THE MAGICIAN MAKES TEA.
| "—If that love or gold |
| Can in this place buy entertainment, |
| Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed; |
| Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd |
| And faints for succour." |
The magician was at work in his small garden adjusting some wire netting for the sweet peas, while Curly Q. looked on with interest, and Crisscross finished his saucer of milk.
Rosalind came through the shop so softly that only the cat was aware of it. He gazed at her in evident doubt whether to continue work on the rim of his saucer or take refuge on the fence.
"I should like to have a little house, and a dog and cat to live with me," she thought, sitting down on the step to wait till she should be observed. Yes, this was more like the Forest of Arden than any place she knew; her unhappiness seemed melting away in the peaceful atmosphere.
Crisscross decided she was not dangerous, and keeping an eye on her by way of precaution went on with his supper. It was not long, however, before Curly Q. discovered her presence and came bounding to her side, with a sharp bark of welcome, then back to call his master's attention.
"Why! Why!" exclaimed the magician, holding up a pair of rather grimy hands.
There could be no doubt about his being glad to see Rosalind. He asked how she was, over and over, and apologized for his hands, and smiled and nodded and indulged in all sorts of absurd gestures, which made her laugh so she couldn't try her new accomplishment of talking on her fingers. Directly he hurried into the house, where she could hear him washing his hands, and then he came out again with a teakettle, which he filled at the cistern, and carrying it back set it on a small oil stove, which he lighted.
"We'll have some tea," he said, sitting down beside her and asking again how she was.
Rosalind summoned all her learning and spelled out carefully, with the aid of some very dainty fingers, "I-am-lon—"
"Lonesome?" repeated the magician. "That is too bad. Mr. Pat wouldn't like that."
Rosalind shook her head. The tears were near the surface, but she kept them back, and remembering her book she laid it on the magician's knee, open at the words Cousin Louis had written: "If we choose we may travel always in the Forest where the birds sing and the sunlight sifts through the trees; where although we sometimes grow footsore and hungry we know that the goal is sure. Just outside is the dreary desert in which, alas! many choose to walk, shutting their eyes to the beauty and peace of the Forest, and losing by the way the sacred gift of happiness."
The magician read it slowly through, then he smiled at Rosalind over his glasses. "That's so," he said. "It is hard to keep out of the desert sometimes, but it all comes right in the end. Why, the other day I was—" here he shook his head and put on a woe-begone expression of countenance that made his meaning plain, and caused Rosalind to laugh—"and I looked up and there you stood in the door and pointed to the motto, 'Good in everything,' and I felt better."
"Did I really cheer you up?" cried Rosalind, delighted; and nodding quite as if he heard, the magician answered, "Now I'll cheer you up." Rising, he beckoned her to follow him inside, and she obeyed, feeling as if she were somebody in a story.
The kettle was already singing merrily, and from a shelf the magician took down a fat little teapot and, rinsing it with boiling water, proceeded to make tea. Next he spread a white cloth on a small table, and from the cupboard took out some blue and white cups and plates.
"Let me set it," begged Rosalind, in pantomime, entering gayly into the spirit of the thing.
Laughing, the magician left it to her and went off to his store-room, from which he emerged with a pitcher of milk and a loaf of brown bread.
There was nothing in the appointments of this simple meal to offend the most fastidious taste, and it was a sight to bring a smile to the dolefulest countenance, to see Rosalind and the magician sitting opposite to each other drinking tea. In the midst of it Morgan jumped up and went to the store-room, returning with a tumbler of jelly. "Miss Betty Bishop's jelly," he said. "Do you know Miss Betty?"
"DO YOU KNOW MISS BETTY?"
Rosalind shook her head.
"She makes good things," he added, as he unscrewed the top.
Rosalind's afternoon in the open air had given her an appetite, and she did full justice to the brown bread and jelly, the novelty of the occasion adding a flavor. Through the open door and window came the glow of the sunset, and the air was sweet with some far-off fragrance. All trouble had faded from her face; it was as if in the heart of the Forest she had come upon some friendly inn. Such a small matter as dinner in the house behind the griffins quite escaped her memory.
"Well, upon my word!"
Startled in the act of feeding Curly Q., Rosalind looked toward the door, and saw there a lady in a crisp, light muslin. More than this she did not at once take in, for behind her in the semi-darkness of the shop was Martin's face. The conviction that he was looking for her, and that grandmamma would be vexed, overshadowed everything else. She rose, while the magician greeted the lady as Miss Betty, and offered her a cup of tea.
