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diff --git a/old/fcrvn10.txt b/old/fcrvn10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..280c438 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/fcrvn10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8674 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Further Chronicles of Avonlea, by Lucy Maud Montgomery +#8 in our series by Lucy Maud Montgomery + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Further Chronicles of Avonlea + +Author: Lucy Maud Montgomery + +Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5340] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 2, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FURTHER CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA *** + + + + +This book has been put on-line as part of the BUILD-A-BOOK +Initiative at the Celebration of Women Writers through the +combined work of Leslee Suttie and Mary Mark Ockerbloom. + +http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/ + +Reformatted by Ben Crowder <crowderb@blankslate.net> +http://www.blankslate.net/lang/etexts.php + + + + + +FURTHER CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA + +Which have to do with many personalities and events in and about +Avonlea, the Home of the Heroine of Green Gables, including tales +of Aunt Cynthia, The Materializing of Cecil, David Spencer's +Daughter, Jane's Baby, The Failure of Robert Monroe, The Return +of Hester, The Little Brown Book of Miss Emily, Sara's Way, The +Son of Thyra Carewe, The Education of Betty, The Selflessness of +Eunice Carr, The Dream-Child, The Conscience Case of David Bell, +Only a Common Fellow, and finally the story of Tannis of the +Flats. + +All related by +L. M. MONTGOMERY + +Author of "Anne of Green Gables," "Anne of Avonlea," "Anne of the +Island," "Chronicles of Avonlea," "Kilmeny of the Orchard," etc. + + + +INTRODUCTION + +It is no exaggeration to say that what Longfellow did for Acadia, +Miss Montgomery has done for Prince Edward Island. More than a +million readers, young people as well as their parents and uncles +and aunts, possess in the picture-galleries of their memories the +exquisite landscapes of Avonlea, limned with as poetic a pencil +as Longfellow wielded when he told the ever-moving story of Grand +Pre. + +Only genius of the first water has the ability to conjure up such +a character as Anne Shirley, the heroine of Miss Montgomery's +first novel, "Anne of Green Gables," and to surround her with +people so distinctive, so real, so true to psychology. Anne is +as lovable a child as lives in all fiction. Natasha in Count +Tolstoi's great novel, "War and Peace," dances into our ken, with +something of the same buoyancy and naturalness; but into what a +commonplace young woman she develops! Anne, whether as the gay +little orphan in her conquest of the master and mistress of +Green Gables, or as the maturing and self-forgetful maiden of +Avonlea, keeps up to concert-pitch in her charm and her +winsomeness. There is nothing in her to disappoint hope or +imagination. + +Part of the power of Miss Montgomery--and the largest part--is +due to her skill in compounding humor and pathos. The humor is +honest and golden; it never wearies the reader; the pathos is +never sentimentalized, never degenerates into bathos, is never +morbid. This combination holds throughout all her works, longer +or shorter, and is particularly manifest in the present +collection of fifteen short stories, which, together with those +in the first volume of the Chronicles of Avonlea, present a +series of piquant and fascinating pictures of life in Prince +Edward Island. + +The humor is shown not only in the presentation of quaint and +unique characters, but also in the words which fall from their +mouths. Aunt Cynthia "always gave you the impression of a +full-rigged ship coming gallantly on before a favorable wind;" no +further description is needed--only one such personage could be +found in Avonlea. You would recognize her at sight. Ismay +Meade's disposition is summed up when we are told that she is +"good at having presentiments--after things happen." What +cleverer embodiment of innate obstinacy than in Isabella +Spencer--"a wisp of a woman who looked as if a breath would sway +her but was so set in her ways that a tornado would hardly have +caused her to swerve an inch from her chosen path;" or than in +Mrs. Eben Andrews (in "Sara's Way") who "looked like a woman +whose opinions were always very decided and warranted to wear!" + +This gift of characterization in a few words is lavished also on +material objects, as, for instance; what more is needed to +describe the forlornness of the home from which Anne was rescued +than the statement that even the trees around it "looked like +orphans"? + +The poetic touch, too, never fails in the right place and is +never too frequently introduced in her descriptions. They throw +a glamor over that Northern land which otherwise you might +imagine as rather cold and barren. What charming Springs they +must have there! One sees all the fruit-trees clad in bridal +garments of pink and white; and what a translucent sky smiles +down on the ponds and the reaches of bay and cove! + +"The Eastern sky was a great arc of crystal, smitten through with +auroral crimsonings." + +"She was as slim and lithe as a young white-stemmed birch-tree; +her hair was like a soft dusky cloud, and her eyes were as blue +as Avonlea Harbor in a fair twilight, when all the sky is a-bloom +over it." + +Sentiment with a humorous touch to it prevails in the first two +stories of the present book. The one relates to the +disappearance of a valuable white Persian cat with a blue spot in +its tail. "Fatima" is like the apple of her eye to the rich old +aunt who leaves her with two nieces, with a stern injunction not +to let her out of the house. Of course both Sue and Ismay detest +cats; Ismay hates them, Sue loathes them; but Aunt Cynthia's +favor is worth preserving. You become as much interested in +Fatima's fate as if she were your own pet, and the climax is no +less unexpected than it is natural, especially when it is made +also the last act of a pretty comedy of love. + +Miss Montgomery delights in depicting the romantic episodes +hidden in the hearts of elderly spinsters as, for instance, in +the case of Charlotte Holmes, whose maid Nancy would have sent +for the doctor and subjected her to a porous plaster while +waiting for him, had she known that up stairs there was a +note-book full of original poems. Rather than bear the stigma +of never having had a love-affair, this sentimental lady +invents one to tell her mocking young friends. The dramatic and +unexpected denouement is delightful fun. + +Another note-book reveals a deeper romance in the case of Miss +Emily; this is related by Anne of Green Gables, who once or +twice flashes across the scene, though for the most part her +friends and neighbors at White Sands or Newbridge or Grafton as +well as at Avonlea are the persons involved. + +In one story, the last, "Tannis of the Flats," the secret of +Elinor Blair's spinsterhood is revealed in an episode which +carries the reader from Avonlea to Saskatchewan and shows the +unselfish devotion of a half-breed Indian girl. The story is +both poignant and dramatic. Its one touch of humor is where +Jerome Carey curses his fate in being compelled to live in that +desolate land in "the picturesque language permissible in the +far Northwest." + +Self-sacrifice, as the real basis of happiness, is a favorite +theme in Miss Montgomery's fiction. It is raised to the nth +power in the story entitled, "In Her Selfless Mood," where an +ugly, misshapen girl devotes her life and renounces marriage for +the sake of looking after her weak and selfish half-brother. The +same spirit is found in "Only a Common Fellow," who is haloed +with a certain splendor by renouncing the girl he was to marry in +favor of his old rival, supposed to have been killed in France, +but happily delivered from that tragic fate. + +Miss Montgomery loves to introduce a little child or a baby as a +solvent of old feuds or domestic quarrels. In "The Dream Child," +a foundling boy, drifting in through a storm in a dory, saves a +heart-broken mother from insanity. In "Jane's Baby," a +baby-cousin brings reconciliation between the two sisters, +Rosetta and Carlotta, who had not spoken for twenty years because +"the slack-twisted" Jacob married the younger of the two. + +Happiness generally lights up the end of her stories, however +tragic they may set out to be. In "The Son of His Mother," Thyra +is a stern woman, as "immovable as a stone image." She had only +one son, whom she worshipped; "she never wanted a daughter, but +she pitied and despised all sonless women." She demanded +absolute obedience from Chester--not only obedience, but also +utter affection, and she hated his dog because the boy loved him: +"She could not share her love even with a dumb brute." When +Chester falls in love, she is relentless toward the beautiful +young girl and forces Chester to give her up. But a terrible +sorrow brings the old woman and the young girl into sympathy, and +unspeakable joy is born of the trial. + +Happiness also comes to "The Brother who Failed." The Monroes +had all been successful in the eyes of the world except Robert: +one is a millionaire, another a college president, another a +famous singer. Robert overhears the old aunt, Isabel, call him a +total failure, but, at the family dinner, one after another +stands up and tells how Robert's quiet influence and unselfish +aid had started them in their brilliant careers, and the old +aunt, wiping the tears from her eyes, exclaims: "I guess there's +a kind of failure that's the best success." + +In one story there is an element of the supernatural, when +Hester, the hard older sister, comes between Margaret and her +lover and, dying, makes her promise never to become Hugh Blair's +wife, but she comes back and unites them. In this, Margaret, +just like the delightful Anne, lives up to the dictum that +"nothing matters in all God's universe except love." The story +of the revival at Avonlea has also a good moral. + +There is something in these continued Chronicles of Avonlea, +like the delicate art which has made "Cranford" a classic: the +characters are so homely and homelike and yet tinged with +beautiful romance! You feel that you are made familiar with a +real town and its real inhabitants; you learn to love them and +sympathize with them. Further Chronicles of Avonlea is a book to +read; and to know. + + NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. + + + +CONTENTS + + I. Aunt Cynthia's Persian Cat + II. The Materializing of Cecil + III. Her Father's Daughter + IV. Jane's Baby + V. The Dream-Child + VI. The Brother Who Failed + VII. The Return of Hester + VIII. The Little Brown Book of Miss Emily + IX. Sara's Way + X. The Son of His Mother + XI. The Education of Betty + XII. In Her Selfless Mood + XIII. The Conscience Case of David Bell + XIV. Only a Common Fellow + XV. Tannis of the Flats + + + +FURTHER CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA + + + +I. AUNT CYNTHIA'S PERSIAN CAT + +Max always blesses the animal when it is referred to; and I don't +deny that things have worked together for good after all. But +when I think of the anguish of mind which Ismay and I underwent +on account of that abominable cat, it is not a blessing that +arises uppermost in my thoughts. + +I never was fond of cats, although I admit they are well enough +in their place, and I can worry along comfortably with a nice, +matronly old tabby who can take care of herself and be of some +use in the world. As for Ismay, she hates cats and always did. + +But Aunt Cynthia, who adored them, never could bring herself to +understand that any one could possibly dislike them. She firmly +believed that Ismay and I really liked cats deep down in our +hearts, but that, owing to some perverse twist in our moral +natures, we would not own up to it, but willfully persisted in +declaring we didn't. + +Of all cats I loathed that white Persian cat of Aunt Cynthia's. +And, indeed, as we always suspected and finally proved, Aunt +herself looked upon the creature with more pride than affection. +She would have taken ten times the comfort in a good, common puss +that she did in that spoiled beauty. But a Persian cat with a +recorded pedigree and a market value of one hundred dollars +tickled Aunt Cynthia's pride of possession to such an extent that +she deluded herself into believing that the animal was really the +apple of her eye. + +It had been presented to her when a kitten by a missionary nephew +who had brought it all the way home from Persia; and for the next +three years Aunt Cynthia's household existed to wait on that cat, +hand and foot. It was snow-white, with a bluish-gray spot on the +tip of its tail; and it was blue-eyed and deaf and delicate. +Aunt Cynthia was always worrying lest it should take cold and +die. Ismay and I used to wish that it would--we were so tired of +hearing about it and its whims. But we did not say so to Aunt +Cynthia. She would probably never have spoken to us again and +there was no wisdom in offending Aunt Cynthia. When you have an +unencumbered aunt, with a fat bank account, it is just as well to +keep on good terms with her, if you can. Besides, we really +liked Aunt Cynthia very much--at times. Aunt Cynthia was one of +those rather exasperating people who nag at and find fault with +you until you think you are justified in hating them, and who +then turn round and do something so really nice and kind for you +that you feel as if you were compelled to love them dutifully +instead. + +So we listened meekly when she discoursed on Fatima--the cat's +name was Fatima--and, if it was wicked of us to wish for the +latter's decease, we were well punished for it later on. + +One day, in November, Aunt Cynthia came sailing out to +Spencervale. She really came in a phaeton, drawn by a fat gray +pony, but somehow Aunt Cynthia always gave you the impression of +a full rigged ship coming gallantly on before a favorable wind. + +That was a Jonah day for us all through. Everything had gone +wrong. Ismay had spilled grease on her velvet coat, and the fit +of the new blouse I was making was hopelessly askew, and the +kitchen stove smoked and the bread was sour. Moreover, Huldah +Jane Keyson, our tried and trusty old family nurse and cook and +general "boss," had what she called the "realagy" in her +shoulder; and, though Huldah Jane is as good an old creature as +ever lived, when she has the "realagy" other people who are in +the house want to get out of it and, if they can't, feel about as +comfortable as St. Lawrence on his gridiron. + +And on top of this came Aunt Cynthia's call and request. + +"Dear me," said Aunt Cynthia, sniffing, "don't I smell smoke? +You girls must manage your range very badly. Mine never smokes. +But it is no more than one might expect when two girls try to +keep house without a man about the place." + +"We get along very well without a man about the place," I said +loftily. Max hadn't been in for four whole days and, though +nobody wanted to see him particularly, I couldn't help wondering +why. "Men are nuisances." + +"I dare say you would like to pretend you think so," said Aunt +Cynthia, aggravatingly. "But no woman ever does really think so, +you know. I imagine that pretty Anne Shirley, who is visiting +Ella Kimball, doesn't. I saw her and Dr. Irving out walking this +afternoon, looking very well satisfied with themselves. If you +dilly-dally much longer, Sue, you will let Max slip through your +fingers yet." + +That was a tactful thing to say to ME, who had refused Max Irving +so often that I had lost count. I was furious, and so I smiled +most sweetly on my maddening aunt. + +"Dear Aunt, how amusing of you," I said, smoothly. "You talk as +if I wanted Max." + +"So you do," said Aunt Cynthia. + +"If so, why should I have refused him time and again?" I asked, +smilingly. Right well Aunt Cynthia knew I had. Max always told +her. + +"Goodness alone knows why," said Aunt Cynthia, "but you may do it +once too often and find yourself taken at your word. There is +something very fascinating about this Anne Shirley." + +"Indeed there is," I assented. "She has the loveliest eyes I +ever saw. She would be just the wife for Max, and I hope he will +marry her." + +"Humph," said Aunt Cynthia. "Well, I won't entice you into +telling any more fibs. And I didn't drive out here to-day in all +this wind to talk sense into you concerning Max. I'm going to +Halifax for two months and I want you to take charge of Fatima +for me, while I am away." + +"Fatima!" I exclaimed. + +"Yes. I don't dare to trust her with the servants. Mind you +always warm her milk before you give it to her, and don't on any +account let her run out of doors." + +I looked at Ismay and Ismay looked at me. We knew we were in for +it. To refuse would mortally offend Aunt Cynthia. Besides, if I +betrayed any unwillingness, Aunt Cynthia would be sure to put it +down to grumpiness over what she had said about Max, and rub it +in for years. But I ventured to ask, "What if anything happens +to her while you are away?" + +"It is to prevent that, I'm leaving her with you," said Aunt +Cynthia. "You simply must not let anything happen to her. It +will do you good to have a little responsibility. And you will +have a chance to find out what an adorable creature Fatima really +is. Well, that is all settled. I'll send Fatima out to-morrow." + +"You can take care of that horrid Fatima beast yourself," said +Ismay, when the door closed behind Aunt Cynthia. "I won't touch +her with a yard-stick. You had no business to say we'd take +her." + +"Did I say we would take her?" I demanded, crossly. "Aunt +Cynthia took our consent for granted. And you know, as well as I +do, we couldn't have refused. So what is the use of being +grouchy?" + +"If anything happens to her Aunt Cynthia will hold us +responsible," said Ismay darkly. + +"Do you think Anne Shirley is really engaged to Gilbert Blythe?" +I asked curiously. + +"I've heard that she was," said Ismay, absently. "Does she eat +anything but milk? Will it do to give her mice?" + +"Oh, I guess so. But do you think Max has really fallen in love +with her?" + +"I dare say. What a relief it will be for you if he has." + +"Oh, of course," I said, frostily. "Anne Shirley or Anne Anybody +Else, is perfectly welcome to Max if she wants him. _I_ +certainly do not. Ismay Meade, if that stove doesn't stop +smoking I shall fly into bits. This is a detestable day. I hate +that creature!" + +"Oh, you shouldn't talk like that, when you don't even know her," +protested Ismay. "Every one says Anne Shirley is lovely--" + +"I was talking about Fatima," I cried in a rage. + +"Oh!" said Ismay. + +Ismay is stupid at times. I thought the way she said "Oh" was +inexcusably stupid. + +Fatima arrived the next day. Max brought her out in a covered +basket, lined with padded crimson satin. Max likes cats and Aunt +Cynthia. He explained how we were to treat Fatima and when Ismay +had gone out of the room--Ismay always went out of the room when +she knew I particularly wanted her to remain--he proposed to me +again. Of course I said no, as usual, but I was rather pleased. +Max had been proposing to me about every two months for two +years. Sometimes, as in this case, he went three months, and +then I always wondered why. I concluded that he could not be +really interested in Anne Shirley, and I was relieved. I didn't +want to marry Max but it was pleasant and convenient to have him +around, and we would miss him dreadfully if any other girl +snapped him up. He was so useful and always willing to do +anything for us--nail a shingle on the roof, drive us to town, +put down carpets--in short, a very present help in all our +troubles. + +So I just beamed on him when I said no. Max began counting on +his fingers. When he got as far as eight he shook his head and +began over again. + +"What is it?" I asked. + +"I'm trying to count up how many times I have proposed to you," +he said. "But I can't remember whether I asked you to marry me +that day we dug up the garden or not. If I did it makes--" + +"No, you didn't," I interrupted. + +"Well, that makes it eleven," said Max reflectively. "Pretty +near the limit, isn't it? My manly pride will not allow me to +propose to the same girl more than twelve times. So the next +time will be the last, Sue darling." + +"Oh," I said, a trifle flatly. I forgot to resent his calling me +darling. I wondered if things wouldn't be rather dull when Max +gave up proposing to me. It was the only excitement I had. But +of course it would be best--and he couldn't go on at it forever, +so, by the way of gracefully dismissing the subject, I asked him +what Miss Shirley was like. + +"Very sweet girl," said Max. "You know I always admired those +gray-eyed girls with that splendid Titian hair." + +I am dark, with brown eyes. Just then I detested Max. I got up +and said I was going to get some milk for Fatima. + +I found Ismay in a rage in the kitchen. She had been up in the +garret, and a mouse had run across her foot. Mice always get on +Ismay's nerves. + +"We need a cat badly enough," she fumed, "but not a useless, +pampered thing, like Fatima. That garret is literally swarming +with mice. You'll not catch me going up there again." + +Fatima did not prove such a nuisance as we had feared. Huldah +Jane liked her, and Ismay, in spite of her declaration that she +would have nothing to do with her, looked after her comfort +scrupulously. She even used to get up in the middle of the night +and go out to see if Fatima was warm. Max came in every day and, +being around, gave us good advice. + +Then one day, about three weeks after Aunt Cynthia's departure, +Fatima disappeared--just simply disappeared as if she had been +dissolved into thin air. We left her one afternoon, curled up +asleep in her basket by the fire, under Huldah Jane's eye, while +we went out to make a call. When we came home Fatima was gone. + +Huldah Jane wept and was as one whom the gods had made mad. She +vowed that she had never let Fatima out of her sight the whole +time, save once for three minutes when she ran up to the garret +for some summer savory. When she came back the kitchen door had +blown open and Fatima had vanished. + +Ismay and I were frantic. We ran about the garden and through +the out-houses, and the woods behind the house, like wild +creatures, calling Fatima, but in vain. Then Ismay sat down on +the front doorsteps and cried. + +"She has got out and she'll catch her death of cold and Aunt +Cynthia will never forgive us." + +"I'm going for Max," I declared. So I did, through the spruce +woods and over the field as fast as my feet could carry me, +thanking my stars that there was a Max to go to in such a +predicament. + +Max came over and we had another search, but without result. +Days passed, but we did not find Fatima. I would certainly have +gone crazy had it not been for Max. He was worth his weight in +gold during the awful week that followed. We did not dare +advertise, lest Aunt Cynthia should see it; but we inquired far +and wide for a white Persian cat with a blue spot on its tail, +and offered a reward for it; but nobody had seen it, although +people kept coming to the house, night and day, with every kind +of a cat in baskets, wanting to know if it was the one we had +lost. + +"We shall never see Fatima again," I said hopelessly to Max and +Ismay one afternoon. I had just turned away an old woman with a +big, yellow tommy which she insisted must be ours--"cause it kem +to our place, mem, a-yowling fearful, mem, and it don't belong to +nobody not down Grafton way, mem." + +"I'm afraid you won't," said Max. "She must have perished from +exposure long ere this." + +"Aunt Cynthia will never forgive us," said Ismay, dismally. "I +had a presentiment of trouble the moment that cat came to this +house." + +We had never heard of this presentiment before, but Ismay is good +at having presentiments--after things happen. + +"What shall we do?" I demanded, helplessly. "Max, can't you find +some way out of this scrape for us?" + +"Advertise in the Charlottetown papers for a white Persian cat," +suggested Max. "Some one may have one for sale. If so, you must +buy it, and palm it off on your good Aunt as Fatima. She's very +short-sighted, so it will be quite possible." + +"But Fatima has a blue spot on her tail," I said. + +"You must advertise for a cat with a blue spot on its tail," said +Max. + +"It will cost a pretty penny," said Ismay dolefully. "Fatima was +valued at one hundred dollars." + +"We must take the money we have been saving for our new furs," I +said sorrowfully. "There is no other way out of it. It will +cost us a good deal more if we lose Aunt Cynthia's favor. She is +quite capable of believing that we have made away with Fatima +deliberately and with malice aforethought." + +So we advertised. Max went to town and had the notice inserted +in the most important daily. We asked any one who had a white +Persian cat, with a blue spot on the tip of its tail, to dispose +of, to communicate with M. I., care of the _Enterprise_. + +We really did not have much hope that anything would come of it, +so we were surprised and delighted over the letter Max brought +home from town four days later. It was a type-written screed +from Halifax stating that the writer had for sale a white Persian +cat answering to our description. The price was a hundred and +ten dollars, and, if M. I. cared to go to Halifax and inspect the +animal, it would be found at 110 Hollis Street, by inquiring for +"Persian." + +"Temper your joy, my friends," said Ismay, gloomily. "The cat +may not suit. The blue spot may be too big or too small or not +in the right place. I consistently refuse to believe that any +good thing can come out of this deplorable affair." + +Just at this moment there was a knock at the door and I hurried +out. The postmaster's boy was there with a telegram. I tore it +open, glanced at it, and dashed back into the room. + +"What is it now?" cried Ismay, beholding my face. + +I held out the telegram. It was from Aunt Cynthia. She had +wired us to send Fatima to Halifax by express immediately. + +For the first time Max did not seem ready to rush into the breach +with a suggestion. It was I who spoke first. + +"Max," I said, imploringly, "you'll see us through this, won't +you? Neither Ismay nor I can rush off to Halifax at once. You +must go to-morrow morning. Go right to 110 Hollis Street and ask +for 'Persian.' If the cat looks enough like Fatima, buy it and +take it to Aunt Cynthia. If it doesn't--but it must! You'll go, +won't you?" + +"That depends," said Max. + +I stared at him. This was so unlike Max. + +"You are sending me on a nasty errand," he said, coolly. "How do +I know that Aunt Cynthia will be deceived after all, even if she +be short-sighted. Buying a cat in a joke is a huge risk. And if +she should see through the scheme I shall be in a pretty mess." + +"Oh, Max," I said, on the verge of tears. + +"Of course," said Max, looking meditatively into the fire, "if I +were really one of the family, or had any reasonable prospect of +being so, I would not mind so much. It would be all in the day's +work then. But as it is--" + +Ismay got up and went out of the room. + +"Oh, Max, please," I said. + +"Will you marry me, Sue?" demanded Max sternly. "If you will +agree, I'll go to Halifax and beard the lion in his den +unflinchingly. If necessary, I will take a black street cat to +Aunt Cynthia, and swear that it is Fatima. I'll get you out of +the scrape, if I have to prove that you never had Fatima, that +she is safe in your possession at the present time, and that +there never was such an animal as Fatima anyhow. I'll do +anything, say anything--but it must be for my future wife." + +"Will nothing else content you?" I said helplessly. + +"Nothing." + +I thought hard. Of course Max was acting abominably--but--but-- +he was really a dear fellow--and this was the twelfth time--and +there was Anne Shirley! I knew in my secret soul that life would +be a dreadfully dismal thing if Max were not around somewhere. +Besides, I would have married him long ago had not Aunt Cynthia +thrown us so pointedly at each other's heads ever since he came +to Spencervale. + +"Very well," I said crossly. + +Max left for Halifax in the morning. Next day we got a wire +saying it was all right. The evening of the following day he was +back in Spencervale. Ismay and I put him in a chair and glared +at him impatiently. + +Max began to laugh and laughed until he turned blue. + +"I am glad it is so amusing," said Ismay severely. "If Sue and I +could see the joke it might be more so." + +"Dear little girls, have patience with me," implored Max. "If +you knew what it cost me to keep a straight face in Halifax you +would forgive me for breaking out now." + +"We forgive you--but for pity's sake tell us all about it," I +cried. + +"Well, as soon as I arrived in Halifax I hurried to 110 Hollis +Street, but--see here! Didn't you tell me your Aunt's address +was 10 Pleasant Street?" + +"So it is." + +"'T isn't. You look at the address on a telegram next time you +get one. She went a week ago to visit another friend who lives +at 110 Hollis." + +"Max!" + +"It's a fact. I rang the bell, and was just going to ask the +maid for 'Persian' when your Aunt Cynthia herself came through +the hall and pounced on me." + +"'Max,' she said, 'have you brought Fatima?' + +"'No,' I answered, trying to adjust my wits to this new +development as she towed me into the library. 'No, I--I--just +came to Halifax on a little matter of business.' + +"'Dear me,' said Aunt Cynthia, crossly, 'I don't know what those +girls mean. I wired them to send Fatima at once. And she has +not come yet and I am expecting a call every minute from some one +who wants to buy her.' + +"'Oh!' I murmured, mining deeper every minute. + +"'Yes,' went on your aunt, 'there is an advertisement in the +Charlottetown _Enterprise_ for a Persian cat, and I answered it. +Fatima is really quite a charge, you know--and so apt to die and +be a dead loss,'--did your aunt mean a pun, girls?--'and so, +although I am considerably attached to her, I have decided to +part with her.' + +"By this time I had got my second wind, and I promptly decided +that a judicious mixture of the truth was the thing required. + +"'Well, of all the curious coincidences,' I exclaimed. 'Why, +Miss Ridley, it was I who advertised for a Persian cat--on Sue's +behalf. She and Ismay have decided that they want a cat like +Fatima for themselves.' + +"You should have seen how she beamed. She said she knew you +always really liked cats, only you would never own up to it. We +clinched the dicker then and there. I passed her over your +hundred and ten dollars--she took the money without turning a +hair--and now you are the joint owners of Fatima. Good luck to +your bargain!" + +"Mean old thing," sniffed Ismay. She meant Aunt Cynthia, and, +remembering our shabby furs, I didn't disagree with her. + +"But there is no Fatima," I said, dubiously. "How shall we +account for her when Aunt Cynthia comes home?" + +"Well, your aunt isn't coming home for a month yet. When she +comes you will have to tell her that the cat--is lost--but you +needn't say WHEN it happened. As for the rest, Fatima is your +property now, so Aunt Cynthia can't grumble. But she will have a +poorer opinion than ever of your fitness to run a house alone." + +When Max left I went to the window to watch him down the path. +He was really a handsome fellow, and I was proud of him. At the +gate he turned to wave me good-by, and, as he did, he glanced +upward. Even at that distance I saw the look of amazement on his +face. Then he came bolting back. + +"Ismay, the house is on fire!" I shrieked, as I flew to the door. + +"Sue," cried Max, "I saw Fatima, or her ghost, at the garret +window a moment ago!" + +"Nonsense!" I cried. But Ismay was already half way up the +stairs and we followed. Straight to the garret we rushed. There +sat Fatima, sleek and complacent, sunning herself in the window. + +Max laughed until the rafters rang. + +"She can't have been up here all this time," I protested, half +tearfully. "We would have heard her meowing." + +"But you didn't," said Max. + +"She would have died of the cold," declared Ismay. + +"But she hasn't," said Max. + +"Or starved," I cried. + +"The place is alive with mice," said Max. "No, girls, there is +no doubt the cat has been here the whole fortnight. She must +have followed Huldah Jane up here, unobserved, that day. It's a +wonder you didn't hear her crying--if she did cry. But perhaps +she didn't, and, of course, you sleep downstairs. To think you +never thought of looking here for her!" + +"It has cost us over a hundred dollars," said Ismay, with a +malevolent glance at the sleek Fatima. + +"It has cost me more than that," I said, as I turned to the +stairway. + +Max held me back for an instant, while Ismay and Fatima pattered +down. + +"Do you think it has cost too much, Sue?" he whispered. + +I looked at him sideways. He was really a dear. Niceness fairly +exhaled from him. + +"No-o-o," I said, "but when we are married you will have to take +care of Fatima, _I_ won't." + +"Dear Fatima," said Max gratefully. + + + +II. THE MATERALIZING OF CECIL + +It had never worried me in the least that I wasn't married, +although everybody in Avonlea pitied old maids; but it DID worry +me, and I frankly confess it, that I had never had a chance to +be. Even Nancy, my old nurse and servant, knew that, and pitied +me for it. Nancy is an old maid herself, but she has had two +proposals. She did not accept either of them because one was a +widower with seven children, and the other a very shiftless, +good-for-nothing fellow; but, if anybody twitted Nancy on her +single condition, she could point triumphantly to those two as +evidence that "she could an she would." If I had not lived all +my life in Avonlea I might have had the benefit of the doubt; but +I had, and everybody knew everything about me--or thought they +did. + +I had really often wondered why nobody had ever fallen in love +with me. I was not at all homely; indeed, years ago, George +Adoniram Maybrick had written a poem addressed to me, in which he +praised my beauty quite extravagantly; that didn't mean anything +because George Adoniram wrote poetry to all the good-looking +girls and never went with anybody but Flora King, who was +cross-eyed and red-haired, but it proves that it was not my +appearance that put me out of the running. Neither was it the +fact that I wrote poetry myself--although not of George +Adoniram's kind--because nobody ever knew that. When I felt it +coming on I shut myself up in my room and wrote it out in a +little blank book I kept locked up. It is nearly full now, +because I have been writing poetry all my life. It is the only +thing I have ever been able to keep a secret from Nancy. Nancy, +in any case, has not a very high opinion of my ability to take +care of myself; but I tremble to imagine what she would think if +she ever found out about that little book. I am convinced she +would send for the doctor post-haste and insist on mustard +plasters while waiting for him. + +Nevertheless, I kept on at it, and what with my flowers and my +cats and my magazines and my little book, I was really very happy +and contented. But it DID sting that Adella Gilbert, across the +road, who has a drunken husband, should pity "poor Charlotte" +because nobody had ever wanted her. Poor Charlotte indeed! If I +had thrown myself at a man's head the way Adella Gilbert did at-- +but there, there, I must refrain from such thoughts. I must not +be uncharitable. + +The Sewing Circle met at Mary Gillespie's on my fortieth +birthday. I have given up talking about my birthdays, although +that little scheme is not much good in Avonlea where everybody +knows your age--or if they make a mistake it is never on the side +of youth. But Nancy, who grew accustomed to celebrating my +birthdays when I was a little girl, never gets over the habit, +and I don't try to cure her, because, after all, it's nice to +have some one make a fuss over you. She brought me up my +breakfast before I got up out of bed--a concession to my laziness +that Nancy would scorn to make on any other day of the year. She +had cooked everything I like best, and had decorated the tray +with roses from the garden and ferns from the woods behind the +house. I enjoyed every bit of that breakfast, and then I got up +and dressed, putting on my second best muslin gown. I would have +put on my really best if I had not had the fear of Nancy before +my eyes; but I knew she would never condone THAT, even on a +birthday. I watered my flowers and fed my cats, and then I +locked myself up and wrote a poem on June. I had given up +writing birthday odes after I was thirty. + +In the afternoon I went to the Sewing Circle. When I was ready +for it I looked in my glass and wondered if I could really be +forty. I was quite sure I didn't look it. My hair was brown and +wavy, my cheeks were pink, and the lines could hardly be seen at +all, though possibly that was because of the dim light. I always +have my mirror hung in the darkest corner of my room. Nancy +cannot imagine why. I know the lines are there, of course; but +when they don't show very plain I forget that they are there. + +We had a large Sewing Circle, young and old alike attending. I +really cannot say I ever enjoyed the meetings--at least not up to +that time--although I went religiously because I thought it my +duty to go. The married women talked so much of their husbands +and children, and of course I had to be quiet on those topics; +and the young girls talked in corner groups about their beaux, +and stopped it when I joined them, as if they felt sure that an +old maid who had never had a beau couldn't understand at all. As +for the other old maids, they talked gossip about every one, and +I did not like that either. I knew the minute my back was turned +they would fasten into me and hint that I used hair-dye and +declare it was perfectly ridiculous for a woman of FIFTY to wear +a pink muslin dress with lace-trimmed frills. + +There was a full attendance that day, for we were getting ready +for a sale of fancy work in aid of parsonage repairs. The young +girls were merrier and noisier than usual. Wilhelmina Mercer was +there, and she kept them going. The Mercers were quite new to +Avonlea, having come here only two months previously. + +I was sitting by the window and Wilhelmina Mercer, Maggie +Henderson, Susette Cross and Georgie Hall were in a little group +just before me. I wasn't listening to their chatter at all, but +presently Georgie exclaimed teasingly: + +"Miss Charlotte is laughing at us. I suppose she thinks we are +awfully silly to be talking about beaux." + +The truth was that I was simply smiling over some very pretty +thoughts that had come to me about the roses which were climbing +over Mary Gillespie's sill. I meant to inscribe them in the +little blank book when I went home. Georgie's speech brought me +back to harsh realities with a jolt. It hurt me, as such +speeches always did. + +"Didn't you ever have a beau, Miss Holmes?" said Wilhelmina +laughingly. + +Just as it happened, a silence had fallen over the room for a +moment, and everybody in it heard Wilhelmina's question. + +I really do not know what got into me and possessed me. I have +never been able to account for what I said and did, because I am +naturally a truthful person and hate all deceit. It seemed to me +that I simply could not say "No" to Wilhelmina before that whole +roomful of women. It was TOO humiliating. I suppose all the +prickles and stings and slurs I had endured for fifteen years on +account of never having had a lover had what the new doctor calls +"a cumulative effect" and came to a head then and there. + +"Yes, I had one once, my dear," I said calmly. + +For once in my life I made a sensation. Every woman in that room +stopped sewing and stared at me. Most of them, I saw, didn't +believe me, but Wilhelmina did. Her pretty face lighted up with +interest. + +"Oh, won't you tell us about him, Miss Holmes?" she coaxed, "and +why didn't you marry him?" + +"That is right, Miss Mercer," said Josephine Cameron, with a +nasty little laugh. "Make her tell. We're all interested. It's +news to us that Charlotte ever had a beau." + +If Josephine had not said that, I might not have gone on. But +she did say it, and, moreover, I caught Mary Gillespie and Adella +Gilbert exchanging significant smiles. That settled it, and made +me quite reckless. "In for a penny, in for a pound," thought I, +and I said with a pensive smile: + +"Nobody here knew anything about him, and it was all long, long +ago." + +"What was his name?" asked Wilhelmina. + +"Cecil Fenwick," I answered promptly. Cecil had always been my +favorite name for a man; it figured quite frequently in the blank +book. As for the Fenwick part of it, I had a bit of newspaper in +my hand, measuring a hem, with "Try Fenwick's Porous Plasters" +printed across it, and I simply joined the two in sudden and +irrevocable matrimony. + +"Where did you meet him?" asked Georgie. + +I hastily reviewed my past. There was only one place to locate +Cecil Fenwick. The only time I had ever been far enough away +from Avonlea in my life was when I was eighteen and had gone to +visit an aunt in New Brunswick. + +"In Blakely, New Brunswick," I said, almost believing that I had +when I saw how they all took it in unsuspectingly. "I was just +eighteen and he was twenty-three." + +"What did he look like?" Susette wanted to know. + +"Oh, he was very handsome." I proceeded glibly to sketch my +ideal. To tell the dreadful truth, I was enjoying myself; I +could see respect dawning in those girls' eyes, and I knew that I +had forever thrown off my reproach. Henceforth I should be a +woman with a romantic past, faithful to the one love of her +life--a very, very different thing from an old maid who had never +had a lover. + +"He was tall and dark, with lovely, curly black hair and +brilliant, piercing eyes. He had a splendid chin, and a fine +nose, and the most fascinating smile!" + +"What was he?" asked Maggie. + +"A young lawyer," I said, my choice of profession decided by an +enlarged crayon portrait of Mary Gillespie's deceased brother on +an easel before me. He had been a lawyer. + +"Why didn't you marry him?" demanded Susette. + +"We quarreled," I answered sadly. "A terribly bitter quarrel. +Oh, we were both so young and so foolish. It was my fault. I +vexed Cecil by flirting with another man"--wasn't I coming on!