Housebreaking

by Kate Douglas Wiggin

　　Where was the pale Rose, the faded Rose, that crept noiselesslydown from her room, wanting neither to speak nor to be spoken to!Nobody ever knew. She vanished forever, and in her place a thingof sparkles and dimples flashed up the stairway and closed thedoor softly. There was a streak of moonshine lying across thebare floor, and a merry ghost, with dressing-gown held prettilyaway from bare feet, danced a gay fandango among the yellowmoonbeams. There were breathless flights to the open window, andkisses thrown in the direction of the River Farm. There wereimpressive declamations at the looking-glass, where a radiantcreature pointed to her reflection and whispered, "Worthlesslittle pig, he loves you, after all!"

　　Then, when quiet joy had taken the place of mad delight, therewas a swoop down upon the floor, an impetuous hiding of brimmingeyes in the white counterpane, and a dozen impassioned promisesto herself and to something higher than herself, to be a bettergirl.

　　The mood lasted, and deepened, and still Rose did not move. Herheart was on its knees before Stephen's faithful love, hischivalry, his strength. Her troubled spirit, like a frail boattossed about in the rapids, seemed entering a quiet harbor, wherethere were protecting shores and a still, still evening star.Her sails were all torn and drooping, but the harbor was insight, and the poor little weather-beaten craft could rest inpeace.

　　A period of grave reflection now ensued,--under the bedclothes,where one could think better. Suddenly an inspiration seizedher,--an inspiration so original, so delicious, and above allso humble and praiseworthy, that it brought her head from herpillow, and she sat bolt upright, clapping her hands like achild.

　　"The very thing!" she whispered to herself gleefully. "It willtake courage, but I'm sure of my ground after what he said beforethem all, and I'll do it. Grandma in Biddeford buying churchcarpets, Stephen in Portland--was ever such a chance?"

　　The same glowing Rose came downstairs, two steps at a time, nextmorning, bade her grandmother good-by with suspicious pleasure,and sent her grandfather away on an errand which, with attendantconversation, would consume half the day. Then bundles afterbundles and baskets after baskets were packed into the wagon,--behind the seat, beneath the seat, and finally under thelap-robe. She gave a dramatic flourish to the whip, drove acrossthe bridge, went through Pleasant River village, and up the leafyroad to the little house, stared the "To Let" sign scornfully inthe eye, alighted, and ran like a deer through the aisles ofwaving corn, past the kitchen windows, to the back door.

　　"If he has kept the big key in the old place under the stone,where we both used to find it, then he hasn't forgotten me--oranything," thought Rose.

　　The key was there, and Rose lifted it with a sob of gratitude.It was but five minutes' work to carry all the bundles from thewagon to the back steps, and another five to lead old Tom acrossthe road into the woods and tie him to a tree quite out of thesight of any passer-by.

　　When, after running back, she turned the key in the lock, herheart gave a leap almost of terror, and she started at the soundof her own footfall. Through the open door the sunlight streamedinto the dark room. She flew to tables and chairs, and gave arapid sweep of the hand over their surfaces.

　　"He has been dusting here,--and within a few days, too," shethought triumphantly.

　　The kitchen was perfection, as she always knew it would be, withone door opening to the shaded road and the other looking on theriver; windows, too, framing the apple-orchard and the elms. Shehad chosen the furniture, but how differently it looked now thatit was actually in place! The tiny shed had piles of split wood,with great boxes of kindlings and shavings, all in readiness forthe bride, who would do her own cooking. Who but Stephen wouldhave made the very wood ready for a woman's home-coming; and whyhad he done so much in May, when they were not to be marrieduntil August? Then the door of the bedroom was stealthilyopened, and here Rose sat down and cried for joy and shame andhope and fear. The very flowered paper she had refused as tooexpensive! How lovely it looked with the white chamber set! Shebrought in her simple wedding outfit of blankets, bed-linen, andcounterpanes, and folded them softly in the closet; and then forthe rest of the morning she went from room to room, doing allthat could remain undiscovered, even to laying a fire in the newkitchen stove.

　　This was the plan. Stephen must pass the house on his way fromthe River Farm to the bridge, where he was to join theriverdrivers on Monday morning. She would be out of bed by theearliest peep of dawn, put on Stephen's favorite pink calico,leave a note for her grandmother, run like a hare down her sideof the river and up Stephen's, steal into the house, open blindsand windows, light the fire, and set the kettle boiling. Thenwith a sharp knife she would cut down two rows of corn, and thusmake a green pathway from the front kitchen steps to the road.Next, the false and insulting "To Let" sign would be forciblytweaked from the tree and thrown into the grass. She would thenlay the table in the kitchen, and make ready the nicest breakfastthat two people ever sat down to. And oh, would two people sitdown to it; or would one go off in a rage and the other die ofgrief and disappointment?

　　Then, having done all, she would wait and palpitate, andpalpitate and wait, until Stephen came. Surely no property-ownerin the universe could drive along a road, observe his cornleveled to the earth, his sign removed, his house open, and smokeissuing from his chimney, without going in to surprise the rogueand villain who could be guilty of such vandalism.

　　And when he came in?

　　Oh, she had all day Sunday in which to forecast, with mingleddread and gladness and suspense, that all-important, all-decisivefirst moment! All day Sunday to frame and unframe penitentspeeches. All day Sunday! Would it ever be Monday? If so, whatwould Tuesday bring? Would the sun rise on happy Mrs. StephenWaterman of Pleasant River, or on miserable Miss Rose Wiley ofthe Prier Neighborhood?