Children's Book Classics - Kate Douglas Wiggin Edition: 11 Novels & 120+ Short Stories for Children. Kate Douglas Wiggin
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buff calico?” asked Emma Jane.
“I think I’ll ask aunt Jane,” Rebecca replied. “Oh! if my pink was only finished! I left aunt Jane making the buttonholes!”
“I’m going to ask my mother to let me wear her garnet ring,” said Emma Jane. “It would look perfectly elergant flashing in the sun when I point to the flag. Good-by; don’t wait for me going back; I may get a ride.”
Rebecca found the side door locked, but she knew that the key was under the step, and so of course did everybody else in Riverboro, for they all did about the same thing with it. She unlocked the door and went into the dining-room to find her lunch laid on the table and a note from aunt Jane saying that they had gone to Moderation with Mrs. Robinson in her carryall. Rebecca swallowed a piece of bread and butter, and flew up the front stairs to her bedroom. On the bed lay the pink gingham dress finished by aunt Jane’s kind hands. Could she, dare she, wear it without asking? Did the occasion justify a new costume, or would her aunts think she ought to keep it for the concert?
“I’ll wear it,” thought Rebecca. “They’re not here to ask, and maybe they wouldn’t mind a bit; it’s only gingham after all, and wouldn’t be so grand if it wasn’t new, and hadn’t tape trimming on it, and wasn’t pink.”
She unbraided her two pig-tails, combed out the waves of her hair and tied them back with a ribbon, changed her shoes, and then slipped on the pretty frock, managing to fasten all but the three middle buttons, which she reserved for Emma Jane.
Then her eye fell on her cherished pink sunshade, the exact match, and the girls had never seen it. It wasn’t quite appropriate for school, but she needn’t take it into the room; she would wrap it in a piece of paper, just show it, and carry it coming home. She glanced in the parlor looking-glass downstairs and was electrified at the vision. It seemed almost as if beauty of apparel could go no further than that heavenly pink gingham dress! The sparkle of her eyes, glow of her cheeks, sheen of her falling hair, passed unnoticed in the all-conquering charm of the rose-colored garment. Goodness! it was twenty minutes to one and she would be late. She danced out the side door, pulled a pink rose from a bush at the gate, and covered the mile between the brick house and the seat of learning in an incredibly short time, meeting Emma Jane, also breathless and resplendent, at the entrance.
“Rebecca Randall!” exclaimed Emma Jane, “you’re handsome as a picture!”
“I?” laughed Rebecca “Nonsense! it’s only the pink gingham.”
“You’re not good looking every day,” insisted Emma Jane; “but you’re different somehow. See my garnet ring; mother scrubbed it in soap and water. How on earth did your aunt Mirandy let you put on your bran’ new dress?”
“They were both away and I didn’t ask,” Rebecca responded anxiously. “Why? Do you think they’d have said no?”
“Miss Mirandy always says no, doesn’t she?” asked Emma Jane.
“Ye—es; but this afternoon is very special—almost like a Sunday-school concert.”
“Yes,” assented Emma Jane, “it is, of course; with your name on the board, and our pointing to your flag, and our elergant dialogue, and all that.”
The afternoon was one succession of solid triumphs for everybody concerned. There were no real failures at all, no tears, no parents ashamed of their offspring. Miss Dearborn heard many admiring remarks passed upon her ability, and wondered whether they belonged to her or partly, at least, to Rebecca. The child had no more to do than several others, but she was somehow in the foreground. It transpired afterwards at various village entertainments that Rebecca couldn’t be kept in the background; it positively refused to hold her. Her worst enemy could not have called her pushing. She was ready and willing and never shy; but she sought for no chances of display and was, indeed, remarkably lacking in self-consciousness, as well as eager to bring others into whatever fun or entertainment there was. If wherever the MacGregor sat was the head of the table, so in the same way wherever Rebecca stood was the centre of the stage. Her clear high treble soared above all the rest in the choruses, and somehow everybody watched her, took note of her gestures, her whole-souled singing, her irrepressible enthusiasm.
Finally it was all over, and it seemed to Rebecca as if she should never be cool and calm again, as she loitered on the homeward path. There would be no lessons to learn to-night, and the vision of helping with the preserves on the morrow had no terrors for her—fears could not draw breath in the radiance that flooded her soul. There were thick gathering clouds in the sky, but she took no note of them save to be glad that she could raise her sunshade. She did not tread the solid ground at all, or have any sense of belonging to the common human family, until she entered the side yard of the brick house and saw her aunt Miranda standing in the open doorway. Then with a rush she came back to earth.
Chapter IX.
Ashes of Roses
“There she is, over an hour late; a little more an’ she’d ‘a’ been caught in a thunder shower, but she’d never look ahead,” said Miranda to Jane; “and added to all her other iniquities, if she ain’t rigged out in that new dress, steppin’ along with her father’s dancin’-school steps, and swingin’ her parasol for all the world as if she was play-actin’. Now I’m the oldest, Jane, an’ I intend to have my say out; if you don’t like it you can go into the kitchen till it’s over. Step right in here, Rebecca; I want to talk to you. What did you put on that good new dress for, on a school day, without permission?”
“I had intended to ask you at noontime, but you weren’t at home, so I couldn’t,” began Rebecca.
“You did no such a thing; you put it on because you was left alone, though you knew well enough I wouldn’t have let you.”
“If I’d been CERTAIN you wouldn’t have let me I’d never have done it,” said Rebecca, trying to be truthful; “but I wasn’t CERTAIN, and it was worth risking. I thought perhaps you might, if you knew it was almost a real exhibition at school.”
“Exhibition!” exclaimed Miranda scornfully; “you are exhibition enough by yourself, I should say. Was you exhibitin’ your parasol?”
“The parasol WAS silly,” confessed Rebecca, hanging her head; “but it’s the only time in my whole life when I had anything to match it, and it looked so beautiful with the pink dress! Emma Jane and I spoke a dialogue about a city girl and a country girl, and it came to me just the minute before I started how nice it would come in for the city girl; and it did. I haven’t hurt my dress a mite, aunt Mirandy.”
“It’s the craftiness and underhandedness of your actions that’s the worst,” said Miranda coldly. “And look at the other things you’ve done! It seems as if Satan possessed you! You went up the front stairs to your room, but you didn’t hide your tracks, for you dropped your handkerchief on the way up. You left the screen out of your bedroom window for the flies to come in all over the house. You never cleared away your lunch nor set away a dish, AND YOU LEFT THE SIDE DOOR UNLOCKED from half past twelve to three o’clock, so ‘t anybody could ‘a’ come in and stolen what they liked!”
Rebecca sat down heavily in her chair as she heard the list of her transgressions. How could she have been so careless? The tears began to flow now as she attempted to explain sins that never could be explained or justified.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she faltered. “I was trimming the schoolroom, and got belated, and ran all the way home. It was hard getting into my dress alone, and I hadn’t time to eat but a mouthful, and just at the last minute, when I honestly—HONESTLY—would have thought about clearing away and locking up, I looked at the clock and knew I could hardly get back to school in time to form in the line; and I thought how dreadful it would be to go in late and get my first black mark on a Friday afternoon, with the minister’s wife and the doctor’s wife and the