-- +"and he was jealous and angry. He went out West and never came +back. I have never seen him since, and I do not even know if he +is alive. But--but--I could never care for any other man." + +"Oh, how interesting!" sighed Wilhelmina. "I do so love sad love +stories. But perhaps he will come back some day yet, Miss +Holmes." + +"Oh, no, never now," I said, shaking my head. "He has forgotten +all about me, I dare say. Or if he hasn't, he has never forgiven +me." + +Mary Gillespie's Susan Jane announced tea at this moment, and I +was thankful, for my imagination was giving out, and I didn't +know what question those girls would ask next. But I felt +already a change in the mental atmosphere surrounding me, and all +through supper I was thrilled with a secret exultation. +Repentant? Ashamed? Not a bit of it! I'd have done the same +thing over again, and all I felt sorry for was that I hadn't done +it long ago. + +When I got home that night Nancy looked at me wonderingly, and +said: + +"You look like a girl to-night, Miss Charlotte." + +"I feel like one," I said laughing; and I ran to my room and did +what I had never done before--wrote a second poem in the same +day. I had to have some outlet for my feelings. I called it "In +Summer Days of Long Ago," and I worked Mary Gillespie's roses and +Cecil Fenwick's eyes into it, and made it so sad and reminiscent +and minor-musicky that I felt perfectly happy. + +For the next two months all went well and merrily. Nobody ever +said anything more to me about Cecil Fenwick, but the girls all +chattered freely to me of their little love affairs, and I became +a sort of general confidant for them. It just warmed up the +cockles of my heart, and I began to enjoy the Sewing Circle +famously. I got a lot of pretty new dresses and the dearest hat, +and I went everywhere I was asked and had a good time. + +But there is one thing you can be perfectly sure of. If you do +wrong you are going to be punished for it sometime, somehow and +somewhere. My punishment was delayed for two months, and then it +descended on my head and I was crushed to the very dust. + +Another new family besides the Mercers had come to Avonlea in the +spring--the Maxwells. There were just Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell; they +were a middle-aged couple and very well off. Mr. Maxwell had +bought the lumber mills, and they lived up at the old Spencer +place which had always been "the" place of Avonlea. They lived +quietly, and Mrs. Maxwell hardly ever went anywhere because she +was delicate. She was out when I called and I was out when she +returned my call, so that I had never met her. + +It was the Sewing Circle day again--at Sarah Gardiner's this +time. I was late; everybody else was there when I arrived, and +the minute I entered the room I knew something had happened, +although I couldn't imagine what. Everybody looked at me in the +strangest way. Of course, Wilhelmina Mercer was the first to set +her tongue going. + +"Oh, Miss Holmes, have you seen him yet?" she exclaimed. + +"Seen whom?" I said non-excitedly, getting out my thimble and +patterns. + +"Why, Cecil Fenwick. He's here--in Avonlea--visiting his sister, +Mrs. Maxwell." + +I suppose I did what they expected me to do. I dropped +everything I held, and Josephine Cameron said afterwards that +Charlotte Holmes would never be paler when she was in her coffin. +If they had just known why I turned so pale! + +"It's impossible!" I said blankly. + +"It's really true," said Wilhelmina, delighted at this +development, as she supposed it, of my romance. "I was up to see +Mrs. Maxwell last night, and I met him." + +"It--can't be--the same--Cecil Fenwick," I said faintly, because +I had to say something. + +"Oh, yes, it is. He belongs in Blakely, New Brunswick, and he's +a lawyer, and he's been out West twenty-two years. He's oh! so +handsome, and just as you described him, except that his hair is +quite gray. He has never married--I asked Mrs. Maxwell--so you +see he has never forgotten you, Miss Holmes. And, oh, I believe +everything is going to come out all right." + +I couldn't exactly share her cheerful belief. Everything seemed +to me to be coming out most horribly wrong. I was so mixed up I +didn't know what to do or say. I felt as if I were in a bad +dream--it MUST be a dream--there couldn't really be a Cecil +Fenwick! My feelings were simply indescribable. Fortunately +every one put my agitation down to quite a different cause, and +they very kindly left me alone to recover myself. I shall never +forget that awful afternoon. Right after tea I excused myself +and went home as fast as I could go. There I shut myself up in +my room, but NOT to write poetry in my blank book. No, indeed! +I felt in no poetical mood. + +I tried to look the facts squarely in the face. There was a +Cecil Fenwick, extraordinary as the coincidence was, and he was +here in Avonlea. All my friends--and foes--believed that he was +the estranged lover of my youth. If he stayed long in Avonlea, +one of two things was bound to happen. He would hear the story I +had told about him and deny it, and I would be held up to shame +and derision for the rest of my natural life; or else he would +simply go away in ignorance, and everybody would suppose he had +forgotten me and would pity me maddeningly. The latter +possibility was bad enough, but it wasn't to be compared to the +former; and oh, how I prayed--yes, I DID pray about it--that he +would go right away. But Providence had other views for me. + +Cecil Fenwick didn't go away. He stayed right on in Avonlea, and +the Maxwells blossomed out socially in his honor and tried to +give him a good time. Mrs. Maxwell gave a party for him. I got +a card--but you may be very sure I didn't go, although Nancy +thought I was crazy not to. Then every one else gave parties in +honor of Mr. Fenwick and I was invited and never went. +Wilhelmina Mercer came and pleaded and scolded and told me if I +avoided Mr. Fenwick like that he would think I still cherished +bitterness against him, and he wouldn't make any advances towards +a reconciliation. Wilhelmina means well, but she hasn't a great +deal of sense. + +Cecil Fenwick seemed to be a great favorite with everybody, young +and old. He was very rich, too, and Wilhelmina declared that +half the girls were after him. + +"If it wasn't for you, Miss Holmes, I believe I'd have a try for +him myself, in spite of his gray hair and quick temper--for Mrs. +Maxwell says he has a pretty quick temper, but it's all over in a +minute," said Wilhelmina, half in jest and wholly in earnest. + +As for me, I gave up going out at all, even to church. I fretted +and pined and lost my appetite and never wrote a line in my blank +book. Nancy was half frantic and insisted on dosing me with her +favorite patent pills. I took them meekly, because it is a waste +of time and energy to oppose Nancy, but, of course, they didn't +do me any good. My trouble was too deep-seated for pills to +cure. If ever a woman was punished for telling a lie I was that +woman. I stopped my subscription to the _Weekly Advocate_ +because it still carried that wretched porous plaster +advertisement, and I couldn't bear to see it. If it hadn't been +for that I would never have thought of Fenwick for a name, and +all this trouble would have been averted. + +One evening, when I was moping in my room, Nancy came up. + +"There's a gentleman in the parlor asking for you, Miss +Charlotte." + +My heart gave just one horrible bounce. + +"What--sort of a gentleman, Nancy?" I faltered. + +"I think it's that Fenwick man that there's been such a time +about," said Nancy, who didn't know anything about my imaginary +escapades, "and he looks to be mad clean through about something, +for such a scowl I never seen." + +"Tell him I'll be down directly, Nancy," I said quite calmly. + +As soon as Nancy had clumped downstairs again I put on my lace +fichu and put two hankies in my belt, for I thought I'd probably +need more than one. Then I hunted up an old _Advocate_ for +proof, and down I went to the parlor. I know exactly how a +criminal feels going to execution, and I've been opposed to +capital punishment ever since. + +I opened the parlor door and went in, carefully closing it behind +me, for Nancy has a deplorable habit of listening in the hall. +Then my legs gave out completely, and I couldn't have walked +another step to save my life. I just stood there, my hand on the +knob, trembling like a leaf. + +A man was standing by the south window looking out; he wheeled +around as I went in, and, as Nancy said, he had a scowl on and +looked angry clear through. He was very handsome, and his gray +hair gave him such a distinguished look. I recalled this +afterward, but just at the moment you may be quite sure I wasn't +thinking about it at all. + +Then all at once a strange thing happened. The scowl went right +off his face and the anger out of his eyes. He looked +astonished, and then foolish. I saw the color creeping up into +his cheeks. As for me, I still stood there staring at him, not +able to say a single word. + +"Miss Holmes, I presume," he said at last, in a deep, thrilling +voice. "I--I--oh, confound it! I have called--I heard some +foolish stories and I came here in a rage. I've been a fool--I +know now they weren't true. Just excuse me and I'll go away and +kick myself." + +"No," I said, finding my voice with a gasp, "you mustn't go until +you've heard the truth. It's dreadful enough, but not as +dreadful as you might otherwise think. Those--those stories--I +have a confession to make. I did tell them, but I didn't know +there was such a person as Cecil Fenwick in existence." + +He looked puzzled, as well he might. Then he smiled, took my +hand and led me away from the door--to the knob of which I was +still holding with all my might--to the sofa. + +"Let's sit down and talk it over 'comfy,'" he said. + +I just confessed the whole shameful business. It was terribly +humiliating, but it served me right. I told him how people were +always twitting me for never having had a beau, and how I had +told them I had; and then I showed him the porous plaster +advertisement. + +He heard me right through without a word, and then he threw back +his big, curly, gray head and laughed. + +"This clears up a great many mysterious hints I've been receiving +ever since I came to Avonlea," he said, "and finally a Mrs. +Gilbert came to my sister this afternoon with a long farrago of +nonsense about the love affair I had once had with some Charlotte +Holmes here. She declared you had told her about it yourself. I +confess I flamed up. I'm a peppery chap, and I thought--I +thought--oh, confound it, it might as well out: I thought you +were some lank old maid who was amusing herself telling +ridiculous stories about me. When you came into the room I knew +that, whoever was to blame, you were not." + +"But I was," I said ruefully. "It wasn't right of me to tell +such a story--and it was very silly, too. But who would ever +have supposed that there could be real Cecil Fenwick who had +lived in Blakely? I never heard of such a coincidence." + +"It's more than a coincidence," said Mr. Fenwick decidedly. +"It's predestination; that is what it is. And now let's forget +it and talk of something else." + +We talked of something else--or at least Mr. Fenwick did, for I +was too ashamed to say much--so long that Nancy got restive and +clumped through the hall every five minutes; but Mr. Fenwick +never took the hint. When he finally went away he asked if he +might come again. + +"It's time we made up that old quarrel, you know," he said, +laughing. + +And I, an old maid of forty, caught myself blushing like a girl. +But I felt like a girl, for it was such a relief to have that +explanation all over. I couldn't even feel angry with Adella +Gilbert. She was always a mischief maker, and when a woman is +born that way she is more to be pitied than blamed. I wrote a +poem in the blank book before I went to sleep; I hadn't written +anything for a month, and it was lovely to be at it once more. + +Mr. Fenwick did come again--the very next evening, but one. And +he came so often after that that even Nancy got resigned to him. +One day I had to tell her something. I shrank from doing it, for +I feared it would make her feel badly. + +"Oh, I've been expecting to hear it," she said grimly. "I felt +the minute that man came into the house he brought trouble with +him. Well, Miss Charlotte, I wish you happiness. I don't know +how the climate of California will agree with me, but I suppose +I'll have to put up with it." + +"But, Nancy," I said, "I can't expect you to go away out there +with me. It's too much to ask of you." + +"And where else would I be going?" demanded Nancy in genuine +astonishment. "How under the canopy could you keep house without +me? I'm not going to trust you to the mercies of a yellow Chinee +with a pig-tail. Where you go I go, Miss Charlotte, and there's +an end of it." + +I was very glad, for I hated to think of parting with Nancy even +to go with Cecil. As for the blank book, I haven't told my +husband about it yet, but I mean to some day. And I've +subscribed for the _Weekly Advocate_ again. + + + +III. HER FATHER'S DAUGHTER + +"We must invite your Aunt Jane, of course," said Mrs. Spencer. + +Rachel made a protesting movement with her large, white, shapely +hands--hands which were so different from the thin, dark, twisted +ones folded on the table opposite her. The difference was not +caused by hard work or the lack of it; Rachel had worked hard all +her life. It was a difference inherent in temperament. The +Spencers, no matter what they did, or how hard they labored, all +had plump, smooth, white hands, with firm, supple fingers; the +Chiswicks, even those who toiled not, neither did they spin, had +hard, knotted, twisted ones. Moreover, the contrast went deeper +than externals, and twined itself with the innermost fibers of +life, and thought, and action. + +"I don't see why we must invite Aunt Jane," said Rachel, with as +much impatience as her soft, throaty voice could express. "Aunt +Jane doesn't like me, and I don't like Aunt Jane." + +"I'm sure I don't see why you don't like her," said Mrs. Spencer. +"It's ungrateful of you. She has always been very kind to you." + +"She has always been very kind with one hand," smiled Rachel. "I +remember the first time I ever saw Aunt Jane. I was six years +old. She held out to me a small velvet pincushion with beads on +it. And then, because I did not, in my shyness, thank her quite +as promptly as I should have done, she rapped my head with her +bethimbled finger to 'teach me better manners.' It hurt +horribly--I've always had a tender head. And that has been Aunt +Jane's way ever since. When I grew too big for the thimble +treatment she used her tongue instead--and that hurt worse. And +you know, mother, how she used to talk about my engagement. She +is able to spoil the whole atmosphere if she happens to come in a +bad humor. I don't want her." + +"She must be invited. People would talk so if she wasn't." + +"I don't see why they should. She's only my great-aunt by +marriage. I wouldn't mind in the least if people did talk. +They'll talk anyway--you know that, mother." + +"Oh, we must have her," said Mrs. Spencer, with the indifferent +finality that marked all her words and decisions--a finality +against which it was seldom of any avail to struggle. People, +who knew, rarely attempted it; strangers occasionally did, misled +by the deceit of appearances. + +Isabella Spencer was a wisp of a woman, with a pale, pretty face, +uncertainly-colored, long-lashed grayish eyes, and great masses +of dull, soft, silky brown hair. She had delicate aquiline +features and a small, babyish red mouth. She looked as if a +breath would sway her. The truth was that a tornado would hardly +have caused her to swerve an inch from her chosen path. + +For a moment Rachel looked rebellious; then she yielded, as she +generally did in all differences of opinion with her mother. It +was not worth while to quarrel over the comparatively unimportant +matter of Aunt Jane's invitation. A quarrel might be inevitable +later on; Rachel wanted to save all her resources for that. She +gave her shoulders a shrug, and wrote Aunt Jane's name down on +the wedding list in her large, somewhat untidy handwriting--a +handwriting which always seemed to irritate her mother. Rachel +never could understand this irritation. She could never guess +that it was because her writing looked so much like that in a +certain packet of faded letters which Mrs. Spencer kept at the +bottom of an old horsehair trunk in her bedroom. They were +postmarked from seaports all over the world. Mrs. Spencer never +read them or looked at them; but she remembered every dash and +curve of the handwriting. + +Isabella Spencer had overcome many things in her life by the +sheer force and persistency of her will. But she could not get +the better of heredity. Rachel was her father's daughter at all +points, and Isabella Spencer escaped hating her for it only by +loving her the more fiercely because of it. Even so, there were +many times when she had to avert her eyes from Rachel's face +because of the pang of the more subtle remembrances; and never, +since her child was born, could Isabella Spencer bear to gaze on +that child's face in sleep. + +Rachel was to be married to Frank Bell in a fortnight's time. +Mrs. Spencer was pleased with the match. She was very fond of +Frank, and his farm was so near to her own that she would not +lose Rachel altogether. Rachel fondly believed that her mother +would not lose her at all; but Isabella Spencer, wiser by olden +experience, knew what her daughter's marriage must mean to her, +and steeled her heart to bear it with what fortitude she might. + +They were in the sitting-room, deciding on the wedding guests and +other details. The September sunshine was coming in through the +waving boughs of the apple tree that grew close up to the low +window. The glints wavered over Rachel's face, as white as a +wood lily, with only a faint dream of rose in the cheeks. She +wore her sleek, golden hair in a quaint arch around it. Her +forehead was very broad and white. She was fresh and young and +hopeful. The mother's heart contracted in a spasm of pain as she +looked at her. How like the girl was to--to--to the Spencers! +Those easy, curving outlines, those large, mirthful blue eyes, +that finely molded chin! Isabella Spencer shut her lips firmly +and crushed down some unbidden, unwelcome memories. + +"There will be about sixty guests, all told," she said, as if she +were thinking of nothing else. "We must move the furniture out +of this room and set the supper-table here. The dining-room is +too small. We must borrow Mrs. Bell's forks and spoons. She +offered to lend them. I'd never have been willing to ask her. +The damask table cloths with the ribbon pattern must be bleached +to-morrow. Nobody else in Avonlea has such tablecloths. And +we'll put the little dining-room table on the hall landing, +upstairs, for the presents." + +Rachel was not thinking about the presents, or the housewifely +details of the wedding. Her breath was coming quicker, and the +faint blush on her smooth cheeks had deepened to crimson. She +knew that a critical moment was approaching. With a steady hand +she wrote the last name on her list and drew a line under it. + +"Well, have you finished?" asked her mother impatiently. "Hand +it here and let me look over it to make sure that you haven't +left anybody out that should be in." + +Rachel passed the paper across the table in silence. The room +seemed to her to have grown very still. She could hear the flies +buzzing on the panes, the soft purr of the wind about the low +eaves and through the apple boughs, the jerky beating of her own +heart. She felt frightened and nervous, but resolute. + +Mrs. Spencer glanced down the list, murmuring the names aloud and +nodding approval at each. But when she came to the last name, she +did not utter it. She cast a black glance at Rachel, and a spark +leaped up in the depths of the pale eyes. On her face were +anger, amazement, incredulity, the last predominating. + +The final name on the list of wedding guests was the name of +David Spencer. David Spencer lived alone in a little cottage +down at the Cove. He was a combination of sailor and fisherman. +He was also Isabella Spencer's husband and Rachel's father. + +"Rachel Spencer, have you taken leave of your senses? What do +you mean by such nonsense as this?" + +"I simply mean that I am going to invite my father to my +wedding," answered Rachel quietly. + +"Not in my house," cried Mrs. Spencer, her lips as white as if +her fiery tone had scathed them. + +Rachel leaned forward, folded her large, capable hands +deliberately on the table, and gazed unflinchingly into her +mother's bitter face. Her fright and nervousness were gone. Now +that the conflict was actually on she found herself rather +enjoying it. She wondered a little at herself, and thought that +she must be wicked. She was not given to self-analysis, or she +might have concluded that it was the sudden assertion of her own +personality, so long dominated by her mother's, which she was +finding so agreeable. + +"Then there will be no wedding, mother," she said. "Frank and I +will simply go to the manse, be married, and go home. If I +cannot invite my father to see me married, no one else shall be +invited." + +Her lips narrowed tightly. For the first time in her life +Isabella Spencer saw a reflection of herself looking back at her +from her daughter's face--a strange, indefinable resemblance that +was more of soul and spirit than of flesh and blood. In spite of +her anger her heart thrilled to it. As never before, she +realized that this girl was her own and her husband's child, a +living bond between them wherein their conflicting natures +mingled and were reconciled. She realized too, that Rachel, so +long sweetly meek and obedient, meant to have her own way in this +case--and would have it. + +"I must say that I can't see why you are so set on having your +father see you married," she said with a bitter sneer. "HE has +never remembered that he is your father. He cares nothing about +you--never did care." + +Rachel took no notice of this taunt. It had no power to hurt +her, its venom being neutralized by a secret knowledge of her own +in which her mother had no share. + +"Either I shall invite my father to my wedding, or I shall not +have a wedding," she repeated steadily, adopting her mother's own +effective tactics of repetition undistracted by argument. + +"Invite him then," snapped Mrs. Spencer, with the ungraceful +anger of a woman, long accustomed to having her own way, +compelled for once to yield. "It'll be like chips in porridge +anyhow--neither good nor harm. He won't come." + +Rachel made no response. Now that the battle was over, and the +victory won, she found herself tremulously on the verge of tears. +She rose quickly and went upstairs to her own room, a dim little +place shadowed by the white birches growing thickly outside--a +virginal room, where everything bespoke the maiden. She lay down +on the blue and white patchwork quilt on her bed, and cried +softly and bitterly. + +Her heart, at this crisis in her life, yearned for her father, +who was almost a stranger to her. She knew that her mother had +probably spoken the truth when she said that he would not come. +Rachel felt that her marriage vows would be lacking in some +indefinable sacredness if her father were not by to hear them +spoken. + +Twenty-five years before this, David Spencer and Isabella +Chiswick had been married. Spiteful people said there could be +no doubt that Isabella had married David for love, since he had +neither lands nor money to tempt her into a match of bargain and +sale. David was a handsome fellow, with the blood of a seafaring +race in his veins. + +He had been a sailor, like his father and grandfather before him; +but, when he married Isabella, she induced him to give up the sea +and settle down with her on a snug farm her father had left her. +Isabella liked farming, and loved her fertile acres and opulent +orchards. She abhorred the sea and all that pertained to it, +less from any dread of its dangers than from an inbred conviction +that sailors were "low" in the social scale--a species of +necessary vagabonds. In her eyes there was a taint of disgrace +in such a calling. David must be transformed into a respectable, +home-abiding tiller of broad lands. + +For five years all went well enough. If, at times, David's +longing for the sea troubled him, he stifled it, and listened not +to its luring voice. He and Isabella were very happy; the only +drawback to their happiness lay in the regretted fact that they +were childless. + +Then, in the sixth year, came a crisis and a change. Captain +Barrett, an old crony of David's, wanted him to go with him on a +voyage as mate. At the suggestion all David's long-repressed +craving for the wide blue wastes of the ocean, and the wind +whistling through the spars with the salt foam in its breath, +broke forth with a passion all the more intense for that very +repression. He must go on that voyage with James Barrett--he +MUST! That over, he would be contented again; but go he must. +His soul struggled within him like a fettered thing. + +Isabella opposed the scheme vehemently and unwisely, with mordant +sarcasm and unjust reproaches. The latent obstinacy of David's +character came to the support of his longing--a longing which +Isabella, with five generations of land-loving ancestry behind +her, could not understand at all. + +He was determined to go, and he told Isabella so. + +"I'm sick of plowing and milking cows," he said hotly. + +"You mean that you are sick of a respectable life," sneered +Isabella. + +"Perhaps," said David, with a contemptuous shrug of his +shoulders. "Anyway, I'm going." + +"If you go on this voyage, David Spencer, you need never come +back here," said Isabella resolutely. + +David had gone; he did not believe that she meant it. Isabella +believed that he did not care whether she meant it or not. David +Spencer left behind him a woman, calm outwardly, inwardly a +seething volcano of anger, wounded pride, and thwarted will. + +He found precisely the same woman when he came home, tanned, +joyous, tamed for a while of his _wanderlust_, ready, with +something of real affection, to go back to the farm fields and +the stock-yard. + +Isabella met him at the door, smileless, cold-eyed, set-lipped. + +"What do you want here?" she said, in the tone she was accustomed +to use to tramps and Syrian peddlers. + +"Want!" David's surprise left him at a loss for words. "Want! +Why, I--I--want my wife. I've come home." + +"This is not your home. I'm no wife of yours. You made your +choice when you went away," Isabella had replied. Then she had +gone in, shut the door, and locked it in his face. + +David had stood there for a few minutes like a man stunned. Then +he had turned and walked away up the lane under the birches. He +said nothing--then or at any other time. From that day no +reference to his wife or her concerns ever crossed his lips. + +He went directly to the harbor, and shipped with Captain Barrett +for another voyage. When he came back from that in a month's +time, he bought a small house and had it hauled to the "Cove," a +lonely inlet from which no other human habitation was visible. +Between his sea voyages he lived there the life of a recluse; +fishing and playing his violin were his only employments. He +went nowhere and encouraged no visitors. + +Isabella Spencer also had adopted the tactics of silence. When +the scandalized Chiswicks, Aunt Jane at their head, tried to +patch up the matter with argument and entreaty, Isabella met them +stonily, seeming not to hear what they said, and making no +response. She worsted them totally. As Aunt Jane said in +disgust, "What can you do with a woman who won't even TALK?" + +Five months after David Spencer had been turned from his wife's +door, Rachel was born. Perhaps, if David had come to them then, +with due penitence and humility, Isabella's heart, softened by +the pain and joy of her long and ardently desired motherhood +might have cast out the rankling venom of resentment that had +poisoned it and taken him back into it. But David had not come; +he gave no sign of knowing or caring that his once longed-for +child had been born. + +When Isabella was able to be about again, her pale face was +harder than ever; and, had there been about her any one +discerning enough to notice it, there was a subtle change in her +bearing and manner. A certain nervous expectancy, a fluttering +restlessness was gone. Isabella had ceased to hope secretly that +her husband would yet come back. She had in her secret soul +thought he would; and she had meant to forgive him when she had +humbled him sufficiently, and when he had abased himself as she +considered he should. But now she knew that he did not mean to +sue for her forgiveness; and the hate that sprang out of her old +love was a rank and speedy and persistent growth. + +Rachel, from her earliest recollection, had been vaguely +conscious of a difference between her own life and the lives of +her playmates. For a long time it puzzled her childish brain. +Finally, she reasoned it out that the difference consisted in the +fact that they had fathers and she, Rachel Spencer, had none--not +even in the graveyard, as Carrie Bell and Lilian Boulter had. +Why was this? Rachel went straight to her mother, put one little +dimpled hand on Isabella Spencer's knee, looked up with great +searching blue eyes, and said gravely, + +"Mother, why haven't I got a father like the other little girls?" + +Isabella Spencer laid aside her work, took the seven year old +child on her lap, and told her the whole story in a few direct +and bitter words that imprinted themselves indelibly on Rachel's +remembrance. She understood clearly and hopelessly that she +could never have a father--that, in this respect, she must always +be unlike other people. + +"Your father cares nothing for you," said Isabella Spencer in +conclusion. "He never did care. You must never speak of him to +anybody again." + +Rachel slipped silently from her mother's knee and ran out to the +Springtime garden with a full heart. There she cried +passionately over her mother's last words. It seemed to her a +terrible thing that her father should not love her, and a cruel +thing that she must never talk of him. + +Oddly enough, Rachel's sympathies were all with her father, in as +far as she could understand the old quarrel. She did not dream +of disobeying her mother and she did not disobey her. Never +again did the child speak of her father; but Isabella had not +forbidden her to think of him, and thenceforth Rachel thought of +him constantly--so constantly that, in some strange way, he +seemed to become an unguessed-of part of her inner life--the +unseen, ever-present companion in all her experiences. + +She was an imaginative child, and in fancy she made the +acquaintance of her father. She had never seen him, but he was +more real to her than most of the people she had seen. He played +and talked with her as her mother never did; he walked with her +in the orchard and field and garden; he sat by her pillow in the +twilight; to him she whispered secrets she told to none other. + +Once her mother asked her impatiently why she talked so much to +herself. + +"I am not talking to myself. I am talking to a very dear friend +of mine," Rachel answered gravely. + +"Silly child," laughed her mother, half tolerantly, half +disapprovingly. + +Two years later something wonderful had happened to Rachel. One +summer afternoon she had gone to the harbor with several of her +little playmates. Such a jaunt was a rare treat to the child, +for Isabella Spencer seldom allowed her to go from home with +anybody but herself. And Isabella was not an entertaining +companion. Rachel never particularly enjoyed an outing with her +mother. + +The children wandered far along the shore; at last they came to a +place that Rachel had never seen before. It was a shallow cove +where the waters purred on the yellow sands. Beyond it, the sea +was laughing and flashing and preening and alluring, like a +beautiful, coquettish woman. Outside, the wind was boisterous +and rollicking; here, it was reverent and gentle. A white boat +was hauled up on the skids, and there was a queer little house +close down to the sands, like a big shell tossed up by the waves. +Rachel looked on it all with secret delight; she, too, loved the +lonely places of sea and shore, as her father had done. She +wanted to linger awhile in this dear spot and revel in it. + +"I'm tired, girls," she announced. "I'm going to stay here and +rest for a spell. I don't want to go to Gull Point. You go on +yourselves; I'll wait for you here." + +"All alone?" asked Carrie Bell, wonderingly. + +"I'm not so afraid of being alone as some people are," said +Rachel, with dignity. + +The other girls went on, leaving Rachel sitting on the skids, in +the shadow of the big white boat. She sat there for a time +dreaming happily, with her blue eyes on the far, pearly horizon, +and her golden head leaning against the boat. + +Suddenly she heard a step behind her. When she turned her head a +man was standing beside her, looking down at her with big, merry, +blue eyes. Rachel was quite sure that she had never seen him +before; yet those eyes seemed to her to have a strangely familiar +look. She liked him. She felt no shyness nor timidity, such as +usually afflicted her in the presence of strangers. + +He was a tall, stout man, dressed in a rough fishing suit, and +wearing an oilskin cap on his head. His hair was very thick and +curly and fair; his cheeks were tanned and red; his teeth, when +he smiled, were very even and white. Rachel thought he must be +quite old, because there was a good deal of gray mixed with his +fair hair. + +"Are you watching for the mermaids?" he said. + +Rachel nodded gravely. From any one else she would have +scrupulously hidden such a thought. + +"Yes, I am," she said. "Mother says there is no such thing as a +mermaid, but I like to think there is. Have you ever seen one?" + +The big man sat down on a bleached log of driftwood and smiled at +her. + +"No, I'm sorry to say that I haven't. But I have seen many other +very wonderful things. I might tell you about some of them, if +you would come over here and sit by me." + +Rachel went unhesitatingly. When she reached him he pulled her +down on his knee, and she liked it. + +"What a nice little craft you are," he said. "Do you suppose, +now, that you could give me a kiss?" + +As a rule, Rachel hated kissing. She could seldom be prevailed +upon to kiss even her uncles--who knew it and liked to tease her +for kisses until they aggravated her so terribly that she told +them she couldn't bear men. But now she promptly put her arms +about this strange man's neck and gave him a hearty smack. + +"I like you," she said frankly. + +She felt his arms tighten suddenly about her. The blue eyes +looking into hers grew misty and very tender. Then, all at once, +Rachel knew who he was. He was her father. She did not say +anything, but she laid her curly head down on his shoulder and +felt a great happiness, as of one who had come into some +longed-for haven. + +If David Spencer realized that she understood he said nothing. +Instead, he began to tell her fascinating stories of far lands he +had visited, and strange things he had seen. Rachel listened +entranced, as if she were hearkening to a fairy tale. Yes, he +was just as she had dreamed him. She had always been sure he +could tell beautiful stories. + +"Come up to the house and I'll show you some pretty things," he +said finally. + +Then followed a wonderful hour. The little low-ceilinged room, +with its square window, into which he took her, was filled with +the flotsam and jetsam of his roving life--things beautiful and +odd and strange beyond all telling. The things that pleased +Rachel most were two huge shells on the chimney piece--pale +pink shells with big crimson and purple spots. + +"Oh, I didn't know there could be such pretty things in the +world," she exclaimed. + +"If you would like," began the big man; then he paused for a +moment. "I'll show you something prettier still." + +Rachel felt vaguely that he meant to say something else when he +began; but she forgot to wonder what it was when she saw what he +brought out of a little corner cupboard. It was a teapot of some +fine, glistening purple ware, coiled over by golden dragons with +gilded claws and scales. The lid looked like a beautiful golden +flower and the handle was a coil of a dragon's tail. Rachel sat +and looked at it rapt-eyed. + +"That's the only thing of any value I have in the world--now," he +said. + +Rachel knew there was something very sad in his eyes and voice. +She longed to kiss him again and comfort him. But suddenly he +began to laugh, and then he rummaged out some goodies for her to +eat, sweetmeats more delicious than she had ever imagined. While +she nibbled them he took down an old violin and played music that +made her want to dance and sing. Rachel was perfectly happy. +She wished she might stay forever in that low, dim room with all +its treasures. + +"I see your little friends coming around the point," he said, +finally. "I suppose you must go. Put the rest of the goodies in +your pocket." + +He took her up in his arms and held her tightly against his +breast for a single moment. She felt him kissing her hair. + +"There, run along, little girl. Good-by," he said gently. + +"Why don't you ask me to come and see you again?" cried Rachel, +half in tears. "I'm coming ANYHOW." + +"If you can come, COME," he said. "If you don't come, I shall +know it is because you can't--and that is much to know. I'm +very, very, VERY glad, little woman, that you have come once." + +Rachel was sitting demurely on the skids when her companions came +back. They had not seen her leaving the house, and she said not +a word to them of her experiences. She only smiled mysteriously +when they asked her if she had been lonesome. + +That night, for the first time, she mentioned her father's name +in her prayers. She never forgot to do so afterwards. She +always said, "bless mother--and father," with an instinctive +pause between the two names--a pause which indicated new +realization of the tragedy which had sundered them. And the tone +in which she said "father" was softer and more tender than the +one which voiced "mother." + +Rachel never visited the Cove again. Isabella Spencer discovered +that the children had been there, and, although she knew nothing +of Rachel's interview with her father, she told the child that +she must never again go to that part of the shore. + +Rachel shed many a bitter tear in secret over this command; but +she obeyed it. Thenceforth there had been no communication +between her and her father, save the unworded messages of soul to +soul across whatever may divide them. + +David Spencer's invitation to his daughter's wedding was sent +with the others, and the remaining days of Rachel's maidenhood +slipped away in a whirl of preparation and excitement in which +her mother reveled, but which was distasteful to the girl. + +The