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Page 6
"Your letter only arrived this morning," said Mrs. Dent, in a
steady voice. Her great face was a uniform pink, and her china-
blue eyes were at once aggressive and veiled with secrecy.
"Yes, I hardly thought you'd get my letter," replied Rebecca. "I
felt as if I could not wait to hear from you before I came. I
supposed you would be so situated that you could have me a little
while without putting you out too much, from what John used to
write me about his circumstances, and when I had that money so
unexpected I felt as if I must come for Agnes. I suppose you will
be willing to give her up. You know she's my own blood, and of
course she's no relation to you, though you must have got attached
to her. I know from her picture what a sweet girl she must be, and
John always said she looked like her own mother, and Grace was a
beautiful woman, if she was my sister."
Rebecca stopped and stared at the other woman in amazement and
alarm. The great handsome blonde creature stood speechless, livid,
gasping, with her hand to her heart, her lips parted in a horrible
caricature of a smile.
"Are you sick!" cried Rebecca, drawing near. "Don't you want me to
get you some water!"
Then Mrs. Dent recovered herself with a great effort. "It is
nothing," she said. "I am subject to--spells. I am over it now.
Won't you come in, Miss Flint?"
As she spoke, the beautiful deep-rose colour suffused her face, her
blue eyes met her visitor's with the opaqueness of turquoise--with
a revelation of blue, but a concealment of all behind.
Rebecca followed her hostess in, and the boy, who had waited
quiescently, climbed the steps with the trunk. But before they
entered the door a strange thing happened. On the upper terrace
close to the piazza-post, grew a great rose-bush, and on it, late
in the season though it was, one small red, perfect rose.
Rebecca looked at it, and the other woman extended her hand with a
quick gesture. "Don't you pick that rose!" she brusquely cried.
Rebecca drew herself up with stiff dignity.
"I ain't in the habit of picking other folks' roses without leave,"
said she.
As Rebecca spoke she started violently, and lost sight of her
resentment, for something singular happened. Suddenly the rose-
bush was agitated violently as if by a gust of wind, yet it was a
remarkably still day. Not a leaf of the hydrangea standing on the
terrace close to the rose trembled.
"What on earth--" began Rebecca, then she stopped with a gasp at
the sight of the other woman's face. Although a face, it gave
somehow the impression of a desperately clutched hand of secrecy.
"Come in!" said she in a harsh voice, which seemed to come forth
from her chest with no intervention of the organs of speech. "Come
into the house. I'm getting cold out here."
"What makes that rose-bush blow so when their isn't any wind?"
asked Rebecca, trembling with vague horror, yet resolute.
"I don't see as it is blowing," returned the woman calmly. And as
she spoke, indeed, the bush was quiet.
"It was blowing," declared Rebecca.
"It isn't now," said Mrs. Dent. "I can't try to account for
everything that blows out-of-doors. I have too much to do."
She spoke scornfully and confidently, with defiant, unflinching
eyes, first on the bush, then on Rebecca, and led the way into the
house.
"It looked queer," persisted Rebecca, but she followed, and also
the boy with the trunk.
Rebecca entered an interior, prosperous, even elegant, according to
her simple ideas. There were Brussels carpets, lace curtains, and
plenty of brilliant upholstery and polished wood.
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