CHAPTER VIII.
LIFE AT THE SEA-SHORE.
IF Rupert had known more of this old woman, he certainly would not have left Rosebud in her care. The place where she lived was under the control of a powerful lord, or governor, appointed by the king of that country. This lord had in various parts of his dominions curious little stone cages, very small stone cages, in which he shut up such as offended him; and of one of these our old woman was the keeper. They were very mysterious cages. No one knew where they were, except their owner, their prisoners, and their keepers. The approach to them was hidden. Several of these were placed in an extensive wood, which could be seen from the hut. It was called the Enchanted Wood.
It was called the Enchanted Wood, on account of sounds frequently heard there; sometimes singing, sometimes notes of a musical instrument, and at other times sorrowful moans. The prisoners could, of course, have explained these sounds; but as they were not free to do it, and no one else could or would, it happened that the place obtained the name of the Enchanted Wood. Besides being the keeper of one of these cages, our old woman was friendly with a number of bad characters from whom she received stolen money and jewels, which she hid for them in the cellar beneath her hut. She was a little bent old woman, with thin gray locks about her withered face, and always wore a small blue blanket pinned over her head. Being lame, she never went without her staff.
“What are you crying for?” she said, as Rosebud sat weeping, after Rupert had said good by. “What are you crying for? there, go to bed.” And she pushed open the door of a closet which contained one stool, and one little mattress of straw, and one very small square window.
This was the best she could give Rosebud,—Rosebud, so lately come from the splendid chambers, the velvet cushions, the decorated walls, the lofty ceilings, the soft couches of a palace, where helpful servants were glad to do her bidding, and where, better than all, she was blest with the love of her dear father and mother. Poor little Rosebud! She thought, while crying herself to sleep, that she would gladly live in the hut, could she but see the pale face of her mother bending over her for a good-night kiss, or lay her weary head upon her father’s big shoulder, and feel his arms clasped lovingly around her. But Rosebud had become quite accustomed to crying herself to sleep now, and, being weary from so long a journey, was soon quite unconscious whether she were in a hut or a palace.
The next morning she found that three grandchildren lived with the old woman,—a girl named Bess, another girl named Judy, and a little boy called Grump. She could hear them from her room, quarrelling over their breakfast, calling each other names, while the old woman scolded or beat them with her staff.
Rosebud opened her door and stood among them with that same sweet, innocent look which had already won so many hearts, and spoke to them pleasantly. The children gazed upon her with wonder, their rude voices hushed. It was as if some rare flower had suddenly bloomed out before them, or some sweet song-bird had alighted there!
After breakfast she was ordered to help scour the platters, sand the floor, wash the potatoes, and drive the geese to water, and then to go with the others to pick up drift-wood.
Drift-wood is whatever bits of board, sticks, or timber the waves throw up and leave upon the sand. This drift-wood was collected at low water, dried in the sun, and supplied the people of the shore with their winter’s fuel.
Rosebud was delighted with this employment. The ocean was new to her, and she was never tired of looking at the foaming, tumbling waves, the sea-birds skimming over the water, the far-off white-sailed ships, or the smaller boats tossing up and down near the shore. For the beach was inhabited by fishermen who owned a great many boats. She longed to be in one of these, and sit riding all so lightly upon the waves.
And Grump promised to give her a boat-ride, for he could manage an oar very well.
“But not now,” said he, “while granny is watching, for if too little wood is got, then she will beat us. But when she goes to the town, then we’ll go, up and down, up and down, all day long. Shall you like that? What a funny name! Rosebud! Where did you come from? How white your face is! All but your cheeks, and they are the color of these pink shells! And what a pretty green robe!”
But Rosebud did not tell Grump where she came from. Rupert had told her it would not be well for the old woman to find it out. For she might take her to Magnus, in hopes of a reward.
Rosebud very soon became accustomed to the life of the shore, could run about on the sands barefoot, and lift her basketful with the rest. She never grew weary of watching the sea when the wind was high, or of picking up shells in the sands, or of being rowed about in the little boats by Grump, in the calm summer afternoons when work was over. Still, she had many sad hours, and would have had many more, only for the company of Grump, who was always full of talk, and ready to help.
