# Orange Grove (Wall)/Chapter 15

"Thy path like most by mortals trod, Will have its thorns and flowers, Its stony steps, its velvet sod. Its sunshine and its showers."
A rather eccentric genius was at this time associated with Kate in the kitchen department, upon whom she now vented her fun-loving propensity.
Aunt Polly as she was called, had been grievously disappointed in her young days, and, not lavishly endowed with amiability of temper before, grew sour and morose. She seemed to cherish eternal hatred to the whole race of mankind, except a distant relative who had been the Governor of a state; upon which fact she prided herself. She sought refuge under it for every imaginary insult, which was quickly resented with the remark, "Ain't I a cousin of the Governor?" This furnished great amusement to Kate who missed no opportunity of provoking her to it. Aunt Polly could not help liking her, although the source of constant vexation. Kate's kindness of heart did not fail to flow towards her, which, in a measure, atoned for the many jokes she played upon her, so that on the whole they got on very well together. No one could ever quarrel with Kate. She had too much sunny humor to prolong angry feelings, if she did excite them.
​There came one of those uncomfortable, chilly mornings, accompanied by a drizzling rain, when it seems as if the earth, half repenting herself of the blessings she is about to confer on an expectant world, sullenly retires behind a cloud to evade the sun's quickening rays. A plan that had been laid out for that day's work, requiring fair weather, was consequently defeated, so that it was comparatively a day of leisure, and Kate must have her fun. As she was clearing away the breakfast, singing a snatch of a love song, she said abruptly, "Come Aunt Polly, tell us some o' your experience in courtin', I love to hear old maids tell over their love stories." Her eyes darted fire as she retorted, "Don't you know no better n' to insult me in that way, and I a cousin of the Governor?"
Kate replied in her usual merry tone, "Oh Aunt Polly, don't be so snappish, may be the Governor 'll come to see you to-day, nothin' strange, and you'll want to be in a pretty good mood. Wish I was cousin to the Governor, I'd make him give me a good fat office, an' I'd fare like a pig in the clover."
She had a great passion for stuffed figures. Having among her possessions an old mask, a hideous looking thing, which she fitted to quite an imposing looking figure, shaped of various articles, pillows and bed-clothing collected from the attic, duly attired, she placed it in the dining-room, and told Aunt Polly a gentleman wished to see her.
"Who can it be," said she, "may be 'tis the Governor. I allers kind o' thought he'd be lookin' of me ​up, if he should ever hear of me, but I must put on 'tother cap, and a clean apron."
"He looks as if he might be a Governor or somebody," quietly replied Kate.
Aunt Polly, hastened upstairs, put on her 'tother cap with its capacious frill, and, smoothing the folds of her clean checked apron, she opened the door into the dining room, when, lo and behold! Instead of the courteous smile of the Governor, she was met by this horrid, grinning figure, with its great glaring eyes, and mouth distended from ear to ear. Mortified and vexed beyond measure, she beat a rapid retreat into the kitchen, but Kate had shut herself into the pantry convulsed with laughter, and she was obliged to defer giving vent to her ill-concealed wrath until a more convenient season. At this moment Rosalind entered, having just returned from a short walk.
Meanwhile a great change had come over her feelings. Another wave of anguish had burst upon her, well nigh sweeping away the little oasis which so greatly refreshed her in her desert wanderings. Having gone out, as she often did, to shake off her melancholy feelings, she this morning returned with seven spirits bluer than herself. In reply to something Aunt Polly muttered to her, which was not very agreeable in her present state of mind, she did not speak with her usual courteous tone,—at least, so it seemed to Aunt Polly's disturbed temper.
"Ye needn't feel so pert this morning, Miss Rosa, and as for that Mr. Livingston ye never'll catch him, that's what ye won't. He's a courtin' or flirtin', I don't know which, with that Miss Blanche, but lor, ​he won't have none on ye, and if ye do I guess ye'll find him a livin' stone sure enough. I wouldn't trust a soul on 'em more'n I would a heap o' black snakes."
This unkind and unmerited thrust of Aunt Polly's filled the measure. Her cup was full, and needed only the additional drop to make it run over, which she was about to add herself. To be sure she did not care for Ernest, oh no, of course she didn't, but then, what was it? she was miserably unhappy. She reproached herself for ever thinking he cared for her. As for Grace Blanche he might have her if he wished, of course he might, it was nothing to her.
Aunt Polly was what might be called an odd jobber. She did washing, house-cleaning, carpet mending, and whatever else of heavy work came in her way. Consequently she did not remain long in one place, and going from house to house gathered all the idle gossip, which lost nothing by repetition. It was her sole recreation, and people bore with her out of regard to her friendless position, and because her services were valuable in her line. Very few cared for what she said, knowing her loquacious propensities, and little reliance was placed on what she did say.