wedding day came at last, breaking softly and fairly over the +great sea in a sheen of silver and pearl and rose, a September +day, as mild and beautiful as June. + +The ceremony was to be performed at eight o'clock in the evening. +At seven Rachel stood in her room, fully dressed and alone. She +had no bridesmaid, and she had asked her cousins to leave her to +herself in this last solemn hour of girlhood. She looked very +fair and sweet in the sunset-light that showered through the +birches. Her wedding gown was a fine, sheer organdie, simply and +daintily made. In the loose waves of her bright hair she wore +her bridegroom's flowers, roses as white as a virgin's dream. +She was very happy; but her happiness was faintly threaded with +the sorrow inseparable from all change. + +Presently her mother came in, carrying a small basket. + +"Here is something for you, Rachel. One of the boys from the +harbor brought it up. He was bound to give it into your own +hands--said that was his orders. I just took it and sent him to +the right-about--told him I'd give it to you at once, and that +that was all that was necessary." + +She spoke coldly. She knew quite well who had sent the basket, +and she resented it; but her resentment was not quite strong +enough to overcome her curiosity. She stood silently by while +Rachel unpacked the basket. + +Rachel's hands trembled as she took off the cover. Two huge +pink-spotted shells came first. How well she remembered them! +Beneath them, carefully wrapped up in a square of foreign-looking, +strangely scented silk, was the dragon teapot. She held it in her +hands and gazed at it with tears gathering thickly in her eyes. + +"Your father sent that," said Isabella Spencer with an odd sound +in her voice. "I remember it well. It was among the things I +packed up and sent after him. His father had brought it home +from China fifty years ago, and he prized it beyond anything. +They used to say it was worth a lot of money." + +"Mother, please leave me alone for a little while," said Rachel, +imploringly. She had caught sight of a little note at the bottom +of the basket, and she felt that she could not read it under her +mother's eyes. + +Mrs. Spencer went out with unaccustomed acquiescence, and Rachel +went quickly to the window, where she read her letter by the +fading gleams of twilight. It was very brief, and the writing +was that of a man who holds a pen but seldom. + + "My dear little girl," it ran, "I'm sorry I can't go to your + wedding. It was like you to ask me--for I know it was your + doing. I wish I could see you married, but I can't go to the + house I was turned out of. I hope you will be very happy. I + am sending you the shells and teapot you liked so much. Do + you remember that day we had such a good time? I would liked + to have seen you again before you were married, but it can't + be. + + "Your loving father, + "DAVID SPENCER." + +Rachel resolutely blinked away the tears that filled her eyes. A +fierce desire for her father sprang up in her heart--an insistent +hunger that would not be denied. She MUST see her father; she +MUST have his blessing on her new life. A sudden determination +took possession of her whole being--a determination to sweep +aside all conventionalities and objections as if they had not +been. + +It was now almost dark. The guests would not be coming for half +an hour yet. It was only fifteen minutes' walk over the hill to +the Cove. Hastily Rachel shrouded herself in her new raincoat, +and drew a dark, protecting hood over her gay head. She opened +the door and slipped noiselessly downstairs. Mrs. Spencer and +her assistants were all busy in the back part of the house. In a +moment Rachel was out in the dewy garden. She would go straight +over the fields. Nobody would see her. + +It was quite dark when she reached the Cove. In the crystal cup +of the sky over her the stars were blinking. Flying flakes of +foam were scurrying over the sand like elfin things. A soft +little wind was crooning about the eaves of the little gray house +where David Spencer was sitting, alone in the twilight, his +violin on his knee. He had been trying to play, but could not. +His heart yearned after his daughter--yes, and after a +long-estranged bride of his youth. His love of the sea was sated +forever; his love for wife and child still cried for its own +under all his old anger and stubbornness. + +The door opened suddenly and the very Rachel of whom he was +dreaming came suddenly in, flinging off her wraps and standing +forth in her young beauty and bridal adornments, a splendid +creature, almost lighting up the gloom with her radiance. + +"Father," she cried, brokenly, and her father's eager arms closed +around her. + +Back in the house she had left, the guests were coming to the +wedding. There were jests and laughter and friendly greeting. +The bridegroom came, too, a slim, dark-eyed lad who tiptoed +bashfully upstairs to the spare room, from which he presently +emerged to confront Mrs. Spencer on the landing. + +"I want to see Rachel before we go down," he said, blushing. + +Mrs. Spencer deposited a wedding present of linen on the table +which was already laden with gifts, opening the door of Rachel's +room, and called her. There was no reply; the room was dark and +still. In sudden alarm, Isabella Spencer snatched the lamp from +the hall table and held it up. The little white room was empty. +No blushing, white-clad bride tenanted it. But David Spencer's +letter was lying on the stand. She caught it up and read it. + +"Rachel is gone," she gasped. A flash of intuition had revealed +to her where and why the girl had gone. + +"Gone!" echoed Frank, his face blanching. His pallid dismay +recalled Mrs. Spencer to herself. She gave a bitter, ugly +little laugh. + +"Oh, you needn't look so scared, Frank. She hasn't run away from +you. Hush; come in here--shut the door. Nobody must know of +this. Nice gossip it would make! That little fool has gone to +the Cove to see her--her father. I know she has. It's just like +what she would do. He sent her those presents--look--and this +letter. Read it. She has gone to coax him to come and see her +married. She was crazy about it. And the minister is here and +it is half-past seven. She'll ruin her dress and shoes in the +dust and dew. And what if some one has seen her! Was there ever +such a little fool?" + +Frank's presence of mind had returned to him. He knew all about +Rachel and her father. She had told him everything. + +"I'll go after her," he said gently. "Get me my hat and coat. +I'll slip down the back stairs and over to the Cove." + +"You must get out of the pantry window, then," said Mrs. Spencer +firmly, mingling comedy and tragedy after her characteristic +fashion. "The kitchen is full of women. I won't have this known +and talked about if it can possibly be helped." + +The bridegroom, wise beyond his years in the knowledge that it +was well to yield to women in little things, crawled obediently +out of the pantry window and darted through the birch wood. Mrs. +Spencer had stood quakingly on guard until he had disappeared. + +So Rachel had gone to her father! Like had broken the fetters of +years and fled to like. + +"It isn't much use fighting against nature, I guess," she thought +grimly. "I'm beat. He must have thought something of her, after +all, when he sent her that teapot and letter. And what does he +mean about the 'day they had such a good time'? Well, it just +means that she's been to see him before, sometime, I suppose, and +kept me in ignorance of it all." + +Mrs. Spencer shut down the pantry window with a vicious thud. + +"If only she'll come quietly back with Frank in time to prevent +gossip I'll forgive her," she said, as she turned to the kitchen. + +Rachel was sitting on her father's knee, with both her white arms +around his neck, when Frank came in. She sprang up, her face +flushed and appealing, her eyes bright and dewy with tears. +Frank thought he had never seen her look so lovely. + +"Oh, Frank, is it very late? Oh, are you angry?" she exclaimed +timidly. + +"No, no, dear. Of course I'm not angry. But don't you think +you'd better come back now? It's nearly eight and everybody is +waiting." + +"I've been trying to coax father to come up and see me married," +said Rachel. "Help me, Frank." + +"You'd better come, sir," said Frank, heartily, "I'd like it as +much as Rachel would." + +David Spencer shook his head stubbornly. + +"No, I can't go to that house. I was locked out of it. Never +mind me. I've had my happiness in this half hour with my little +girl. I'd like to see her married, but it isn't to be." + +"Yes, it is to be--it shall be," said Rachel resolutely. "You +SHALL see me married. Frank, I'm going to be married here in my +father's house! That is the right place for a girl to be +married. Go back and tell the guests so, and bring them all +down." + +Frank looked rather dismayed. David Spencer said deprecatingly: +"Little girl, don't you think it would be--" + +"I'm going to have my own way in this," said Rachel, with a sort +of tender finality. "Go, Frank. I'll obey you all my life +after, but you must do this for me. Try to understand," she +added beseechingly. + +"Oh, I understand," Frank reassured her. "Besides, I think you +are right. But I was thinking of your mother. She won't come." + +"Then you tell her that if she doesn't come I shan't be married +at all," said Rachel. She was betraying unsuspected ability to +manage people. She knew that ultimatum would urge Frank to his +best endeavors. + +Frank, much to Mrs. Spencer's dismay, marched boldly in at the +front door upon his return. She pounced on him and whisked him +out of sight into the supper room. + +"Where's Rachel? What made you come that way? Everybody saw +you!" + +"It makes no difference. They will all have to know, anyway. +Rachel says she is going to be married from her father's house, +or not at all. I've come back to tell you so." + +Isabella's face turned crimson. + +"Rachel has gone crazy. I wash my hands of this affair. Do as +you please. Take the guests--the supper, too, if you can carry +it." + +"We'll all come back here for supper," said Frank, ignoring the +sarcasm. "Come, Mrs. Spencer, let's make the best of it." + +"Do you suppose that _I_ am going to David Spencer's house?" said +Isabella Spencer violently. + +"Oh you MUST come, Mrs. Spencer," cried poor Frank desperately. +He began to fear that he would lose his bride past all finding in +this maze of triple stubbornness. "Rachel says she won't be +married at all if you don't go, too. Think what a talk it will +make. You know she will keep her word." + +Isabella Spencer knew it. Amid all the conflict of anger and +revolt in her soul was a strong desire not to make a worse +scandal than must of necessity be made. The desire subdued and +tamed her, as nothing else could have done. + +"I will go, since I have to," she said icily. "What can't be +cured must be endured. Go and tell them." + +Five minutes later the sixty wedding guests were all walking over +the fields to the Cove, with the minister and the bridegroom in +the front of the procession. They were too amazed even to talk +about the strange happening. Isabella Spencer walked behind, +fiercely alone. + +They all crowded into the little room of the house at the Cove, +and a solemn hush fell over it, broken only by the purr of the +sea-wind around it and the croon of the waves on the shore. +David Spencer gave his daughter away; but, when the ceremony was +concluded, Isabella was the first to take the girl in her arms. +She clasped her and kissed her, with tears streaming down her +pale face, all her nature melted in a mother's tenderness. + +"Rachel! Rachel! My child, I hope and pray that you may be +happy," she said brokenly. + +In the surge of the suddenly merry crowd of well-wishers around +the bride and groom, Isabella was pushed back into a shadowy +corner behind a heap of sails and ropes. Looking up, she found +herself crushed against David Spencer. For the first time in +twenty years the eyes of husband and wife met. A strange thrill +shot to Isabella's heart; she felt herself trembling. + +"Isabella." It was David's voice in her ear--a voice full of +tenderness and pleading--the voice of the young wooer of her +girlhood--"Is it too late to ask you to forgive me? I've been a +stubborn fool--but there hasn't been an hour in all these years +that I haven't thought about you and our baby and longed for +you." + +Isabella Spencer had hated this man; yet her hate had been but a +parasite growth on a nobler stem, with no abiding roots of its +own. It withered under his words, and lo, there was the old +love, fair and strong and beautiful as ever. + +"Oh--David--I--was--all--to--blame," she murmured +brokenly. + +Further words were lost on her husband's lips. + +When the hubbub of handshaking and congratulating had subsided, +Isabella Spencer stepped out before the company. She looked +almost girlish and bridal herself, with her flushed cheeks and +bright eyes. + +"Let's go back now and have supper, and be sensible," she said +crisply. "Rachel, your father is coming, too. He is coming to +STAY,"--with a defiant glance around the circle. "Come, +everybody." + +They went back with laughter and raillery over the quiet autumn +fields, faintly silvered now by the moon that was rising over the +hills. The young bride and groom lagged behind; they were very +happy, but they were not so happy, after all, as the old bride +and groom who walked swiftly in front. Isabella's hand was in +her husband's and sometimes she could not see the moonlit hills +for a mist of glorified tears. + +"David," she whispered, as he helped her over the fence, "how can +you ever forgive me?" + +"There's nothing to forgive," he said. "We're only just married. +Who ever heard of a bridegroom talking of forgiveness? +Everything is beginning over new for us, my girl." + + + +IV. JANE'S BABY + +Miss Rosetta Ellis, with her front hair in curl-papers, and her +back hair bound with a checked apron, was out in her breezy side +yard under the firs, shaking her parlor rugs, when Mr. Nathan +Patterson drove in. Miss Rosetta had seen him coming down the +long red hill, but she had not supposed he would be calling at +that time of the morning. So she had not run. Miss Rosetta +always ran if anybody called and her front hair was in +curl-papers; and, though the errand of the said caller might be +life or death, he or she had to wait until Miss Rosetta had taken +her hair out. Everybody in Avonlea knew this, because everybody +in Avonlea knew everything about everybody else. + +But Mr. Patterson had wheeled into the lane so quickly and +unexpectedly that Miss Rosetta had had no time to run; so, +twitching off the checked apron, she stood her ground as calmly +as might be under the disagreeable consciousness of curl-papers. + +"Good morning, Miss Ellis," said Mr. Patterson, so somberly that +Miss Rosetta instantly felt that he was the bearer of bad news. +Usually Mr. Patterson's face was as broad and beaming as a +harvest moon. Now his expression was very melancholy and his +voice positively sepulchral. + +"Good morning," returned Miss Rosetta, crisply and cheerfully. +She, at any rate, would not go into eclipse until she knew the +reason therefor. "It is a fine day." + +"A very fine day," assented Mr. Patterson, solemnly. "I have +just come from the Wheeler place, Miss Ellis, and I regret to +say--" + +"Charlotte is sick!" cried Miss Rosetta, rapidly. "Charlotte has +got another spell with her heart! I knew it! I've been +expecting to hear it! Any woman that drives about the country as +much as she does is liable to heart disease at any moment. _I_ +never go outside of my gate but I meet her gadding off somewhere. +Goodness knows who looks after her place. I shouldn't like to +trust as much to a hired man as she does. Well, it is very kind +of you, Mr. Patterson, to put yourself out to the extent of +calling to tell me that Charlotte is sick, but I don't really see +why you should take so much trouble--I really don't. It doesn't +matter to me whether Charlotte is sick or whether she isn't. YOU +know that perfectly well, Mr. Patterson, if anybody does. When +Charlotte went and got married, on the sly, to that good-for-nothing +Jacob Wheeler--" + +"Mrs. Wheeler is quite well," interrupted Mr. Patterson +desperately. "Quite well. Nothing at all the matter with her, +in fact. I only--" + +"Then what do you mean by coming here and telling me she wasn't, +and frightening me half to death?" demanded Miss Rosetta, +indignantly. "My own heart isn't very strong--it runs in our +family--and my doctor warned me to avoid all shocks and +excitement. I don't want to be excited, Mr. Patterson. I won't +be excited, not even if Charlotte has another spell. It's +perfectly useless for you to try to excite me, Mr. Patterson." + +"Bless the woman, I'm not trying to excite anybody!" declared Mr. +Patterson in exasperation. "I merely called to tell you--" + +"To tell me WHAT?" said Miss Rosetta. "How much longer do you +mean to keep me in suspense, Mr. Patterson. No doubt you have +abundance of spare time, but--I--have NOT." + +"--that your sister, Mrs. Wheeler, has had a letter from a cousin +of yours, and she's in Charlottetown. Mrs. Roberts, I think her +name is--" + +"Jane Roberts," broke in Miss Rosetta. "Jane Ellis she was, +before she was married. What was she writing to Charlotte about? +Not that I want to know, of course. I'm not interested in +Charlotte's correspondence, goodness knows. But if Jane had +anything in particular to write about she should have written to +ME. I am the oldest. Charlotte had no business to get a letter +from Jane Roberts without consulting me. It's just like her +underhanded ways. She got married the same way. Never said a +word to me about it, but just sneaked off with that unprincipled +Jacob Wheeler--" + +"Mrs. Roberts is very ill. I understand," persisted Mr. +Patterson, nobly resolved to do what he had come to do, "dying, +in fact, and--" + +"Jane ill! Jane dying!" exclaimed Miss Rosetta. "Why, she was +the healthiest girl I ever knew! But then I've never seen her, +nor heard from her, since she got married fifteen years ago. I +dare say her husband was a brute and neglected her, and she's +pined away by slow degrees. I've no faith in husbands. Look at +Charlotte! Everybody knows how Jacob Wheeler used her. To be +sure, she deserved it, but--" + +"Mrs. Roberts' husband is dead," said Mr. Patterson. "Died about +two months ago, I understand, and she has a little baby six +months old, and she thought perhaps Mrs. Wheeler would take it +for old times' sake--" + +"Did Charlotte ask you to call and tell me this?" demanded Miss +Rosetta eagerly. + +"No; she just told me what was in the letter. She didn't mention +you; but I thought, perhaps, you ought to be told--" + +"I knew it," said Miss Rosetta in a tone of bitter assurance. "I +could have told you so. Charlotte wouldn't even let me know that +Jane was ill. Charlotte would be afraid I would want to get the +baby, seeing that Jane and I were such intimate friends long ago. +And who has a better right to it than me, I should like to know? +Ain't I the oldest? And haven't I had experience in bringing up +babies? Charlotte needn't think she is going to run the affairs +of our family just because she happened to get married. Jacob +Wheeler--" + +"I must be going," said Mr. Patterson, gathering up his reins +thankfully. + +"I am much obliged to you for coming to tell me about Jane," said +Miss Rosetta, "even though you have wasted a lot of precious time +getting it out. If it hadn't been for you I suppose I should +never have known it at all. As it is, I shall start for town +just as soon as I can get ready." + +"You'll have to hurry if you want to get ahead of Mrs. Wheeler," +advised Mr. Patterson. "She's packing her trunk and going on +the morning train." + +"I'll pack a valise and go on the afternoon train," retorted Miss +Rosetta triumphantly. "I'll show Charlotte she isn't running the +Ellis affairs. She married out of them into the Wheelers. She +can attend to them. Jacob Wheeler was the most--" + +But Mr. Patterson had driven away. He felt that he had done his +duty in the face of fearful odds, and he did not want to hear +anything more about Jacob Wheeler. + +Rosetta Ellis and Charlotte Wheeler had not exchanged a word for +ten years. Before that time they had been devoted to each other, +living together in the little Ellis cottage on the White Sands +road, as they had done ever since their parents' death. The +trouble began when Jacob Wheeler had commenced to pay attention +to Charlotte, the younger and prettier of two women who had both +ceased to be either very young or very pretty. Rosetta had been +bitterly opposed to the match from the first. She vowed she had +no use for Jacob Wheeler. There were not lacking malicious +people to hint that this was because the aforesaid Jacob Wheeler +had selected the wrong sister upon whom to bestow his affections. +Be that as it might, Miss Rosetta certainly continued to render +the course of Jacob Wheeler's true love exceedingly rough and +tumultuous. The end of it was that Charlotte had gone quietly +away one morning and married Jacob Wheeler without Miss Rosetta's +knowing anything about it. Miss Rosetta had never forgiven her +for it, and Charlotte had never forgiven the things Rosetta had +said to her when she and Jacob returned to the Ellis cottage. +Since then the sisters had been avowed and open foes, the only +difference being that Miss Rosetta aired her grievances publicly, +in season and out of season, while Charlotte was never heard to +mention Rosetta's name. Even the death of Jacob Wheeler, five +years after the marriage, had not healed the breach. + +Miss Rosetta took out her curl-papers, packed her valise, and +caught the late afternoon train for Charlottetown, as she had +threatened. All the way there she sat rigidly upright in her +seat and held imaginary dialogues with Charlotte in her mind, +running something like this on her part:-- + +"No, Charlotte Wheeler, you are not going to have Jane's baby, +and you're very much mistaken if you think so. Oh, all +right--we'll see! You don't know anything about babies, even if +you are married. I do. Didn't I take William Ellis's baby, when +his wife died? Tell me that, Charlotte Wheeler! And didn't the +little thing thrive with me, and grow strong and healthy? Yes, +even you have to admit that it did, Charlotte Wheeler. And yet +you have the presumption to think that you ought to have Jane's +baby! Yes, it is presumption, Charlotte Wheeler. And when +William Ellis got married again, and took the baby, didn't the +child cling to me and cry as if I was its real mother? You know +it did, Charlotte Wheeler. I'm going to get and keep Jane's baby +in spite of you, Charlotte Wheeler, and I'd like to see you try +to prevent me--you that went and got married and never so much as +let your own sister know of it! If I had got married in such a +fashion, Charlotte Wheeler, I'd be ashamed to look anybody in the +face for the rest of my natural life!" + +Miss Rosetta was so interested in thus laying down the law to +Charlotte, and in planning out the future life of Jane's baby, +that she didn't find the journey to Charlottetown so long or +tedious as might have been expected, considering her haste. She +soon found her way to the house where her cousin lived. There, +to her dismay and real sorrow, she learned that Mrs. Roberts had +died at four o'clock that afternoon. + +"She seemed dreadful anxious to live until she heard from some of +her folks out in Avonlea," said the woman who gave Miss Rosetta +the information. "She had written to them about her little girl. +She was my sister-in-law, and she lived with me ever since her +husband died. I've done my best for her; but I've a big family +of my own and I can't see how I'm to keep the child. Poor Jane +looked and longed for some one to come from Avonlea, but she +couldn't hold out. A patient, suffering creature she was!" + +"I'm her cousin," said Miss Rosetta, wiping her eyes, "and I have +come for the baby. I'll take it home with me after the funeral; +and, if you please, Mrs. Gordon, let me see it right away, so it +can get accustomed to me. Poor Jane! I wish I could have got +here in time to see her, she and I were such friends long ago. +We were far more intimate and confidential than ever her and +Charlotte was. Charlotte knows that, too!" + +The vim with which Miss Rosetta snapped this out rather amazed +Mrs. Gordon, who couldn't understand it at all. But she took +Miss Rosetta upstairs to the room where the baby was sleeping. + +"Oh, the little darling," cried Miss Rosetta, all her old +maidishness and oddity falling away from her like a garment, and +all her innate and denied motherhood shining out in her face like +a transforming illumination. "Oh, the sweet, dear, pretty little +thing!" + +The baby was a darling--a six-months' old beauty with little +golden ringlets curling and glistening all over its tiny head. +As Miss Rosetta hung over it, it opened its eyes and then held +out its tiny hands to her with a gurgle of confidence. + +"Oh, you sweetest!" said Miss Rosetta rapturously, gathering it +up in her arms. "You belong to me, darling--never, never, to +that under-handed Charlotte! What is its name, Mrs. Gordon?" + +"It wasn't named," said Mrs. Gordon. "Guess you'll have to name +it yourself, Miss Ellis." + +"Camilla Jane," said Miss Rosetta without a moment's hesitation. +"Jane after its mother, of course; and I have always thought +Camilla the prettiest name in the world. Charlotte would be sure +to give it some perfectly heathenish name. I wouldn't put it +past her calling the poor innocent Mehitable." + +Miss Rosetta decided to stay in Charlottetown until after the +funeral. That night she lay with the baby on her arm, listening +with joy to its soft little breathing. She did not sleep or wish +to sleep. Her waking fancies were more alluring than any visions +of dreamland. Moreover, she gave a spice to them by occasionally +snapping some vicious sentences out loud at Charlotte. + +Miss Rosetta fully expected Charlotte along on the following +morning and girded herself for the fray; but no Charlotte +appeared. Night came; no Charlotte. Another morning and no +Charlotte. Miss Rosetta was hopelessly puzzled. What had +happened? Dear, dear, had Charlotte taken a bad heart spell, on +hearing that she, Rosetta, had stolen a march on her to +Charlottetown? It was quite likely. You never knew what to +expect of a woman who had married Jacob Wheeler! + +The truth was, that the very evening Miss Rosetta had left +Avonlea Mrs. Jacob Wheeler's hired man had broken his leg and +had had to be conveyed to his distant home on a feather bed in an +express wagon. Mrs. Wheeler could not leave home until she had +obtained another hired man. Consequently, it was the evening +after the funeral when Mrs. Wheeler whisked up the steps of the +Gordon house and met Miss Rosetta coming out with a big white +bundle in her arms. + +The eyes of the two women met defiantly. Miss Rosetta's face +wore an air of triumph, chastened by a remembrance of the funeral +that afternoon. Mrs. Wheeler's face, except for eyes, was as +expressionless as it usually was. Unlike the tall, fair, fat +Miss Rosetta, Mrs. Wheeler was small and dark and thin, with an +eager, careworn face. + +"How is Jane?" she said abruptly, breaking the silence of ten +years in saying it. + +"Jane is dead and buried, poor thing," said Miss Rosetta calmly. +"I am taking her baby, little Camilla Jane, home with me." + +"The baby belongs to me," cried Mrs. Wheeler passionately. "Jane +wrote to me about her. Jane meant that I should have her. I've +come for her." + +"You'll go back without her then," said Miss Rosetta, serene in +the possession that is nine points of the law. "The child is +mine, and she is going to stay mine. You can make up your mind +to that, Charlotte Wheeler. A woman who eloped to get married +isn't fit to be trusted with a baby, anyhow. Jacob Wheeler--" + +But Mrs. Wheeler had rushed past into the house. Miss Rosetta +composedly stepped into the cab and drove to the station. She +fairly bridled with triumph; and underneath the triumph ran a +queer undercurrent of satisfaction over the fact that Charlotte +had spoken to her at last. Miss Rosetta would not look at this +satisfaction, or give it a name, but it was there. + +Miss Rosetta arrived safely back in Avonlea with Camilla Jane and +within ten hours everybody in the settlement knew the whole +story, and every woman who could stand on her feet had been up to +the Ellis cottage to see the baby. Mrs. Wheeler arrived home +twenty-four hours later, and silently betook herself to her farm. +When her Avonlea neighbors sympathized with her in her +disappointment, she said nothing, but looked all the more darkly +determined. Also, a week later, Mr. William J. Blair, the +Carmody storekeeper, had an odd tale to tell. Mrs. Wheeler had +come to the store and bought a lot of fine flannel and muslin and +valenciennes. Now, what in the name of time, did Mrs. Wheeler +want with such stuff? Mr. William J. Blair couldn't make head or +tail of it, and it worried him. Mr. Blair was so accustomed to +know what everybody bought anything for that such a mystery quite +upset him. + + +Miss Rosetta had exulted in the possession of little Camilla Jane +for a month, and had been so happy that she had almost given up +inveighing against Charlotte. Her conversations, instead of +tending always to Jacob Wheeler, now ran Camilla Janeward; and +this, folks thought, was an improvement. + +One afternoon, Miss Rosetta, leaving Camilla Jane snugly sleeping +in her cradle in the kitchen, had slipped down to the bottom of +the garden to pick her currants. The house was hidden from her +sight by the copse of cherry trees, but she had left the kitchen +window open, so that she could hear the baby if it awakened and +cried. Miss Rosetta sang happily as she picked her currants. +For the first time since Charlotte had married Jacob Wheeler Miss +Rosetta felt really happy--so happy that at there was no room in +her heart for bitterness. In fancy she looked forward to the +coming years, and saw Camilla Jane growing up into girlhood, fair +and lovable. + +"She'll be a beauty," reflected Miss Rosetta complacently. "Jane +was a handsome girl. She shall always be dressed as nice as I +can manage it, and I'll get her an organ, and have her take +painting and music lessons. Parties, too! I'll give her a real +coming-out party when she's eighteen and the very prettiest dress +that's to be had. Dear me, I can hardly wait for her to grow up, +though she's sweet enough now to make one wish she could stay a +baby forever." + +When Miss Rosetta returned to the kitchen, her eyes fell on an +empty cradle. Camilla Jane was gone! + +Miss Rosetta promptly screamed. She understood at a glance what +had happened. Six months' old babies do not get out of their +cradles and disappear through closed doors without any +assistance. + +"Charlotte has been here," gasped Miss Rosetta. "Charlotte has +stolen Camilla Jane! I might have expected it. I might have +known when I heard that story about her buying muslin and +flannel. It's just like Charlotte to do such an underhand trick. +But I'll go after her! I'll show her! She'll find out she has +got Rosetta Ellis to deal with and no Wheeler!" + +Like a frantic creature and wholly forgetting that her hair was +in curl-papers, Miss Rosetta hurried up the hill and down the +shore road to the Wheeler Farm--a place she had never visited in +her life before. + +The wind was off-shore and only broke the bay's surface into long +silvery ripples, and sent sheeny shadows flying out across it +from every point and headland, like transparent wings. + +The little gray house, so close to the purring waves that in +storms their spray splashed over its very doorstep, seemed +deserted. Miss Rosetta pounded lustily on the front door. This +producing no result, she marched around to the back door and +knocked. No answer. Miss Rosetta tried the door. It was +locked. + +"Guilty conscience," sniffed Miss Rosetta. "Well, I shall stay +here until I see that perfidious Charlotte, if I have to camp in +the yard all night." + +Miss Rosetta was quite capable of doing this, but she was spared +the necessity; walking boldly up to the kitchen window, and +peering through it, she felt her heart swell with anger as she +beheld Charlotte sitting calmly by the table with Camilla Jane on +her knee. Beside her was a befrilled and bemuslined cradle, and +on a chair lay the garments in which Miss Rosetta had dressed the +baby. It was clad in an entirely new outfit, and seemed quite at +home with its new possessor. It was laughing and cooing, and +making little dabs at her with its dimpled hands. + +"Charlotte Wheeler," cried Miss Rosetta, rapping sharply on the +window-pane. "I've come for that child! Bring her out to me at +once--at once, I say! How dare you come to my house and steal a +baby? You're no better than a common burglar. Give me Camilla +Jane, I say!" + +Charlotte came over to the window with the baby in her arms and +triumph glittering in her eyes. + +"There is no such child as Camilla Jane here," she said. "This +is Barbara Jane. She belongs to me." + +With that Mrs. Wheeler pulled down the shade. + +Miss Rosetta had to go home. There was nothing else for her to +do. On her way she met Mr. Patterson and told him in full the +story of her wrongs. It was all over Avonlea by night, and +created quite a sensation. Avonlea had not had such a toothsome +bit of gossip for a long time. + +Mrs. Wheeler exulted in the possession of Barbara Jane for six +weeks, during which Miss Rosetta broke her heart with loneliness +and longing, and meditated futile plots for the recovery of the +baby. It was hopeless to think of stealing it back or she would +have tried to. The hired man at the Wheeler place reported that +Mrs. Wheeler never left it night or day for a single moment. She +even carried it with her when she went to milk the cows. + +"But my turn will come," said Miss Rosetta grimly. "Camilla Jane +is mine, and if she was called Barbara for a century it wouldn't +alter that fact! Barbara, indeed! Why not have called her +Methusaleh and have done with it?" + +One afternoon in October, when Miss Rosetta was picking her +apples and thinking drearily about lost Camilla Jane, a woman +came running breathlessly down the hill and into the yard. Miss +Rosetta gave an exclamation of amazement and dropped her basket +of apples. Of all incredible things! The woman was Charlotte-- +Charlotte who had never set foot on the grounds of the Ellis +cottage since her marriage ten years ago, Charlotte, bare-headed, +wild-eyed, distraught, wringing her hands and sobbing. + +Miss Rosetta flew to meet her. + +"You've scalded Camilla Jane to death!" she exclaimed. "I always +knew you would--always expected it!" + +"Oh, for heaven's sake, come quick, Rosetta!" gasped Charlotte. +"Barbara Jane is in convulsions and I don't know what to do. The +hired man has gone for the doctor. You were the nearest, so I +came to you. Jenny White was there when they came on, so I left +her and ran. Oh, Rosetta, come, come, if you have a spark of +humanity in you! You know what to do for convulsions--you +saved the Ellis baby when it had them. Oh, come and save Barbara +Jane!" + +"You mean Camilla Jane, I presume?" said Miss Rosetta firmly, in +spite of her agitation. + +For a second Charlotte Wheeler hesitated. Then she said +passionately: "Yes, yes, Camilla Jane--any name you like! Only +come." + +Miss Rosetta went, and not a moment too soon, either. The doctor +lived eight miles away and the baby was very bad. The two women +and Jenny White worked over her for hours. It was not until +dark, when the baby was sleeping soundly and the doctor had gone, +after telling Miss Rosetta that she had saved the child's life, +that a realization of the situation came home to them. + +"Well," said Miss Rosetta, dropping into an armchair with a long +sigh of weariness, "I guess you'll admit now, Charlotte Wheeler, +that you are hardly a fit person to have charge of a baby, even +if you had to go and steal it from me. I should think your +conscience would reproach you--that is, if any woman who would +marry Jacob Wheeler in such an underhanded fashion has a--" + +"I--I wanted the baby," sobbed Charlotte, tremulously. "I was so +lonely here. I didn't think it was any harm to take her, because +Jane gave her to me in her letter. But you have saved her life, +Rosetta, and you--you can have her back, although it will break +my heart to give her up. But, oh, Rosetta, won't you let me come +and see her sometimes? I love her so I can't bear to give her up +entirely." + +"Charlotte," said Miss Rosetta firmly, "the most sensible thing +for you to do is just to come back with the baby. You are +worried to death trying to run this farm with the debt Jacob +Wheeler left on it for you. Sell it, and come home with me. And +we'll both have the baby then." + +"Oh, Rosetta, I'd love to," faltered Charlotte. "I've--I've +wanted to be good friends with you again so much. But I thought +you were so hard and bitter you'd never make up." + +"Maybe I've talked too much," conceded Miss Rosetta, "but you +ought to know me well enough to know I didn't mean a word of it. +It was your never saying anything, no matter what I said, that +riled me up so bad. Let bygones be bygones, and come home, +Charlotte." + +"I will," said Charlotte resolutely, wiping away her tears. "I'm +sick of living here and putting up with hired men. I'll be real +glad to go home, Rosetta, and that's the truth. I've had a hard +enough time. I s'pose you'll say I deserved it; but I was fond +of Jacob, and--" + +"Of course, of course. Why shouldn't you be?" said Miss Rosetta +briskly. "I'm sure Jacob Wheeler was a good enough soul, if he +was a little slack-twisted. I'd like to hear anybody say a word +against him in my presence. Look at that blessed child, +Charlotte. Isn't she the sweetest thing? I'm desperate glad you +are coming back home, Charlotte. I've never been able to put up +a decent mess of mustard pickles since you went away, and you +were always such a hand with them! We'll be real snug and cozy +again--you and me and little Camilla Barbara Jane." + + + +V. THE DREAM-CHILD + +A man's heart--aye, and a woman's, too--should be light in the +spring. The spirit of resurrection is abroad, calling the life +of the world out of its wintry grave, knocking with radiant +fingers at the gates of its tomb. It stirs in human hearts, and +makes them glad with the old primal gladness they felt in +childhood. It quickens human souls, and brings them, if so they +will, so close to God that they may clasp hands with Him. It is +a time of wonder and renewed life, and a great outward and inward +rapture, as of a young angel softly clapping his hands for +creation's joy. At least, so it should be; and so it always had +been with me until the spring when the dream-child first came +into our lives. + +That year I hated the spring--I, who had always loved it so. As +boy I had loved it, and as man. All the happiness that had ever +been mine, and it was much, had come to blossom in the +springtime. It was in the spring that Josephine and I had first +loved each other, or, at least, had first come into the full +knowledge that we loved. I think that we must have loved each +other all our lives, and that each succeeding spring was a word +in the revelation of that love, not to be understood until, in +the fullness of time, the whole sentence was written out in that +most beautiful of all beautiful springs. + +How beautiful it was! And how beautiful she was! I suppose +every lover thinks that of his lass; otherwise he is a poor sort +of lover. But it was not only my eyes of love that made my dear +lovely. She was slim and lithe as a young, white-stemmed birch +tree; her hair was like a soft, dusky cloud; and her eyes were as +blue as Avonlea harbor on a fair twilight, when all the sky is +abloom over it. She had dark lashes, and a little red mouth that +quivered when she was very sad or very happy, or when she loved +very much--quivered like a crimson rose too rudely shaken by +the wind. At such times what was a man to do save kiss it? + +The next spring we were married, and I brought her home to my +gray old homestead on the gray old harbor shore. A lonely place +for a young bride, said Avonlea people. Nay, it was not so. She +was happy here, even in my absences. She loved the great, +restless harbor and the vast, misty sea beyond; she loved the +tides, keeping their world-old tryst with the shore, and the +gulls, and the croon of the waves, and the call of the winds in +the fir woods at noon and even; she loved the moonrises and the +sunsets, and the clear, calm nights when the stars seemed to have +fallen into the water and to be a little dizzy from such a fall. +She loved these things, even as I did. No, she