Chương Chương 8 · COLOR OF ROSE

. COLOR OF ROSE

COLOR OF ROSE

On the very next Friday after this "dreadfullest fight that ever was

seen," as Bunyan says in Pilgrim's Progress, there were great doings in

the little schoolhouse on the hill. Friday afternoon was always the

time chosen for dialogues, songs, and recitations, but it cannot be

stated that it was a gala day in any true sense of the word. Most of

the children hated "speaking pieces;" hated the burden of learning

them, dreaded the danger of breaking down in them. Miss Dearborn

commonly went home with a headache, and never left her bed during the

rest of the afternoon or evening; and the casual female parent who

attended the exercises sat on a front bench with beads of cold sweat on

her forehead, listening to the all-too-familiar halts and stammers.

Sometimes a bellowing infant who had clean forgotten his verse would

cast himself bodily on the maternal bosom and be borne out into the

open air, where he was sometimes kissed and occasionally spanked; but

in any case the failure added an extra dash of gloom and dread to the

occasion. The advent of Rebecca had somehow infused a new spirit into

these hitherto terrible afternoons. She had taught Elijah and Elisha

Simpson so that they recited three verses of something with such

comical effect that they delighted themselves, the teacher, and the

school; while Susan, who lisped, had been provided with a humorous poem

in which she impersonated a lisping child. Emma Jane and Rebecca had a

dialogue, and the sense of companionship buoyed up Emma Jane and gave

her self-reliance. In fact, Miss Dearborn announced on this particular

Friday morning that the exercises promised to be so interesting that

she had invited the doctor's wife, the minister's wife, two members of

the school committee, and a few mothers. Living Perkins was asked to

decorate one of the black-boards and Rebecca the other. Living, who was

the star artist of the school, chose the map of North America. Rebecca

liked better to draw things less realistic, and speedily, before the

eyes of the enchanted multitude, there grew under her skillful fingers

an American flag done in red, white, and blue chalk, every star in its

right place, every stripe fluttering in the breeze. Beside this

appeared a figure of Columbia, copied from the top of the cigar box

that held the crayons.

Miss Dearborn was delighted. "I propose we give Rebecca a good

hand-clapping for such a beautiful picture--one that the whole school

may well be proud of!"

The scholars clapped heartily, and Dick Carter, waving his hand, gave a

rousing cheer.

Rebecca's heart leaped for joy, and to her confusion she felt the tears

rising in her eyes. She could hardly see the way back to her seat, for

in her ignorant lonely little life she had never been singled out for

applause, never lauded, nor crowned, as in this wonderful, dazzling

moment. If "nobleness enkindleth nobleness," so does enthusiasm beget

enthusiasm, and so do wit and talent enkindle wit and talent. Alice

Robinson proposed that the school should sing Three Cheers for the Red,

White, and Blue! and when they came to the chorus, all point to

Rebecca's flag. Dick Carter suggested that Living Perkins and Rebecca

Randall should sign their names to their pictures, so that the visitors

would know who drew them. Huldah Meserve asked permission to cover the

largest holes in the plastered walls with boughs and fill the water

pail with wild flowers. Rebecca's mood was above and beyond all

practical details. She sat silent, her heart so full of grateful joy

that she could hardly remember the words of her dialogue. At recess she

bore herself modestly, notwithstanding her great triumph, while in the

general atmosphere of good will the Smellie-Randall hatchet was buried

and Minnie gathered maple boughs and covered the ugly stove with them,

under Rebecca's direction.

Miss Dearborn dismissed the morning session at quarter to twelve, so

that those who lived near enough could go home for a change of dress.

Emma Jane and Rebecca ran nearly every step of the way, from sheer

excitement, only stopping to breathe at the stiles.

"Will your aunt Mirandy let you wear your best, or only your buff

calico?" asked Emma Jane.

"I think I'll ask aunt Jane," Rebecca replied. "Oh! if my pink was only

finished! I left aunt Jane making the buttonholes!"

"I'm going to ask my mother to let me wear her garnet ring," said Emma

Jane. "It would look perfectly elergant flashing in the sun when I

point to the flag. Good-by; don't wait for me going back; I may get a

ride."