Ordinarily, Rosalind would not have given to her remarks a second thought, but the uncommon asperity with which they were spoken rendered them particularly annoying at a time when she needed to be soothed instead of irritated. She was vexed with her for this needless wound to her feelings, and vexed with herself for allowing so trifling an incident to disturb her. She tried to drive the whole subject ​from her thoughts, which was not very easily done. Grace Blanche was a dear friend of theirs and she could not help feeling a deep interest in whatever concerned her welfare. But then to give heed to such senseless talk, coming as it did from one deeply irritated, was the height of absurdity. She knew she ought not for a moment to harbor such an imputation upon the character of Ernest Livingston whether she cared for it or not, and soon found herself struggling against a new current in addition to her other troubles, as unexpected as it was painful. She did not reproach herself for the manner in which she had formerly treated him, but rather approved it as singularly wise, since it showed that she had no particular regard for him, which might be a great advantage to her now. What did she reproach herself for? Nothing, perhaps; but there was a vague restlessness, an undefined feeling of remorse that made her wretched.
The next morning was as delightful as it was three days before, but what a transformation in her. She did not leave her chamber until summoned to breakfast. Instead of the white wrapper she was dressed in a dark print; and her hair, carelessly smoothed over, showed by the somewhat tangled state of her curls that her fingers had neglected their task.
Her mother smiled on observing her, and said, "Well Rosa, what made you dress up so this morning? Are you expecting company?"
She made an attempt to smile at one corner of her mouth, and was silent.
Walter looked at her with mute surprise, secretly ​wondering what could make her so changeable. When the meal was over she went to the door and looked out, then immediately returned to her chamber, disconsolate and sad.
The sun shone in its splendor, but it shone not for her; the flowers bloomed in their beauty, but she heeded them not; the birds warbled their songs of thanksgiving, but they chanted the funeral dirge of her hopes of earthly happiness.
As Fate would have it, Ernest came this morning also, to invite her to ride. She went down without making any change in her appearance, and met his invitation with a cold, disdainful and prompt refusal.
She turned abruptly away to fondle a little white-footed Maltese kitten Walter brought home one evening, which had strayed away from home and was now amusing herself by catching at the fountain spray as she lay basking in the sunshine. Ernest watched her sadly, contrasting this picture with the other, but as good outlives evil he said to himself, "She will yet repent this and need all the sympathy I can give her," and walked away.
She did repent it before he reached the gate at the foot of the avenue, but it was too late. The cruel words had gone forth, words that were to go down the silent stream of time, never to be recalled or forgotten. Healing waters might flow over it, but the wound would forever leave it's scar, the memento of deep and bitter suffering.
Walter was sitting in the arbor reading, where he could hear and see all, unobserved by them. Inexpressibly pained as he was, he never uttered a word ​of rebuke or complaint, nor alluded to it in any way. Rosalind did not meet him until dinner, when she colored deeply as his eye sought her's, though with out the least suspicion that he knew what had transpired. She felt guilty of base ingratitude in thus wounding the feelings of his dearest friend. A powerful reaction took place when she returned to her chamber that morning, and was brought into close communion with her inner self, the secret sanctuary where all her acts and motives were laid bare to the probing finger of conscience. The proved author of all her misery, although at first disposed to cast the blame on Aunt Polly, a very common trait in our faulty humanity, she could frame no excuse to justify her in a breach of courtesy which should have been extended to a stranger, to say nothing of his intimate friendship in the family and the uniform kindness with which he had always treated her. Had she been educated into the belief of total depravity no more convincing proof of it's truth would have been needed than her own self-condemnation at that moment. Was there ever a person so ungrateful, so unkind, so utterly unworthy of the tenderness and devotion that had always been lavished upon her?
The days rolled on, bringing with them many unpleasant reminiscences of the past, one of which was the little white-footed kitten. She had always enjoyed a special privilege which she was unwilling to yield—that of climbing on Rosalind's shoulders to play with her curls, and when tired, to pat her cheek with her paw as a signal to take her in her lap ​to rest. Her innocent gambols now sent a thousand arrows through her soul, and she tried to get rid of her society, but Miss Tabby would not take the hint.
One morning after being pushed off by her mistress, she looked up at her reproachfully and then scampered away in search of mischief, which was soon found in the shape of an elegant fancy hat that had been carelessly left on the dressing table with the strings hanging down just far enough for her claws to drag on the floor, where, after disarranging the flowers to her heart's content she snugly ensconced herself within it for her morning nap.
Milly went out one day, and seeing some children with a quantity of pond lilies, begged a few for Rosalind, knowing her fondness for them, and thinking to surprise her agreeably by placing them in her room. She was doomed to disappointment by hearing a painful "Oh!" as Rosalind entered one door while she was going out at the other. By way of apology Milly returned and took the flowers saying, "Oh I suppose Mr. Livingston brings you all the lilies you want."
Rosalind soon followed her out, having too much strength of character to allow herself to be long discomposed at the expense of another's happiness. Of great self-control there was nothing in her manner to indicate that she suffered now more than usual, and the real goodness in her temper, always came out in the opposite scale in connection with her greatest faults; a fact no one was quicker to perceive than Ernest Livingston.
Milly and Walter were busily engaged with a lame ​squirrel the former had picked up in her walk, to whom Rosalind rendered timely assistance by binding its leg which she feared was broken. Walter was delighted, being exceedingly fond of pets, and particularly of squirrels. He provided a cage and everything necessary for the comfort of her majesty, but, after a few days, when the wounded leg had time to heal, Madame Squirrel showed her gratitude for their kind attentions by walking off the first opportunity, not liking the luxuries of her city home. The little unconscious thing was the source of the greatest happiness Rosalind knew since she last saw Mr. Livingston.