was never lonely +here then. + +The third spring came, and our boy was born. We thought we had +been happy before; now we knew that we had only dreamed a +pleasant dream of happiness, and had awakened to this exquisite +reality. We thought we had loved each other before; now, as I +looked into my wife's pale face, blanched with its baptism of +pain, and met the uplifted gaze of her blue eyes, aglow with the +holy passion of motherhood, I knew we had only imagined what love +might be. The imagination had been sweet, as the thought of the +rose is sweet before the bud is open; but as the rose to the +thought, so was love to the imagination of it. + +"All my thoughts are poetry since baby came," my wife said once, +rapturously. + +Our boy lived for twenty months. He was a sturdy, toddling +rogue, so full of life and laughter and mischief that, when he +died, one day, after the illness of an hour, it seemed a most +absurd thing that he should be dead--a thing I could have +laughed at, until belief forced itself into my soul like a +burning, searing iron. + +I think I grieved over my little son's death as deeply and +sincerely as ever man did, or could. But the heart of the father +is not as the heart of the mother. Time brought no healing to +Josephine; she fretted and pined; her cheeks lost their pretty +oval, and her red mouth grew pale and drooping. + +I hoped that spring might work its miracle upon her. When the +buds swelled, and the old earth grew green in the sun, and the +gulls came back to the gray harbor, whose very grayness grew +golden and mellow, I thought I should see her smile again. But, +when the spring came, came the dream-child, and the fear that was +to be my companion, at bed and board, from sunsetting to +sunsetting. + +One night I awakened from sleep, realizing in the moment of +awakening that I was alone. I listened to hear whether my wife +were moving about the house. I heard nothing but the little +splash of waves on the shore below and the low moan of the +distant ocean. + +I rose and searched the house. She was not in it. I did not +know where to seek her; but, at a venture, I started along the +shore. + +It was pale, fainting moonlight. The harbor looked like a +phantom harbor, and the night was as still and cold and calm as +the face of a dead man. At last I saw my wife coming to me along +the shore. When I saw her, I knew what I had feared and how +great my fear had been. + +As she drew near, I saw that she had been crying; her face was +stained with tears, and her dark hair hung loose over her +shoulders in little, glossy ringlets like a child's. She seemed +to be very tired, and at intervals she wrung her small hands +together. + +She showed no surprise when she met me, but only held out her +hands to me as if glad to see me. + +"I followed him--but I could not overtake him," she said with a +sob. "I did my best--I hurried so; but he was always a little +way ahead. And then I lost him--and so I came back. But I did +my best--indeed I did. And oh, I am so tired!" + +"Josie, dearest, what do you mean, and where have you been?" I +said, drawing her close to me. "Why did you go out so--alone in +the night?" + +She looked at me wonderingly. + +"How could I help it, David? He called me. I had to go." + +"WHO called you?" + +"The child," she answered in a whisper. "Our child, David--our +pretty boy. I awakened in the darkness and heard him calling to +me down on the shore. Such a sad, little wailing cry, David, as +if he were cold and lonely and wanted his mother. I hurried out +to him, but I could not find him. I could only hear the call, +and I followed it on and on, far down the shore. Oh, I tried so +hard to overtake it, but I could not. Once I saw a little white +hand beckoning to me far ahead in the moonlight. But still I +could not go fast enough. And then the cry ceased, and I was +there all alone on that terrible, cold, gray shore. I was so +tired and I came home. But I wish I could have found him. +Perhaps he does not know that I tried to. Perhaps he thinks his +mother never listened to his call. Oh, I would not have him +think that." + +"You have had a bad dream, dear," I said. I tried to say it +naturally; but it is hard for a man to speak naturally when he +feels a mortal dread striking into his very vitals with its +deadly chill. + +"It was no dream," she answered reproachfully. "I tell you I +heard him calling me--me, his mother. What could I do but go to +him? You cannot understand--you are only his father. It was not +you who gave him birth. It was not you who paid the price of his +dear life in pain. He would not call to you--he wanted his +mother." + +I got her back to the house and to her bed, whither she went +obediently enough, and soon fell into the sleep of exhaustion. +But there was no more sleep for me that night. I kept a grim +vigil with dread. + +When I had married Josephine, one of those officious relatives +that are apt to buzz about a man's marriage told me that her +grandmother had been insane all the latter part of her life. She +had grieved over the death of a favorite child until she lost her +mind, and, as the first indication of it, she had sought by +nights a white dream-child which always called her, so she said, +and led her afar with a little, pale, beckoning hand. + +I had smiled at the story then. What had that grim old bygone to +do with springtime and love and Josephine? But it came back to +me now, hand in hand with my fear. Was this fate coming on my +dear wife? It was too horrible for belief. She was so young, so +fair, so sweet, this girl-wife of mine. It had been only a bad +dream, with a frightened, bewildered waking. So I tried to +comfort myself. + +When she awakened in the morning she did not speak of what had +happened and I did not dare to. She seemed more cheerful that +day than she had been, and went about her household duties +briskly and skillfully. My fear lifted. I was sure now that she +had only dreamed. And I was confirmed in my hopeful belief when +two nights had passed away uneventfully. + +Then, on the third night, he dream-child called to her again. I +wakened from a troubled doze to find her dressing herself with +feverish haste. + +"He is calling me," she cried. "Oh, don't you hear him? Can't +you hear him? Listen--listen--the little, lonely cry! Yes, yes, +my precious, mother is coming. Wait for me. Mother is coming to +her pretty boy!" + +I caught her hand and let her lead me where she would. Hand in +hand we followed the dream-child down the harbor shore in that +ghostly, clouded moonlight. Ever, she said, the little cry +sounded before her. She entreated the dream-child to wait for +her; she cried and implored and uttered tender mother-talk. But, +at last, she ceased to hear the cry; and then, weeping, wearied, +she let me lead her home again. + +What a horror brooded over that spring--that so beautiful spring! +It was a time of wonder and marvel; of the soft touch of silver +rain on greening fields; of the incredible delicacy of young +leaves; of blossom on the land and blossom in the sunset. The +whole world bloomed in a flush and tremor of maiden loveliness, +instinct with all the evasive, fleeting charm of spring and +girlhood and young morning. And almost every night of this +wonderful time the dream-child called his mother, and we roved +the gray shore in quest of him. + +In the day she was herself; but, when the night fell, she was +restless and uneasy until she heard the call. Then follow it she +would, even through storm and darkness. It was then, she said, +that the cry sounded loudest and nearest, as if her pretty boy +were frightened by the tempest. What wild, terrible rovings we +had, she straining forward, eager to overtake the dream-child; I, +sick at heart, following, guiding, protecting, as best I could; +then afterwards leading her gently home, heart-broken because she +could not reach the child. + +I bore my burden in secret, determining that gossip should not +busy itself with my wife's condition so long as I could keep it +from becoming known. We had no near relatives--none with any +right to share any trouble--and whoso accepteth human love must +bind it to his soul with pain. + +I thought, however, that I should have medical advice, and I took +our old doctor into my confidence. He looked grave when he heard +my story. I did not like his expression nor his few guarded +remarks. He said he thought human aid would avail little; she +might come all right in time; humor her, as far as possible, +watch over her, protect her. He needed not to tell me THAT. + +The spring went out and summer came in--and the horror deepened +and darkened. I knew that suspicions were being whispered from +lip to lip. We had been seen on our nightly quests. Men and +women began to look at us pityingly when we went abroad. + +One day, on a dull, drowsy afternoon, the dream-child called. I +knew then that the end was near; the end had been near in the old +grandmother's case sixty years before when the dream-child called +in the day. The doctor looked graver than ever when I told him, +and said that the time had come when I must have help in my task. +I could not watch by day and night. Unless I had assistance I +would break down. + +I did not think that I should. Love is stronger than that. And +on one thing I was determined--they should never take my wife +from me. No restraint sterner than a husband's loving hand +should ever be put upon her, my pretty, piteous darling. + +I never spoke of the dream-child to her. The doctor advised +against it. It would, he said, only serve to deepen the +delusion. When he hinted at an asylum I gave him a look that +would have been a fierce word for another man. He never spoke of +it again. + +One night in August there was a dull, murky sunset after a dead, +breathless day of heat, with not a wind stirring. The sea was +not blue as a sea should be, but pink--all pink--a ghastly, +staring, painted pink. I lingered on the harbor shore below the +house until dark. The evening bells were ringing faintly and +mournfully in a church across the harbor. Behind me, in the +kitchen, I heard my wife singing. Sometimes now her spirits were +fitfully high, and then she would sing the old songs of her +girlhood. But even in her singing was something strange, as if a +wailing, unearthly cry rang through it. Nothing about her was +sadder than that strange singing. + +When I went back to the house the rain was beginning to fall; but +there was no wind or sound in the air--only that dismal +stillness, as if the world were holding its breath in expectation +of a calamity. + +Josie was standing by the window, looking out and listening. I +tried to induce her to go to bed, but she only shook her head. + +"I might fall asleep and not hear him when he called," she said. +"I am always afraid to sleep now, for fear he should call and his +mother fail to hear him." + +Knowing it was of no use to entreat, I sat down by the table and +tried to read. Three hours passed on. When the clock struck +midnight she started up, with the wild light in her sunken blue +eyes. + +"He is calling," she cried, "calling out there in the storm. +Yes, yes, sweet, I am coming!" + +She opened the door and fled down the path to the shore. I +snatched a lantern from the wall, lighted it, and followed. It +was the blackest night I was ever out in, dark with the very +darkness of death. The rain fell thickly and heavily. I +overtook Josie, caught her hand, and stumbled along in her wake, +for she went with the speed and recklessness of a distraught +woman. We moved in the little flitting circle of light shed by +the lantern. All around us and above us was a horrible, +voiceless darkness, held, as it were, at bay by the friendly +light. + +"If I could only overtake him once," moaned Josie. "If I could +just kiss him once, and hold him close against my aching heart. +This pain, that never leaves me, would leave me than. Oh, my +pretty boy, wait for mother! I am coming to you. Listen, David; +he cries--he cries so pitifully; listen! Can't you hear it?" + +I DID hear it! Clear and distinct, out of the deadly still +darkness before us, came a faint, wailing cry. What was it? Was +I, too, going mad, or WAS there something out there--something +that cried and moaned--longing for human love, yet ever +retreating from human footsteps? I am not a superstitious man; +but my nerve had been shaken by my long trial, and I was weaker +than I thought. Terror took possession of me--terror unnameable. +I trembled in every limb; clammy perspiration oozed from my +forehead; I was possessed by a wild impulse to turn and flee-- +anywhere, away from that unearthly cry. But Josephine's cold +hand gripped mine firmly, and led me on. That strange cry still +rang in my ears. But it did not recede; it sounded clearer and +stronger; it was a wail; but a loud, insistent wail; it was +nearer--nearer; it was in the darkness just beyond us. + +Then we came to it; a little dory had been beached on the pebbles +and left there by the receding tide. There was a child in it--a +boy, of perhaps two years old, who crouched in the bottom of the +dory in water to his waist, his big, blue eyes wild and wide with +terror, his face white and tear-stained. He wailed again when he +saw us, and held out his little hands. + +My horror fell away from me like a discarded garment. THIS child +was living. How he had come there, whence and why, I did not +know and, in my state of mind, did not question. It was no cry +of parted spirit I had heard--that was enough for me. + +"Oh, the poor darling!" cried my wife. + +She stooped over the dory and lifted the baby in her arms. His +long, fair curls fell on her shoulder; she laid her face against +his and wrapped her shawl around him. + +"Let me carry him, dear," I said. "He is very wet, and too heavy +for you." + +"No, no, I must carry him. My arms have been so empty--they are +full now. Oh, David, the pain at my heart has gone. He has come +to me to take the place of my own. God has sent him to me out of +the sea. He is wet and cold and tired. Hush, sweet one, we will +go home." + +Silently I followed her home. The wind was rising, coming in +sudden, angry gusts; the storm was at hand, but we reached +shelter before it broke. Just as I shut our door behind us it +smote the house with the roar of a baffled beast. I thanked God +that we were not out in it, following the dream-child. + +"You are very wet, Josie," I said. "Go and put on dry clothes at +once." + +"The child must be looked to first," she said firmly. "See how +chilled and exhausted he is, the pretty dear. Light a fire +quickly, David, while I get dry things for him." + +I let her have her way. She brought out the clothes our own +child had worn and dressed the waif in them, rubbing his chilled +limbs, brushing his wet hair, laughing over him, mothering him. +She seemed like her old self. + +For my own part, I was bewildered. All the questions I had not +asked before came crowding to my mind how. Whose child was this? +Whence had he come? What was the meaning of it all? + +He was a pretty baby, fair and plump and rosy. When he was dried +and fed, he fell asleep in Josie's arms. She hung over him in a +passion of delight. It was with difficulty I persuaded her to +leave him long enough to change her wet clothes. She never asked +whose he might be or from where he might have come. He had been +sent to her from the sea; the dream-child had led her to him; +that was what she believed, and I dared not throw any doubt on +that belief. She slept that night with the baby on her arm, and +in her sleep her face was the face of a girl in her youth, +untroubled and unworn. + +I expected that the morrow would bring some one seeking the baby. +I had come to the conclusion that he must belong to the "Cove" +across the harbor, where the fishing hamlet was; and all day, +while Josie laughed and played with him, I waited and listened +for the footsteps of those who would come seeking him. But they +did not come. Day after day passed, and still they did not come. + +I was in a maze of perplexity. What should I do? I shrank from +the thought of the boy being taken away from us. Since we had +found him the dream-child had never called. My wife seemed to +have turned back from the dark borderland, where her feet had +strayed to walk again with me in our own homely paths. Day and +night she was her old, bright self, happy and serene in the new +motherhood that had come to her. The only thing strange in her +was her calm acceptance of the event. She never wondered who or +whose the child might be--never seemed to fear that he would be +taken from her; and she gave him our dream-child's name. + +At last, when a full week had passed, I went, in my bewilderment, +to our old doctor. + +"A most extraordinary thing," he said thoughtfully. "The child, +as you say, must belong to the Spruce Cove people. Yet it is an +almost unbelievable thing that there has been no search or +inquiry after him. Probably there is some simple explanation of +the mystery, however. I advise you to go over to the Cove and +inquire. When you find the parents or guardians of the child, +ask them to allow you to keep it for a time. It may prove your +wife's salvation. I have known such cases. Evidently on that +night the crisis of her mental disorder was reached. A little +thing might have sufficed to turn her feet either way--back to +reason and sanity, or into deeper darkness. It is my belief that +the former has occurred, and that, if she is left in undisturbed +possession of this child for a time, she will recover +completely." + +I drove around the harbor that day with a lighter heart than I +had hoped ever to possess again. When I reached Spruce Cove the +first person I met was old Abel Blair. I asked him if any child +were missing from the Cove or along shore. He looked at me in +surprise, shook his head, and said he had not heard of any. I +told him as much of the tale as was necessary, leaving him to +think that my wife and I had found the dory and its small +passenger during an ordinary walk along the shore. + +"A green dory!" he exclaimed. "Ben Forbes' old green dory has +been missing for a week, but it was so rotten and leaky he didn't +bother looking for it. But this child, sir--it beats me. What +might he be like?" + +I described the child as closely as possible. + +"That fits little Harry Martin to a hair," said old Abel, +perplexedly, "but, sir, it can't be. Or, if it is, there's been +foul work somewhere. James Martin's wife died last winter, sir, +and he died the next month. They left a baby and not much else. +There weren't nobody to take the child but Jim's half-sister, +Maggie Fleming. She lived here at the Cove, and, I'm sorry to +say, sir, she hadn't too good a name. She didn't want to be +bothered with the baby, and folks say she neglected him +scandalous. Well, last spring she begun talking of going away to +the States. She said a friend of hers had got her a good place +in Boston, and she was going to go and take little Harry. We +supposed it was all right. Last Saturday she went, sir. She was +going to walk to the station, and the last seen of her she was +trudging along the road, carrying the baby. It hasn't been +thought of since. But, sir, d'ye suppose she set that innocent +child adrift in that old leaky dory to send him to his death? I +knew Maggie was no better than she should be, but I can't believe +she was as bad as that." + +"You must come over with me and see if you can identify the +child," I said. "If he is Harry Martin I shall keep him. My +wife has been very lonely since our baby died, and she has taken +a fancy to this little chap." + +When we reached my home old Abel recognized the child as Harry +Martin. + +He is with us still. His baby hands led my dear wife back to +health and happiness. Other children have come to us, she loves +them all dearly; but the boy who bears her dead son's name is to +her--aye, and to me--as dear as if she had given him birth. He +came from the sea, and at his coming the ghostly dream-child +fled, nevermore to lure my wife away from me with its exciting +cry. Therefore I look upon him and love him as my first-born. + + + +VI. THE BROTHER WHO FAILED + +The Monroe family were holding a Christmas reunion at the old +Prince Edward Island homestead at White Sands. It was the first +time they had all been together under one roof since the death of +their mother, thirty years before. The idea of this Christmas +reunion had originated with Edith Monroe the preceding spring, +during her tedious convalescence from a bad attack of pneumonia +among strangers in an American city, where she had not been able +to fill her concert engagements, and had more spare time in which +to feel the tug of old ties and the homesick longing for her own +people than she had had for years. As a result, when she +recovered, she wrote to her second brother, James Monroe, who +lived on the homestead; and the consequence was this gathering of +the Monroes under the old roof-tree. Ralph Monroe for once laid +aside the cares of his railroads, and the deceitfulness of his +millions, in Toronto and took the long-promised, long-deferred +trip to the homeland. Malcolm Monroe journeyed from the far +western university of which he was president. Edith came, +flushed with the triumph of her latest and most successful +concert tour. Mrs. Woodburn, who had been Margaret Monroe, came +from the Nova Scotia town where she lived a busy, happy life as +the wife of a rising young lawyer. James, prosperous and hearty, +greeted them warmly at the old homestead whose fertile acres had +well repaid his skillful management. + +They were a merry party, casting aside their cares and years, and +harking back to joyous boyhood and girlhood once more. James had +a family of rosy lads and lasses; Margaret brought her two +blue-eyed little girls; Ralph's dark, clever-looking son +accompanied him, and Malcolm brought his, a young man with a +resolute face, in which there was less of boyishness than in his +father's, and the eyes of a keen, perhaps a hard bargainer. The +two cousins were the same age to a day, and it was a family joke +among the Monroes that the stork must have mixed the babies, +since Ralph's son was like Malcolm in face and brain, while +Malcolm's boy was a second edition of his uncle Ralph. + +To crown all, Aunt Isabel came, too--a talkative, clever, shrewd +old lady, as young at eighty-five as she had been at thirty, +thinking the Monroe stock the best in the world, and beamingly +proud of her nephews and nieces, who had gone out from this +humble, little farm to destinies of such brilliance and influence +in the world beyond. + +I have forgotten Robert. Robert Monroe was apt to be forgotten. +Although he was the oldest of the family, White Sands people, in +naming over the various members of the Monroe family, would add, +"and Robert," in a tone of surprise over the remembrance of his +existence. + +He lived on a poor, sandy little farm down by the shore, but he +had come up to James' place on the evening when the guests +arrived; they had all greeted him warmly and joyously, and then +did not think about him again in their laughter and conversation. +Robert sat back in a corner and listened with a smile, but he +never spoke. Afterwards he had slipped noiselessly away and gone +home, and nobody noticed his going. They were all gayly busy +recalling what had happened in the old times and telling what had +happened in the new. + +Edith recounted the successes of her concert tours; Malcolm +expatiated proudly on his plans for developing his beloved +college; Ralph described the country through which his new +railroad ran, and the difficulties he had had to overcome in +connection with it. James, aside, discussed his orchard and his +crops with Margaret, who had not been long enough away from the +farm to lose touch with its interests. Aunt Isabel knitted and +smiled complacently on all, talking now with one, now with the +other, secretly quite proud of herself that she, an old woman of +eighty-five, who had seldom been out of White Sands in her life, +could discuss high finance with Ralph, and higher education with +Malcolm, and hold her own with James in an argument on drainage. + +The White Sands school teacher, an arch-eyed, red-mouthed bit a +girl--a Bell from Avonlea--who boarded with the James Monroes, +amused herself with the boys. All were enjoying themselves +hugely, so it is not to be wondered at that they did not miss +Robert, who had gone home early because his old housekeeper was +nervous if left alone at night. + +He came again the next afternoon. From James, in the barnyard, +he learned that Malcolm and Ralph had driven to the harbor, that +Margaret and Mrs. James had gone to call on friends in Avonlea, +and that Edith was walking somewhere in the woods on the hill. +There was nobody in the house except Aunt Isabel and the teacher. + +"You'd better wait and stay the evening," said James, +indifferently. "They'll all be back soon." + +Robert went across the yard and sat down on the rustic bench in +the angle of the front porch. It was a fine December evening, as +mild as autumn; there had been no snow, and the long fields, +sloping down from the homestead, were brown and mellow. A weird, +dreamy stillness had fallen upon the purple earth, the windless +woods, the rain of the valleys, the sere meadows. Nature seemed +to have folded satisfied hands to rest, knowing that her long, +wintry slumber was coming upon her. Out to sea, a dull, red +sunset faded out into somber clouds, and the ceaseless voice of +many waters came up from the tawny shore. + +Robert rested his chin on his hand and looked across the vales +and hills, where the feathery gray of leafless hardwoods was +mingled with the sturdy, unfailing green of the conebearers. He +was a tall, bent man, with thin, gray hair, a lined face, and +deeply-set, gentle brown eyes--the eyes of one who, looking +through pain, sees rapture beyond. + +He felt very happy. He loved his family clannishly, and he was +rejoiced that they were all again near to him. He was proud of +their success and fame. He was glad that James had prospered so +well of late years. There was no canker of envy or discontent in +his soul. + +He heard absently indistinct voices at the open hall window above +the porch, where Aunt Isabel was talking to Kathleen Bell. +Presently Aunt Isabel moved nearer to the window, and her words +came down to Robert with startling clearness. + +"Yes, I can assure you, Miss Bell, that I'm real proud of my +nephews and nieces. They're a smart family. They've almost all +done well, and they hadn't any of them much to begin with. Ralph +had absolutely nothing and to-day he is a millionaire. Their +father met with so many losses, what with his ill-health and the +bank failing, that he couldn't help them any. But they've all +succeeded, except poor Robert--and I must admit that he's a total +failure." + +"Oh, no, no," said the little teacher deprecatingly. + +"A total failure!" Aunt Isabel repeated her words emphatically. +She was not going to be contradicted by anybody, least of all a +Bell from Avonlea. "He has been a failure since the time he was +born. He is the first Monroe to disgrace the old stock that way. +I'm sure his brothers and sisters must be dreadfully ashamed of +him. He has lived sixty years and he hasn't done a thing worth +while. He can't even make his farm pay. If he's kept out of +debt it's as much as he's ever managed to do." + +"Some men can't even do that," murmured the little school +teacher. She was really so much in awe of this imperious, clever +old Aunt Isabel that it was positive heroism on her part to +venture even this faint protest. + +"More is expected of a Monroe," said Aunt Isabel majestically. +"Robert Monroe is a failure, and that is the only name for him." + +Robert Monroe stood up below the window in a dizzy, uncertain +fashion. Aunt Isabel had been speaking of him! He, Robert, was +a failure, a disgrace to his blood, of whom his nearest and +dearest were ashamed! Yes, it was true; he had never realized it +before; he had known that he could never win power or accumulate +riches, but he had not thought that mattered much. Now, through +Aunt Isabel's scornful eyes, he saw himself as the world saw +him--as his brothers and sisters must see him. THERE lay the +sting. What the world thought of him did not matter; but that +his own should think him a failure and disgrace was agony. He +moaned as he started to walk across the yard, only anxious to +hide his pain and shame away from all human sight, and in his +eyes was the look of a gentle animal which had been stricken by a +cruel and unexpected blow. + +Edith Monroe, who, unaware of Robert's proximity, had been +standing on the other side of the porch, saw that look, as he +hurried past her, unseeing. A moment before her dark eyes had +been flashing with anger at Aunt Isabel's words; now the anger +was drowned in a sudden rush of tears. + +She took a quick step after Robert, but checked the impulse. Not +then--and not by her alone--could that deadly hurt be healed. +Nay, more, Robert must never suspect that she knew of any hurt. +She stood and watched him through her tears as he went away +across the low-lying shore fields to hide his broken heart under +his own humble roof. She yearned to hurry after him and comfort +him, but she knew that comfort was not what Robert needed now. +Justice, and justice only, could pluck out the sting, which +otherwise must rankle to the death. + +Ralph and Malcolm were driving into the yard. Edith went over to +them. + +"Boys," she said resolutely, "I want to have a talk with you." + + +The Christmas dinner at the old homestead was a merry one. Mrs. +James spread a feast that was fit for the halls of Lucullus. +Laughter, jest, and repartee flew from lip to lip. Nobody +appeared to notice that Robert ate little, said nothing, and sat +with his form shrinking in his shabby "best" suit, his gray head +bent even lower than usual, as if desirous of avoiding all +observation. When the others spoke to him he answered +deprecatingly, and shrank still further into himself. + +Finally all had eaten all they could, and the remainder of the +plum pudding was carried out. Robert gave a low sigh of relief. +It was almost over. Soon he would be able to escape and hide +himself and his shame away from the mirthful eyes of these men +and women who had earned the right to laugh at the world in which +their success gave them power and influence. He--he--only--was +a failure. + +He wondered impatiently why Mrs. James did not rise. Mrs. James +merely leaned comfortably back in her chair, with the righteous +expression of one who has done her duty by her fellow creatures' +palates, and looked at Malcolm. + +Malcolm rose in his place. Silence fell on the company; +everybody looked suddenly alert and expectant, except Robert. He +still sat with bowed head, wrapped in his own bitterness. + +"I have been told that I must lead off," said Malcolm, "because I +am supposed to possess the gift of gab. But, if I do, I am not +going to use it for any rhetorical effect to-day. Simple, +earnest words must express the deepest feelings of the heart in +doing justice to its own. Brothers and sisters, we meet to-day +under our own roof-tree, surrounded by the benedictions of the +past years. Perhaps invisible guests are here--the spirits of +those who founded this home and whose work on earth has long been +finished. It is not amiss to hope that this is so and our family +circle made indeed complete. To each one of us who are here in +visible bodily presence some measure of success has fallen; but +only one of us has been supremely successful in the only things +that really count--the things that count for eternity as well as +time--sympathy and unselfishness and self-sacrifice. + +"I shall tell you my own story for the benefit of those who have +not heard it. When I was a lad of sixteen I started to work out +my own education. Some of you will remember that old Mr. Blair +of Avonlea offered me a place in his store for the summer, at +wages which would go far towards paying my expenses at the +country academy the next winter. I went to work, eager and +hopeful. All summer I tried to do my faithful best for my +employer. In September the blow fell. A sum of money was +missing from Mr. Blair's till. I was suspected and discharged in +disgrace. All my neighbors believed me guilty; even some of my +own family looked upon me with suspicion--nor could I blame them, +for the circumstantial evidence was strongly against me." + +Ralph and James looked ashamed; Edith and Margaret, who had not +been born at the time referred to, lifted their faces innocently. +Robert did not move or glance up. He hardly seemed to be +listening. + +"I was crushed in an agony of shame and despair," continued +Malcolm. "I believed my career was ruined. I was bent on +casting all my ambitions behind me, and going west to some place +where nobody knew me or my disgrace. But there was one person +who believed in my innocence, who said to me, 'You shall not give +up--you shall not behave as if you were guilty. You are +innocent, and in time your innocence will be proved. Meanwhile +show yourself a man. You have nearly enough to pay your way next +winter at the Academy. I have a little I can give to help you +out. Don't give in--never give in when you have done no wrong.' + +"I listened and took his advice. I went to the Academy. My +story was there as soon as I was, and I found myself sneered at +and shunned. Many a time I would have given up in despair, had +it not been for the encouragement of my counselor. He furnished +the backbone for me. I was determined that his belief in me +should be justified. I studied hard and came out at the head of +my class. Then there seemed to be no chance of my earning any +more money that summer. But a farmer at Newbridge, who cared +nothing about the character of his help, if he could get the work +out of them, offered to hire me. The prospect was distasteful +but, urged by the man who believed in me, I took the place and +endured the hardships. Another winter of lonely work passed at +the Academy. I won the Farrell Scholarship the last year it was +offered, and that meant an Arts course for me. I went to Redmond +College. My story was not openly known there, but something of +it got abroad, enough to taint my life there also with its +suspicion. But the year I graduated, Mr. Blair's nephew, who, as +you know, was the real culprit, confessed his guilt, and I was +cleared before the world. Since then my career has been what is +called a brilliant one. But"--Malcolm turned and laid his hand +on Robert's thin shoulder--"all of my success I owe to my brother +Robert. It is his success--not mine--and here to-day, since we +have agreed to say what is too often left to be said over a +coffin lid, I thank him for all he did for me, and tell him that +there is nothing I am more proud of and thankful for than such a +brother." + +Robert had looked up at last, amazed, bewildered, incredulous. +His face crimsoned as Malcolm sat down. But now Ralph was +getting up. + +"I am no orator as Malcolm is," he quoted gayly, "but I've got a +story to tell, too, which only one of you knows. Forty years +ago, when I started in life as a business man, money wasn't so +plentiful with me as it may be to-day. And I needed it badly. A +chance came my way to make a pile of it. It wasn't a clean +chance. It was a dirty chance. It looked square on the surface; +but, underneath, it meant trickery and roguery. I hadn't enough +perception to see that, though--I was fool enough to think it was +all right. I told Robert what I meant to do. And Robert saw +clear through the outward sham to the real, hideous thing +underneath. He showed me what it meant and he gave me a +preachment about a few Monroe Traditions of truth and honor. I +saw what I had been about to do as he saw it--as all good men and +true must see it. And I vowed then and there that I'd never go +into anything that I wasn't sure was fair and square and clean +through and through. I've kept that vow. I am a rich man, and +not a dollar of my money is 'tainted' money. But I didn't make +it. Robert really made every cent of my money. If it hadn't +been for him I'd have been a poor man to-day, or behind prison +bars, as are the other men who went into that deal when I backed +out. I've got a son here. I hope he'll be as clever as his +Uncle Malcolm; but I hope, still more earnestly, that he'll be as +good and honorable a man as his Uncle Robert." + +By this time Robert's head was bent again, and his face buried in +his hands. + +"My turn next," said James. "I haven't much to say--only this. +After mother died I took typhoid fever. Here I was with no one +to wait on me. Robert came and nursed me. He was the most +faithful, tender, gentle nurse ever a man had. The doctor said +Robert saved my life. I don't suppose any of the rest of us here +can say we have saved a life." + +Edith wiped away her tears and sprang up impulsively. + +"Years ago," she said, "there was a poor, ambitious girl who had +a voice. She wanted a musical education and her only apparent +chance of obtaining it was to get a teacher's certificate and +earn money enough to have her voice trained. She studied hard, +but her brains, in mathematics at least, weren't as good as her +voice, and the time was short. She failed. She was lost in +disappointment and despair, for that was the last year in which +it was possible to obtain a teacher's certificate without +attending Queen's Academy, and she could not afford that. Then +her oldest brother came to her and told her he could spare enough +money to send her to the conservatory of music in Halifax for a +year. He made her take it. She never knew till long afterwards +that he had sold the beautiful horse which he loved like a human +creature, to get the money. She went to the Halifax +conservatory. She won a musical scholarship. She has had a +happy life and a successful career. And she owes it all to her +brother Robert--" + +But Edith could go no further. Her voice failed her and she sat +down in tears. Margaret did not try to stand up. + +"I was only five when my mother died," she sobbed. "Robert was +both father and mother to me. Never had child or girl so wise +and loving a guardian as he was to me. I have never forgotten +the lessons he taught me. Whatever there is of good in my life +or character I owe to him. I was often headstrong and willful, +but he never lost patience with me. I owe everything to Robert." + +Suddenly the little teacher rose with wet eyes and crimson +cheeks. + +"I have something to say, too," she said resolutely. "You have +spoken for yourselves. I speak for the people of White Sands. +There is a man in this settlement whom everybody loves. I shall +tell you some of the things he has done." + +"Last fall, in an October storm, the harbor lighthouse flew a +flag of distress. Only one man was brave enough to face the +danger of sailing to the lighthouse to find out what the trouble +was. That was Robert Monroe. He found the keeper alone with a +broken leg; and he sailed back and made--yes, MADE the +unwilling and terrified doctor go with him to the lighthouse. I +saw him when he told the doctor he must go; and I tell you that +no man living could have set his will against Robert Monroe's at +that moment. + +"Four years ago old Sarah Cooper was to be taken to the +poorhouse. She was broken-hearted. One man took the poor, +bed-ridden, fretful old creature into his home, paid for medical +attendance, and waited on her himself, when his housekeeper +couldn't endure her tantrums and temper. Sarah Cooper died two +years afterwards, and her latest breath was a benediction on +Robert Monroe--the best man God ever made. + +"Eight years ago Jack Blewitt wanted a place. Nobody would hire +him, because his father was in the penitentiary, and some people +thought Jack ought to be there, too. Robert Monroe hired +him--and helped him, and kept him straight, and got him started +right--and Jack Blewitt is a hard-working, respected young man +to-day, with every prospect of a useful and honorable life. +There is hardly a man, woman, or child in White Sands who doesn't +owe something to Robert Monroe!" + +As Kathleen Bell sat down, Malcolm sprang up and held out his +hands. + +"Every one of us stand up and sing Auld Lang Syne," he cried. + +Everybody stood up and joined hands, but one did not sing. +Robert Monroe stood erect, with a great radiance on his face and +in his eyes. His reproach had been taken away; he was crowned +among his kindred with the beauty and blessing of sacred +yesterdays. + +When the singing ceased Malcolm's stern-faced son reached over +and shook Robert's hands. + +"Uncle Rob," he said heartily, "I hope that when I'm sixty I'll +be as successful a man as you." + + +"I guess," said Aunt Isabel, aside to the little school teacher, +as she wiped the tears from her keen old eyes, "that there's a +kind of failure that's