Rosebud
Thirty-six hours later the Albany train, running smoothly across the green levels beyond the Mill Dam, brought the travellers to Boston.
Katy looked eagerly from the window for her first glimpse of the city of which she had heard so much. “Dear little Boston! How nice it is to see it again!” she heard a lady behind her say; but why it should be called “little Boston” she could not imagine. Seen from the train, it looked large, imposing, and very picturesque, after flat Burnet with its one bank down to the edge of the lake. She studied the towers, steeples, and red roofs crowding each other up the slopes of the Tri-Mountain, and the big State House dome crowning all, and made up her mind that she liked the looks of it better than any other city she had ever seen.
The train slackened its speed, ran for a few moments between rows of tall, shabby brick walls, and with a long, final screech of its whistle came to halt in the station. Everyone made a simultaneous rush for the door; and Katy and Mrs. Ashe, waiting to collect their books and bags, found themselves wedged into their seats and unable to get out. It was a confusing moment, and not comfortable; such moments never are.
But the discomfort brightened into a sense of relief as, looking out of the window, Katy caught sight of a face exactly opposite, which had evidently caught sight of her—a fresh, pretty face, with light, waving hair, pink cheeks all a-dimple, and eyes which shone with laughter and welcome. It was Rose herself, not a bit changed during the years since they parted. A tall young man stood beside her, who must, of course, be her husband, Deniston Browne.
“There is Rose Red,” cried Katy to Mrs. Ashe. “Oh, doesn’t she look dear and natural? Do wait and let me introduce you. I want you to know her.”
But the train had come in a little behind time, and Mrs. Ashe was afraid of missing the Hingham boat; so she only took a hasty peep from the window at Rose, pronounced her to be charming-looking, kissed Katy hurriedly, reminded her that they must be on the steamer punctually at twelve o’clock the following Saturday, and was gone, with Amy beside her; so that Katy, following last of all the slow-moving line of passengers, stepped all alone down from the platform into the arms of Rose Red.
“You darling!” was Rose’s first greeting. “I began to think you meant to spend the night in the car, you were so long in getting out. Well, how perfectly lovely this is! Deniston, here is Katy; Katy, this is my husband.”
Rose looked about fifteen as she spoke, and so absurdly young to have a “husband”, that Katy could not help laughing as she shook hands with Deniston, and his own eyes twinkled with fun and evident recognition of the same joke. He was a tall young man, with a pleasant, “steady” face, and seemed to be infinitely amused, in a quiet way, with everything which his wife said and did.
“Let us make haste and get out of this hole,” went on Rose. “I can scarcely see for the smoke. Deniston, dear, please find the cab, and have Katy’s luggage put on it. I am wild to get her home, and exhibit baby before she chews up her new sash or does something else that is dreadful, to spoil her looks. I left her sitting in state, Katy, with all her best clothes on, waiting to be made known to you.”
“My large trunk is to go straight to the steamer,” explained Katy, as she gave her checks to Mr. Browne. “I only want the little one taken out to Longwood, please.”
“Now, this is cosy,” remarked Rose, when they were seated in the cab with Katy’s bag at their feet. “Deniston, my love, I wish you were going out with us. There’s a nice little bench here all ready and vacant, which is just suited to a man of your inches. You won’t? Well, come in the early train, then. Don’t forget. Now, isn’t he just as nice as I told you he was?” she demanded, the moment the cab began to move.
“He looks very nice indeed, as far as I can judge in three minutes and a quarter.”
“My dear, it ought not to take anybody of ordinary discernment a minute and a quarter to perceive that he is simply the dearest fellow that ever lived,” said Rose. “I discovered it three seconds after I first beheld him, and was desperately in love with him before he had fairly finished his first bow after introduction.”
“And was he equally prompt?” asked Katy.
“He says so,” replied Rose, with a pretty blush. “But then, you know, he could hardly say less after such a frank confession on my part. It is no more than decent of him to make believe, even if it is not true. Now, Katy, look at Boston, and see if you don’t love it!”
The cab had now turned into Boylston Street; and on the right hand lay the Common, green as summer after the autumn rains, with the elm arches leafy still. Long, slant beams of afternoon sun were filtering through the boughs and falling across the turf and the paths, where people were walking and sitting, and children and babies playing together. It was a delightful scene; and Katy received an impression of space and cheer and air and freshness, which ever after was associated with her recollection of Boston.
Rose was quite satisfied with her raptures as they drove through Charles Street, between the Common and the Public Garden, all ablaze with autumn flowers, and down the length of Beacon Street with the blue bay shining between the handsome houses on the water side. Every vestibule and bay-window was gay with potted plants and flower-boxes; and a concourse of happy-looking people, on foot, on horseback, and in carriages, was surging to and fro like an equal, prosperous tide, while the sunlight glorified all.
“’Boston shows a soft Venetian side,’” quoted Katy, after a while. “I know now what Mr. Lowell meant when he wrote that. I don’t believe there is a more beautiful place in the world.”
“Why, of course there isn’t,” retorted Rose, who was a most devoted little Bostonian, in spite of the fact that she had lived in Washington nearly all her life. “I’ve not seen much beside, to be sure, but that is no matter; I know it is true. It is the dream of my life to come into the city to live. I don’t care what part I live in—West End, South End, North End; it’s all one to me, so long as it is Boston!”
“But don’t you like Longwood?” asked Katy, looking out admiringly at the pretty places set amid vines and shrubberies, which they were now passing. “It looks so very pretty and pleasant.”
“Yes, it’s well enough for any one who has a taste for natural beauties,” replied Rose. “I haven’t; I never had. There is nothing I hate so much as Nature! I’m a born cockney. I’d rather live in one room over Jordan and Marsh’s, and see the world wag past, than be the owner of the most romantic villa that ever was built, I don’t care where it may be situated.”
The cab now turned in at a gate and followed a curving drive bordered with trees to a pretty stone house with a porch embowered with Virginia creepers, before which it stopped.
“Here we are!” cried Rose, springing out. “Now, Katy, you mustn’t even take time to sit down before I show you the dearest baby that ever was sent to this sinful earth. Here, let me take your bag; come straight upstairs, and I will exhibit her to you.”
They ran up accordingly, and Rose took Katy into a large sunny nursery, where, tied with pink ribbon into a little basket-chair and watched over by a pretty young nurse, sat a dear, fat, fair baby, so exactly like Rose in miniature that no one could possibly have mistaken the relationship. The baby began to laugh and coo as soon as it caught sight of its gay little mother, and exhibited just such another dimple as hers, in the middle of a pink cheek. Katy was enchanted.
“Oh, you darling!” she said. “Would she come to me, do you think, Rose?”
“Why,