“O, if I only had a white face,” said he one day. “A white face is so pretty. Would granny be very angry, Rosebud, if I washed my face again?”
Rosebud laughed at this.
“And why should your granny be angry?” she asked.
“Bess took some soap one day,” said he, “and scrubbed my face, and it turned very red, and then very white, and granny came home from the town, and she beat me for it with her cane, and shut me up for a great many days. It was very long ago, but I have not forgotten.”
“Never mind,” said Rosebud; “if shut up, you can still hear the dashing of the waves, and I will sit and sing beneath your window. And you would have no wood to fetch. Come, here is a spring, and pray be in haste.”
Then Grump began scrubbing. And his face first became red and then white, and at last a beautiful red and white. His eyes were blue, like Rosebud’s, but darker. There was a color in his cheeks, like Rosebud’s, but brighter. His curls were shorter than Rosebud’s, and thicker and browner, and were pushed back from his broad white forehead, while hers drooped in ringlets about her face. He had a round, rosy mouth, and two pretty rows of white teeth, the same as Rosebud.
“Now, that is good,” cried Rosebud. “And you look much too pretty to be called Grump. I must think of some nicer name than that for so nice a boy. What shall I call you?”
“Call me something that goes well with Rosebud,” said Grump; “for now that you are come, I shall work with you more than anybody, and play with you more than anybody, for I like you more than anybody. Rosebud, I like you very much indeed.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Rosebud. “I wonder what we shall call you. What does go well with Rosebud?”
Grump couldn’t think of anything that went so much with rosebuds as thorns. But that would not do, for Rosebud said he was not in the least like a thorn. At length she remembered a very pretty song she had heard about the rose and the myrtle. Suppose he should be called Myrtle. How would he like that? O, very much, very much indeed. And thus it was agreed that he should be called Myrtle.
But granny did not shut the boy up or even notice him at all. She probably had other matters to trouble her. For every day she came home very cross from the town, and sat crouching in the corner, muttering, and poking the ashes with her cane. Perhaps some prisoner had escaped from her stone cage. Or perhaps she had heard that the owners of the stolen jewels she had hidden were in search of them. No one could tell.
So Myrtle grew cleaner and prettier and happier every day. And strangers, walking upon the beach, often stopped to wonder at the strange loveliness of the little barefoot boy and girl, as they ran pattering along the sands with their wood-baskets. Rosebud, with her pleasant face and gentle ways, soon became a favorite with the children of the shore. They were all eager to play with her, to help her pick up wood and moss among the rocks, to show her where the birds built, and often coaxed her to their huts, that the family at home might know this lovely little stranger. Thus she never lacked for company.
But, as the summer wore away, she sickened for home and friends, and in the midst of the happy children felt all, all alone. And one day, one calm, bright summer day, when she and Myrtle were floating about in their little boat, which scarcely moved, so still was the water, she told him her whole history,—told it with sobs and tears and broken words, which caused Myrtle to sigh and weep too, although he strove to talk bravely, and promised Rosebud that, when he was only one year older, they would set out together to seek her friends or to learn their fate. He himself was tired of their gloomy little hut.
The hut, indeed, was but a cheerless home. For as months passed, and still Rupert did not appear, the old woman became angry that Rosebud should be left so long, and no money sent. And she was cruel to the child, and laid tasks upon her too heavy to bear. Bess and Judy, seeing that Rosebud was better liked than themselves, became envious. And they, too, gave her rough words and sometimes blows.
“You pink-faced thing, you! You eat our bread!” they cried.
But not when Myrtle was by. They did not dare. Her brave defender was Myrtle; for he believed the whole world could not produce another so good, so kind, so lovely as their Rosebud.
Indeed, from the very first, this boy had seemed to consider himself bound to shield from all harm the delicate, gentle child, who had come among them. He performed her rougher tasks, he made his sisters afraid to ill-use her, and even one day faced the old woman herself, and, when she was about to strike Rosebud, caught the staff from her hand!
So, when he was by, Bess and Judy did not dare show their ill temper. Neither did they dare give him any other name than Myrtle when within his reach. But sometimes, when they were safe behind granny, they would call him “Grump.” Or, if he were off a little way from the shore, in his boat, they would sit upon the rocks, calling out, “Grump! Grump! how is your health, Grump!”