A moment later Ma found herself greeting Rosebud’s second cousin and chaperone. Mrs. Rickards was an elderly lady, stout, florid, and fashionably dressed, who had never been further afield in her life than the Europe of society.
Her greeting was an effort. She was struggling to conceal a natural anger and resentment against the inconvenience of their journey from Beacon Crossing, and the final undignified catastrophe of the wagon sticking fast in the slush and mud on the trail, and against Rosebud in particular, under a polite attempt at cordiality. She would probably have succeeded in recovering her natural good-humored composure but for the girl herself, who, in the midst of the good creature’s expostulations, put the final touch to her mischief. Mrs. Rickards had 237 turned solicitously upon her charge with an admonitory finger raised in her direction.
“And as for Rosie,—she insists on being called Rosebud still, Mrs. Sampson—after her tramp through all that dreadful snow and slush she must be utterly done up,” she said kindly.
“Done up, auntie? Tired?” the girl said, with a little scornful laugh. “Don’t you believe it. Why the fun’s only just beginning, isn’t it, Seth? Do you know, auntie dear, the Indians are getting troublesome; they’re going out on the war-path. Aren’t they, Seth? And we’re just in time to get scalped.”
But Seth had no responsive smile for the girl’s sally. His face was grave enough as he turned to the horrified woman.
“Ma’am,” he said, in that slow drawling fashion which gave so much gravity and dignity to his speech, “I’ll take it kindly if you won’t gamble a heap on this little gal’s nonsense. I’ve known her some few years, an’ I guess she’s nigh the worst savage in these parts—which, I guess, says a deal.”
Seth’s rebuke lost nothing of its sharpness by reason of the gentle manner in which it was spoken. Rosebud felt its full force keenly. She flushed to the roots of her hair and her eyes were bright with resentment. She pouted her displeasure and, without a word, abruptly left the room.
Ma and Mrs. Rickards—the latter’s composure quite restored by Seth’s reassurance—looked after her. Both smiled. 238
Seth remained grave. The girl’s mischief had brought home to him the full responsibility which devolved upon Rube and himself.
Truly it was the old Rosebud who had returned to White River Farm.