Читать книгу Jewel sowers - Edith Allonby - Страница 8

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When Rosalie awoke next morning, it was with a pardonable sense of bewilderment and estrangement.

Instead of the little bedroom, bare of carpet, and devoid of all furniture, except the poorest and the simplest, she found herself in one that was really palatial.

The bed had deep hangings of red silk, and she was not up to date enough to tear them down as breeding microbes and all things unhealthy. Then by degrees, her eyes travelling beyond the bed, she gradually became acquainted with the other things within the room, washstand, dressing-table, sofa, chairs; and here Rosalie gave a squeal of delight, and jumped out of bed, for there opposite was a wardrobe, as respectable as carved black oak could make it. But it was not the wardrobe that attracted her attention so much as the mirror set full length in its middle door—a mirror larger than she had ever seen before or dreamt about. Rosalie was not vain, but she had always entertained a great longing to see her feet at the same time as her head, and had thought it only a luxury and privilege accorded to the rich. When she had become accustomed to this novel vision she walked over towards the windows. Here, so far as beauty was concerned, a disappointment waited on her. All three of them looked upon a high blank wall opposite. It gave a sense of extreme dulness to the place.

Just then her explorations and discoveries were cut short by a knock at the door, and on it entered a woman carrying a tray holding a cup of tea. Rosalie, who understood nothing of this sort of thing, stared at it and the bearer.

“I’m quite better now, thank you,” she said, shaking her head. “I was a little tired last night. I’d rather not have my breakfast in bed, if you don’t mind.”

“This is not your breakfast,” said the other, in a voice so well modulated that many seemingly more exalted might have envied it.

“Oh, what is it?” said Rosalie, standing still with her hands behind her looking at it.

“A cup of tea to help you to dress.”

She had the sweetest voice imaginable. Rosalie thought it the saddest she had ever heard.

“I shan’t be ten minutes dressing,” she replied decidedly.

“Quite an hour, I should say,” replied the other.

“Oh!” gasped Rosalie. Then she clapped her hands together, caught up the flowing robe and skipped across the room to the bed.

“If I’m not dressed in ten minutes, my name’s not Rosalie Paleaf.”

Then with a sudden change to alarm in her manner, she turned round, growing alternately hot and cold.

“I say, where are my things? I can’t see them anywhere.”

“I took them away last night. There are your clothes for the day.” And she directed her attention to a chair on which some very pretty and expensive lingerie was laid.

Rosalie looked at it, then drew herself up.

“I want my own clothes,” she said. “These are too good for me; the others might be poor, but they were my own.”

“I am afraid you cannot have them; you must dress in these.”

The tears rose in Rosalie’s eyes.

“I want my own clothes,” she said again. “Auntie and I cut and made them together. They were the last pair of stockings that she ever knit.”

There was no answer.

“Won’t you bring them back?” said Rosalie at last, the tears still standing in her eyes.

“I am afraid it is against the rules of the house.”

Then Rosalie got up with a sigh, and prepared to get inside the first garment.

“There is your bath first.”

“I never bath in the morning; I always leave that till night.”

“I think you had better do that which is customary.”

Again Rosalie sighed, and followed her tormentress to an adjoining bath-room.

And so it took her well on into the hour before she was dressed, ready to leave the bedroom.

Mariana, who stayed to help her, insisted on arranging her hair, and after all arranged it much more becomingly than Rosalie herself had ever done.

But the black robe with its red silk facings, that fitted her companion so becomingly, suited her not at all. The fit was as perfect as it could be, but otherwise she looked quite out of place in it.

Breakfast was served on the same floor as that on which her bedroom was—three rooms away.

All this portion of the house evidently looked out on to nothing better than the wall mentioned before; but the beauty of the interior compensated for outside gloom. Rosalie was charmed with everything she saw, though somewhat awe-struck, and she took her breakfast shyly from the hands of what she described to herself as the handsomest man she had ever seen. She also made a mental note that he must be brother to the man she saw downstairs.

Rosalie had not gone all this time without grateful remembrance of that ordinary gift she had come to possess; but somehow there was some vague, indescribable thing in her surroundings that took away a full appreciation. She was longing to be outside, to talk with people more like herself, not all in black with red silk facings and knee breeches, and voices modulated to a soft perfection.

Rosalie’s voice was sweet, but it was not the sweetness found in theirs. Hers was the outcome of expression, theirs of classical harmony. But how was she to get away? She dare not ask Mariana, for she was getting an uncomfortable idea that Mariana, from no ill motive, always thwarted and opposed her. So, watching her opportunity, she escaped and passed down the spiral staircase.

In the big hall below all was silent as death. Evidently no one was about.

She ran across to the big doors with a palpitating heart—outside them was freedom, she scarcely knew from what.

Alas! Another hand had touched the large glass handle before her own.

“Your card, madam. Your passport out.”

“I have none. I shall not be away five minutes.”

“I am afraid you cannot go.”

“But I must go.”

There was no answer. Exasperated, Rosalie stood and faced him.

“You let me in, and you can let me out.”

“The orders are that you are not to pass.”

“Whose orders?”

“The master’s.”

“Then take me to him.”

“He is engaged at present.”

“I’ll go myself, then.”