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Updated: May 11, 2025
Uninterruptedly the blood of the Marshs had coursed through generation after generation, carrying with it the high dower of courage, of strength to do the allotted task hopefully and well. And now Madame's face saddened, remembering Edith. Since her one attempt to cross the silence that lay like a two-edged sword between them, Madame had said nothing to Alden.
Somewhat frightened, Matilda hastened to change the subject. "She wears her hair like mine." "She?" repeated Grandmother, pricking up her ears, "Who's she?" "You know the company up to Marshs'." "Who was tellin' you? The milkman, or his wife?" "None of 'em," answered Matilda, mysteriously. Then, lowering her voice to a whisper, she added: "I seen her myself!" "When?" Grandmother demanded.
"If we was on callin' terms with the Marshs," said Matilda, meditatively, "Mis' Marsh might be bringin' her here." "Not twice," returned Grandmother, with determination. "This is my house, and I've got something to say about who comes in it. I wouldn't even have Mis' Marsh now, after she's been hobnobbin' with the likes of her."
"The milkman was telling me," she remarked, with an assumed carelessness which deceived no one, "that there's company up to Marshs'." Grandmother dropped her knife and fork with a sharp clatter. "You don't tell me!" she cried. "Who in creation is it?"
I could find out who she was and all about her, and come back and tell you." For an instant the stillness was intense, then both women turned to her. "You!" they said, scornfully, in the same breath. "Yes," said Grandmother, after an impressive pause, "I reckon you'll be puttin' on your best dress and goin' up to Marshs' to see a play-actin' woman."
Rosemary kept her promise not to go to the schoolhouse simply because she dared not break it. The windows of the little brown house, where the Starrs lived, commanded an unobstructed view of the Marshs' big Colonial porch, in Winter, when the trees between were bare, so it was impossible for the girl to go there, openly, as Mrs. Marsh had never returned Aunt Matilda's last call.
Like the frame surrounding a tapestry, great pines bordered the vineyard save on the side nearest the valley, for the first of the Marshs, who had planted the vineyard and built the house, had taken care to protect his vines from the north-east storms. The clanging notes of a bell, mellowed by distance, came faintly from the valley below.
The broad, Colonial porch looked out upon the river and the hills beyond it, while all around, upon the southern slope between the opposite hills and the valley, were the great vineyards of the Marshs', that had descended from father to son during the century that had elapsed since the house was built.
If she had paper and an envelope, perhaps she might ask the storekeeper to send the note up with the Marshs' groceries, or, better yet, she might go up to the house herself very early some morning or very late some night and slip it under the front door. In that way, she would be sure he received it. Rosemary brightened as she saw that a stamp would not really be necessary after all.
When he saw her, rarely, at church, Grandmother or Aunt Matilda was always with her, and the Starrs had had nothing to do with the Marshs for several years past, as Mrs. Marsh had been remiss in her social obligations. At first, Rosemary had been purely negative to him, and he regarded her with kindly indifference. The girl's personality seemed as ashen as her hair, as colourless as her face.
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