the plume of Henry of Navarre.
Rebecca was resigned, if not greatly comforted, but she had grace
enough to
conceal her feelings, now that she knew
economy was at
the root of some of her aunt's decrees in matters of dress; and
she managed to forget the solferino breast, save in sleep, where
a
vision of it had a way of appearing to her, dangling from the
ceiling, and dazzling her so with its rich color that she used to
hope the milliner would sell it that she might never be tempted
with it when she passed the shop window.
One day, not long afterward, Miss Miranda borrowed Mr. Perkins's
horse and wagon and took Rebecca with her on a drive to Union, to
see about some
sausage meat and head
cheese. She intended to call
on Mrs. Cobb, order a load of pine wood from Mr. Strout on the
way, and leave some rags for a rug with old Mrs. Pease, so that
the journey could be made as
profitable as possible, consistent
with the loss of time and the wear and tear on her second-best
black dress.
The red-winged black hat was
forcibly removed from Rebecca's head
just before starting, and the
nightmareturban substituted.
"You might as well begin to wear it first as last," remarked
Miranda, while Jane stood in the side door and sympathized
secretly with Rebecca.
"I will!" said Rebecca, ramming the stiff
turban down on her head
with a vindictive grimace, and snapping the
elastic under her
long braids; "but it makes me think of what Mr. Robinson said
when the
minister told him his mother-in-law would ride in the
same buggy with him at his wife's funeral."
"I can't see how any speech of Mr. Robinson's, made years an'
years ago, can have anything to do with wearin' your
turban down
to Union," said Miranda, settling the lap robe over her knees.
"Well, it can; because he said: Have it that way, then, but it'll
spile the hull blamed trip for me!'"
Jane closed the door suddenly,
partly because she
experienced a
desire to smile (a desire she had not felt for years before
Rebecca came to the brick house to live), and
partly because she
had no wish to
overhear what her sister would say when she took
in the full
significance of Rebecca's
anecdote, which was a
favorite one with Mr. Perkins.
It was a cold blustering day with a high wind that promised to
bring an early fall of snow. The trees were stripped bare of
leaves, the ground was hard, and the wagon wheels rattled noisily
over the thank-you-ma'ams.
"I'm glad I wore my Paisley shawl over my cloak," said Miranda.
"Be you warm enough, Rebecca? Tie that white rigolette tighter
round your neck. The wind fairly blows through my bones. I most
wish t we'd waited till a pleasanter day, for this Union road is
all up hill or down, and we shan't get over the ground fast, it's
so rough. Don't forget, when you go into Scott's, to say I want
all the trimmin's when they send me the pork, for mebbe I can try
out a little mite o' lard. The last load o' pine's gone turrible
quick; I must see if "Bijah Flagg can't get us some cut-rounds at
the mills, when he hauls for Squire Bean next time. Keep your
mind on your drivin', Rebecca, and don't look at the trees and
the sky so much. It's the same sky and same trees that have been
here right along. Go awful slow down this hill and walk the hoss
over Cook's Brook
bridge, for I always
suspicion it's goin' to
break down under me, an' I shouldn't want to be dropped into that
fast runnin' water this cold day. It'll be froze stiff by this
time next week. Hadn't you better get out and lead"--
The rest of the
sentence was very possibly not vital, but at any
rate it was never completed, for in the middle of the
bridge a
fierce gale of wind took Miss Miranda's Paisley shawl and blew it
over her head. The long heavy ends whirled in opposite directions
and wrapped themselves
tightly about her wavering
bonnet. Rebecca
had the whip and the reins, and in
trying to
rescue her
struggling aunt could not steady her own hat, which was suddenly
torn from her head and tossed against the
bridge rail, where it
trembled and flapped for an
instant.
"My hat! Oh! Aunt Miranda, my
hateful hat!" cried Rebecca, never
remembering at the
instant how often she had prayed that the
"fretful
porcupine" might some time
vanish in this violent
manner, since it refused to die a natural death.
She had already stopped the horse, so, giving her aunt's shawl
one last
desperatetwitch, she slipped out between the wagon
wheels, and darted in the direction of the hated object, the loss
of which had
dignified it with a
temporary value and importance.
The stiff brown
turban rose in the air, then dropped and flew