Part 21 (1/2)

[Sidenote: A Letter for Rosemary]

Rosemary peered into the letter box and saw that _The Household Guardian_ was there. On one Thursday it had failed to appear and she had been unable to convince Grandmother of her entire innocence in the matter. Even on the following day, when she brought it home, in the original wrapping, she felt herself regarded with secret suspicion. As it never had failed to come on Thursday, why should it, unless Rosemary, for some reason best known to herself, had tampered with the United States Mail?

There was also a letter, and Rosemary waited eagerly for the postmaster to finish weighing out two pounds of brown sugar and five cents' worth of tea for old Mrs. Simms. She pressed her nose to the gla.s.s, and squinted, but the address eluded her. Still, she was sure it was for her, and, very probably, from Alden, whom she had not seen for ten days.

[Sidenote: Ways and Means]

She felt a crus.h.i.+ng sense of disappointment when she saw that it was not from Alden, but was addressed in an unfamiliar hand. Regardless of the deference she was accustomed to accord a letter, she tore it open hastily and read:

”MY DEAR ROSEMARY:

”Can you come to tea on Sat.u.r.day afternoon about four? We have a guest whom I am sure you would like to meet.

”Affectionately, your

”MOTHER.”

The words were formal enough, and the quaint stateliness of the handwriting conveyed its own message of reserve and distance but the signature thrilled her through and through. ”Mother!” she repeated, in a whisper. She went out of the post-office blindly, with the precious missive tightly clasped in her trembling hand.

Would she go? Of course she would, even though it meant facing Grandmother, Aunt Matilda, and all the dogs of war.

As the first impulse faded, she became more cautious, and began to consider ways and means. It was obviously impossible to wear brown gingham or brown alpaca to a tea-party. That meant that she must somehow get her old white muslin down from the attic, iron it, mend it, and freshen it up as best she could. She had no doubt of her ability to do it, for both old ladies were sound sleepers, and Rosemary had learned to step lightly, in bare feet, upon secret errands around the house at night.

[Sidenote: Secret Longings]

But how could she hope to escape, un.o.bserved, on Sat.u.r.day afternoon?

And, even if she managed to get away, what of the inevitable return? Why not, for once, make a bold declaration of independence, and say, calmly: ”Grandmother, I am going to Mrs. Marsh's Sat.u.r.day afternoon at four, and I am going to wear my white dress.” Not ”May I go?” or ”May I wear it?”

but ”I am going,” and ”I am going to wear it.”

At the thought Rosemary shuddered and her soul quailed within her. She knew that she would never dare to do it. At the critical moment her courage would fail her, and she would stay at home. Perhaps she could wear the brown gingham if it were fresh and clean, and she pinned at her throat a bow of the faded pink ribbon she had found in her mother's trunk in the attic. And, if it should happen to rain Sat.u.r.day, or even look like rain, so much the better. Anyhow, she would go, even in the brown gingham. So much she decided upon.

Yet, with all her heart, she longed for the white dress, the only thing she had which even approached daintiness. An old saying came back to her in which she had found consolation many times before. ”When an insurmountable obstacle presents itself, sometimes there is a way around it.” And, again, ”Take one step forward whenever there is a foothold and trust to G.o.d for the next.”

[Sidenote: A Bit of News]

That night, at supper, Aunt Matilda electrified Grandmother with a bit of news which she had jealously kept to herself all day.

”The milkman was telling me,” she remarked, with an a.s.sumed carelessness which deceived no one, ”that there's company up to Marshs'.”

Grandmother dropped her knife and fork with a sharp clatter. ”You don't tell me!” she cried. ”Who in creation is it?”

”I was minded to tell you before,” Aunt Matilda resumed, with tantalising deliberation, ”but you've had your nose in that fool paper all day, and whenever I spoke to you you told me not to interrupt.

Literary folks is terrible afraid of bein' interrupted, I've heard, so I let you alone.”

”I didn't know it was anything important,” murmured Grandmother, apologetically.

”How could you know,” questioned Matilda, logically, ”before I'd told you what it was?”

There being no ready answer to this, Grandmother responded with a snort, which meant much or little, as one might choose. A dull red burned on her withered cheeks and she had lost interest in her supper. Only Rosemary was calm.