Rebecca found the side door locked, but she knew that the key was under

the step, and so of course did everybody else in Riverboro, for they

all did about the same thing with it. She unlocked the door and went

into the dining-room to find her lunch laid on the table and a note

from aunt Jane saying that they had gone to Moderation with Mrs.

Robinson in her carryall. Rebecca swallowed a piece of bread and

butter, and flew up the front stairs to her bedroom. On the bed lay the

pink gingham dress finished by aunt Jane's kind hands. Could she, dare

she, wear it without asking? Did the occasion justify a new costume, or

would her aunts think she ought to keep it for the concert?

"I'll wear it," thought Rebecca. "They're not here to ask, and maybe

they wouldn't mind a bit; it's only gingham after all, and wouldn't be

so grand if it wasn't new, and hadn't tape trimming on it, and wasn't

pink."

She unbraided her two pig-tails, combed out the waves of her hair and

tied them back with a ribbon, changed her shoes, and then slipped on

the pretty frock, managing to fasten all but the three middle buttons,

which she reserved for Emma Jane.

Then her eye fell on her cherished pink sunshade, the exact match, and

the girls had never seen it. It wasn't quite appropriate for school,

but she needn't take it into the room; she would wrap it in a piece of

paper, just show it, and carry it coming home. She glanced in the

parlor looking-glass downstairs and was electrified at the vision. It

seemed almost as if beauty of apparel could go no further than that

heavenly pink gingham dress! The sparkle of her eyes, glow of her

cheeks, sheen of her falling hair, passed unnoticed in the

all-conquering charm of the rose-colored garment. Goodness! it was

twenty minutes to one and she would be late. She danced out the side

door, pulled a pink rose from a bush at the gate, and covered the mile

between the brick house and the seat of learning in an incredibly short

time, meeting Emma Jane, also breathless and resplendent, at the

entrance.

"Rebecca Randall!" exclaimed Emma Jane, "you're handsome as a picture!"

"I?" laughed Rebecca "Nonsense! it's only the pink gingham."

"You're not good looking every day," insisted Emma Jane; "but you're

different somehow. See my garnet ring; mother scrubbed it in soap and

water. How on earth did your aunt Mirandy let you put on your bran' new

dress?"

"They were both away and I didn't ask," Rebecca responded anxiously.

"Why? Do you think they'd have said no?"

"Miss Mirandy always says no, doesn't she?" asked Emma Jane.

"Ye--es; but this afternoon is very special--almost like a

Sunday-school concert."

"Yes," assented Emma Jane, "it is, of course; with your name on the

board, and our pointing to your flag, and our elergant dialogue, and

all that."

The afternoon was one succession of solid triumphs for everybody

concerned. There were no real failures at all, no tears, no parents

ashamed of their offspring. Miss Dearborn heard many admiring remarks

passed upon her ability, and wondered whether they belonged to her or

partly, at least, to Rebecca. The child had no more to do than several

others, but she was somehow in the foreground. It transpired afterwards

at various village entertainments that Rebecca couldn't be kept in the

background; it positively refused to hold her. Her worst enemy could

not have called her pushing. She was ready and willing and never shy;

but she sought for no chances of display and was, indeed, remarkably

lacking in self-consciousness, as well as eager to bring others into

whatever fun or entertainment there was. If wherever the MacGregor sat

was the head of the table, so in the same way wherever Rebecca stood

was the centre of the stage. Her clear high treble soared above all the

rest in the choruses, and somehow everybody watched her, took note of

her gestures, her whole-souled singing, her irrepressible enthusiasm.

Finally it was all over, and it seemed to Rebecca as if she should

never be cool and calm again, as she loitered on the homeward path.

There would be no lessons to learn to-night, and the vision of helping

with the preserves on the morrow had no terrors for her--fears could

not draw breath in the radiance that flooded her soul. There were thick

gathering clouds in the sky, but she took no note of them save to be

glad that she could raise her sunshade. She did not tread the solid

ground at all, or have any sense of belonging to the common human

family, until she entered the side yard of the brick house and saw her

aunt Miranda standing in the open doorway. Then with a rush she came

back to earth.