!"
Then, when quiet joy had taken the place of mad delight, there was aswoop down upon the floor, an impetuous hiding of brimming eyes in thewhite counterpane, and a dozen impassioned promises to herself and tosomething higher than herself, to be a better girl.
The mood lasted, and deepened, and still Rose did not move. Her heartwas on its knees before Stephen's faithful love, his chivalry, hisstrength. Her troubled spirit, like a frail boat tossed about in therapids, seemed entering a quiet harbor, where there were protectingshores and a still, still evening star. Her sails were all torn anddrooping, but the harbor was in sight, and the poor littleweather-beaten craft could rest in peace.
A period of grave reflection now ensued,--under the bedclothes, whereone could think better. Suddenly an inspiration seized her,--aninspiration so original, so delicious, and above all so humble andpraiseworthy, that it brought her head from her pillow, and she sat boltupright, clapping her hands like a child.
"The very thing!" she whispered to herself gleefully. "It will takecourage, 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 inPortland--was ever such a chance?"
The same glowing Rose came downstairs, two steps at a time, nextmorning, bade her grandmother good-by with suspicious pleasure, and senther grandfather away on an errand which, with attendant conversation,would consume half the day. Then bundles after bundles and baskets afterbaskets were packed into the wagon,--behind the seat, beneath the seat,and finally under the lap-robe. She gave a dramatic flourish to thewhip, drove across the bridge, went through Pleasant River village, andup the leafy road to the little house, stared the "To Let" signscornfully in the eye, alighted, and ran like a deer through the aislesof 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 weboth used to find it, then he hasn't forgotten me--or anything," thoughtRose.
The key was there, and Rose lifted it with a sob of gratitude. It wasbut five minutes' work to carry all the bundles from the wagon to theback steps, and another five to lead old Tom across the road into thewoods 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 gavea leap almost of terror, and she started at the sound of her ownfootfall. Through the open door the sunlight streamed into the darkroom. She flew to tables and chairs, and gave a rapid sweep of the handover their surfaces.
"He has been dusting here,--and within a few days, too," she thoughttriumphantly.
The kitchen was perfection, as she always knew it would be, with onedoor opening to the shaded road and the other looking on the river;windows, too, framing the apple-orchard and the elms. She had chosen thefurniture, but how differently it looked now that it was actually inplace! The tiny shed had piles of split wood, with great boxes ofkindlings and shavings, all in readiness for the bride, who would do herown cooking. Who but Stephen would have made the very wood ready for awoman's home-coming; and why had he done so much in May, when they werenot to be married until August? Then the door of the bedroom wasstealthily opened, and here Rose sat down and cried for joy and shameand hope and fear. The very flowered paper she had refused as tooexpensive! How lovely it looked with the white chamber set! She broughtin her simple wedding outfit of blankets, bed-linen, and counterpanes,and folded them softly in the closet; and then for the rest of themorning she went from room to room, doing all that could remainundiscovered, even to laying a fire in the new kitchen stove.
This was the plan. Stephen must pass the house on his way from the RiverFarm to the bridge, where he was to join the river-drivers on Mondaymorning. She would be out of bed by the earliest peep of dawn, put onStephen's favorite pink calico, leave a note for her grandmother, runlike a hare down her side of the river and up Stephen's, steal into thehouse, open blinds and windows, light the fire, and set the kettleboiling. 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 tweakedfrom the tree and thrown into the grass. She would then lay the table inthe kitchen, and make ready the nicest breakfast that two people eversat down to. And oh, would two people sit down to it; or would one gooff in a rage and the other die of grief and disappointment?
Then, having done all, she would wait and palpitate, and palpitate andwait, until Stephen came. Surely no property-owner in the universe coulddrive along a road, observe his corn leveled to the earth, his signremoved, his house open, and smoke issuing from his chimney, withoutgoing in to surprise the rogue and villain who could be guilty of suchvandalism.
And when he came in?
Oh, she had all day Sunday in which to forecast, with mingled dread andgladness 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 sunrise on happy Mrs. Stephen Waterman of Pleasant River, or on miserableMiss Rose Wiley of the Brier Neighborhood?
Rose o' the River Page 14
