Chapter Chapter 9 · ASHES OF ROSES

. ASHES OF ROSES

ASHES OF ROSES

"There she is, over an hour late; a little more an' she'd 'a' been

caught in a thunder shower, but she'd never look ahead," said Miranda

to Jane; "and added to all her other iniquities, if she ain't rigged

out in that new dress, steppin' along with her father's dancin'-school

steps, and swingin' her parasol for all the world as if she was

play-actin'. Now I'm the oldest, Jane, an' I intend to have my say out;

if you don't like it you can go into the kitchen till it's over. Step

right in here, Rebecca; I want to talk to you. What did you put on that

good new dress for, on a school day, without permission?"

"I had intended to ask you at noontime, but you weren't at home, so I

couldn't," began Rebecca.

"You did no such a thing; you put it on because you was left alone,

though you knew well enough I wouldn't have let you."

"If I'd been CERTAIN you wouldn't have let me I'd never have done it,"

said Rebecca, trying to be truthful; "but I wasn't CERTAIN, and it was

worth risking. I thought perhaps you might, if you knew it was almost a

real exhibition at school."

"Exhibition!" exclaimed Miranda scornfully; "you are exhibition enough

by yourself, I should say. Was you exhibitin' your parasol?"

"The parasol WAS silly," confessed Rebecca, hanging her head; "but it's

the only time in my whole life when I had anything to match it, and it

looked so beautiful with the pink dress! Emma Jane and I spoke a

dialogue about a city girl and a country girl, and it came to me just

the minute before I started how nice it would come in for the city

girl; and it did. I haven't hurt my dress a mite, aunt Mirandy."

"It's the craftiness and underhandedness of your actions that's the

worst," said Miranda coldly. "And look at the other things you've done!

It seems as if Satan possessed you! You went up the front stairs to

your room, but you didn't hide your tracks, for you dropped your

handkerchief on the way up. You left the screen out of your bedroom

window for the flies to come in all over the house. You never cleared

away your lunch nor set away a dish, AND YOU LEFT THE SIDE DOOR

UNLOCKED from half past twelve to three o'clock, so 't anybody could

'a' come in and stolen what they liked!"

Rebecca sat down heavily in her chair as she heard the list of her

transgressions. How could she have been so careless? The tears began to

flow now as she attempted to explain sins that never could be explained

or justified.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she faltered. "I was trimming the schoolroom, and

got belated, and ran all the way home. It was hard getting into my

dress alone, and I hadn't time to eat but a mouthful, and just at the

last minute, when I honestly--HONESTLY--would have thought about

clearing away and locking up, I looked at the clock and knew I could

hardly get back to school in time to form in the line; and I thought

how dreadful it would be to go in late and get my first black mark on a

Friday afternoon, with the minister's wife and the doctor's wife and

the school committee all there!"

"Don't wail and carry on now; it's no good cryin' over spilt milk,"

answered Miranda. "An ounce of good behavior is worth a pound of

repentance. Instead of tryin' to see how little trouble you can make in

a house that ain't your own home, it seems as if you tried to see how

much you could put us out. Take that rose out o' your dress and let me

see the spot it's made on your yoke, an' the rusty holes where the wet

pin went in. No, it ain't; but it's more by luck than forethought. I

ain't got any patience with your flowers and frizzled-out hair and

furbelows an' airs an' graces, for all the world like your Miss-Nancy

father."

Rebecca lifted her head in a flash. "Look here, aunt Mirandy, I'll be

as good as I know how to be. I'll mind quick when I'm spoken to and

never leave the door unlocked again, but I won't have my father called

names. He was a p-perfectly l-lovely father, that's what he was, and

it's MEAN to call him Miss Nancy!"

"Don't you dare answer me back that imperdent way, Rebecca, tellin' me

I'm mean; your father was a vain, foolish, shiftless man, an' you might

as well hear it from me as anybody else; he spent your mother's money

and left her with seven children to provide for."

"It's s-something to leave s-seven nice children," sobbed Rebecca.

"Not when other folks have to help feed, clothe, and educate 'em,"

responded Miranda. "Now you step upstairs, put on your nightgown, go to

bed, and stay there till to-morrow mornin'. You'll find a bowl o'

crackers an' milk on your bureau, an' I don't want to hear a sound from

you till breakfast time. Jane, run an' take the dish towels off the

line and shut the shed doors; we're goin' to have a turrible shower."

"We've had it, I should think," said Jane quietly, as she went to do

her sister's bidding. "I don't often speak my mind, Mirandy; but you

ought not to have said what you did about Lorenzo. He was what he was,

and can't be made any different; but he was Rebecca's father, and

Aurelia always says he was a good husband."

Miranda had never heard the proverbial phrase about the only "good

Indian," but her mind worked in the conventional manner when she said

grimly, "Yes, I've noticed that dead husbands are usually good ones;

but the truth needs an airin' now and then, and that child will never

amount to a hill o' beans till she gets some of her father trounced out

of her. I'm glad I said just what I did."

"I daresay you are," remarked Jane, with what might be described as one

of her annual bursts of courage; "but all the same, Mirandy, it wasn't

good manners, and it wasn't good religion!"

The clap of thunder that shook the house just at that moment made no

such peal in Miranda Sawyer's ears as Jane's remark made when it fell

with a deafening roar on her conscience.

Perhaps after all it is just as well to speak only once a year and then

speak to the purpose.

Rebecca mounted the back stairs wearily, closed the door of her

bedroom, and took off the beloved pink gingham with trembling fingers.

