The Land of Content

by Edith Barnard Delano

V

Perhaps, if the events of the next few hours had come to pass at any other time, they would not have left the same mark upon her life. As it was, Rosamund had come to that state of moral restlessness which is bound either to open the windows of the soul to fresher air and wider fields of vision, or else to induce the peevish discontent which so often falls to the lot of the idle woman. Although she consciously longed for happiness, she knew that she was not sentimentally unhappy; neither was she fatuously so, like her sister. Cecilia was only one of many women of her age and class, who imagine that possession brings enjoyment. She often declared that if she had as much as her acquaintances she could make herself content, but that if she had more than they she could be supremely happy. Rosamund had no such illusions; her clear mind had never been perverted to the futility of such ambitions, although there was nothing in her environment to suggest a satisfying substitute for them. If she was restless, it was not for something she might not have. It pleased her pride to think that she valued neither wealth nor social eminence, but accepted them only as her birthright; but, as in the case of the infatuated Flood, she resented any sign of invasion upon the sacred precincts which for generations had respected their Berkleys and their Stanfields and Randalls. It was her pride which had induced her to neglect, as unimportant, the things Cecilia yearned for; Rosamund Randall was to be above manifestations of wealth—although Rosamund Randall was not above occasional haughty stubbornness.

The charitable pastimes in which some of her friends indulged held no appeal for her; she was too impatient for immediate results to be successful in them. She vaguely felt that some fault must lie with the unfortunate, and she could not imagine that the individual might be interesting. Even Eleanor's experience, although it had stirred her heart to pity, brought her no closer to the mass of suffering. She had no particular talents, no pet enthusiasms; yet her intelligence was too keen to be satisfied with the round of days that constituted life for Cecilia, as well as for most of their friends. Nothing suggested itself as a substitute for them, and to-day not even the charms of nature satisfied her, however beautiful the country through which the big car carried them. But insensibly it made its effect upon her. Away from the scars of battle, through orchard and grass-land, between fields of ripening corn and pastures where drowsy cattle were ruminating in shady fence-corners; past little white farmhouses with red barns at their backs, and tangled gardens where bees feasted in front of them; up towards the hills, through stretches of cool woodland, where little spring-fed brooklets crossed the road, and where the turns were so narrow that the call of the horn had often to pierce the stillness; out again upon cleared spaces, and at last far up on the mountain-tops—so they traveled, Rosamund alone seeming to notice the beauties they passed so swiftly.

Cecilia kept up an easy chatter with the two men. Flood seemingly had eyes for the older woman only, yet he was keenly aware of the girl beside him. All the way he was inwardly cursing himself for the ill-timed compliment which had silenced her, and he was too good a judge of human nature to follow his first mistake with a second. If Rosamund wished to be silent, no interruption to her revery should come from him, at least. As there was only the one way across the mountains, Pendleton had put away his road map and was leaning sideways over the back of the seat, facing Cecilia and Flood; the three found plenty to talk about, and ignored Rosamund's pensive withdrawal.

For miles they had passed no living thing; even the birds and woodland creatures seemed to have gone to sleep; and the chauffeur, taking them along at second speed, believed it unnecessary to sound his horn at every winding of the road.

Then, so suddenly that no one knew just what had happened, there was a shriek from somewhere, a wild cry from the man at the wheel, a stopping of the car so quickly as to throw the women forward and Flood to his knees. Pendleton, facing back, was the only one who could see the road behind them; with a cry that was either oath or prayer, he leaped from the car and ran back, the chauffeur scarcely four yards behind him. Flood scrambled up and Rosamund sprang to her feet. Cecilia covered her ears with her hands, and was the only one who could voice her horror.

"We have killed someone!" she cried wildly, crouching down to shut out sight as well as sound. "We have killed someone! Oh, what shall we do? What shall we do? I cannot see it—I cannot stand the sight of it!"

But no one heeded her outcry. Flood had opened the door and was speeding after the others; and Rosamund, too, as quickly as her trembling would allow her, ran towards the little group at the roadside.

When she reached them, they were bending over two forms—a boy and a young girl. The boy had been struck by the step of the car, and lay huddled where its force had thrown him; the girl lay beside him, her face down in the weeds and grass. Pendleton and the chauffeur, with ghastly faces, were feeling for her heart. As Rosamund came up they turned her upon her back. Rosamund tore off her gloves, and pressed her hand against the girl's throat.

"I think she has only fainted," she said. "Get a cold thermos bottle, someone!"