Rose MacLeod

								

The girl stood there in the faint radiance of the hall lamp, her eyes
downcast, thinking. She had dressed for dinner, though there was only
high tea in the old-fashioned house, and delighted grannie beyond words.
The old lady said it was as good as a play to her, who never went out,
to see a lovely dress trailing about the rooms. Peter, looking at the
girl, felt his heart admonish him that here was beauty demanding large
return of kindly treatment from the world. Not only must justice be done
her, but it must be done lavishly. This was for all their sakes. Electra
could not be allowed to lose anything so precious, nor could he lose it
either, his small share of tribute. She was speaking, still with that
air of pondering:--
"I must do it myself. I mustn't let you risk anything." Then she turned
her full glance on him, and frankly smiled. "Good-night," she said,
giving him her hand. "Don't speak of me to her. Don't think of me. I
must do it all myself."

V

Next morning it was a different Rose he saw, quite cosy and cheerful at
the breakfast-table, with no sign of tragedy on her brow. The day was
fair, and the mood of the world seemed to him, for no reason, to have
lightened. It was not credible that Electra, of all gracious beings,
should sulk outside the general harmony. After breakfast, when Rose had,
with a sweet air of service, given grannie her arm to the veranda chair,
she returned to Peter, waiting, perhaps for a word with her, in the
hall. His hat swung from his hand, and seeing that, she spoke in a low,
quick tone.
"You are going over there. Don't do it."
"I must. I want to see her."
"I know. But not yet. Let me see her first. If you talk about me, it
will make trouble between you,--not real trouble, perhaps, but something
unfortunate, something wrong. I am going myself, now." She pointed out
her hat and gloves where she had them ready, and without waiting for him
to speak, began pinning on the hat. While she drew on the gloves she
looked at him again with her charming smile. "Don't you see," she said,
"we can get along better alone--two women? Which house is it?"
He followed her out and down the steps.
"I'll go part of the way with you."
She waved a gay farewell to grannie, busy already at her knitting, and
they went down the path. But at the gate she paused.
"Now," she said, "which way? Which house?"
"The next one."
"I see. Among the trees. Now don't come. Whatever happens, don't come.
If I am not here to dinner,--if I am never here. You simply must not
appear in this. Good-by." She gave her parasol a little reassuring
fling, as if it were a weapon that proved her amply armed, and took her
swift way along the shaded road.
Peter stood for a moment watching her. She went straight on, and the
resolution of her gait bore sufficient witness to her purpose. He turned
about then and went rather disconsolately the other way, which would
bring him out at the path to Osmond's plantation.