the best success." + + + +VII. THE RETURN OF HESTER + +Just at dusk, that evening, I had gone upstairs and put on my +muslin gown. I had been busy all day attending to the strawberry +preserving--for Mary Sloane could not be trusted with that--and I +was a little tired, and thought it was hardly worth while to +change my dress, especially since there was nobody to see or +care, since Hester was gone. Mary Sloane did not count. + +But I did it because Hester would have cared if she had been +here. She always liked to see me neat and dainty. So, although +I was tired and sick at heart, I put on my pale blue muslin and +dressed my hair. + +At first I did my hair up in a way I had always liked; but had +seldom worn, because Hester had disapproved of it. It became me; +but I suddenly felt as if it were disloyal to her, so I took the +puffs down again and arranged my hair in the plain, old-fashioned +way she had liked. My hair, though it had a good many gray +threads in it, was thick and long and brown still; but that did +not matter--nothing mattered since Hester was dead and I had sent +Hugh Blair away for the second time. + +The Newbridge people all wondered why I had not put on mourning +for Hester. I did not tell them it was because Hester had asked +me not to. Hester had never approved of mourning; she said that +if the heart did not mourn crape would not mend matters; and if +it did there was no need of the external trappings of woe. She +told me calmly, the night before she died, to go on wearing my +pretty dresses just as I had always worn them, and to make no +difference in my outward life because of her going. + +"I know there will be a difference in your inward life," she said +wistfully. + +And oh, there was! But sometimes I wondered uneasily, feeling +almost conscience-stricken, whether it were wholly because Hester +had left me--whether it were no partly because, for a second +time, I had shut the door of my heart in the face of love at her +bidding. + +When I had dressed I went downstairs to the front door, and sat +on the sandstone steps under the arch of the Virginia creeper. I +was all alone, for Mary Sloane had gone to Avonlea. + +It was a beautiful night; the full moon was just rising over the +wooded hills, and her light fell through the poplars into the +garden before me. Through an open corner on the western side I +saw the sky all silvery blue in the afterlight. The garden was +very beautiful just then, for it was the time of the roses, and +ours were all out--so many of them--great pink, and red, and +white, and yellow roses. + +Hester had loved roses and could never have enough of them. Her +favorite bush was growing by the steps, all gloried over with +blossoms--white, with pale pink hearts. I gathered a cluster and +pinned it loosely on my breast. But my eyes filled as I did +so--I felt so very, very desolate. + +I was all alone, and it was bitter. The roses, much as I loved +them, could not give me sufficient companionship. I wanted the +clasp of a human hand, and the love-light in human eyes. And +then I fell to thinking of Hugh, though I tried not to. + +I had always lived alone with Hester. I did not remember our +parents, who had died in my babyhood. Hester was fifteen years +older than I, and she had always seemed more like a mother than a +sister. She had been very good to me and had never denied me +anything I wanted, save the one thing that mattered. + +I was twenty-five before I ever had a lover. This was not, I +think, because I was more unattractive than other women. The +Merediths had always been the "big" family of Newbridge. The +rest of the people looked up to us, because we were the +granddaughters of old Squire Meredith. The Newbridge young men +would have thought it no use to try to woo a Meredith. + +I had not a great deal of family pride, as perhaps I should be +ashamed to confess. I found our exalted position very lonely, +and cared more for the simple joys of friendship and +companionship which other girls had. But Hester possessed it in +a double measure; she never allowed me to associate on a level of +equality with the young people of Newbridge. We must be very +nice and kind and affable to them--_noblesse oblige_, as it +were--but we must never forget that we were Merediths. + +When I was twenty-five, Hugh Blair came to Newbridge, having +bought a farm near the village. He was a stranger, from Lower +Carmody, and so was not imbued with any preconceptions of +Meredith superiority. In his eyes I was just a girl like +others--a girl to be wooed and won by any man of clean life and +honest heart. I met him at a little Sunday-School picnic over at +Avonlea, which I attended because of my class. I thought him +very handsome and manly. He talked to me a great deal, and at +last he drove me home. The next Sunday evening he walked up from +church with me. + +Hester was away, or, of course, this would never have happened. +She had gone for a month's visit to distant friends. + +In that month I lived a lifetime. Hugh Blair courted me as the +other girls in Newbridge were courted. He took me out driving +and came to see me in the evenings, which we spent for the most +part in the garden. I did not like the stately gloom and +formality of our old Meredith parlor, and Hugh never seemed to +feel at ease there. His broad shoulders and hearty laughter were +oddly out of place among our faded, old-maidish furnishings. + +Mary Sloane was very much pleased at Hugh's visit. She had +always resented the fact that I had never had a "beau," seeming +to think it reflected some slight or disparagement upon me. She +did all she could to encourage him. + +But when Hester returned and found out about Hugh she was very +angry--and grieved, which hurt me far more. She told me that I +had forgotten myself and that Hugh's visits must cease. + +I had never been afraid of Hester before, but I was afraid of her +then. I yielded. Perhaps it was very weak of me, but then I was +always weak. I think that was why Hugh's strength had appealed +so to me. I needed love and protection. Hester, strong and +self-sufficient, had never felt such a need. She could not +understand. Oh, how contemptuous she was. + +I told Hugh timidly that Hester did not approve of our friendship +and that it must end. He took it quietly enough, and went away. +I thought he did not care much, and the thought selfishly made my +own heartache worse. I was very unhappy for a long time, but I +tried not to let Hester see it, and I don't think she did. She +was not very discerning in some things. + +After a time I got over it; that is, the heartache ceased to ache +all the time. But things were never quite the same again. Life +always seemed rather dreary and empty, in spite of Hester and my +roses and my Sunday-School. + +I supposed that Hugh Blair would find him a wife elsewhere, but +he did not. The years went by and we never met, although I saw +him often at church. At such times Hester always watched me very +closely, but there was no need of her to do so. Hugh made no +attempt to meet me, or speak with me, and I would not have +permitted it if he had. But my heart always yearned after him. +I was selfishly glad he had not married, because if he had I +could not have thought and dreamed of him--it would have been +wrong. Perhaps, as it was, it was foolish; but it seemed to me +that I must have something, if only foolish dreams, to fill my +life. + +At first there was only pain in the thought of him, but +afterwards a faint, misty little pleasure crept in, like a mirage +from a land of lost delight. + +Ten years slipped away thus. And then Hester died. Her illness +was sudden and short; but, before she died, she asked me to +promise that I would never marry Hugh Blair. + +She had not mentioned his name for years. I thought she had +forgotten all about him. + +"Oh, dear sister, is there any need of such a promise?" I asked, +weeping. "Hugh Blair does not want to marry me now. He never +will again." + +"He has never married--he has not forgotten you," she said +fiercely. "I could not rest in my grave if I thought you would +disgrace your family by marrying beneath you. Promise me, +Margaret." + +I promised. I would have promised anything in my power to make +her dying pillow easier. Besides, what did it matter? I was +sure that Hugh would never think of me again. + +She smiled when she heard me, and pressed my hand. + +"Good little sister--that is right. You were always a good girl, +Margaret--good and obedient, though a little sentimental and +foolish in some ways. You are like our mother--she was always +weak and loving. I took after the Merediths." + +She did, indeed. Even in her coffin her dark, handsome features +preserved their expression of pride and determination. Somehow, +that last look of her dead face remained in my memory, blotting +out the real affection and gentleness which her living face had +almost always shown me. This distressed me, but I could not help +it. I wished to think of her as kind and loving, but I could +remember only the pride and coldness with which she had crushed +out my new-born happiness. Yet I felt no anger or resentment +towards her for what she had done. I knew she had meant it for +the best--my best. It was only that she was mistaken. + +And then, a month after she had died, Hugh Blair came to me and +asked me to be his wife. He said he had always loved me, and +could never love any other woman. + +All my old love for him reawakened. I wanted to say yes--to feel +his strong arms about me, and the warmth of his love enfolding +and guarding me. In my weakness I yearned for his strength. + +But there was my promise to Hester--that promise give by her +deathbed. I could not break it, and I told him so. It was the +hardest thing I had ever done. + +He did not go away quietly this time. He pleaded and reasoned +and reproached. Every word of his hurt me like a knife-thrust. +But I could not break my promise to the dead. If Hester had been +living I would have braved her wrath and her estrangement and +gone to him. But she was dead and I could not do it. + +Finally he went away in grief and anger. That was three weeks +ago--and now I sat alone in the moonlit rose-garden and wept for +him. But after a time my tears dried and a very strange feeling +came over me. I felt calm and happy, as if some wonderful love +and tenderness were very near me. + +And now comes the strange part of my story--the part which will +not, I suppose, be believed. If it were not for one thing I +think I should hardly believe it myself. I should feel tempted +to think I had dreamed it. But because of that one thing I know +it was real. The night was very calm and still. Not a breath of +wind stirred. The moonshine was the brightest I had ever seen. +In the middle of the garden, where the shadow of the poplars did +not fall, it was almost as bright as day. One could have read +fine print. There was still a little rose glow in the west, and +over the airy boughs of the tall poplars one or two large, bright +stars were shining. The air was sweet with a hush of dreams, and +the world was so lovely that I held my breath over its beauty. + +Then, all at once, down at the far end of the garden, I saw a +woman walking. I thought at first that it must be Mary Sloane; +but, as she crossed a moonlit path, I saw it was not our old +servant's stout, homely figure. This woman was tall and erect. + +Although no suspicion of the truth came to me, something about +her reminded me of Hester. Even so had Hester liked to wander +about the garden in the twilight. I had seen her thus a thousand +times. + +I wondered who the woman could be. Some neighbor, of course. +But what a strange way for her to come! She walked up the garden +slowly in the poplar shade. Now and then she stooped, as if to +caress a flower, but she plucked none. Half way up she out in to +the moonlight and walked across the plot of grass in the center +of the garden. My heart gave a great throb and I stood up. She +was quite near to me now--and I saw that it was Hester. + +I can hardly say just what my feelings were at this moment. I +know that I was not surprised. I was frightened and yet I was +not frightened. Something in me shrank back in a sickening +terror; but _I_, the real I, was not frightened. I knew that +this was my sister, and that there could be no reason why I +should be frightened of her, because she loved me still, as she +had always done. Further than this I was not conscious of any +coherent thought, either of wonder or attempt at reasoning. + +Hester paused when she came to within a few steps of me. In the +moonlight I saw her face quite plainly. It wore an expression I +had never before seen on it--a humble, wistful, tender look. +Often in life Hester had looked lovingly, even tenderly, upon me; +but always, as it were, through a mask of pride and sternness. +This was gone now, and I felt nearer to her than ever before. I +knew suddenly that she understood me. And then the +half-conscious awe and terror some part of me had felt vanished, +and I only realized that Hester was here, and that there was no +terrible gulf of change between us. + +Hester beckoned to me and said, + +"Come." + +I stood up and followed her out of the garden. We walked side by +side down our lane, under the willows and out to the road, which +lay long and still in that bright, calm moonshine. I felt as if +I were in a dream, moving at the bidding of a will not my own, +which I could not have disputed even if I had wished to do so. +But I did not wish it; I had only the feeling of a strange, +boundless content. + +We went down the road between the growths of young fir that +bordered it. I smelled their balsam as we passed, and noticed +how clearly and darkly their pointed tops came out against the +sky. I heard the tread of my own feet on little twigs and plants +in our way, and the trail of my dress over the grass; but Hester +moved noiselessly. + +Then we went through the Avenue--that stretch of road under the +apple trees that Anne Shirley, over at Avonlea, calls "The White +Way of Delight." It was almost dark here; and yet I could see +Hester's face just as plainly as if the moon were shining on it; +and whenever I looked at her she was always looking at me with +that strangely gentle smile on her lips. + +Just as we passed out of the Avenue, James Trent overtook us, +driving. It seems to me that our feelings at a given moment are +seldom what we would expect them to be. I simply felt annoyed +that James Trent, the most notorious gossip in Newbridge, should +have seen me walking with Hester. In a flash I anticipated all +the annoyance of it; he would talk of the matter far and wide. + +But James Trent merely nodded and called out, + +"Howdy, Miss Margaret. Taking a moonlight stroll by yourself? +Lovely night, ain't it?" + +Just then his horse suddenly swerved, as if startled, and broke +into a gallop. They whirled around the curve of the road in an +instant. I felt relieved, but puzzled. JAMES TRENT HAD NOT SEEN +HESTER. + +Down over the hill was Hugh Blair's place. When we came to it, +Hester turned in at the gate. Then, for the first time, I +understood why she had come back, and a blinding flash of joy +broke over my soul. I stopped and looked at her. Her deep eyes +gazed into mine, but she did not speak. + +We went on. Hugh's house lay before us in the moonlight, grown +over by a tangle of vines. His garden was on our right, a quaint +spot, full of old-fashioned flowers growing in a sort of +disorderly sweetness. I trod on a bed of mint, and the spice of +it floated up to me like the incense of some strange, sacred, +solemn ceremonial. I felt unspeakably happy and blessed. + +When we came to the door Hester said, + +"Knock, Margaret." + +I rapped gently. In a moment, Hugh opened it. Then that +happened by which, in after days, I was to know that this strange +thing was no dream or fancy of mine. Hugh looked not at me, but +past me. + +"Hester!" he exclaimed, with human fear and horror in his voice. + +He leaned against the door-post, the big, strong fellow, +trembling from head to foot. + +"I have learned," said Hester, "that nothing matters in all God's +universe, except love. There is no pride where I have been, and +no false ideals." + +Hugh and I looked into each other's eyes, wondering, and then we +knew that we were alone. + + + +VIII. THE LITTLE BROWN BOOK OF MISS EMILY + +The first summer Mr. Irving and Miss Lavendar--Diana and I could +never call her anything else, even after she was married--were at +Echo Lodge after their marriage, both Diana and I spent a great +deal of time with them. We became acquainted with many of the +Grafton people whom we had not known before, and among others, +the family of Mr. Mack Leith. We often went up to the Leiths in +the evening to play croquet. Millie and Margaret Leith were very +nice girls, and the boys were nice, too. Indeed, we liked every +one in the family, except poor old Miss Emily Leith. We tried +hard enough to like her, because she seemed to like Diana and me +very much, and always wanted to sit with us and talk to us, when +we would much rather have been somewhere else. We often felt a +good deal of impatience at these times, but I am very glad to +think now that we never showed it. + +In a way, we felt sorry for Miss Emily. She was Mr. Leith's +old-maid sister and she was not of much importance in the +household. But, though we felt sorry for her, we couldn't like +her. She really was fussy and meddlesome; she liked to poke a +finger into every one's pie, and she was not at all tactful. +Then, too, she had a sarcastic tongue, and seemed to feel bitter +towards all the young folks and their love affairs. Diana and I +thought this was because she had never had a lover of her own. + +Somehow, it seemed impossible to think of lovers in connection +with Miss Emily. She was short and stout and pudgy, with a face +so round and fat and red that it seemed quite featureless; and +her hair was scanty and gray. She walked with a waddle, just +like Mrs. Rachel Lynde, and she was always rather short of +breath. It was hard to believe Miss Emily had ever been young; +yet old Mr. Murray, who lived next door to the Leiths, not only +expected us to believe it, but assured us that she had been very +pretty. + +"THAT, at least, is impossible," said Diana to me. + +And then, one day, Miss Emily died. I'm afraid no one was very +sorry. It seems to me a most dreadful thing to go out of the +world and leave not one person behind to be sorry because you +have gone. Miss Emily was dead and buried before Diana and I +heard of it at all. The first I knew of it was when I came home +from Orchard Slope one day and found a queer, shabby little black +horsehair trunk, all studded with brass nails, on the floor of my +room at Green Gables. Marilla told me that Jack Leith had +brought it over, and said that it had belonged to Miss Emily and +that, when she was dying, she asked them to send it to me. + +"But what is in it? And what am I to do with it?" I asked in +bewilderment. + +"There was nothing said about what you were to do with it. Jack +said they didn't know what was in it, and hadn't looked into it, +seeing that it was your property. It seems a rather queer +proceeding--but you're always getting mixed up in queer +proceedings, Anne. As for what is in it, the easiest way to find +out, I reckon, is to open it and see. The key is tied to it. +Jack said Miss Emily said she wanted you to have it because she +loved you and saw her lost youth in you. I guess she was a bit +delirious at the last and wandered a good deal. She said she +wanted you 'to understand her.' " + +I ran over to Orchard Slope and asked Diana to come over and +examine the trunk with me. I hadn't received any instructions +about keeping its contents secret and I knew Miss Emily wouldn't +mind Diana knowing about them, whatever they were. + +It was a cool, gray afternoon and we got back to Green Gables +just as the rain was beginning to fall. When we went up to my +room the wind was rising and whistling through the boughs of the +big old Snow Queen outside of my window. Diana was excited, and, +I really believe, a little bit frightened. + +We opened the old trunk. It was very small, and there was +nothing in it but a big cardboard box. The box was tied up and +the knots sealed with wax. We lifted it out and untied it. I +touched Diana's fingers as we did it, and both of us exclaimed at +once, "How cold your hand is!" + +In the box was a quaint, pretty, old-fashioned gown, not at all +faded, made of blue muslin, with a little darker blue flower in +it. Under it we found a sash, a yellowed feather fan, and an +envelope full of withered flowers. At the bottom of the box was +a little brown book. + +It was small and thin, like a girl's exercise book, with leaves +that had once been blue and pink, but were now quite faded, and +stained in places. On the fly leaf was written, in a very +delicate hand, "Emily Margaret Leith," and the same writing +covered the first few pages of the book. The rest were not +written on at all. We sat there on the floor, Diana and I, and +read the little book together, while the rain thudded against the +window panes. + + June 19, 18-- + + I came to-day to spend a while with Aunt Margaret in + Charlottetown. It is so pretty here, where she lives--and + ever so much nicer than on the farm at home. I have no cows + to milk here or pigs to feed. Aunt Margaret has given me + such a lovely blue muslin dress, and I am to have it made to + wear at a garden party out at Brighton next week. I never + had a muslin dress before--nothing but ugly prints and dark + woolens. I wish we were rich, like Aunt Margaret. Aunt + Margaret laughed when I said this, and declared she would + give all her wealth for my youth and beauty and + light-heartedness. I am only eighteen and I know I am very + merry but I wonder if I am really pretty. It seems to me + that I am when I look in Aunt Margaret's beautiful mirrors. + They make me look very different from the old cracked one in + my room at home which always twisted my face and turned me + green. But Aunt Margaret spoiled her compliment by telling + me I look exactly as she did at my age. If I thought I'd + ever look as Aunt Margaret does now, I don't know what I'd + do. She is so fat and red. + + June 29. + + Last week I went to the garden party and I met a young man + called Paul Osborne. He is a young artist from Montreal who + is boarding over at Heppoch. He is the handsomest man I have + ever seen--very tall and slender, with dreamy, dark eyes and + a pale, clever face. I have not been able to keep from + thinking about him ever since, and to-day he came over here + and asked if he could paint me. I felt very much flattered + and so pleased when Aunt Margaret gave him permission. He + says he wants to paint me as "Spring," standing under the + poplars where a fine rain of sunshine falls through. I am to + wear my blue muslin gown and a wreath of flowers on my hair. + He says I have such beautiful hair. He has never seen any of + such a real pale gold. Somehow it seems even prettier than + ever to me since he praised it. + + I had a letter from home to-day. Ma says the blue hen stole + her nest and came off with fourteen chickens, and that pa has + sold the little spotted calf. Somehow those things don't + interest me like they once did. + + July 9. + + The picture is coming on very well, Mr. Osborne says. I know + he is making me look far too pretty in it, although her + persists in saying he can't do me justice. He is going to + send it to some great exhibition when finished, but he says + he will make a little water-color copy for me. + + He comes every day to paint and we talk a great deal and he + reads me lovely things out of his books. I don't understand + them all, but I try to, and he explains them so nicely and is + so patient with my stupidity. And he says any one with my + eyes and hair and coloring does not need to be clever. He + says I have the sweetest, merriest laugh in the world. But I + will not write down all the compliments he has paid me. I + dare say he does not mean them at all. + + In the evening we stroll among the spruces or sit on the + bench under the acacia tree. Sometimes we don't talk at all, + but I never find the time long. Indeed, the minutes just + seem to fly--and then the moon will come up, round and red, + over the harbor and Mr. Osborne will sigh and say he supposes + it is time for him to go. + + July 24. + + I am so happy. I am frightened at my happiness. Oh, I + didn't think life could ever be so beautiful for me as it is! + + Paul loves me! He told me so to-night as we walked by the + harbor and watched the sunset, and he asked me to be his + wife. I have cared for him ever since I met him, but I am + afraid I am not clever and well-educated enough for a wife + for Paul. Because, of course, I'm only an ignorant little + country girl and have lived all my life on a farm. Why, my + hands are quite rough yet from the work I've done. But Paul + just laughed when I said so, and took my hands and kissed + them. Then he looked into my eyes and laughed again, because + I couldn't hide from him how much I loved him. + + We are to be married next spring and Paul says he will take + me to Europe. That will be very nice, but nothing matters so + long as I am with him. + + Paul's people are very wealthy and his mother and sisters are + very fashionable. I am frightened of them, but I did not + tell Paul so because I think it would hurt him and oh, I + wouldn't do that for the world. + + There is nothing I wouldn't suffer if it would do him any + good. I never thought any one could feel so. I used to + think if I loved anybody I would want him to do everything + for me and wait on me as if I were a princess. But that is + not the way at all. Love makes you very humble and you want + to do everything yourself for the one you love. + + August 10. + + Paul went home to-day. Oh, it is so terrible! I don't know + how I can bear to live even for a little while without him. + But this is silly of me, because I know he has to go and he + will write often and come to me often. But, still, it is so + lonesome. I didn't cry when he left me because I wanted him + to remember me smiling in the way he liked best, but I have + been crying ever since and I can't stop, no matter how hard I + try. We have had such a beautiful fortnight. Every day + seemed dearer and happier than the last, and now it is ended + and I feel as if it could never be the same again. Oh, I am + very foolish--but I love him so dearly and if I were to lose + his love I know I would die. + + August 17. + + I think my heart is dead. But no, it can't be, for it aches + too much. + + Paul's mother came here to see me to-day. She was not angry + or disagreeable. I wouldn't have been so frightened of her + if she had been. As it was, I felt that I couldn't say a + word. She is very beautiful and stately and wonderful, with + a low, cold voice and proud, dark eyes. Her face is like + Paul's but without the loveableness of his. + + She talked to me for a long time and she said terrible + things--terrible, because I knew they were all true. I + seemed to see everything through her eyes. She said that + Paul was infatuated with my youth and beauty but that it + would not last and what else I to give him? She said Paul + must marry a woman of his own class, who could do honor to + his fame and position. She said that he was very talented + and had a great career before him, but that if he married me + it would ruin his life. + + I saw it all, just as she explained it out, and I told her at + last that I would not marry Paul, and she might tell him so. + But she smiled and said I must tell him myself, because he + would not believe any one else. I could have begged her to + spare me that, but I knew it would be of no use. I do not + think she has any pity or mercy for any one. Besides, what + she said was quite true. + + When she thanked me for being so REASONABLE I told her I was + not doing it to please her, but for Paul's sake, because I + would not spoil his life, and that I would always hate her. + She smiled again and went away. + + Oh, how can I bear it? I did not know any one could suffer + like this! + + August 18. + + I have done it. I wrote to Paul to-day. I knew I must tell + him by letter, because I could never make him believe it face + to face. I was afraid I could not even do it by letter. I + suppose a clever woman easily could, but I am so stupid. + I wrote a great many letters and tore them up, because I felt + sure they wouldn't convince Paul. At last I got one that I + thought would do. I knew I must make it seems as if I were + very frivolous and heartless, or he would never believe. I + spelled some words wrong and put in some mistakes of grammar + on purpose. I told him I had just been flirting with him, + and that I had another fellow at home I liked better. I said + FELLOW because I knew it would disgust him. I said that it + was only because he was rich that I was tempted to marry him. + + I thought would my heart would break while I was writing + those dreadful falsehoods. But it was for his sake, because + I must not spoil his life. His mother told me I would be a + millstone around his neck. I love Paul so much that I would + do anything rather than be that. It would be easy to die for + him, but I don't see how I can go on living. I think my + letter will convince Paul. + +I suppose it convinced Paul, because there was no further entry +in the little brown book. When we had finished it the tears were +running down both our faces. + +"Oh, poor, dear Miss Emily," sobbed Diana. "I'm so sorry I ever +thought her funny and meddlesome." + +"She was good and strong and brave," I said. "I could never have +been as unselfish as she was." + +I thought of Whittier's lines, + + "The outward, wayward life we see + The hidden springs we may not know." + +At the back of the little brown book we found a faded water-color +sketch of a young girl--such a slim, pretty little thing, with +big blue eyes and lovely, long, rippling golden hair. Paul +Osborne's name was written in faded ink across the corner. + +We put everything back in the box. Then we sat for a long time +by my window in silence and thought of many things, until the +rainy twilight came down and blotted out the world. + + + +IX. SARA'S WAY + +The warm June sunshine was coming down through the trees, white +with the virginal bloom of apple-blossoms, and through the +shining panes, making a tremulous mosaic upon Mrs. Eben Andrews' +spotless kitchen floor. Through the open door, a wind, fragrant +from long wanderings over orchards and clover meadows, drifted +in, and, from the window, Mrs. Eben and her guest could look down +over a long, misty valley sloping to a sparkling sea. + +Mrs. Jonas Andrews was spending the afternoon with her +sister-in-law. She was a big, sonsy woman, with full-blown peony +cheeks and large, dreamy, brown eyes. When she had been a slim, +pink-and-white girl those eyes had been very romantic. Now they +were so out of keeping with the rest of her appearance as to be +ludicrous. + +Mrs. Eben, sitting at the other end of the small tea-table that +was drawn up against the window, was a thin little woman, with a +very sharp nose and light, faded blue eyes. She looked like a +woman whose opinions were always very decided and warranted to +wear. + +"How does Sara like teaching at Newbridge?" asked Mrs. Jonas, +helping herself a second time to Mrs. Eben's matchless black +fruit cake, and thereby bestowing a subtle compliment which Mrs. +Eben did not fail to appreciate. + +"Well, I guess she likes it pretty well--better than down at +White Sands, anyway," answered Mrs. Eben. "Yes, I may say it +suits her. Of course it's a long walk there and back. I think +it would have been wiser for her to keep on boarding at +Morrison's, as she did all winter, but Sara is bound to be home +all she can. And I must say the walk seems to agree with her." + +"I was down to see Jonas' aunt at Newbridge last night," said +Mrs. Jonas, "and she said she'd heard that Sara had made up her +mind to take Lige Baxter at last, and that they were to be +married in the fall. She asked me if it was true. I said I +didn't know, but I hoped to mercy it was. Now, is it, Louisa?" + +"Not a word of it," said Mrs. Eben sorrowfully. "Sara hasn't any +more notion of taking Lige than ever she had. I'm sure it's not +MY fault. I've talked and argued till I'm tired. I declare to +you, Amelia, I am terribly disappointed. I'd set my heart on +Sara's marrying Lige--and now to think she won't!" + +"She is a very foolish girl," said Mrs. Jonas, judicially. "If +Lige Baxter isn't good enough for her, who is?" + +"And he's so well off," said Mrs. Eben, "and does such a good +business, and is well spoken of by every one. And that lovely +new house of his at Newbridge, with bay windows and hardwood +floors! I've dreamed and dreamed of seeing Sara there as +mistress." + +"Maybe you'll see her there yet," said Mrs. Jonas, who always +took a hopeful view of everything, even of Sara's contrariness. +But she felt discouraged, too. Well, she had done her best. + +If Lige Baxter's broth was spoiled it was not for lack of cooks. +Every Andrews in Avonlea had been trying for two years to bring +about a match between him and Sara, and Mrs. Jonas had borne her +part valiantly. + +Mrs. Eben's despondent reply was cut short by the appearance of +Sara herself. The girl stood for a moment in the doorway and +looked with a faintly amused air at her aunts. She knew quite +well that they had been discussing her, for Mrs. Jonas, who +carried her conscience in her face, looked guilty, and Mrs. Eben +had not been able wholly to banish her aggrieved expression. + +Sara put away her books, kissed Mrs. Jonas' rosy cheek, and sat +down at the table. Mrs. Eben brought her some fresh tea, some +hot rolls, and a little jelly-pot of the apricot preserves Sara +liked, and she cut some more fruit cake for her in moist plummy +slices. She might be out of patience with Sara's "contrariness," +but she spoiled and petted her for all that, for the girl was the +very core of her childless heart. + +Sara Andrews was not, strictly speaking, pretty; but there was +that about her which made people look at her twice. She was very +dark, with a rich, dusky sort of darkness, her deep eyes were +velvety brown, and her lips and cheeks were crimson. + +She ate her rolls and preserves with a healthy appetite, +sharpened by her long walk from Newbridge, and told amusing +little stories of her day's work that made the two older women +shake with laughter, and exchange shy glances of pride over her +cleverness. + +When tea was over she poured the remaining contents of the cream +jug into a saucer. + +"I must feed my pussy," she said as she left the room. + +"That girl beats me," said Mrs. Eben with a sigh of perplexity. +"You know that black cat we've had for two years? Eben and I +have always made a lot of him, but Sara seemed to have a dislike +to him. Never a peaceful nap under the stove could he have when +Sara was home--out he must go. Well, a little spell ago he got +his leg broke accidentally and we thought he'd have to be killed. +But Sara wouldn't hear of it. She got splints and set his leg +just as knacky, and bandaged it up, and she has tended him like a +sick baby ever since. He's just about well now, and he lives in +clover, that cat does. It's just her way. There's them sick +chickens she's been doctoring for a week, giving them pills and +things! + +"And she thinks more of that wretched-looking calf that got +poisoned with paris green than of all the other stock on the +place." + + +As the summer wore away, Mrs. Eben tried to reconcile herself to +the destruction of her air castles. But she scolded Sara +considerably. + +"Sara, why don't you like Lige? I'm sure he is a model young +man." + +"I don't like model young men," answered Sara impatiently. "And +I really think I hate Lige Baxter. He has always been held up to +me as such a paragon. I'm tired of hearing about all his +perfections. I know them all off by heart. He doesn't drink, he +doesn't smoke, he doesn't steal, he doesn't tell fibs, he never +loses his temper, he doesn't swear, and he goes to church +regularly. Such a faultless creature as that would certainly get +on my nerves. No, no, you'll have to pick out another mistress +for your new house at the Bridge, Aunt Louisa." + +When the apple trees, that had been pink and white in June, were +russet and bronze in October, Mrs. Eben had a quilting. The +quilt was of the "Rising Star" pattern, which was considered in +Avonlea to be very handsome. Mrs. Eben had intended it for part +of Sara's "setting out," and, while she sewed the red-and-white +diamonds together, she had regaled her fancy by imagining she saw +it spread out on the spare-room bed of the house at Newbridge, +with herself laying her bonnet and shawl on it when she went to +see Sara. Those bright visions had faded with the apple +blossoms, and Mrs. Eben hardly had the heart to finish the quilt +at all. + +The quilting came off on Saturday afternoon, when Sara could be +home from school. All Mrs. Eben's particular friends were ranged +around the quilt, and tongues and fingers flew. Sara flitted +about, helping her aunt with the supper preparations. She was in +the room, getting the custard dishes out of the cupboard, when +Mrs. George Pye arrived. + +Mrs. George had a genius for being late. She was later than +usual to-day, and she looked excited. Every woman around the +"Rising Star" felt that Mrs. George had some news worth listening +to, and there was an expectant silence while she pulled out her +chair and settled herself at the quilt. + +She was a tall, thin woman with a long pale face and liquid green +eyes. As she looked around the circle she had the air of a cat +daintily licking its chops over some titbit. + +"I suppose," she said, "that you have heard the news?" + +She knew perfectly well that they had not. Every other woman at +the frame stopped quilting. Mrs. Eben came to the door with a +pan of puffy, smoking-hot soda biscuits in her hand. Sara +stopped counting the custard dishes, and turned her +ripely-colored face over her shoulder. Even the black cat, at +her feet, ceased preening his fur. Mrs. George felt that the +undivided attention of her audience was hers. + +"Baxter Brothers have failed," she said, her green eyes shooting +out flashes of light. "Failed DISGRACEFULLY!" + +She paused for a moment; but, since her hearers were as yet +speechless from surprise, she went on. + +"George came home from Newbridge, just before I left, with the +news. You could have knocked me down with a feather. I should +have thought that firm was as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar! +But they're ruined--absolutely ruined. Louisa, dear, can you +find me a good needle?" + +"Louisa, dear," had set her biscuits down with a sharp thud, +reckless of results. A sharp, metallic tinkle sounded at the +closet where Sara had struck the edge of her tray against a +shelf. The sound seemed to loosen the paralyzed tongues, and +everybody began talking and exclaiming at once. Clear and shrill +above the confusion rose Mrs. George Pye's voice. + +"Yes, indeed, you may well say so. It IS disgraceful. And to +think how everybody trusted them! George will lose considerable +by the crash, and so will a good many folks. Everything will +have to go--Peter Baxter's farm and Lige's grand new house. Mrs. +Peter won't carry her head so high after this, I'll be bound. +George saw Lige at the Bridge, and he said he looked dreadful cut +up and ashamed." + +"Who, or what's to blame for the failure?" asked Mrs. Rachel +Lynde sharply. She did not like Mrs. George Pye. + +"There are a dozen different stories on the go," was the reply. +"As far as George could make out, Peter Baxter has been +speculating with other folks' money, and this is the result. +Everybody always suspected that Peter was crooked; but you'd have +thought that Lige would have kept him straight. HE had always +such a reputation for saintliness." + +"I don't suppose Lige knew anything about it," said Mrs. Rachel +indignantly. + +"Well, he'd ought to, then. If he isn't a knave he's a fool," +said Mrs. Harmon Andrews, who had formerly been among his +warmest partisans. "He should have kept watch on Peter and found +out how the business was being run. Well, Sara, you were the +level-headest of us all--I'll admit that now. A nice mess it +would be if you were married or engaged to Lige, and him left +without a cent--even if he can clear his character!" + +"There is a good deal of talk about Peter, and swindling, and a +lawsuit," said Mrs. George Pye, quilting industriously. "Most of +the Newbridge folks think it's all Peter's fault, and that Lige +isn't to blame. But you can't tell. I dare say Lige is as deep +in the mire as Peter. He was always a little too good to be +wholesome, _I_ thought." + +There was a clink of glass at the