The Land of Content

by Edith Barnard Delano

In the weeks before they moved into the cottage, there were moments when life presented itself to Rosamund in more difficult guise than she had dreamed it ever wore. Hitherto, it had been easy enough for her to take up her abode in one place or another, as fancy led her; in New York, in Georgia, in Europe, there were always people to smooth the way—servants to make everything ready and comfortable, mother or sister or one person or another to set in motion the many wheels of the household clockwork. She had never given a thought to the machinery of life; it had seemed as simple as to breathe the free air. Not even Cecilia's warnings had touched upon the rudimentary difficulties she found she had to meet. Before the furniture arrived, there was the first cleaning of the little house to be done, and no one to do it! The summer people and their servants had departed; the hotels were closed; the mountaineers held themselves haughtily aloof from domestic service. Eleanor would have known, but Mrs. Hetherbee kept her from day to day; and Aunt Sue was taking her own time in leaving Georgia. Grace Tobet and Yetta were always ready to do what they could, but they were as untrained as Rosamund herself in the methods of doing things as she had been used to having them. Yet they were the only ones she could find to help her, and she spent her days in a toil so unaccustomed as to leave her breaking with fatigue. She was ashamed to find how inadequate she was for such elemental things; and disgust at her own limitations, added to aching fatigue of body, left her little able to stand against the opposition she was beginning to encounter from everyone.

Pa Cary, gentlest of souls, became set in disapproval as firmly as the doctor; and some undivulged, disquieting information increased Ogilvie's first distrust of the plan. At last even Mother Cary somewhat shamefacedly agreed with them.

"I don't know as it wouldn't be better to shut up the house and stay right here with us, honey," she said. "Pap keeps tellin' me it ain't safe for ye there alone, jest women and children. I reckon that colored man wouldn't skeer anybody off. There's rough people in the mountings. They're used to folks summerin' here; but Pap says, what with all this talk of the Gov'ment's men bein' around, some are sayin' you know too much about the doin's o' this part of the country."

Rosamund knew the futility of expressing her indignation. She only felt that her die was cast, arrangements irrevocably made, that she must go on. Surely it was innocent enough to spend a winter in the mountains, to keep a waif of a girl out of harm's way, and give healing happiness to a child and a beloved woman. That her heart held other motive only the secret flaming of her cheeks attested. She told herself that the mountain people could not be so foolish as to disbelieve their own senses, and determined to prove herself to them. In time they must come to believe in her honesty and sincerity of purpose, in her friendship for them and her loyalty. It was largely their distrust of the world beyond their close horizon that held them in bondage to their own passions. To enlighten them, to free them, would be well worth while for anyone. She said as much to Ogilvie, who nevertheless continued to shake his head and warn her.

With the departure of the last "foreigner" the mountaineers were more frequently seen. During the summer Rosamund and Yetta had walked miles on the strange, dimly marked paths through the woods, paths as vague and deserted as if trodden only by timid wild feet trembling towards secret drinking places; never had they met another soul upon them. But now, occasionally, they encountered lank women or timid children, who peered with half-frightened eyes out of the depths of slat bonnets, and sometimes said "howdy" in passing. The Allen children no longer ran away at sight of her, and their mother, now well enough to be about the house, watched eagerly for Rosamund's visits; she had hopes of making more friends among the women, through Mrs. Allen and Grace Tobet. Several times, too, Mother Cary had visitors; and a little school in the valley drew children from the hillsides in varying numbers. As she went back and forth between the little brown house and the Carys', the people she passed stared at her curiously; the women, she thought, were not unfriendly, but the men seemed distrustful and surly.

"Why do they look at me in that way?" she asked Grace Tobet, on an afternoon when they were hastening homeward in the twilight. "The men all look at me as if I were some hateful thing—a spy, perhaps, or a—a snake! It hurts me to have them look at me in that way! No one ever did before! I don't deserve it!"

But before Grace could reply a thing happened that hurt Rosamund far more, that shook her to the depths of her pride and courage. Something struck her upon the arm, something that stung and bruised—a stone, thrown from the wood-side bushes with accurate aim. She cried out with physical pain and pain that was also mental, and sprang towards Grace. Someone moved off up the mountain, careless of the crackling undergrowth.

Grace had her arms about Rosamund on the instant, and her answering cry was almost as quick.

"What is it? What ails ye?" she besought the trembling one within her sheltering arms.

Rosamund's breath was coming in little sobbing gasps. "Oh—o—oh! Something—struck me—a stone, I think!"