Part 1 — CHAPTER VIII ORIGINAL SIN

As Bobby had anticipated, Rosemary was kept at the Vicarage for tea by good Mrs. Hudson who, though she could not always honestly approve of the child, was yet very genuinely fond of her. Everyone in the little village of Stapleton regarded her in the same light. She had a winning way with her.

The Vicar, a round-faced man with a jolly laugh, always had a ready welcome for her. Rosemary's escapades generally amused him, though he did his best not to let her know it.

He came in late for tea just as she was getting up to depart, and at once put her back into her chair with paternal insistence.

"No, no! You mustn't go yet. I'm coming your way myself to see old Mrs. Everett. We'll walk back together."

"Well, you mustn't be long," said Rosemary. "Aunt Bobby will start fussing if I'm out after dark, and I've got Jess to see to."

"It won't be dark yet," said the Vicar. "You just sit still while I have my tea! How is Aunt Bobby? All right?"

Rosemary opened her blue eyes wide. "Of course she's all right! She's never anything else. Aunt Matilda is in bed though."

"What, again?" said the Vicar with a tragic gesture. "What's the matter with her?"

Rosemary laughed hardheartedly. "Nothing so far as I know. She likes bed, I suppose."

"Rosemary, my dear!" remonstrated Mrs. Hudson.

Rosemary turned mocking eyes upon her. "Really, Mrs. Hudson, she does! She is always at her best in bed. Some people are, you know. I suppose it rests their tempers."

"Have you ever tried it?" asked the Vicar with a twinkle.

She met the thrust with complete good humour. "Yes, it's Aunt Bobby's invariable remedy for mine, but it doesn't always have the desired effect with me. I'm usually grumpy for days afterwards."

"I'll believe that when I see it," said the Vicar.

She nodded gaily. "You will one of these days. I know I'm going to kick over the traces again before long. When is Percy coming back?"

Mrs. Hudson's upper lip, always inclined to be long, lengthened perceptibly at the airy question. "I hope, my dear," she said, "that you will not turn his home-coming into an occasion for any wild doings which may vex your aunt. We expect him in about three weeks."

"Three weeks! Oh, I can't stay good till then," laughed Rosemary. "I only just escaped going off the deep end yesterday. I wish old Roper would come along and give me a run after the hounds."

"Can you not find something useful to occupy your mind, dear?" suggested the Vicar's wife. "It seems such a pity to invent distractions when there is so much for all of us to do. Your dear aunt for example—how hard she works! Can you not give yourself up to helping her?"

Rosemary looked at her, and her eyes grew a shade darker. "I do what I can," she said briefly. "She won't let me do much."

"Could you not devote yourself to making your poor Aunt Matilda's life a little brighter?" went on worthy Mrs. Hudson who believed in preaching the cause of righteousness in season and out of season. "Think how much you might do for her!"

A curious darting light shone fitfully in Rosemary's intent eyes as she listened. "So I might!" she said musingly. "So I might!"

Mrs. Hudson pursued her theme. "Remember, dear child, it is only the idle hands which Satan can persuade to do mischief. And, alas, how often now-a-days the hands of youth are idle! But at least yours need never be that. You have your task waiting for you, and such a happy task! To bring sunshine into the life of an invalid! Could anything be more beautiful for a young girl to accomplish?"

"I don't know," said Rosemary. She looked suddenly across at the Vicar, and then without warning burst into a peal of laughter. "I only hope that when Satan does find some mischief for me to do, it'll be something really new," she said. "I'm tired of all the old scrapes; they're getting monotonous. People talk about original sin, but there's no such thing. It's all as stale and old as last year's rubbish-heap. You can put that in your sermon next Sunday."

Mrs. Hudson drew in her breath with a shocked sound. The outburst both astonished and pained her. She had always regarded Rosemary as a tractable child, if somewhat impetuous.

The Vicar on the contrary gave no sign of perturbation. He set down his cup and took out his pocket-book.

"Thank you, Rosemary," he said, and began to write. "Anything else?"