cupboard, as Sara set the tray +down. She came forward and stood behind Mrs. Rachel Lynde's +chair, resting her shapely hands on that lady's broad shoulders. +Her face was very pale, but her flashing eyes sought and faced +defiantly Mrs. George Pye's cat-like orbs. Her voice quivered +with passion and contempt. + +"You'll all have a fling at Lige Baxter, now that he's down. You +couldn't say enough in his praise, once. I'll not stand by and +hear it hinted that Lige Baxter is a swindler. You all know +perfectly well that Lige is as honest as the day, if he IS so +unfortunate as to have an unprincipled brother. You, Mrs. Pye, +know it better than any one, yet you come here and run him down +the minute he's in trouble. If there's another word said here +against Lige Baxter I'll leave the room and the house till you're +gone, every one of you." + +She flashed a glance around the quilt that cowed the gossips. +Even Mrs. George Pye's eyes flickered and waned and quailed. +Nothing more was said until Sara had picked up her glasses and +marched from the room. Even then they dared not speak above a +whisper. Mrs. Pye, alone, smarting from snub, ventured to +ejaculate, "Pity save us!" as Sara slammed the door. + +For the next fortnight gossip and rumor held high carnival in +Avonlea and Newbridge, and Mrs. Eben grew to dread the sight of a +visitor. + +"They're bound to talk about the Baxter failure and criticize +Lige," she deplored to Mrs. Jonas. "And it riles Sara up so +terrible. She used to declare that she hated Lige, and now she +won't listen to a word against him. Not that I say any, myself. +I'm sorry for him, and I believe he's done his best. But I can't +stop other people from talking." + +One evening Harmon Andrews came in with a fresh budget of news. + +"The Baxter business is pretty near wound up at last," he said, +as he lighted his pipe. "Peter has got his lawsuits settled and +has hushed up the talk about swindling, somehow. Trust him for +slipping out of a scrape clean and clever. He don't seem to worry +any, but Lige looks like a walking skeleton. Some folks pity +him, but I say he should have kept the run of things better and +not have trusted everything to Peter. I hear he's going out West +in the Spring, to take up land in Alberta and try his hand at +farming. Best thing he can do, I guess. Folks hereabouts have +had enough of the Baxter breed. Newbridge will be well rid of +them." + +Sara, who had been sitting in the dark corner by the stove, +suddenly stood up, letting the black cat slip from her lap to the +floor. Mrs. Eben glanced at her apprehensively, for she was +afraid the girl was going to break out in a tirade against the +complacent Harmon. + +But Sara only walked fiercely out of the kitchen, with a sound as +if she were struggling for breath. In the hall she snatched a +scarf from the wall, flung open the front door, and rushed down +the lane in the chill, pure air of the autumn twilight. Her +heart was throbbing with the pity she always felt for bruised and +baited creatures. + +On and on she went heedlessly, intent only on walking away her +pain, over gray, brooding fields and winding slopes, and along +the skirts of ruinous, dusky pine woods, curtained with fine spun +purple gloom. Her dress brushed against the brittle grasses and +sere ferns, and the moist night wind, loosed from wild places far +away, blew her hair about her face. + +At last she came to a little rustic gate, leading into a shadowy +wood-lane. The gate was bound with willow withes, and, as Sara +fumbled vainly at them with her chilled hands, a man's firm step +came up behind her, and Lige Baxter's hand closed over her's. + +"Oh, Lige!" she said, with something like a sob. + +He opened the gate and drew her through. She left her hand in +his, as they walked through the lane where lissome boughs of +young saplings flicked against their heads, and the air was +wildly sweet with the woodsy odors. + +"It's a long while since I've seen you, Lige," Sara said at last. + +Lige looked wistfully down at her through the gloom. + +"Yes, it seems very long to me, Sara. But I didn't think you'd +care to see me, after what you said last spring. And you know +things have been going against me. People have said hard things. +I've been unfortunate, Sara, and may be too easy-going, but I've +been honest. Don't believe folks if they tell you I wasn't." + +"Indeed, I never did--not for a minute!" fired Sara. + +"I'm glad of that. I'm going away, later on. I felt bad enough +when you refused to marry me, Sara; but it's well that you +didn't. I'm man enough to be thankful my troubles don't fall on +you." + +Sara stopped and turned to him. Beyond them the lane opened into +a field and a clear lake of crocus sky cast a dim light into the +shadow where they stood. Above it was a new moon, like a +gleaming silver scimitar. Sara saw it was over her left +shoulder, and she saw Lige's face above her, tender and troubled. + +"Lige," she said softly, "do you love me still?" + +"You know I do," said Lige sadly. + +That was all Sara wanted. With a quick movement she nestled into +his arms, and laid her warm, tear-wet cheek against his cold one. + + +When the amazing rumor that Sara was going to marry Lige Baxter, +and go out West with him, circulated through the Andrews clan, +hands were lifted and heads were shaken. Mrs. Jonas puffed and +panted up the hill to learn if it were true. She found Mrs. Eben +stitching for dear life on an "Irish Chain" quilt, while Sara was +sewing the diamonds on another "Rising Star" with a martyr-like +expression on her face. Sara hated patchwork above everything +else, but Mrs. Eben was mistress up to a certain point. + +"You'll have to make that quilt, Sara Andrews. If you're going +to live out on those prairies, you'll need piles of quilts, and +you shall have them if I sew my fingers to the bone. But you'll +have to help make them." + +And Sara had to. + +When Mrs. Jonas came, Mrs. Eben sent Sara off to the post-office +to get her out of the way. + +"I suppose it's true, this time?" said Mrs. Jonas. + +"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Eben briskly. "Sara is set on it. There +is no use trying to move her--you know that--so I've just +concluded to make the best of it. I'm no turn-coat. Lige Baxter +is Lige Baxter still, neither more nor less. I've always said +he's a fine young man, and I say so still. After all, he and +Sara won't be any poorer than Eben and I were when we started +out." + +Mrs. Jonas heaved a sigh of relief. + +"I'm real glad you take that view of it, Louisa. I'm not +displeased, either, although Mrs. Harmon would take my head off +if she heard me say so. I always liked Lige. But I must say I'm +amazed, too, after the way Sara used to rail at him." + +"Well, we might have expected it," said Mrs. Eben sagely. "It +was always Sara's way. When any creature got sick or unfortunate +she seemed to take it right into her heart. So you may say Lige +Baxter's failure was a success after all." + + + +X. THE SON OF HIS MOTHER + +Thyra Carewe was waiting for Chester to come home. She sat by the +west window of the kitchen, looking out into the gathering of the +shadows with the expectant immovability that characterized her. +She never twitched or fidgeted. Into whatever she did she put +the whole force of her nature. If it was sitting still, she sat +still. + +"A stone image would be twitchedly beside Thyra," said Mrs. +Cynthia White, her neighbor across the lane. "It gets on my +nerves, the way she sits at that window sometimes, with no more +motion than a statue and her great eyes burning down the lane. +When I read the commandment, 'Thou shalt have no other gods +before me,' I declare I always think of Thyra. She worships that +son of hers far ahead of her Creator. She'll be punished for it +yet." + +Mrs. White was watching Thyra now, knitting furiously, as she +watched, in order to lose no time. Thyra's hands were folded +idly in her lap. She had not moved a muscle since she sat down. +Mrs. White complained it gave her the weeps. + +"It doesn't seem natural to see a woman sit so still," she said. +"Sometimes the thought comes to me, 'what if she's had a stroke, +like her old Uncle Horatio, and is sitting there stone dead!' " + +The evening was cold and autumnal. There was a fiery red spot +out at sea, where the sun had set, and, above it, over a chill, +clear, saffron sky, were reefs of purple-black clouds. The +river, below the Carewe homestead, was livid. Beyond it, the sea +was dark and brooding. It was an evening to make most people +shiver and forebode an early winter; but Thyra loved it, as she +loved all stern, harshly beautiful things. She would not light a +lamp because it would blot out the savage grandeur of sea and +sky. It was better to wait in the darkness until Chester came +home. + +He was late to-night. She thought he had been detained over-time +at the harbor, but she was not anxious. He would come straight +home to her as soon as his business was completed--of that she +felt sure. Her thoughts went out along the bleak harbor road to +meet him. She could see him plainly, coming with his free stride +through the sandy hollows and over the windy hills, in the harsh, +cold light of that forbidding sunset, strong and handsome in his +comely youth, with her own deeply cleft chin and his father's +dark gray, straightforward eyes. No other woman in Avonlea had a +son like hers--her only one. In his brief absences she yearned +after him with a maternal passion that had in it something of +physical pain, so intense was it. She thought of Cynthia White, +knitting across the road, with contemptuous pity. That woman had +no son--nothing but pale-faced girls. Thyra had never wanted a +daughter, but she pitied and despised all sonless women. + +Chester's dog whined suddenly and piercingly on the doorstep +outside. He was tired of the cold stone and wanted his warm +corner behind the stove. Thyra smiled grimly when she heard him. +She had no intention of letting him in. She said she had always +disliked dogs, but the truth, although she would not glance at +it, was that she hated the animal because Chester loved him. She +could not share his love with even a dumb brute. She loved no +living creature in the world but her son, and fiercely demanded a +like concentrated affection from him. Hence it pleased her to +hear his dog whine. + +It was now quite dark; the stars had begun to shine out over the +shorn harvest fields, and Chester had not come. Across the lane +Cynthia White had pulled down her blind, in despair of +out-watching Thyra, and had lighted a lamp. Lively shadows of +little girl-shapes passed and repassed on the pale oblong of +light. They made Thyra conscious of her exceeding loneliness. +She had just decided that she would walk down the lane and wait +for Chester on the bridge, when a thunderous knock came at the +east kitchen door. + +She recognized August Vorst's knock and lighted a lamp in no +great haste, for she did not like him. He was a gossip and Thyra +hated gossip, in man or woman. But August was privileged. + +She carried the lamp in her hand, when she went to the door, and +its upward-striking light gave her face a ghastly appearance. +She did not mean to ask August in, but he pushed past her +cheerfully, not waiting to be invited. He was a midget of a man, +lame of foot and hunched of back, with a white, boyish face, +despite his middle age and deep-set, malicious black eyes. + +He pulled a crumpled newspaper from his pocket and handed it to +Thyra. He was the unofficial mail-carrier of Avonlea. Most of +the people gave him a trifle for bringing their letters and +papers from the office. He earned small sums in various other +ways, and so contrived to keep the life in his stunted body. +There was always venom in August's gossip. It was said that he +made more mischief in Avonlea in a day than was made otherwise in +a year, but people tolerated him by reason of his infirmity. To +be sure, it was the tolerance they gave to inferior creatures, +and August felt this. Perhaps it accounted for a good deal of +his malignity. He hated most those who were kindest to him, and, +of these, Thyra Carewe above all. He hated Chester, too, as he +hated strong, shapely creatures. His time had come at last to +wound them both, and his exultation shone through his crooked +body and pinched features like an illuminating lamp. Thyra +perceived it and vaguely felt something antagonistic in it. She +pointed to the rocking-chair, as she might have pointed out a mat +to a dog. + +August crawled into it and smiled. He was going to make her +writhe presently, this woman who looked down upon him as some +venomous creeping thing she disdained to crush with her foot. + +"Did you see anything of Chester on the road?" asked Thyra, +giving August the very opening he desired. "He went to the +harbor after tea to see Joe Raymond about the loan of his boat, +but it's the time he should be back. I can't think what keeps +the boy." + +"Just what keeps most men--leaving out creatures like me--at some +time or other in their lives. A girl--a pretty girl, Thyra. It +pleases me to look at her. Even a hunchback can use his eyes, +eh? Oh, she's a rare one!" + +"What is the man talking about?" said Thyra wonderingly. + +"Damaris Garland, to be sure. Chester's down at Tom Blair's now, +talking to her--and looking more than his tongue says, too, of +that you may be sure. Well, well, we were all young once, +Thyra--all young once, even crooked little August Vorst. Eh, +now?" + +"What do you mean?" said Thyra. + +She had sat down in a chair before him, with her hands folded in +her lap. Her face, always pale, had not changed; but her lips +were curiously white. August Vorst saw this and it pleased him. +Also, her eyes were worth looking at, if you liked to hurt +people--and that was the only pleasure August took in life. He +would drink this delightful cup of revenge for her long years of +disdainful kindness--ah, he would drink it slowly to prolong its +sweetness. Sip by sip--he rubbed his long, thin, white hands +together--sip by sip, tasting each mouthful. + +"Eh, now? You know well enough, Thyra." + +"I know nothing of what you would be at, August Vorst. You speak +of my son and Damaris--was that the name?--Damaris Garland as if +they were something to each other. I ask you what you mean by +it?" + +"Tut, tut, Thyra, nothing very terrible. There's no need to look +like that about it. Young men will be young men to the end of +time, and there's no harm in Chester's liking to look at a lass, +eh, now? Or in talking to her either? The little baggage, with +the red lips of her! She and Chester will make a pretty pair. +He's not so ill-looking for a man, Thyra." + +"I am not a very patient woman, August," said Thyra coldly. "I +have asked you what you mean, and I want a straight answer. Is +Chester down at Tom Blair's while I have been sitting here, +alone, waiting for him?" + +August nodded. He saw that it would not be wise to trifle longer +with Thyra. + +"That he is. I was there before I came here. He and Damaris +were sitting in a corner by themselves, and very well-satisfied +they seemed to be with each other. Tut, tut, Thyra, don't take +the news so. I thought you knew. It's no secret that Chester +has been going after Damaris ever since she came here. But what +then? You can't tie him to your apron strings forever, woman. +He'll be finding a mate for himself, as he should. Seeing that +he's straight and well-shaped, no doubt Damaris will look with +favor on him. Old Martha Blair declares the girl loves him +better than her eyes." + +Thyra made a sound like a strangled moan in the middle of +August's speech. She heard the rest of it immovably. When it +came to an end she stood and looked down upon him in a way that +silenced him. + +"You've told the news you came to tell, and gloated over it, and +now get you gone," she said slowly. + +"Now, Thyra," he began, but she interrupted him threateningly. + +"Get you gone, I say! And you need not bring my mail here any +longer. I want no more of your misshapen body and lying +tongue!" + +August went, but at the door he turned for a parting stab. + +"My tongue is not a lying one, Mrs. Carewe. I've told you the +truth, as all Avonlea knows it. Chester is mad about Damaris +Garland. It's no wonder I thought you knew what all the +settlement can see. But you're such a jealous, odd body, I +suppose the boy hid it from you for fear you'd go into a tantrum. +As for me, I'll not forget that you've turned me from your door +because I chanced to bring you news you'd no fancy for." + +Thyra did not answer him. When the door closed behind him she +locked it and blew out the light. Then she threw herself face +downward on the sofa and burst into wild tears. Her very soul +ached. She wept as tempestuously and unreasoningly as youth +weeps, although she was not young. It seemed as if she was +afraid to stop weeping lest she should go mad thinking. But, +after a time, tears failed her, and she began bitterly to go +over, word by word, what August Vorst had said. + +That her son should ever cast eyes of love on any girl was +something Thyra had never thought about. She would not believe +it possible that he should love any one but herself, who loved +him so much. And now the possibility invaded her mind as subtly +and coldly and remorselessly as a sea-fog stealing landward. + +Chester had been born to her at an age when most women are +letting their children slip from them into the world, with some +natural tears and heartaches, but content to let them go, after +enjoying their sweetest years. Thyra's late-come motherhood was +all the more intense and passionate because of its very lateness. +She had been very ill when her son was born, and had lain +helpless for long weeks, during which other women had tended her +baby for her. She had never been able to forgive them for this. + +Her husband had died before Chester was a year old. She had laid +their son in his dying arms and received him back again with a +last benediction. To Thyra that moment had something of a +sacrament in it. It was as if the child had been doubly given to +her, with a right to him solely that nothing could take away or +transcend. + +Marrying! She had never thought of it in connection with him. +He did not come of a marrying race. His father had been sixty +when he had married her, Thyra Lincoln, likewise well on in life. +Few of the Lincolns or Carewes had married young, many not at +all. And, to her, Chester was her baby still. He belonged +solely to her. + +And now another woman had dared to look upon him with eyes of +love. Damaris Garland! Thyra now remembered seeing her. She +was a new-comer in Avonlea, having come to live with her uncle +and aunt after the death of her mother. Thyra had met her on the +bridge one day a month previously. Yes, a man might think she +was pretty--a low-browed girl, with a wave of reddish-gold hair, +and crimson lips blossoming out against the strange, +milk-whiteness of her skin. Her eyes, too--Thyra recalled them-- +hazel in tint, deep, and laughter-brimmed. + +The girl had gone past her with a smile that brought out many +dimples. There was a certain insolent quality in her beauty, as +if it flaunted itself somewhat too defiantly in the beholder's +eye. Thyra had turned and looked after the lithe, young +creature, wondering who she might be. + +And to-night, while she, his mother, waited for him in darkness +and loneliness, he was down at Blair's, talking to this girl! He +loved her; and it was past doubt that she loved him. The thought +was more bitter than death to Thyra. That she should dare! Her +anger was all against the girl. She had laid a snare to get +Chester and he, like a fool, was entangled in it, thinking, +man-fashion, only of her great eyes and red lips. Thyra thought +savagely of Damaris' beauty. + +"She shall not have him," she said, with slow emphasis. "I will +never give him up to any other woman, and, least of all, to her. +She would leave me no place in his heart at all--me, his mother, +who almost died to give him life. He belongs to me! Let her +look for the son of some other woman--some woman who has many +sons. She shall not have my only one!" + +She got up, wrapped a shawl about her head, and went out into the +darkly golden evening. The clouds had cleared away, and the moon +was shining. The air was chill, with a bell-like clearness. The +alders by the river rustled eerily as she walked by them and out +upon the bridge. Here she paced up and down, peering with +troubled eyes along the road beyond, or leaning over the rail, +looking at the sparkling silver ribbon of moonlight that +garlanded the waters. Late travelers passed her, and wondered at +her presence and mien. Carl White saw her, and told his wife +about her when he got home. + +"Striding to and fro over the bridge like mad! At first I +thought it was old, crazy May Blair. What do you suppose she was +doing down there at this hour of the night?" + +"Watching for Ches, no doubt," said Cynthia. "He ain't home yet. +Likely he's snug at Blairs'. I do wonder if Thyra suspicions +that he goes after Damaris. I've never dared to hint it to her. +She'd be as liable to fly at me, tooth and claw, as not." + +"Well, she picks out a precious queer night for moon-gazing," +said Carl, who was a jolly soul and took life as he found it. +"It's bitter cold--there'll be a hard frost. It's a pity she +can't get it grained into her that the boy is grown up and must +have his fling like the other lads. She'll go out of her mind +yet, like her old grandmother Lincoln, if she doesn't ease up. +I've a notion to go down to the bridge and reason a bit with +her." + +"Indeed, and you'll do no such thing!" cried Cynthia. "Thyra +Carewe is best left alone, if she is in a tantrum. She's like no +other woman in Avonlea--or out of it. I'd as soon meddle with a +tiger as her, if she's rampaging about Chester. I don't envy +Damaris Garland her life if she goes in there. Thyra'd sooner +strangle her than not, I guess." + +"You women are all terrible hard on Thyra," said Carl, +good-naturedly. He had been in love with Thyra, himself, long +ago, and he still liked her in a friendly fashion. He always +stood up for her when the Avonlea women ran her down. He felt +troubled about her all night, recalling her as she paced the +bridge. He wished he had gone back, in spite of Cynthia. + + +When Chester came home he met his mother on the bridge. In the +faint, yet penetrating, moonlight they looked curiously alike, +but Chester had the milder face. He was very handsome. Even in +the seething of her pain and jealousy Thyra yearned over his +beauty. She would have liked to put up her hands and caress his +face, but her voice was very hard when she asked him where he had +been so late. + +"I called in at Tom Blair's on my way home from the harbor," he +answered, trying to walk on. But she held him back by his arm. + +"Did you go there to see Damaris?" she demanded fiercely. + +Chester was uncomfortable. Much as he loved his mother, he felt, +and always had felt, an awe of her and an impatient dislike of +her dramatic ways of speaking and acting. He reflected, +resentfully, that no other young man in Avonlea, who had been +paying a friendly call, would be met by his mother at midnight +and held up in such tragic fashion to account for himself. He +tried vainly to loosen her hold upon his arm, but he understood +quite well that he must give her an answer. Being strictly +straight-forward by nature and upbringing, he told the truth, +albeit with more anger in his tone than he had ever shown to his +mother before. + +"Yes," he said shortly. + +Thyra released his arm, and struck her hands together with a +sharp cry. There was a savage note in it. She could have slain +Damaris Garland at that moment. + +"Don't go on so, mother," said Chester, impatiently. "Come in +out of the cold. It isn't fit for you to be here. Who has been +tampering with you? What if I did go to see Damaris?" + +"Oh--oh--oh!" cried Thyra. "I was waiting for you--alone--and +you were thinking only of her! Chester, answer me--do you love +her?" + +The blood rolled rapidly over the boy's face. He muttered +something and tried to pass on, but she caught him again. He +forced himself to speak gently. + +"What if I do, mother?" It wouldn't be such a dreadful thing, +would it?" + +"And me? And me?" cried Thyra. "What am I to you, then?" + +"You are my mother. I wouldn't love you any the less because I +cared for another, too." + +"I won't have you love another," she cried. "I want all your +love--all! What's that baby-face to you, compared to your +mother? I have the best right to you. I won't give you up." + +Chester realized that there was no arguing with such a mood. He +walked on, resolved to set the matter aside until she might be +more reasonable. But Thyra would not have it so. She followed +on after him, under the alders that crowded over the lane. + +"Promise me that you'll not go there again," she entreated. +"Promise me that you'll give her up." + +"I can't promise such a thing," he cried angrily. + +His anger hurt her worse than a blow, but she did not flinch. + +"You're not engaged to her?" she cried out. + +"Now, mother, be quiet. All the settlement will hear you. Why +do you object to Damaris? You don't know how sweet she is. When +you know her--" + +"I will never know her!" cried Thyra furiously. "And she shall +not have you! She shall not, Chester!" + +He made no answer. She suddenly broke into tears and loud sobs. +Touched with remorse, he stopped and put his arms about her. + +"Mother, mother, don't! I can't bear to see you cry so. But, +indeed, you are unreasonable. Didn't you ever think the time +would come when I would want to marry, like other men?" + +"No, no! And I will not have it--I cannot bear it, Chester. You +must promise not to go to see her again. I won't go into the +house this night until you do. I'll stay out here in the bitter +cold until you promise to put her out of your thoughts." + +"That's beyond my power, mother. Oh, mother, you're making it +hard for me. Come in, come in! You're shivering with cold now. +You'll be sick." + +"Not a step will I stir till you promise. Say you won't go to +see that girl any more, and there's nothing I won't do for you. +But if you put her before me, I'll not go in--I never will go +in." + +With most women this would have been an empty threat; but it was +not so with Thyra, and Chester knew it. He knew she would keep +her word. And he feared more than that. In this frenzy of hers +what might she not do? She came of a strange breed, as had been +said disapprovingly when Luke Carewe married her. There was a +strain of insanity in the Lincolns. A Lincoln woman had drowned +herself once. Chester thought of the river, and grew sick with +fright. For a moment even his passion for Damaris weakened +before the older tie. + +"Mother, calm yourself. Oh, surely there's no need of all this! +Let us wait until to-morrow, and talk it over then. I'll hear +all you have to say. Come in, dear." + +Thyra loosened her arms from about him, and stepped back into a +moon-lit space. Looking at him tragically, she extended her arms +and spoke slowly and solemnly. + +"Chester, choose between us. If you choose her, I shall go from +you to-night, and you will never see me again!" + +"Mother!" + +"Choose!" she reiterated, fiercely. + +He felt her long ascendancy. Its influence was not to be shaken +off in a moment. In all his life he had never disobeyed her. +Besides, with it all, he loved her more deeply and +understandingly than most sons love their mothers. He realized +that, since she would have it so, his choice was already +made--or, rather that he had no choice. + +"Have your way," he said sullenly. + +She ran to him and caught him to her heart. In the reaction of +her feeling she was half laughing, half crying. All was well +again--all would be well; she never doubted this, for she knew he +would keep his ungracious promise sacredly. + +"Oh, my son, my son," she murmured, "you'd have sent me to my +death if you had chosen otherwise. But now you are mine again!" + +She did not heed that he was sullen--that he resented her +unjustice with all her own intensity. She did not heed his +silence as they went into the house together. Strangely enough, +she slept well and soundly that night. Not until many days had +passed did she understand that, though Chester might keep his +promise in the letter, it was beyond his power to keep it in the +spirit. She had taken him from Damaris Garland; but she had not +won him back to herself. He could never be wholly her son again. +There was a barrier between them which not all her passionate +love could break down. Chester was gravely kind to her, for it +was not in his nature to remain sullen long, or visit his own +unhappiness upon another's head; besides, he understood her +exacting affection, even in its injustice, and it has been +well-said that to understand is to forgive. But he avoided her, +and she knew it. The flame of her anger burned bitterly towards +Damaris. + +"He thinks of her all the time," she moaned to herself. "He'll +come to hate me yet, I fear, because it's I who made him give her +up. But I'd rather even that than share him with another woman. +Oh, my son, my son!" + +She knew that Damaris was suffering, too. The girl's wan face +told that when she met her. But this pleased Thyra. It eased +the ache in her bitter heart to know that pain was gnawing at +Damaris' also. + +Chester was absent from home very often now. He spent much of +his spare time at the harbor, consorting with Joe Raymond and +others of that ilk, who were but sorry associates for him, +Avonlea people thought. + +In late November he and Joe started for a trip down the coast in +the latter's boat. Thyra protested against it, but Chester +laughed at her alarm. + +Thyra saw him go with a heart sick from fear. She hated the sea, +and was afraid of it at any time; but, most of all, in this +treacherous month, with its sudden, wild gales. + +Chester had been fond of the sea from boyhood. She had always +tried to stifle this fondness and break off his associations with +the harbor fishermen, who liked to lure the high-spirited boy out +with them on fishing expeditions. But her power over him was +gone now. + +After Chester's departure she was restless and miserable, +wandering from window to window to scan the dour, unsmiling sky. +Carl White, dropping in to pay a call, was alarmed when he heard +that Chester had gone with Joe, and had not tact enough to +conceal his alarm from Thyra. + +"'T isn't safe this time of year," he said. "Folks expect no +better from that reckless, harum-scarum Joe Raymond. He'll drown +himself some day, there's nothing surer. This mad freak of +starting off down the shore in November is just of a piece with +his usual performances. But you shouldn't have let Chester go, +Thyra." + +"I couldn't prevent him. Say what I could, he would go. He +laughed when I spoke of danger. Oh, he's changed from what he +was! I know who has wrought the change, and I hate her for it!" + +Carl shrugged his fat shoulders. He knew quite well that Thyra +was at the bottom of the sudden coldness between Chester Carewe +and Damaris Garland, about which Avonlea gossip was busying +itself. He pitied Thyra, too. She had aged rapidly the past +month. + +"You're too hard on Chester, Thyra. He's out of leading-strings +now, or should be. You must just let me take an old friend's +privilege, and tell you that you're taking the wrong way with +him. You're too jealous and exacting, Thyra." + +"You don't know anything about it. You have never had a son," +said Thyra, cruelly enough, for she knew that Carl's sonlessness +was a rankling thorn in his mind. "You don't know what it is to +pour out your love on one human being, and have it flung back in +your face!" + +Carl could not cope with Thyra's moods. He had never understood +her, even in his youth. Now he went home, still shrugging his +shoulders, and thinking that it was a good thing Thyra had not +looked on him with favor in the old days. Cynthia was much +easier to get along with. + +More than Thyra looked anxiously to sea and sky that night in +Avonlea. Damaris Garland listened to the smothered roar of the +Atlantic in the murky northeast with a prescience of coming +disaster. Friendly longshoremen shook their heads and said that +Ches and Joe would better have kept to good, dry land. + +"It's sorry work joking with a November gale," said Abel Blair. +He was an old man and, in his life, had seen some sad things +along the shore. + +Thyra could not sleep that night. When the gale came shrieking +up the river, and struck the house, she got out of bed and +dressed herself. The wind screamed like a ravening beast at her +window. All night she wandered to and fro in the house, going +from room to room, now wringing her hands with loud outcries, now +praying below her breath with white lips, now listening in dumb +misery to the fury of the storm. + +The wind raged all the next day; but spent itself in the +following night, and the second morning was calm and fair. The +eastern sky was a great arc of crystal, smitten through with +auroral crimsonings. Thyra, looking from her kitchen window, saw +a group of men on the bridge. They were talking to Carl White, +with looks and gestures directed towards the Carewe house. + +She went out and down to them. None of these who saw her white, +rigid face that day ever forgot the sight. + +"You have news for me," she said. + +They looked at each other, each man mutely imploring his neighbor +to speak. + +"You need not fear to tell me," said Thyra calmly. "I know what +you have come to say. My son is drowned." + +"We don't know THAT, Mrs. Carewe," said Abel Blair quickly. "We +haven't got the worst to tell you--there's hope yet. But Joe +Raymond's boat was found last night, stranded bottom up, on the +Blue Point sand shore, forty miles down the coast." + +"Don't look like that, Thyra," said Carl White pityingly. "They +may have escaped--they may have been picked up." + +Thyra looked at him with dull eyes. + +"You know they have not. Not one of you has any hope. I have no +son. The sea has taken him from me--my bonny baby!" + +She turned and went back to her desolate home. None dared to +follow her. Carl White went home and sent his wife over to her. + +Cynthia found Thyra sitting in her accustomed chair. Her hands +lay, palms upward, on her lap. Her eyes were dry and burning. +She met Cynthia's compassionate look with a fearful smile. + +"Long ago, Cynthia White," she said slowly, "you were vexed with +me one day, and you told me that God would punish me yet, because +I made an idol of my son, and set it up in His place. Do you +remember? Your word was a true one. God saw that I loved +Chester too much, and He meant to take him from me. I thwarted +one way when I made him give up Damaris. But one can't fight +against the Almighty. It was decreed that I must lose him--if +not in one way, then in another. He has been taken from me +utterly. I shall not even have his grave to tend, Cynthia." + +"As near to a mad woman as anything you ever saw, with her awful +eyes," Cynthia told Carl, afterwards. But she did not say so +there. Although she was a shallow, commonplace soul, she had her +share of womanly sympathy, and her own life had not been free +from suffering. It taught her the right thing to do now. She +sat down by the stricken creature and put her arms about her, +while she gathered the cold hands in her own warm clasp. The +tears filled her big, blue eyes and her voice trembled as she +said: + +"Thyra, I'm sorry for you. I--I--lost a child once--my little +first-born. And Chester was a dear, good lad." + +For a moment Thyra strained her small, tense body away from +Cynthia's embrace. Then she shuddered and cried out. The tears +came, and she wept her agony out on the other woman's breast. + +As the ill news spread, other Avonlea women kept dropping in all +through the day to condole with Thyra. Many of them came in real +sympathy, but some out of mere curiosity to see how she took it. +Thyra knew this, but she did not resent it, as she would once +have done. She listened very quietly to all the halting efforts +at consolation, and the little platitudes with which they strove +to cover the nakedness of bereavement. + +When darkness came Cynthia said she must go home, but would send +one of her girls over for the night. + +"You won't feel like staying alone," she said. + +Thyra looked up steadily. + +"No. But I want you to send for Damaris Garland." + +"Damaris Garland!" Cynthia repeated the name as if disbelieving +her own ears. There was never any knowing what whim Thyra might +take, but Cynthia had not expected this. + +"Yes. Tell her I want her--tell her she must come. She must +hate me bitterly; but I am punished enough to satisfy even her +hate. Tell her to come to me for Chester's sake." + +Cynthia did as she was bid, she sent her daughter, Jeanette, for +Damaris. Then she waited. No matter what duties were calling +for her at home she must see the interview between Thyra and +Damaris. Her curiosity would be the last thing to fail Cynthia +White. She had done very well all day; but it would be asking +too much of her to expect that she would consider the meeting of +these two women sacred from her eyes. + +She half believed that Damaris would refuse to come. But Damaris +came. Jeanette brought her in amid the fiery glow of a November +sunset. Thyra stood up, and for a moment they looked at each +other. + +The insolence of Damaris' beauty was gone. Her eyes were dull +and heavy with weeping, her lips were pale, and her face had lost +its laughter and dimples. Only her hair, escaping from the shawl +she had cast around it, gushed forth in warm splendor in the +sunset light, and framed her wan face like the aureole of a +Madonna. Thyra looked upon her with a shock of remorse. This +was not the radiant creature she had met on the bridge that +summer afternoon. This--this--was HER work. She held out her +arms. + +"Oh, Damaris, forgive me. We both loved him--that must be a bond +between us for life." + +Damaris came forward and threw her arms about the older woman, +lifting her face. As their lips met even Cynthia White realized +that she had no business there. She vented the irritation of her +embarrassment on the innocent Jeanette. + +"Come away," she whispered crossly. "Can't you see we're not +wanted here?" + +She drew Jeanette out, leaving Thyra rocking Damaris in her arms, +and crooning over her like a mother over her child. + +When December had grown old Damaris was still with Thyra. It was +understood that she was to remain there for the winter, at least. +Thyra could not bear her to be out of her sight. They talked +constantly about Chester; Thyra confessed all her anger and +hatred. Damaris had forgiven her; but Thyra could never forgive +herself. She was greatly changed, and had grown very gentle and +tender. She even sent for August Vorst and begged him to pardon +her for the way she had spoken to him. + +Winter came late that year, and the season was a very open one. +There was no snow on the ground and, a month after Joe Raymond's +boat had been cast up on the Blue Point sand shore, Thyra, +wandering about in her garden, found some pansies blooming under +their tangled leaves. She was picking them for Damaris when she +heard a buggy rumble over the bridge and drive up the White lane, +hidden from her sight by the alders and firs. A few minutes +later Carl and Cynthia came hastily across their yard under the +huge balm-of-gileads. Carl's face was flushed, and his big body +quivered with excitement. Cynthia ran behind him, with tears +rolling down her face. + +Thyra felt herself growing sick with fear. Had anything happened +to Damaris? A glimpse of the girl, sewing by an upper window of +the house, reassured her. + +"Oh, Thyra, Thyra!" gasped Cynthia. + +"Can you stand some good news, Thyra?" asked Carl, in a trembling +voice. "Very, very good news!" + +Thyra looked wildly from one to the other. + +"There's but one thing you would dare to call good news to me," +she cried. "Is it about--about--" + +"Chester! Yes, it's about Chester! Thyra, he is alive--he's +safe--he and Joe, both of them, thank God! Cynthia, catch her!" + +"No, I am not going to faint," said Thyra, steadying herself by +Cynthia's shoulder. "My son alive! How did you hear? How did +it happen? Where has he been?" + +"I heard it down at the harbor, Thyra. Mike McCready's vessel, +the _Nora Lee_, was just in from the Magdalens. Ches and Joe got +capsized the night of the storm, but they hung on to their boat +somehow, and at daybreak they were picked up by the _Nora Lee_, +bound for Quebec. But she was damaged by the storm and blown +clear out of her course. Had to put into the Magdalens for +repairs, and has been there ever since. The cable to the islands +was out of order, and no vessels call there this time of year for +mails. If it hadn't been an extra open season the _Nora Lee_ +wouldn't have got away, but would have had to stay there till +spring. You never saw such rejoicing as there was this morning +at the harbor, when the _Nora Lee_ came in, flying flags at the +mast head." + +"And Chester--where is he?" demanded Thyra. + +Carl and Cynthia looked at each other. + +"Well, Thyra," said the latter, "the fact is, he's over there in +our yard this blessed minute. Carl brought him home from the +harbor, but I wouldn't let him come over until we had prepared +you for it. He's waiting for you there." + +Thyra made a quick step in the direction of the gate. Then she +turned, with a little of the glow dying out of her face. + +"No, there's one has a better right to go to him first. I can +atone to him--thank God, I can atone to him!" + +She went into the house and called Damaris. As the girl came +down the stairs Thyra held out her hands with a wonderful light +of joy and renunciation on her face. + +"Damaris," she said, "Chester has come back to us--the sea has +given him back to us. He is over at Carl White's house. Go to +him, my daughter, and bring him to me!" + + + +XI. THE EDUCATION OF BETTY + +When Sara Currie married Jack Churchill I was broken-hearted...or +believed myself to be so, which, in a boy of twenty-two, amounts +to pretty much the same thing. Not that I took the world into my +confidence; that was never the Douglas way, and I held myself in +honor bound to live up to the family traditions. I thought, +then, that nobody but Sara knew; but I dare say, now, that Jack +knew it also, for I don't think Sara could have helped telling +him. If he did know, however, he did not let me see that he did, +and never insulted me by any implied sympathy; on the contrary, +he asked me to be his best man. Jack was always a thoroughbred. + +I was best man. Jack and I had always been bosom friends, and, +although I had lost my sweetheart, I did not intend to lose my +friend into the bargain. Sara had made a wise choice, for Jack +was twice the man I was; he had had to work for his living, which +perhaps accounts for it. + +So I danced at Sara's wedding as if my heart were as light as my +heels; but, after she and Jack had settled down at Glenby I +closed The Maples and went abroad...being, as I have hinted, one +of those unfortunate mortals who need consult nothing but their +own whims in the matter of time and money. I stayed away for ten +years, during which The Maples was given over to moths and rust, +while I enjoyed life elsewhere. I did enjoy it hugely, but +always under protest, for I felt that a broken-hearted man ought +not to enjoy himself as I did. It jarred on my sense of fitness, +and I tried to moderate my zest, and think more of the past than +I did. It was no use; the present insisted on being intrusive +and pleasant; as for the future...well, there was no future. + +Then Jack Churchill, poor fellow, died. A year after his death, +I went home and again asked Sara to marry me, as in duty bound. +Sara again declined, alleging that her heart was buried in Jack's +grave, or words to that effect. I found that it did not much +matter...of course, at thirty-two one does not take these things +to heart as at twenty-two. I had enough to occupy me in getting +The Maples into working order, and beginning to educate Betty. + +Betty was Sara's ten year-old daughter, and she had been +thoroughly spoiled. That is to say, she had been allowed her own +way in everything and, having inherited her father's outdoor +tastes, had simply run wild. She was a thorough tomboy, a thin, +scrawny little thing with a trace of Sara's beauty. Betty took +after her father's dark, tall race and, on the occasion of my +first introduction to her, seemed to be all legs and neck. There +were points about her, though, which I considered promising. She +had fine, almond-shaped, hazel eyes, the smallest and most +shapely hands and feet I ever saw, and two enormous braids of +thick, nut-brown hair. + +For Jack's sake I decided to bring his daughter up properly. +Sara couldn't do it, and didn't try. I saw that, if somebody +didn't take Betty in hand, wisely and firmly, she would certainly +be ruined. There seemed to be nobody except myself at all +interested in the matter, so I determined to see what an old +bachelor could do as regards bringing up a girl in the way she +should go. I might have been her father; as it was, her father +had been my best friend. Who had a better right to watch over +his daughter? I determined to be a father to Betty, and do all +for her that the most devoted parent could do. It was, +self-evidently, my duty. + +I told Sara I was going to take Betty in hand. Sara sighed one +of the plaintive little sighs which I had once thought so +charming, but now, to my surprise, found faintly irritating, and +said that she would be very much obliged if I would. + +"I feel that I am not able to cope with the problem of Betty's +education, Stephen," she admitted, "Betty is a strange +child...all Churchill. Her poor father indulged her in +everything, and she has a will of her own, I assure you. I have +really no control over her, whatever. She does as she pleases, +and is ruining her complexion by running and galloping out of +doors the whole time. Not that she had much complexion to start +with. The Churchills never had, you know."