Her cotton handkerchief was rolled into a hard ball, and in the

intervals of reaching the more difficult buttons that lay between her

shoulder blades and her belt, she dabbed her wet eyes carefully, so

that they should not rain salt water on the finery that had been worn

at such a price. She smoothed it out carefully, pinched up the white

ruffle at the neck, and laid it away in a drawer with an extra little

sob at the roughness of life. The withered pink rose fell on the floor.

Rebecca looked at it and thought to herself, "Just like my happy day!"

Nothing could show more clearly the kind of child she was than the fact

that she instantly perceived the symbolism of the rose, and laid it in

the drawer with the dress as if she were burying the whole episode with

all its sad memories. It was a child's poetic instinct with a dawning

hint of woman's sentiment in it.

She braided her hair in the two accustomed pig-tails, took off her best

shoes (which had happily escaped notice), with all the while a fixed

resolve growing in her mind, that of leaving the brick house and going

back to the farm. She would not be received there with open

arms,--there was no hope of that,--but she would help her mother about

the house and send Hannah to Riverboro in her place. "I hope she'll

like it!" she thought in a momentary burst of vindictiveness. She sat

by the window trying to make some sort of plan, watching the lightning

play over the hilltop and the streams of rain chasing each other down

the lightning rod. And this was the day that had dawned so joyfully! It

had been a red sunrise, and she had leaned on the window sill studying

her lesson and thinking what a lovely world it was. And what a golden

morning! The changing of the bare, ugly little schoolroom into a bower

of beauty; Miss Dearborn's pleasure at her success with the Simpson

twins' recitation; the privilege of decorating the blackboard; the

happy thought of drawing Columbia from the cigar box; the intoxicating

moment when the school clapped her! And what an afternoon! How it went

on from glory to glory, beginning with Emma Jane's telling her, Rebecca

Randall, that she was as "handsome as a picture."

She lived through the exercises again in memory, especially her

dialogue with Emma Jane and her inspiration of using the bough-covered

stove as a mossy bank where the country girl could sit and watch her

flocks. This gave Emma Jane a feeling of such ease that she never

recited better; and how generous it was of her to lend the garnet ring

to the city girl, fancying truly how it would flash as she furled her

parasol and approached the awe-stricken shepherdess! She had thought

aunt Miranda might be pleased that the niece invited down from the farm

had succeeded so well at school; but no, there was no hope of pleasing

her in that or in any other way. She would go to Maplewood on the stage

next day with Mr. Cobb and get home somehow from cousin Ann's. On

second thoughts her aunts might not allow it. Very well, she would slip

away now and see if she could stay all night with the Cobbs and be off

next morning before breakfast.

Rebecca never stopped long to think, more 's the pity, so she put on

her oldest dress and hat and jacket, then wrapped her nightdress, comb,

and toothbrush in a bundle and dropped it softly out of the window. Her

room was in the L and her window at no very dangerous distance from the

ground, though had it been, nothing could have stopped her at that

moment. Somebody who had gone on the roof to clean out the gutters had

left a cleat nailed to the side of the house about halfway between the

window and the top of the back porch. Rebecca heard the sound of the

sewing machine in the dining-room and the chopping of meat in the

kitchen; so knowing the whereabouts of both her aunts, she scrambled

out of the window, caught hold of the lightning rod, slid down to the

helpful cleat, jumped to the porch, used the woodbine trellis for a

ladder, and was flying up the road in the storm before she had time to

arrange any details of her future movements.

Jeremiah Cobb sat at his lonely supper at the table by the kitchen

window. "Mother," as he with his old-fashioned habits was in the habit

of calling his wife, was nursing a sick neighbor. Mrs. Cobb was mother

only to a little headstone in the churchyard, where reposed "Sarah Ann,

beloved daughter of Jeremiah and Sarah Cobb, aged seventeen months;"

but the name of mother was better than nothing, and served at any rate

as a reminder of her woman's crown of blessedness.

The rain still fell, and the heavens were dark, though it was scarcely

five o'clock. Looking up from his "dish of tea," the old man saw at the

open door a very figure of woe. Rebecca's face was so swollen with

tears and so sharp with misery that for a moment he scarcely recognized

her. Then when he heard her voice asking, "Please may I come in, Mr.

Cobb?" he cried, "Well I vow! It's my little lady passenger! Come to

call on old uncle Jerry and pass the time o' day, hev ye? Why, you're

wet as sops. Draw up to the stove. I made a fire, hot as it was,

thinkin' I wanted somethin' warm for my supper, bein' kind o' lonesome

without mother. She's settin' up with Seth Strout to-night. There,

we'll hang your soppy hat on the nail, put your jacket over the chair

rail, an' then you turn your back to the stove an' dry yourself good."

Uncle Jerry had never before said so many words at a time, but he had

caught sight of the child's red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and his

big heart went out to her in her trouble, quite regardless of any

circumstances that might have caused it.

Rebecca stood still for a moment until uncle Jerry took his seat again

at the table, and then, unable to contain herself longer, cried, "Oh,

Mr. Cobb, I've run away from the brick house, and I want to go back to

the farm. Will you keep me to-night and take me up to Maplewood in the

stage? I haven't got any money for my fare, but I'll earn it somehow

afterwards."

"Well, I guess we won't quarrel 'bout money, you and me," said the old

man; "and we've never had our ride together, anyway, though we allers

meant to go down river, not up."

"I shall never see Milltown now!" sobbed Rebecca.

"Come over here side o' me an' tell me all about it," coaxed uncle

Jerry. "Jest set down on that there wooden cricket an' out with the

whole story."

Rebecca leaned her aching head against Mr. Cobb's homespun knee and

recounted the history of her trouble. Tragic as that history seemed to

her passionate and undisciplined mind, she told it truthfully and

without exaggeration.