Rosemary stretched her arms above her head with a rebellious gesture. "Oh, lots of things!" she said. "But it's no use talking. That's unoriginal too. I often wish I were just one of the animals. They do at least go to market and change hands, see different pastures before they die. And they can kick up their heels and run amuck without being rated for it too. Why, it isn't even wicked. An animal can't be wicked. And it can't be good either—which is better still. It can go to perdition its own way, and nobody cares."

"My dear," said Mrs. Hudson, "your remarks are almost profane, and I really cannot listen to them. George, what is that you are writing?"

The Vicar smiled without looking up. "Please don't interfere, Maria! There is nothing profane about it. It may not be wholly original, eh, Rosemary? But it's good of its kind."

"You find it amusing!" said Rosemary with sudden scorn.

He shook his head. "No, I don't. I find it interesting—very. You were tilting with the windmill of ignorance, my child, but I think you will have the sense to give it up before you break your lance."

"You don't understand!" said Rosemary hotly.

He looked up at her and his eyes were very kindly. "Nobody understands, Rosemary," he said. "We've got to do without understanding. We've got to work in the dark, and remember, that's a bigger thing than doing a cushy job in broad daylight."

"It isn't!" declared Rosemary. "It's simply shutting off our reasoning powers and living like an animal. If we were never meant to use them, why have we got them? What's the good of being a human being at all?"

"Ah," the Vicar said, "'Shall the thing formed say to Him Who formed it, Why hast Thou made me thus?' I am afraid it very often does, my child. But no answer has ever been given. We are made thus, and that's all there is to it."

"Well, I can't see the good of it," said Rosemary. "I call it a silly world. All the jolly things are wrong and all the virtuous ones are beastly." She jumped to her feet. "I'm going home."

"All right. I'm coming," said the Vicar. "You'd better wait for me. It'll keep you out of mischief for one more day."

She laughed and yielded. "But I'm not idle really," she said. "I work quite hard. Ask Aunt Bobby if I don't! It's only—only that I never get any legitimate play. That's why I get so mad."

The Vicar gulped his tea and got up. "Rosemary," he said, and his jolly face was grave, "you're quite right. Your life is humdrum, and all you do may seem to you quite futile. But—I have just one thing to say. It is duty; and only by doing your duty can you fit yourself for the wider life that you crave for. It will come to you some day, and if you're not ready for it,—well, you'll fail."

Rosemary's eager eyes searched his. "How do you know it will come?" she asked breathlessly. "You can't really know."

He put his hand on her shoulder. "I do know, child," he said, "But don't let it catch you unawares! And above all, don't try to force the gates! Or there may come a time when you will say, 'O God, let me go back! I never knew how happy I was.' And the gates will be shut behind you, and there will be no return."

Rosemary's eyes were wide and dark. She looked like a child gazing upon some wonderful scene never beheld before.

Mrs. Hudson had taken up her knitting and was plying her needles with pursed lips. Her silence was not sympathetic, and after a brief pause this fact seemed to reach Rosemary's consciousness; for she turned and looked down at her. Her own expression flashed from grave to gay in a moment, and she uttered a merry reckless laugh.

"Now I've swallowed my medicine without any jam, so let's go!" she said. "Good-bye, Mrs. Hudson! I'll be a better girl next time. Thank you so much for having me to tea." She bent and flung impetuous arms round the rather unbending neck of the Vicar's wife. "You'll have me again, won't you? I'm sorry if I've been profane. It's all the Vicar's fault. I never am when he isn't here."

It was impossible to remain unsympathetic. Mrs. Hudson tried and failed.

"Ah, Rosemary, my dear," she said, yielding to the warm embrace, "you know you may come as often as you like. You will be older and wiser some day."

"Heaven forbid!" said Rosemary; and then in haste,

"No, I didn't mean that. That's profane too, isn't it? I meant Excelsior, or something like that. You know what I meant, don't you?" appealing to the Vicar.

He laughed tolerantly. "Yes, I know what you meant," he said. "Come along, scaramouche! We had better be moving."

Mrs. Hudson detained Rosemary and kissed her again. "Let Excelsior be your motto, dear child!" she said.

"Right ho!" said Rosemary.