"I'se been searchin' high and low for you, Miss Rosalind," Martin exclaimed, coming forward.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, Martin; I forgot," said Rosalind.
Miss Betty, who had declined the tea, now held out her hand. "This is Rosalind Whittredge, of course; I am your Cousin Betty."
"I didn't know I had any cousins," said Rosalind.
"You will find a few if you stay long enough," replied Miss Betty. "How do you come to be eating supper with Morgan, I'd like to know? I was sitting on my porch when you went in, so when Martin came along I was able to help him."
"I like Morgan. I wanted to see him. Father told me about him." Rosalind felt she couldn't explain exactly.
"I used to know your father very well indeed," said Miss Betty, as they walked together to the street, after Rosalind had told the magician good-by. "As you seem to like going out to tea, I hope you will come and take supper with me sometime," she added, with a twinkle in her eye.
When she reached home Miss Herbert stood at the gate, and in the door was Mrs. Whittredge. Rosalind's face was full of brightness as she ran up the path.
"Grandmamma, I meant only to stay a minute, and then I forgot."
"I have been worried about you, Rosalind," Mrs. Whittredge said gravely. "Why did you not come to me and tell me where you wished to go? Where have you been?"
"To see the magician—Morgan, I mean. I wanted so much to see him I did not think of anything else."
"Why did you wish to see him?" continued her grandmother.
The glow was fading from Rosalind's face. "Because—" she hesitated, "because—"
"Because I was lonely, grandmamma, and I was afraid I was going to cry. I promised father I would be brave, and—well—Morgan knows about the Forest, and is very good to cheer you up. He made tea in the dearest little teapot, and it was so amusing, I forgot. I am sorry."
"Do you mean you took supper with Morgan? Well, Rosalind, you are amazing!" Aunt Genevieve spoke from the hall.
"Never mind, Genevieve," said her mother. "I am sorry you were lonely, Rosalind, but I do not understand why you should go to Morgan. And what do you mean by the 'forest'?"
Rosalind's face was grave again. "I don't know, grandmamma," she faltered, and indeed she could not have told if her life had depended on it.
"I think you were very easy on her, mamma. It was certainly naughty of her to run away," Genevieve remarked, after Rosalind, worn out by the conflicting experiences of the day, had gone to bed.
Mrs. Whittredge did not reply at once. On her lap lay her granddaughter's little volume of "As You Like It," and she had been reading the words about the Forest. It had a way of opening to that page.
"She is a peculiar, fanciful child, and quite old enough to know better. Professor Sargent may be a brilliant man, but it seems to me he has filled the child's head full of nonsense. I can't see what Patterson has been thinking of," Genevieve continued.
"I am not inclined to find much fault with her. I did not expect her to be perfect. She seems naturally sweet and happy," her mother replied.
"Losing by the way the sacred gift of happiness," Mrs. Whittredge's eyes went back to the book. Surely happiness had slipped from her grasp, leaving nothing but regret. It was sad to realize that her children found all their pleasure apart from her. Somewhere she had failed, but pride told her it was fate; that sorrow and disappointment were the common lot, that gratitude was not to be looked for.
After her bitter disappointment in her oldest son she had been the more determined to have her way with Allan. With what result? The extended tour abroad, planned with a purpose just as his college course was ended, had weaned him completely from his home. His interests were elsewhere, and although as joint executor with her of his father's estate he was often in Friendship, his visits were usually brief. Between herself and her daughter there was little sympathy. Genevieve, calm and inflexible, had early declared her independence. But more than all else put together was her haunting sorrow for her husband. Words of Dr. Fair, spoken long ago in cruel bluntness, still rang in her ears: "Madam, you are killing your husband by your obstinacy." Her mind dwelt with morbid persistency upon them. Had the reconciliation with her son come too late?
At a time of utter weariness with herself she acceded to Patterson's proposal to send his daughter to her. Genevieve had expostulated, insisting she would be impossible, a child with no bringing up. Rosalind had come, and even Genevieve had to admit, so far as manners and appearance were concerned, she was not impossible.
In the fair young face, with its serious eyes, in whose glance there was often a singular radiance, Mrs. Whittredge found something that touched her heart. Her granddaughter had not the Whittredge beauty, she was nothing of a Whittredge, and yet—One day she had taken up the miniature on Rosalind's table, with a glance over her shoulder; and when she put it down and turned away, it was with the reluctant feeling that perhaps there had been some excuse for her son when he left father and mother and kindred and home for this young girl.