...Sara cast a +complacent glance at her delicately tinted reflection in the +mirror.... "I tried to make Betty wear a sunbonnet this summer, +but I might as well have talked to the wind." + +A vision of Betty in a sunbonnet presented itself to my mind, and +afforded me so much amusement that I was grateful to Sara for +having furnished it. I rewarded her with a compliment. + +"It is to be regretted that Betty has not inherited her mother's +charming color," I said, "but we must do the best we can for her +under her limitations. She may have improved vastly by the time +she has grown up. And, at least, we must make a lady of her; she +is a most alarming tomboy at present, but there is good material +to work upon...there must be, in the Churchill and Currie +blend. But even the best material may be spoiled by unwise +handling. I think I can promise you that I will not spoil it. I +feel that Betty is my vocation; and I shall set myself up as a +rival of Wordsworth's 'nature,' of whose methods I have always +had a decided distrust, in spite of his insidious verses." + +Sara did not understand me in the least; but, then, she did not +pretend to. + +"I confide Betty's education entirely to you, Stephen," she said, +with another plaintive sigh. "I feel sure I could not put it +into better hands. You have always been a person who could be +thoroughly depended on." + +Well, that was something by way of reward for a life-long +devotion. I felt that I was satisfied with my position as +unofficial advisor-in-chief to Sara and self-appointed guardian +of Betty. I also felt that, for the furtherance of the cause I +had taken to heart, it was a good thing that Sara had again +refused to marry me. I had a sixth sense which informed me that +a staid old family friend might succeed with Betty where a +stepfather would have signally failed. Betty's loyalty to her +father's memory was passionate, and vehement; she would view his +supplanter with resentment and distrust; but his old familiar +comrade was a person to be taken to her heart. + +Fortunately for the success of my enterprise, Betty liked me. +She told me this with the same engaging candor she would have +used in informing me that she hated me, if she had happened to +take a bias in that direction, saying frankly: + +"You are one of the very nicest old folks I know, Stephen. Yes, +you are a ripping good fellow!" + +This made my task a comparatively easy one; I sometimes shudder +to think what it might have been if Betty had not thought I was a +"ripping good fellow." I should have stuck to it, because that +is my way; but Betty would have made my life a misery to me. She +had startling capacities for tormenting people when she chose to +exert them; I certainly should not have liked to be numbered +among Betty's foes. + +I rode over to Glenby the next morning after my paternal +interview with Sara, intending to have a frank talk with Betty +and lay the foundations of a good understanding on both sides. +Betty was a sharp child, with a disconcerting knack of seeing +straight through grindstones; she would certainly perceive and +probably resent any underhanded management. I thought it best to +tell her plainly that I was going to look after her. + +When, however, I encountered Betty, tearing madly down the beech +avenue with a couple of dogs, her loosened hair streaming behind +her like a banner of independence, and had lifted her, hatless +and breathless, up before me on my mare, I found that Sara had +saved me the trouble of an explanation. + +"Mother says you are going to take charge of my education, +Stephen," said Betty, as soon as she could speak. "I'm glad, +because I think that, for an old person, you have a good deal of +sense. I suppose my education has to be seen to, some time or +other, and I'd rather you'd do it than anybody else I know." + +"Thank you, Betty," I said gravely. "I hope I shall deserve your +good opinion of my sense. I shall expect you to do as I tell +you, and be guided by my advice in everything." + +"Yes, I will," said Betty, "because I'm sure you won't tell me to +do anything I'd really hate to do. You won't shut me up in a +room and make me sew, will you? Because I won't do it." + +I assured her I would not. + +"Nor send me to a boarding-school," pursued Betty. "Mother's +always threatening to send me to one. I suppose she would have +done it before this, only she knew I'd run away. You won't send +me to a boarding-school, will you, Stephen? Because I won't go." + +"No," I said obligingly. "I won't. I should never dream of +cooping a wild little thing, like you, up in a boarding-school. +You'd fret your heart out like a caged skylark." + +"I know you and I are going to get along together splendidly, +Stephen," said Betty, rubbing her brown cheek chummily against my +shoulder. "You are so good at understanding. Very few people +are. Even dad darling didn't understand. He let me do just as I +wanted to, just because I wanted to, not because he really +understood that I couldn't be tame and play with dolls. I hate +dolls! Real live babies are jolly; but dogs and horses are ever +so much nicer than dolls." + +"But you must have lessons, Betty. I shall select your teachers +and superintend your studies, and I shall expect you to do me +credit along that line, as well as along all others." + +"I'll try, honest and true, Stephen," declared Betty. And she +kept her word. + +At first I looked upon Betty's education as a duty; in a very +short time it had become a pleasure...the deepest and most +abiding interest of my life. As I had premised, Betty was good +material, and responded to my training with gratifying +plasticity. Day by day, week by week, month by month, her +character and temperament unfolded naturally under my watchful +eye. It was like beholding the gradual development of some rare +flower in one's garden. A little checking and pruning here, a +careful training of shoot and tendril there, and, lo, the reward +of grace and symmetry! + +Betty grew up as I would have wished Jack Churchill's girl to +grow--spirited and proud, with the fine spirit and gracious pride +of pure womanhood, loyal and loving, with the loyalty and love of +a frank and unspoiled nature; true to her heart's core, hating +falsehood and sham--as crystal-clear a mirror of maidenhood as +ever man looked into and saw himself reflected back in such a +halo as made him ashamed of not being more worthy of it. Betty +was kind enough to say that I had taught her everything she knew. +But what had she not taught me? If there were a debt between us, +it was on my side. + +Sara was fairly well satisfied. It was not my fault that Betty +was not better looking, she said. I had certainly done +everything for her mind and character that could be done. Sara's +manner implied that these unimportant details did not count for +much, balanced against the lack of a pink-and-white skin and +dimpled elbows; but she was generous enough not to blame me. + +"When Betty is twenty-five," I said patiently--I had grown used +to speaking patiently to Sara--"she will be a magnificent woman-- +far handsomer than you ever were, Sara, in your pinkest and +whitest prime. Where are your eyes, my dear lady, that you can't +see the promise of loveliness in Betty?" + +"Betty is seventeen, and she is as lanky and brown as ever she +was," sighed Sara. "When I was seventeen I was the belle of the +county and had had five proposals. I don't believe the thought +of a lover has ever entered Betty's head." + +"I hope not," I said shortly. Somehow, I did not like the +suggestion. "Betty is a child yet. For pity's sake, Sara, don't +go putting nonsensical ideas into her head." + +"I'm afraid I can't," mourned Sara, as if it were something to be +regretted. "You have filled it too full of books and things like +that. I've every confidence in your judgment, Stephen--and +really you've done wonders with Betty. But don't you think +you've made her rather too clever? Men don't like women who are +too clever. Her poor father, now--he always said that a woman +who liked books better than beaux was an unnatural creature." + +I didn't believe Jack had ever said anything so foolish. Sara +imagined things. But I resented the aspersion of +blue-stockingness cast on Betty. + +"When the time comes for Betty to be interested in beaux," I said +severely, "she will probably give them all due attention. Just +at present her head is a great deal better filled with books than +with silly premature fancies and sentimentalities. I'm a +critical old fellow--but I'm satisfied with Betty, Sara-- +perfectly satisfied." + +Sara sighed. + +"Oh, I dare say she is all right, Stephen. And I'm really +grateful to you. I'm sure I could have done nothing at all with +her. It's not your fault, of course,--but I can't help wishing +she were a little more like other girls." + +I galloped away from Glenby in a rage. What a blessing Sara had +not married me in my absurd youth! She would have driven me wild +with her sighs and her obtuseness and her everlasting +pink-and-whiteness. But there--there--there--gently! She was a +sweet, good-hearted little woman; she had made Jack happy; and +she had contrived, heaven only knew how, to bring a rare creature +like Betty into the world. For that, much might be forgiven her. +By the time I reached The Maples and had flung myself down in an +old, kinky, comfortable chair in my library I had forgiven her +and was even paying her the compliment of thinking seriously over +what she had said. + +Was Betty really unlike other girls? That is to say, unlike them +in any respect wherein she should resemble them? I did not wish +this; although I was a crusty old bachelor I approved of girls, +holding them the sweetest things the good God has made. I wanted +Betty to have her full complement of girlhood in all its best and +highest manifestation. Was there anything lacking? + +I observed Betty very closely during the next week or so, riding +over to Glenby every day and riding back at night, meditating +upon my observations. Eventually I concluded to do what I had +never thought myself in the least likely to do. I would send +Betty to a boarding-school for a year. It was necessary that she +should learn how to live with other girls. + +I went over to Glenby the next day and found Betty under the +beeches on the lawn, just back from a canter. She was sitting on +the dappled mare I had given her on her last birthday, and was +laughing at the antics of her rejoicing dogs around her. I +looked at her with much pleasure; it gladdened me to see how +much, nay, how totally a child she still was, despite her +Churchill height. Her hair, under her velvet cap, still hung +over her shoulders in the same thick plaits; her face had the +firm leanness of early youth, but its curves were very fine and +delicate. The brown skin, that worried Sara so, was flushed +through with dusky color from her gallop; her long, dark eyes +were filled with the beautiful unconsciousness of childhood. +More than all, the soul in her was still the soul of a child. I +found myself wishing that it could always remain so. But I knew +it could not; the woman must blossom out some day; it was my duty +to see that the flower fulfilled the promise of the bud. + +When I told Betty that she must go away to a school for a year, +she shrugged, frowned and consented. Betty had learned that she +must consent to what I decreed, even when my decrees were opposed +to her likings, as she had once fondly believed they never would +be. But Betty had acquired confidence in me to the beautiful +extent of acquiescing in everything I commanded. + +"I'll go, of course, since you wish it, Stephen," she said. "But +why do you want me to go? You must have a reason--you always +have a reason for anything you do. What is it?" + +"That is for you to find out, Betty," I said. "By the time you +come back you will have discovered it, I think. If not, it will +not have proved itself a good reason and shall be forgotten." + +When Betty went away I bade her good-by without burdening her +with any useless words of advice. + +"Write to me every week, and remember that you are Betty +Churchill," I said. + +Betty was standing on the steps above, among her dogs. She came +down a step and put her arms about my neck. + +"I'll remember that you are my friend and that I must live up to +you," she said. "Good-by, Stephen." + +She kissed me two or three times--good, hearty smacks! did I not +say she was still a child?--and stood waving her hand to me as I +rode away. I looked back at the end of the avenue and saw her +standing there, short-skirted and hatless, fronting the lowering +sun with those fearless eyes of hers. So I looked my last on the +child Betty. + +That was a lonely year. My occupation was gone and I began to +fear that I had outlived my usefulness. Life seemed flat, stale, +and unprofitable. Betty's weekly letters were all that lent it +any savor. They were spicy and piquant enough. Betty was +discovered to have unsuspected talents in the epistolary line. +At first she was dolefully homesick, and begged me to let her +come home. When I refused--it was amazingly hard to refuse--she +sulked through three letters, then cheered up and began to enjoy +herself. But it was nearly the end of the year when she wrote: + +"I've found out why you sent me here, Stephen--and I'm glad you +did." + +I had to be away from home on unavoidable business the day Betty +returned to Glenby. But the next afternoon I went over. I found +Betty out and Sara in. The latter was beaming. Betty was so +much improved, she declared delightedly. I would hardly know +"the dear child." + +This alarmed me terribly. What on earth had they done to Betty? +I found that she had gone up to the pineland for a walk, and +thither I betook myself speedily. When I saw her coming down a +long, golden-brown alley I stepped behind a tree to watch her--I +wished to see her, myself unseen. As she drew near I gazed at +her with pride, and admiration and amazement--and, under it all, +a strange, dreadful, heart-sinking, which I could not understand +and which I had never in all my life experienced before--no, not +even when Sara had refused me. + +Betty was a woman! Not by virtue of the simple white dress that +clung to her tall, slender figure, revealing lines of exquisite +grace and litheness; not by virtue of the glossy masses of dark +brown hair heaped high on her head and held there in wonderful +shining coils; not by virtue of added softness of curve and +daintiness of outline; not because of all these, but because of +the dream and wonder and seeking in her eyes. She was a woman, +looking, all unconscious of her quest, for love. + +The understanding of the change in her came home to me with a +shock that must have left me, I think, something white about the +lips. I was glad. She was what I had wished her to become. But +I wanted the child Betty back; this womanly Betty seemed far away +from me. + +I stepped out into the path and she saw me, with a brightening of +her whole face. She did not rush forward and fling herself into +my arms as she would have done a year ago; but she came towards +me swiftly, holding out her hand. I had thought her slightly +pale when I had first seen her; but now I concluded I had been +mistaken, for there was a wonderful sunrise of color in her face. +I took her hand--there were no kisses this time. + +"Welcome home, Betty," I said. + +"Oh, Stephen, it is so good to be back," she breathed, her eyes +shining. + +She did not say it was good to see me again, as I had hoped she +would do. Indeed, after the first minute of greeting, she seemed +a trifle cool and distant. We walked for an hour in the pine +wood and talked. Betty was brilliant, witty, self-possessed, +altogether charming. I thought her perfect and yet my heart +ached. What a glorious young thing she was, in that splendid +youth of hers! What a prize for some lucky man--confound the +obtrusive thought! No doubt we should soon be overrun at Glenby +with lovers. I should stumble over some forlorn youth at every +step! Well, what of it? Betty would marry, of course. It would +be my duty to see that she got a good husband, worthy of her as +men go. I thought I preferred the old duty of superintending her +studies. But there, it was all the same thing--merely a +post-graduate course in applied knowledge. When she began to +learn life's greatest lesson of love, I, the tried and true old +family friend and mentor, must be on hand to see that the teacher +was what I would have him be, even as I had formerly selected her +instructor in French and botany. Then, and not until then, would +Betty's education be complete. + +I rode home very soberly. When I reached The Maples I did what I +had not done for years...looked critically at myself in the +mirror. The realization that I had grown older came home to me +with a new and unpleasant force. There were marked lines on my +lean face, and silver glints in the dark hair over my temples. +When Betty was ten she had thought me "an old person." Now, at +eighteen, she probably thought me a veritable ancient of days. +Pshaw, what did it matter? And yet...I thought of her as I had +seen her, standing under the pines, and something cold and +painful laid its hand on my heart. + +My premonitions as to lovers proved correct. Glenby was soon +infested with them. Heaven knows where they all came from. I +had not supposed there was a quarter as many young men in the +whole county; but there they were. Sara was in the seventh +heaven of delight. Was not Betty at last a belle? As for the +proposals...well, Betty never counted her scalps in public; but +every once in a while a visiting youth dropped out and was seen +no more at Glenby. One could guess what that meant. + +Betty apparently enjoyed all this. I grieve to say that she was +a bit of a coquette. I tried to cure her of this serious defect, +but for once I found that I had undertaken something I could not +accomplish. In vain I lectured, Betty only laughed; in vain I +gravely rebuked, Betty only flirted more vivaciously than before. +Men might come and men might go, but Betty went on forever. I +endured this sort of thing for a year and then I decided that it +was time to interfere seriously. I must find a husband for +Betty...my fatherly duty would not be fulfilled until I +had...nor, indeed, my duty to society. She was not a safe person +to have running at large. + +None of the men who haunted Glenby was good enough for her. I +decided that my nephew, Frank, would do very well. He was a +capital young fellow, handsome, clean-souled, and whole-hearted. +From a worldly point of view he was what Sara would have termed +an excellent match; he had money, social standing and a rising +reputation as a clever young lawyer. Yes, he should have Betty, +confound him! + +They had never met. I set the wheels going at once. The sooner +all the fuss was over the better. I hated fuss and there was +bound to be a good deal of it. But I went about the business +like an accomplished matchmaker. I invited Frank to visit The +Maples and, before he came, I talked much...but not too much...of +him to Betty, mingling judicious praise and still more judicious +blame together. Women never like a paragon. Betty heard me with +more gravity than she usually accorded to my dissertations on +young men. She even condescended to ask several questions about +him. This I thought a good sign. + +To Frank I had said not a word about Betty; when he came to The +Maples I took him over to Glenby and, coming upon Betty wandering +about among the beeches in the sunset, I introduced him without +any warning. + +He would have been more than mortal if he had not fallen in love +with her upon the spot. It was not in the heart of man to resist +her...that dainty, alluring bit of womanhood. She was all in +white, with flowers in her hair, and, for a moment, I could have +murdered Frank or any other man who dared to commit the sacrilege +of loving her. + +Then I pulled myself together and left them alone. I might have +gone in and talked to Sara...two old folks gently reviewing +their youth while the young folks courted outside...but I did +not. I prowled about the pine wood, and tried to forget how +blithe and handsome that curly-headed boy, Frank, was, and what a +flash had sprung into his eyes when he had seen Betty. Well, +what of it? Was not that what I had brought him there for? And +was I not pleased at the success of my scheme? Certainly I was! +Delighted! + +Next day Frank went to Glenby without even making the poor +pretense of asking me to accompany him. I spent the time of his +absence overseeing the construction of a new greenhouse I was +having built. I was conscientious in my supervision; but I felt +no interest in it. The place was intended for roses, and roses +made me think of the pale yellow ones Betty had worn at her +breast one evening the week before, when, all lovers being +unaccountably absent, we had wandered together under the pines +and talked as in the old days before her young womanhood and my +gray hairs had risen up to divide us. She had dropped a rose on +the brown floor, and I had sneaked back, after I had left her the +house, to get it, before I went home. I had it now in my +pocket-book. Confound it, mightn't a future uncle cherish a +family affection for his prospective niece? + +Frank's wooing seemed to prosper. The other young sparks, who +had haunted Glenby, faded away after his advent. Betty treated +him with most encouraging sweetness; Sara smiled on him; I stood +in the background, like a benevolent god of the machine, and +flattered myself that I pulled the strings. + +At the end of a month something went wrong. Frank came home from +Glenby one day in the dumps, and moped for two whole days. I +rode down myself on the third. I had not gone much to Glenby +that month; but, if there were trouble Bettyward, it was my duty +to make smooth the rough places. + +As usual, I found Betty in the pineland. I thought she looked +rather pale and dull...fretting about Frank no doubt. She +brightened up when she saw me, evidently expecting that I had +come to straighten matters out; but she pretended to be haughty +and indifferent. + +"I am glad you haven't forgotten us altogether, Stephen," she +said coolly. "You haven't been down for a week." + +"I'm flattered that you noticed it," I said, sitting down on a +fallen tree and looking up at her as she stood, tall and lithe, +against an old pine, with her eyes averted. "I shouldn't have +supposed you'd want an old fogy like myself poking about and +spoiling the idyllic moments of love's young dream." + +"Why do you always speak of yourself as old?" said Betty, +crossly, ignoring my reference to Frank. + +"Because I am old, my dear. Witness these gray hairs." + +I pushed up my hat to show them the more recklessly. + +Betty barely glanced at them. + +"You have just enough to give you a distinguished look," she +said, "and you are only forty. A man is in his prime at forty. +He never has any sense until he is forty--and sometimes he +doesn't seem to have any even then," she concluded impertinently. + +My heart beat. Did Betty suspect? Was that last sentence meant +to inform me that she was aware of my secret folly, and laughed +at it? + +"I came over to see what has gone wrong between you and Frank," I +said gravely. + +Betty bit her lips. + +"Nothing," she said. + +"Betty," I said reproachfully, "I brought you up...or endeavored +to bring you up...to speak the truth, the whole truth, and +nothing but the truth. Don't tell me I have failed. I'll give +you another chance. Have you quarreled with Frank?" + +"No," said the maddening Betty, "HE quarreled with me. He went +away in a temper and I do not care if he never comes back!" + +I shook my head. + +"This won't do, Betty. As your old family friend I still claim +the right to scold you until you have a husband to do the +scolding. You mustn't torment Frank. He is too fine a fellow. +You must marry him, Betty." + +"Must I?" said Betty, a dusky red flaming out on her cheek. She +turned her eyes on me in a most disconcerting fashion. "Do YOU +wish me to marry Frank, Stephen?" + +Betty had a wretched habit of emphasizing pronouns in a fashion +calculated to rattle anybody. + +"Yes, I do wish it, because I think it will be best for you," I +replied, without looking at her. "You must marry some time, +Betty, and Frank is the only man I know to whom I could trust +you. As your guardian, I have an interest in seeing you well and +wisely settled for life. You have always taken my advice and +obeyed my wishes; and you've always found my way the best, in +the long run, haven't you, Betty? You won't prove rebellious +now, I'm sure. You know quite well that I am advising you for +your own good. Frank is a splendid young fellow, who loves you +with all his heart. Marry him, Betty. Mind, I don't COMMAND. I +have no right to do that, and you are too old to be ordered +about, if I had. But I wish and advise it. Isn't that enough, +Betty?" + +I had been looking away from her all the time I was talking, +gazing determinedly down a sunlit vista of pines. Every word I +said seemed to tear my heart, and come from my lips stained with +life-blood. Yes, Betty should marry Frank! But, good God, what +would become of me! + +Betty left her station under the pine tree, and walked around me +until she got right in front of my face. I couldn't help looking +at her, for if I moved my eyes she moved too. There was nothing +meek or submissive about her; her head was held high, her eyes +were blazing, and her cheeks were crimson. But her words were +meek enough. + +"I will marry Frank if you wish it, Stephen," she said. "You are +my friend. I have never crossed your wishes, and, as you say, I +have never regretted being guided by them. I will do exactly as +you wish in this case also, I promise you that. But, in so +solemn a question, I must be very certain what you DO wish. +There must be no doubt in my mind or heart. Look me squarely in +the eyes, Stephen--as you haven't done once to-day, no, nor once +since I came home from school--and, so looking, tell me that you +wish me to marry Frank Douglas and I will do it! DO you, +Stephen?" + +I had to look her in the eyes, since nothing else would do her; +and, as I did so, all the might of manhood in me rose up in hot +revolt against the lie I would have told her. That unfaltering, +impelling gaze of hers drew the truth from my lips in spite of +myself. + +"No, I don't wish you to marry Frank Douglas, a thousand times +no!" I said passionately. "I don't wish you to marry any man on +earth but myself. I love you--I love you, Betty. You are dearer +to me than life--dearer to me than my own happiness. It was your +happiness I thought of--and so I asked you to marry Frank because +I believed he would make you a happy woman. That is all!" + +Betty's defiance went from her like a flame blown out. She +turned away and drooped her proud head. + +"It could not have made me a happy woman to marry one man, loving +another," she said, in a whisper. + +I got up and went over to her. + +"Betty, whom do you love?" I asked, also in a whisper. + +"You," she murmured meekly--oh, so meekly, my proud little girl! + +"Betty," I said brokenly, "I'm old--too old for you--I'm more +than twenty years your senior--I'm--" + +"Oh!" Betty wheeled around on me and stamped her foot. "Don't +mention your age to me again. I don't care if you're as old as +Methuselah. But I'm not going to coax you to marry me, sir! If +you won't, I'll never marry anybody--I'll live and die an old +maid. You can please yourself, of course!" + +She turned away, half-laughing, half-crying; but I caught her in +my arms and crushed her sweet lips against mine. + +"Betty, I'm the happiest man in the world--and I was the most +miserable when I came here." + +"You deserved to be," said Betty cruelly. "I'm glad you were. +Any man as stupid as you deserves to be unhappy. What do you +think I felt like, loving you with all my heart, and seeing you +simply throwing me at another man's head. Why, I've always loved +you, Stephen; but I didn't know it until I went to that +detestable school. Then I found out--and I thought that was why +you had sent me. But, when I came home, you almost broke my +heart. That was why I flirted so with all those poor, nice boys +--I wanted to hurt you but I never thought I succeeded. You just +went on being FATHERLY. Then, when you brought Frank here, I +almost gave up hope; and I tried to make up my mind to marry him; +I should have done it if you had insisted. But I had to have one +more try for happiness first. I had just one little hope to +inspire me with sufficient boldness. I saw you, that night, when +you came back here and picked up my rose! I had come back, +myself, to be alone and unhappy." + +"It is the most wonderful thing that ever happened--that you +should love me," I said. + +"It's not--I couldn't help it," said Betty, nestling her brown +head on my shoulder. "You taught me everything else, Stephen, so +nobody but you could teach me how to love. You've made a +thorough thing of educating me." + +"When will you marry me, Betty?" I asked. + +"As soon as I can fully forgive you for trying to make me marry +somebody else," said Betty. + +It was rather hard lines on Frank, when you come to think of it. +But, such is the selfishness of human nature that we didn't think +much about Frank. The young fellow behaved like the Douglas he +was. Went a little white about the lips when I told him, wished +me all happiness, and went quietly away, "gentleman unafraid." + +He has since married and is, I understand, very happy. Not as +happy as I am, of course; that is impossible, because there is +only one Betty in the world, and she is my wife. + + + +XII. IN HER SELFLESS MOOD + +The raw wind of an early May evening was puffing in and out the +curtains of the room where Naomi Holland lay dying. The air was +moist and chill, but the sick woman would not have the window +closed. + +"I can't get my breath if you shut everything up so tight," she +said. "Whatever comes, I ain't going to be smothered to death, +Car'line Holland." + +Outside of the window grew a cherry tree, powdered with moist +buds with the promise of blossoms she would not live to see. +Between its boughs she saw a crystal cup of sky over hills that +were growing dim and purple. The outside air was full of sweet, +wholesome springtime sounds that drifted in fitfully. There were +voices and whistles in the barnyard, and now and then faint +laughter. A bird alighted for a moment on a cherry bough, and +twittered restlessly. Naomi knew that white mists were hovering +in the silent hollows, that the maple at the gate wore a misty +blossom red, and that violet stars were shining bluely on the +brooklands. + +The room was a small, plain one. The floor was bare, save for a +couple of braided rugs, the plaster discolored, the walls dingy +and glaring. There had never been much beauty in Naomi Holland's +environment, and, now that she was dying, there was even less. + +At the open window a boy of about ten years was leaning out over +the sill and whistling. He was tall for his age, and +beautiful--the hair a rich auburn with a glistening curl in it, +skin very white and warm-tinted, eyes small and of a greenish +blue, with dilated pupils and long lashes. He had a weak chin, +and a full, sullen mouth. + +The bed was in the corner farthest from the window; on it the +sick woman, in spite of the pain that was her portion +continually, was lying as quiet and motionless as she had done +ever since she had lain down upon it for the last time. Naomi +Holland never complained; when the agony was at its worst, she +shut her teeth more firmly over her bloodless lip, and her great +black eyes glared at the blank wall before in a way that gave her +attendants what they called "the creeps," but no word or moan +escaped her. + +Between the paroxysms she kept up her keen interest in the life +that went on about her. Nothing escaped her sharp, alert eyes +and ears. This evening she lay spent on the crumpled pillows; +she had had a bad spell in the afternoon and it had left her very +weak. In the dim light her extremely long face looked +corpse-like already. Her black hair lay in a heavy braid over +the pillow and down the counterpane. It was all that was left of +her beauty, and she took a fierce joy in it. Those long, +glistening, sinuous tresses must be combed and braided every day, +no matter what came. + +A girl of fourteen was curled up on a chair at the head of the +bed, with her head resting on the pillow. The boy at the window +was her half-brother; but, between Christopher Holland and Eunice +Carr, not the slightest resemblance existed. + +Presently the sibilant silence was broken by a low, +half-strangled sob. The sick woman, who had been watching a +white evening star through the cherry boughs, turned impatiently +at the sound. + +"I wish you'd get over that, Eunice," she said sharply. "I don't +want any one crying over me until I'm dead; and then you'll have +plenty else to do, most likely. If it wasn't for Christopher I +wouldn't be anyways unwilling to die. When one has had such a +life as I've had, there isn't much in death to be afraid of. +Only, a body would like to go right off, and not die by inches, +like this. 'Tain't fair!" + +She snapped out the last sentence as if addressing some unseen, +tyrannical presence; her voice, at least, had not weakened, but +was as clear and incisive as ever. The boy at the window stopped +whistling, and the girl silently wiped her eyes on her faded +gingham apron. + +Naomi drew her own hair over her lips, and kissed it. + +"You'll never have hair like that, Eunice," she said. "It does +seem most too pretty to bury, doesn't it? Mind you see that it +is fixed nice when I'm laid out. Comb it right up on my head and +braid it there." + +A sound, such as might be wrung from a suffering animal, came +from the girl, but at the same moment the door opened and a woman +entered. + +"Chris," she said sharply, "you get right off for the cows, you +lazy little scamp! You knew right well you had to go for them, +and here you've been idling, and me looking high and low for you. +Make haste now; it's ridiculous late." + +The boy pulled in his head and scowled at his aunt, but he dared +not disobey, and went out slowly with a sulky mutter. + +His aunt subdued a movement, that might have developed into a +sound box on his ears, with a rather frightened glance at the +bed. Naomi Holland was spent and dying, but her temper was still +a thing to hold in dread, and her sister-in-law did not choose to +rouse it by slapping Christopher. To her and her co-nurse the +spasms of rage, which the sick woman sometimes had, seemed to +partake of the nature of devil possession. The last one, only +three days before, had been provoked by Christopher's complaint +of some real or fancied ill-treatment from his aunt, and the +latter had no mind to bring on another. She went over to the +bed, and straightened the clothes. + +"Sarah and I are going out to milk, Naomi, Eunice will stay with +you. She can run for us if you feel another spell coming on." + +Naomi Holland looked up at her sister-in-law with something like +malicious enjoyment. + +"I ain't going to have any more spells, Car'line Anne. I'm going +to die to-night. But you needn't hurry milking for that, at all. +I'll take my time." + +She liked to see the alarm that came over the other woman's face. +It was richly worth while to scare Caroline Holland like that. + +"Are you feeling worse, Naomi?" asked the latter shakily. "If +you are I'll send for Charles to go for the doctor." + +"No, you won't. What good can the doctor do me? I don't want +either his or Charles' permission to die. You can go and milk at +your ease. I won't die till you're done--I won't deprive you of +the pleasure of seeing me." + +Mrs. Holland shut her lips and went out of the room with a +martyr-like expression. In some ways Naomi Holland was not an +exacting patient, but she took her satisfaction out in the +biting, malicious speeches she never failed to make. Even on her +death-bed her hostility to her sister-in-law had to find vent. + +Outside, at the steps, Sarah Spencer was waiting, with the milk +pails over her arm. Sarah Spencer had no fixed abiding place, +but was always to be found where there was illness. Her +experience, and an utter lack of nerves, made her a good nurse. +She was a tall, homely woman with iron gray hair and a lined +face. Beside her, the trim little Caroline Anne, with her light +step and round, apple-red face, looked almost girlish. + +The two women walked to the barnyard, discussing Naomi in +undertones as they went. The house they had left behind grew +very still. + +In Naomi Holland's room the shadows were gathering. Eunice +timidly bent over her mother. + +"Ma, do you want the light lit?" + +"No, I'm watching that star just below the big cherry bough. +I'll see it set behind the hill. I've seen it there, off and on, +for twelve years, and now I'm taking a good-by look at it. I +want you to keep still, too. I've got a few things to think +over, and I don't want to be disturbed." + +The girl lifted herself about noiselessly and locked her hands +over the bed-post. Then she laid her face down on them, biting +at them silently until the marks of her teeth showed white +against their red roughness. + +Naomi Holland did not notice her. She was looking steadfastly at +the great, pearl-like sparkle in the faint-hued sky. When it +finally disappeared from her vision she struck her long, thin +hands together twice, and a terrible expression came over her +face for a moment. But, when she spoke, her voice was quite +calm. + +"You can light the candle now, Eunice. Put it up on the shelf +here, where it won't shine in my eyes. And then sit down on the +foot of the bed where I can see you. I've got something to say +to you." + +Eunice obeyed her noiselessly. As the pallid light shot up, it +revealed the child plainly. She was thin and ill-formed--one +shoulder being slightly higher than the other. She was dark, +like her mother, but her features were irregular, and her hair +fell in straggling, dim locks about her face. Her eyes were a +dark brown, and over one was the slanting red scar of a birth +mark. + +Naomi Holland looked at her with the contempt she had never made +any pretense of concealing. The girl was bone of her bone and +flesh of her flesh, but she had never loved her; all the mother +love in her had been lavished on her son. + +When Eunice had placed the candle on the shelf and drawn down the +ugly blue paper blinds, shutting out the strips of violet sky +where a score of glimmering points were now visible, she sat down +on the foot of the bed, facing her mother. + +"The door is shut, is it, Eunice?" + +Eunice nodded. + +"Because I don't want Car'line or any one else peeking and +harking to what I've got to say. She's out milking now, and I +must make the most of the chance. Eunice, I'm going to die, +and..." + +"Ma!" + +"There now, no taking on! You knew it had to come sometime soon. +I haven't the strength to talk much, so I want you just to be +quiet and listen. I ain't feeling any pain now, so I can think +and talk pretty clear. Are you listening, Eunice?" + +"Yes, ma." + +"Mind you are. It's about Christopher. It hasn't been out of my +mind since I laid down here. I've fought for a year to live, on +his account, and it ain't any use. I must just die and leave +him, and I don't know what he'll do. It's dreadful to think of." + +She paused, and struck her shrunken hand sharply against the +table. + +"If he was bigger and could look out for himself it wouldn't be +so bad. But he is only a little fellow, and Car'line hates him. +You'll both have to live with her until you're grown up. She'll +put on him and abuse him. He's like his father in some ways; +he's got a temper and he is stubborn. He'll never get on with +Car'line. Now, Eunice, I'm going to get you to promise to take +my place with Christopher when I'm dead, as far as you can. +You've got to; it's your duty. But I want you to promise." + +"I will, ma," whispered the girl solemnly. + +"You haven't much force--you never had. If you was smart, you +could do a lot for him. But you'll have to do your best. I want +you to promise me faithfully that you'll stand by him and protect +him--that you won't let people impose on him; that you'll never +desert him as long as he needs you, no matter what comes. +Eunice, promise me this!" + +In her excitement the sick woman raised herself up in the bed, +and clutched the girl's thin arm. Her eyes were blazing and two +scarlet spots glowed in her thin cheeks. + +Eunice's face was white and tense. She clasped her hands as one +in prayer. + +"Mother, I promise it!" + +Naomi relaxed her grip on the girl's arm and sank back exhausted +on the pillow. A death-like look came over her face as the +excitement faded. + +"My mind is easier now. But if I could only have lived another +year or two! And I hate Car'line--hate her! Eunice, don't you +ever let her abuse my boy! If she did, or if you neglected him, +I'd come back from my grave to you! As for the property, things +will be pretty straight. I've seen to that. There'll be no +squabbling and doing Christopher out of his rights. He's to have +the farm as soon as he's old enough to work it, and he's to +provide for you. And, Eunice, remember what you've promised!" + + +Outside, in the thickly gathering dusk, Caroline Holland and +Sarah Spencer were at the dairy, straining the milk into +creamers, for which Christopher was sullenly pumping water. The +house was far from the road, up to which a long red lane led; +across the field was the old Holland homestead where Caroline +lived; her unmarried sister-in-law, Electa Holland, kept house +for her while she waited on Naomi. + +It was her night to go home and sleep, but Naomi's words haunted +her, although she believed they were born of pure +"cantankerousness." + +"You'd better go in and look at her, Sarah," she said, as she +rinsed out the pails. "If you think I'd better stay here +to-night, I will. If the woman was like anybody else a body +would know what to do; but, if she thought she could scare us by +saying she was going to die, she'd say it." + +When Sarah went in, the sick room was very quiet. In her +opinion, Naomi was no worse than usual, and she told Caroline so; +but the latter felt vaguely uneasy and concluded to stay. + +Naomi was as cool and defiant as customary. She made them bring +Christopher in to say good-night and had him lifted up on the bed +to kiss her. Then she held him back and looked at him +admiringly--at the bright curls and rosy cheeks and round, firm +limbs. The boy was uncomfortable under her gaze and squirmed +hastily down. Her eyes followed him greedily, as he went out. +When the door closed behind him, she groaned. Sarah Spencer was +startled. She had never heard Naomi Holland groan since she had +come to wait on her. + +"Are you feeling any worse, Naomi? Is the pain coming back?" + +"No. Go and tell Car'line to give Christopher some of that grape +jelly on his bread before he goes to bed. She'll find it in the +cupboard under the stairs." + +Presently the house grew very still. Caroline had dropped asleep +on the sitting-room lounge, across the hall. Sarah Spencer +nodded over her knitting by the table in the sick room. She had +told Eunice to go to bed, but the child refused. She still sat +huddled up on the foot of the bed, watching her mother's face +intently. Naomi appeared to sleep. The candle burned long, and +the wick was crowned by a little cap of fiery red that seemed to +watch Eunice like some impish goblin. The wavering light cast +grotesque shadows of Sarah Spencer's head on the wall. The thin +curtains at the window wavered to and fro, as if shaken by +ghostly hands. + +At midnight Naomi Holland opened her eyes. The child she had +never loved was the only one to go with her to the brink of the +Unseen. + +"Eunice--remember!" + +It was the faintest whisper. The soul, passing over the +threshold of another life, strained back to its only earthly tie. +A quiver passed over the long, pallid face. + +A horrible scream rang through the silent house. Sarah Spencer +sprang out of her doze in consternation, and gazed blankly at the +shrieking child. Caroline came hurrying in with distended eyes. +On the bed Naomi Holland lay dead. + + +In the room where she had died Naomi Holland lay in her coffin. +It was dim and hushed; but, in the rest of the house, the +preparations for the funeral were being hurried on. Through it +all Eunice moved, calm and silent. Since her one wild spasm of +screaming by her mother's death-bed she had shed no tear, given +no sign of grief. Perhaps, as her mother had said, she had no +time. There was Christopher to be looked after. The boy's grief +was stormy and uncontrolled. He had cried until he was utterly +exhausted. It was Eunice who soothed him, coaxed him to eat, +kept him constantly by her. At night she took him to her own +room and watched over him while he slept. + +When the funeral was over the household furniture was packed away +or sold. The house was locked up and the farm rented. There was +nowhere for the children to go, save to their uncle's. Caroline +Holland did not want them, but, having to take them, she grimly +made up her mind to do what she considered her duty by them. She +had five children of her own and between them and Christopher a +standing feud had existed from the time he could walk. + +She had never liked Naomi. Few people did. Benjamin Holland had +not married until late in life, and his wife had declared war on +his family at sight. She was a stranger in Avonlea,--a widow, +with a three year-old child. She made few friends, as some +people always asserted that she was not in her right mind. + +Within a year of her second marriage Christopher was born, and +from the hour of his birth his mother had worshiped him blindly. +He was her only solace. For him she toiled and pinched and +saved. Benjamin Holland had not been "fore-handed" when she +married him; but, when he died, six years after his marriage, he +was a well-to-do man. + +Naomi made no pretense of mourning for him. It was an open +secret that they had quarreled like the proverbial cat and dog. +Charles Holland and his wife had naturally sided with Benjamin, +and Naomi fought her battles single-handed. After her husband's +death, she managed to farm alone, and made it pay. When the +mysterious malady which was to end her life first seized on her +she fought against it with all the strength and stubbornness of +her strong and stubborn nature. Her will won for her an added +year of life, and then she had to yield. She tasted all the +bitterness of death the day on which she lay down on her bed, and +saw her enemy come in to rule her house. + +But Caroline Holland was not a bad or unkind woman. True, she +did not love Naomi or her children; but the woman was dying and +must be looked after for the sake of common humanity. Caroline +thought she had done well by her sister-in-law. + +When the red clay was heaped over Naomi's grave in the Avonlea +burying ground, Caroline took Eunice and Christopher home with +her. Christopher did not want to go; it was Eunice who +reconciled him. He clung to her with an exacting affection born +of loneliness and grief. + +In the days that followed Caroline Holland was obliged to confess +to herself that there would have been no doing anything with +Christopher had it not been for Eunice. The boy was sullen and +obstinate, but his sister had an unfailing influence over him. + +In Charles Holland's household no one was allowed to eat the +bread of idleness. His own children were all girls, and +Christopher came in handy as a chore boy. He was made to +work--perhaps too hard. But Eunice helped him, and did half his +work for him when nobody knew. When he quarreled with his +cousins, she took his part; whenever possible she took on herself +the blame and punishment of his misdeeds. + +Electa Holland was Charles' unmarried sister. She had kept house +for Benjamin until he married; then Naomi had bundled her out. +Electa had never forgiven her for it. Her hatred passed on to +Naomi's children. In a hundred petty ways she revenged herself +on them. For herself, Eunice bore it patiently; but it was a +different matter when it touched Christopher. + +Once Electa boxed Christopher's ears. Eunice, who was knitting +by the table, stood up. A resemblance to her mother, never +before visible, came out in her face like a brand. She lifted +her hand and slapped Electa's cheek deliberately twice, leaving a +dull red mark where she struck. + +"If you ever strike my brother again," she said, slowly and +vindictively, "I will slap your face every time you do. You have +no right to touch him." + +"My patience, what a fury!" said Electa. "Naomi Holland'll never +be dead as long as you're alive!" + +She told Charles of the affair and Eunice was severely punished. +But Electa never interfered with Christopher again. + + +All the discordant elements in the Holland household could not +prevent the children from growing up. It was a consummation +which the harrassed Caroline devoutly wished. When Christopher +Holland was seventeen he was a man grown--a big, strapping +fellow. His childish beauty had coarsened, but he was thought +handsome by many. + +He took charge of his mother's farm then, and the brother and +sister began their new life together in the long-unoccupied +house. There were few regrets on either side when they left +Charles Holland's roof. In her secret heart Eunice felt an +unspeakable relief. + +Christopher had been "hard to manage," as his uncle said, in the +last year. He was getting into the habit of keeping late hours +and doubtful company. This always provoked an explosion of wrath +from Charles Holland, and the conflicts between him and his +nephew were frequent and bitter. + +For four years after their return home Eunice had a hard and +anxious life. Christopher was idle and dissipated. Most people +regarded him as a worthless fellow, and his uncle washed his +hands of him utterly. Only Eunice never failed him; she never +reproached or railed; she worked like a slave to keep things +together. Eventually her patience prevailed. Christopher, to a +great extent, reformed and worked harder. He was never unkind to +Eunice, even in his rages. It was not in him to appreciate or +return her devotion; but his tolerant acceptance of it was her +solace. + +When Eunice was twenty-eight, Edward Bell wanted to marry her. +He was a plain, middle-aged widower with four children; but, as +Caroline did not fail to remind her, Eunice herself was not for +every market, and the former did her best to make the match. She +might have succeeded had it not been for Christopher. When he, +in spite of Caroline's skillful management, got an inkling of +what was going on, he flew into a true Holland rage. If Eunice +married and left him--he would sell the farm and go to the Devil +by way of the Klondike. He could not, and would not, do without +her. No arrangement suggested by Caroline availed to pacify him, +and, in the end, Eunice refused to marry Edward Bell. She could +not leave Christopher, she said simply, and in this she stood +rock-firm. Caroline could not budge her an inch. + +"You're a fool, Eunice," she said, when she was obliged to give +up in despair. "It's not likely you'll ever have another chance. +As for Chris, in a year or two he'll be marrying himself, and +where will you be then? You'll find your nose nicely out of +joint when he brings a wife in here." + +The shaft went home. Eunice's lips turned white. But she said, +faintly, "The house is big enough for us both, if he does." + +Caroline sniffed. + +"Maybe so. You'll find out. However, there's no use talking. +You're as set as your mother was, and nothing would ever budge +her an inch. I only hope you won't be sorry for it." + +When three more years had passed Christopher began to court +Victoria Pye. The affair went on for some time before either +Eunice or the Hollands go wind of it. When they did there was an +explosion. Between the Hollands and the Pyes, root and branch, +existed a feud that dated back for three generations. That the +original cause of the quarrel was totally forgotten did not +matter; it was matter of family pride that a Holland should have +no dealings with a Pye. + +When Christopher flew so openly in the face of this cherished +hatred, there could be nothing less than consternation. Charles +Holland broke through his determination to have nothing to do +with Christopher, to remonstrate. Caroline went to Eunice in as +much of a splutter as if Christopher had been her own brother. + +Eunice did not care a row of pins for the Holland-Pye feud. +Victoria was to her what any other girl, upon whom Christopher +cast eyes of love, would have been--a supplanter. For the first +time in her life she was torn with passionate jealousy; existence +became a nightmare to her. Urged on by Caroline, and her own +pain, she ventured to remonstrate with Christopher, also. She +had expected a burst of rage, but he was surprisingly +good-natured. He seemed even amused. + +"What have you got against Victoria?" he asked, tolerantly. + +Eunice had no answer ready. It was true that nothing could be +said against the girl. She felt helpless and baffled. +Christopher laughed at her silence. + +"I guess you're a little jealous," he said. "You must have +expected I would get married some time. This house is big enough +for us all. You'd better look at the matter sensibly, Eunice. +Don't let Charles and Caroline put nonsense into your head. A +man must marry to please himself." + +Christopher was out late that night. Eunice waited up for him, +as she always did. It was a chilly spring evening, reminding her +of the night her mother had died. The kitchen was in spotless +order, and she sat down on a stiff-backed chair by the window to +wait for her brother. + +She did not want a light. The moonlight fell in with faint +illumination. Outside, the wind was blowing over a bed of +new-sprung mint in the garden, and was suggestively fragrant. It +was a very old-fashioned garden, full of perennials Naomi Holland +had planted long ago. Eunice always kept it primly neat. She +had been working in it that day, and felt tired. + +She was all alone in the house and the loneliness filled her with +a faint dread. She had tried all that day to reconcile herself +to Christopher's marriage, and had partially succeeded. She told +herself that she could still watch over him and care for his +comfort. She would even try to love Victoria; after all, it +might be pleasant to have another woman in the house. So, +sitting there, she fed her hungry soul with these husks of +comfort. + +When she heard Christopher's step she moved about quickly to get +a light. He frowned when he saw her; he had always resented her +sitting up for him. He sat down by the stove and took off his +boots, while Eunice got a lunch for him. After he had eaten it +in silence he made no move to go to bed. A chill, premonitory +fear crept over Eunice. It did not surprise her at all when +Christopher finally said, abruptly, "Eunice, I've a notion to get +married this spring." + +Eunice clasped her hands together under the table. It was what +she had been expecting. She said so, in a monotonous voice. + +"We must make some arrangement for--for you, Eunice," Christopher +went on, in a hurried, hesitant way, keeping his eyes riveted +doggedly on his plate. "Victoria doesn't exactly like--well, she +thinks it's better for young married folks to begin life by +themselves, and I guess she's about right. You wouldn't find it +comfortable, anyhow, having to step back to second place after +being mistress here so long." + +Eunice tried to speak, but only an indistinct murmur came from +her bloodless lips. The sound made Christopher look up. +Something in her face irritated him. He pushed back his chair +impatiently. + +"Now, Eunice, don't go taking on. It won't be any use. Look at +this business in a sensible way. I'm fond of you, and all that, +but a man is bound to consider his wife first. I'll provide for +you comfortably." + +"Do you mean to say that your wife is going to turn me out?" +Eunice gasped, rather than spoke, the words. + +Christopher drew his reddish brows together. + +"I just mean that Victoria says she won't marry me if she has to +live with you. She's afraid of you. I told her you wouldn't +interfere with her, but she wasn't satisfied. It's your own +fault, Eunice. You've always been so queer and close that people +think you're an awful crank. Victoria's young and lively, and +you and she wouldn't get on at all. There isn't any question of +turning you out. I'll build a little house for you somewhere, +and you'll be a great deal better off there than you would be +here. So don't make a fuss." + +Eunice did not look as if she were going to make a fuss. She sat +as if turned to stone, her hands lying palm upward in her lap. +Christopher got up, hugely relieved that the dreaded explanation +was over. + +"Guess I'll go to bed. You'd better have gone long ago. It's +all nonsense, this waiting up for me." + +When he had gone Eunice drew a long, sobbing breath and looked +about her like a dazed soul. All the sorrow of her life was as +nothing to the desolation that assailed her now. + +She rose and, with uncertain footsteps, passed out through the +hall and into the room where her mother died. She had always +kept it locked and undisturbed; it was arranged just as Naomi +Holland had left it. Eunice tottered to the bed and sat down on +it. + +She recalled the promise she had made to her mother in that very +room. Was the power to keep it to be wrested from her? Was she +to be driven from her home and parted from the only creature she +had on earth to love? And would Christopher allow it, after all +her sacrifices for him? Aye, that he would! He cared more for +that black-eyed, waxen-faced girl at the old Pye place than for +his own kin. Eunice put her hands over her dry, burning eyes and +groaned aloud. + + +Caroline Holland had her hour of triumph over Eunice when she +heard it all. To one of her nature there was no pleasure so +sweet as that of saying, "I told you so." Having said it, +however, she offered Eunice a home. Electa Holland was dead, and +Eunice might fill her place very acceptably, if she would. + +"You can't go off and live by yourself," Caroline told her. +"It's all nonsense to talk of such a thing. We will give you a +home, if Christopher is going to turn you out. You were always a +fool, Eunice, to pet and pamper him as you've done. This is the +thanks you get for it--turned out like a dog for his fine wife's +whim! I only wish your mother was alive!" + +It was probably the first time Caroline had ever wished this. +She had flown at Christopher like a fury about the matter, and +had been rudely insulted for her pains. Christopher had told her +to mind her own business. + +When Caroline cooled down she made some arrangements with him, to +all of which Eunice listlessly assented. She did not care what +became of her. When Christopher Holland brought Victoria as +mistress to the house where his mother had toiled, and suffered, +and ruled with her rod of iron, Eunice was gone. In Charles +Holland's household she took Electa's place--an unpaid upper +servant. + +Charles and Caroline were kind enough to her, and there was +plenty to do. For five years her dull, colorless life went on, +during which time she never crossed the threshold of the house +where Victoria Holland ruled with a sway as absolute as Naomi's +had been. Caroline's curiosity led her, after her first anger +had cooled, to make occasional calls, the observations of which +she faithfully reported to Eunice. The latter never betrayed any +interest in them, save once. This was when Caroline came home +full of the news that Victoria had had the room where Naomi died +opened up, and showily furnished as a parlor. Then Eunice's +sallow face crimsoned, and her eyes flashed, over the +desecration. But no word of comment or complaint ever crossed +her lips. + +She knew, as every one else knew, that the glamor soon went from +Christopher Holland's married life. The marriage proved an +unhappy one. Not unnaturally, although unjustly, Eunice blamed +Victoria for this, and hated her more than ever for it. + +Christopher seldom came to Charles' house. Possibly he felt +ashamed. He had grown into a morose, silent man, at home and +abroad. It was said he had gone back to his old drinking habits. + +One fall Victoria Holland went to town to visit her married +sister. She took their only child with her. In her absence +Christopher kept house for himself. + +It was a fall long remembered in Avonlea. With the dropping of +the leaves, and the shortening of the dreary days, the shadow of +a fear fell over the land. Charles Holland brought the fateful +news home one night. + +"There's smallpox in Charlottetown--five or six cases. Came in +one of the vessels. There was a concert, and a sailor from one +of the ships was there, and took sick the next day." + +This was alarming enough. Charlottetown was not so very far away +and considerable traffic went on between it and the north shore +districts. + +When Caroline recounted the concert story to Christopher the next +morning his ruddy face turned quite pale. He opened his lips as +if to speak, then closed them again. They were sitting in the +kitchen; Caroline had run over to return some tea she had +borrowed, and, incidentally, to see what she could of Victoria's +housekeeping in her absence. Her eyes had been busy while her +tongue ran on, so she did not notice the man's pallor and +silence. + +"How long does it take for smallpox to develop after one has been +exposed to it?" he asked abruptly, when Caroline rose to go. + +"Ten to fourteen days, I calc'late," was her answer. "I must see +about having the girls vaccinated right off. It'll likely +spread. When do you expect Victoria home?" + +"When she's ready to come, whenever that will be," was the gruff +response. + +A week later Caroline said to Eunice, "Whatever's got +Christopher? He hasn't been out anywhere for ages--just hangs +round home the whole time. It's something new for him. I s'pose +the place is so quiet, now Madam Victoria's away, that he can +find some rest for his soul. I believe I'll run over after +milking and see how he's getting on. You might as well come, +too, Eunice." + +Eunice shook her head. She had all her mother's obstinacy, and +darken Victoria's door she would not. She went on patiently +darning socks, sitting at the west window, which was her favorite +position--perhaps because she could look from it across the +sloping field and past the crescent curve of maple grove to her +lost home. + +After milking, Caroline threw a shawl over her head and ran +across the field. The house looked lonely and deserted. As she +fumbled at the latch of the gate the kitchen door opened, and +Christopher Holland appeared on the threshold. + +"Don't come any farther," he called. + +Caroline fell back in blank astonishment. Was this some more of +Victoria's work? + +"I ain't an agent for the smallpox," she called back viciously. + +Christopher did not heed her. + +"Will you go home and ask uncle if he'll go, or send for Doctor +Spencer? He's the smallpox doctor. I'm sick." + +Caroline felt a thrill of dismay and fear. She faltered a few +steps backward. + +"Sick? What's the matter with you?" + +"I was in Charlottetown that night, and went to the concert. +That sailor sat right beside me. I thought at the time he looked +sick. It was just twelve days ago. I've felt bad all day +yesterday and to-day. Send for the doctor. Don't come near the +house, or let any one else come near." + +He went in and shut the door. Caroline stood for a few moments +in an almost ludicrous panic. Then she turned and ran, as if for +her life, across the field. Eunice saw her coming and met her at +the door. + +"Mercy on us!" gasped Caroline. "Christopher's sick and he +thinks he's got the smallpox. Where's Charles?" + +Eunice tottered back against the door. Her hand went up to her +side in a way that had been getting very common with her of late. +Even in the midst of her excitement Caroline noticed it. + +"Eunice, what makes you do that every time anything startles +you?" she asked sharply. "Is it anything about your heart?" + +"I don't--know. A little pain--it's gone now. Did you say that +Christopher has--the smallpox?" + +"Well, he says so himself, and it's more than likely, considering +the circumstances. I declare, I never got such a turn in my +life. It's a dreadful thing. I must find Charles at +once--there'll be a hundred things to do." + +Eunice hardly heard her. Her mind was centered upon one idea. +Christopher was ill--alone--she must go to him. It did not +matter what his disease was. When Caroline came in from her +breathless expedition to the barn, she found Eunice standing by +the table, with her hat and shawl on, tying up a parcel. + +"Eunice! Where on earth are you going?" + +"Over home," said Eunice. "If Christopher is going to be ill he +must be nursed, and I'm the one to do it. He ought to be seen to +right away." + +"Eunice Carr! Have you gone clean out of your senses? It's the +smallpox--the smallpox! If he's got it he'll have to be taken +to the smallpox hospital in town. You shan't stir a step to go +to that house!" + +"I will." Eunice faced her excited aunt quietly. The odd +resemblance to her mother, which only came out in moments of +great tension, was plainly visible. "He shan't go to the +hospital--they never get proper attention there. You needn't try +to stop me. It won't put you or your family in any danger." + +Caroline fell helplessly into a chair. She felt that it would be +of no use to argue with a woman so determined. She wished +Charles was there. But Charles had already gone, post-haste, for +the doctor. + +With a firm step, Eunice went across the field foot-path she had +not trodden for so long. She felt no fear--rather a sort of +elation. Christopher needed her once more; the interloper who +had come between them was not there. As she walked through the +frosty twilight she thought of the promise made to Naomi Holland, +years ago. + + +Christopher saw her coming and waved her back. + +"Don't come any nearer, Eunice. Didn't Caroline tell you? I'm +taking smallpox." + +Eunice did not pause. She went boldly through the yard and up +the porch steps. He retreated before her and held the door. + +"Eunice, you're crazy, girl! Go home, before it's too late." + +Eunice pushed open the door resolutely and went in. + +"It's too late now. I'm here, and I mean to stay and nurse you, +if it's the smallpox you've got. Maybe it's not. Just now, when +a person has a finger-ache, he thinks it's smallpox. Anyhow, +whatever it is, you ought to be in bed and looked after. You'll +catch cold. Let me get a light and have a look at you." + +Christopher had sunk into a chair. His natural selfishness +reasserted itself, and he made no further effort to dissuade +Eunice. She got a lamp and set it on the table by him, while she +scrutinized his face closely. + +"You look feverish. What do you feel like? When did you take +sick?" + +"Yesterday afternoon. I have chills and hot spells and pains in +my back. Eunice, do you think it's really smallpox? And will I +die?" + +He caught her hands, and looked imploringly up at her, as a child +might have done. Eunice felt a wave of love and tenderness sweep +warmly over her starved heart. + +"Don't worry. Lots of people recover from smallpox if they're +properly nursed, and you'll be that, for I'll see to it. Charles +has gone for the doctor, and we'll know when he comes. You must +go straight to bed." + +She took off her hat and shawl, and hung them up. She felt as +much at home as if she had never been away. She had got back to +her kingdom, and there was none to dispute it with her. When Dr. +Spencer and old Giles Blewett, who had had smallpox in his youth, +came, two hours later, they found Eunice in serene charge. the +house was in order and reeking of disinfectants. Victoria's fine +furniture and fixings were being bundled out of the parlor. +There was no bedroom downstairs, and, if Christopher was going to +be ill, he must be installed there. + +The doctor looked grave. + +"I don't like it," he said, "but I'm not quite sure yet. If it +is smallpox the eruption will probably by out by morning. I must +admit he has most of the symptoms. Will you have him taken to +the hospital?" + +"No," said Eunice, decisively. "I'll nurse him myself. I'm not +afraid and I'm well and strong." + +"Very well. You've been vaccinated lately?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, nothing more can be done at present. You may as well lie +down for a while and save your strength." + +But Eunice could not do that. There was too much to attend to. +She went out to the hall and threw up the window. Down below, at +a safe distance, Charles Holland was waiting. The cold wind blew +up to Eunice the odor of the disinfectants with which he had +steeped himself. + +"What does the doctor say?" he shouted. + +"He thinks it's the smallpox. Have you sent word to Victoria?" + +"Yes, Jim Blewett drove into town and told her. She'll stay with +her sister till it is over. Of course it's the best thing for +her to do. She's terribly frightened." + +Eunice's lip curled contemptuously. To her, a wife who could +desert her husband, no matter what disease he had, was an +incomprehensible creature. But it was better so; she would have +Christopher all to herself. + +The night was long and wearisome, but the morning came all too +soon for the dread certainty it brought. The doctor pronounced +the case smallpox. Eunice had hoped against hope, but now, +knowing the worst, she was very calm and resolute. + +By noon the fateful yellow flag was flying over the house, and +all arrangements had been made. Caroline was to do the necessary +cooking, and Charles was to bring the food and leave it in the +yard. Old Giles Blewett was to come every day and attend to the +stock, as well as help Eunice with the sick man; and the long, +hard fight with death began. + +It was a hard fight, indeed. Christopher Holland, in the +clutches of the loathsome disease, was an object from which his +nearest and dearest might have been pardoned for shrinking. But +Eunice never faltered; she never left her post. Sometimes she +dozed in a chair by the bed, but she never lay down. Her +endurance was something wonderful, her patience and tenderness +almost superhuman. To and fro she went, in noiseless ministry, +as the long, dreadful days wore away, with a quiet smile on her +lips, and in her dark, sorrowful eyes the rapt look of a pictured +saint in some dim cathedral niche. For her there was no world +outside the bare room where lay the repulsive object she loved. + +One day the doctor looked very grave. He had grown well-hardened +to pitiful scenes in his life-time; but he shrunk from telling +Eunice that her brother could not live. He had never seen such +devotion as hers. It seemed brutal to tell her that it had been +in vain. + +But Eunice had seen it for herself. She took it very calmly, the +doctor thought. And she had her reward at last--such as it was. +She thought it amply sufficient. + +One night Christopher Holland opened his swollen eyes as she bent +over him. They were alone in the old house. It was raining +outside, and the drops rattled noisily on the panes. + +Christopher smiled at his sister with parched lips, and put out a +feeble hand toward her. + +"Eunice," he said faintly, "you've been the best sister ever a +man had. I haven't treated you right; but you've stood by me to +the last. Tell Victoria--tell her--to be good to you--" + +His voice died away into an inarticulate murmur. Eunice Carr was +alone with her dead. + +They buried Christopher Holland in haste and privacy the next +day. The doctor disinfected the house, and Eunice was to stay +there alone until it might be safe to make other arrangements. +She had not shed a tear; the doctor thought she was a rather odd +person, but he had a great admiration for her. He told her she +was the best nurse he had ever seen. To Eunice, praise or blame +mattered nothing. Something in her life had snapped--some vital +interest had departed. She wondered how she could live through +the dreary, coming years. + +Late that night she went into the room where her mother and +brother had died. The window was open and the cold, pure air was +grateful to her after the drug-laden atmosphere she had breathed +so long. She knelt down by the stripped bed. + +"Mother," she said aloud, "I have kept my promise." + +When she tried to rise, long after, she staggered and fell across +the bed, with her hand pressed on her heart. Old Giles Blewett +found her there in the morning. There was a smile on her face. + + + +XIII. THE CONSCIENCE CASE OF DAVID BELL + +Eben Bell came in with an armful of wood and banged it cheerfully +down in the box behind the glowing Waterloo stove, which was +coloring the heart of the little kitchen's gloom with tremulous, +rose-red whirls of light. + +"There, sis, that's the last chore on my list. Bob's milking. +Nothing more for me to do but put on my white collar for meeting. +Avonlea is more than lively since the evangelist came, ain't it, +though!" + +Mollie Bell nodded. She was curling her hair before the tiny +mirror that hung on the whitewashed wall and distorted her round, +pink-and-white face into a grotesque caricature. + +"Wonder who'll stand up to-night," said Eben reflectively, +sitting down on the edge of the wood-box. "There ain't many +sinners left in Avonlea--only a few hardened chaps like myself." + +"You shouldn't talk like that," said Mollie rebukingly. "What if +father heard you?" + +"Father wouldn't hear me if I shouted it in his ear," returned +Eben. "He goes around, these days, like a man in a dream and a +mighty bad dream at that. Father has always been a good man. +What's the matter with him?" + +"I don't know," said Mollie, dropping her voice. "Mother is +dreadfully worried over him. And everybody is talking, Eb. It +just makes me squirm. Flora Jane Fletcher asked me last night +why father never testified, and him one of the elders. She said +the minister was perplexed about it. I felt my face getting +red." + +"Why didn't you tell her it was no business of hers?" said Eben +angrily. "Old Flora Jane had better mind her own business." + +"But all the folks are talking about it, Eb. And mother is +fretting her heart out over it. Father has never acted like +himself since these meetings began. He just goes there night +after night, and sits like a mummy, with his head down. And +almost everybody else in Avonlea has testified." + +"Oh, no, there's lots haven't," said Eben. "Matthew Cuthbert +never has, nor Uncle Elisha, nor any of the Whites." + +"But everybody knows they don't believe in getting up and +testifying, so nobody wonders when they don't. Besides," Mollie +laughed--"Matthew could never get a word out in public, if he did +believe in it. He'd be too shy. But," she added with a sigh, +"it isn't that way with father. He believes in testimony, so +people wonder why he doesn't get up. Why, even old Josiah Sloane +gets up every night." + +"With his whiskers sticking out every which way, and his hair +ditto," interjected the graceless Eben. + +"When the minister calls for testimonials and all the folks look +at our pew, I feel ready to sink through the floor for shame," +sighed Mollie. "If father would get up just once!" + +Miriam Bell entered the kitchen. She was ready for the meeting, +to which Major Spencer was to take her. She was a tall, pale +girl, with a serious face, and dark, thoughtful eyes, totally +unlike Mollie. She had "come under conviction" during the +meetings, and had stood up for prayer and testimony several +times. The evangelist thought her very spiritual. She heard +Mollie's concluding sentence and spoke reprovingly. + +"You shouldn't criticize your father, Mollie. It isn't for you +to judge him." + +Eben had hastily slipped out. He was afraid Miriam would begin +talking religion to him if he stayed. He had with difficulty +escaped from an exhortation by Robert in the cow-stable. There +was no peace in Avonlea for the unregenerate, he reflected. +Robert and Miriam had both "come out," and Mollie was hovering on +the brink. + +"Dad and I are the black sheep of the family," he said, with a +laugh, for which he at once felt guilty. Eben had been brought +up with a strict reverence for all religious matters. On the +surface he might sometimes laugh at them, but the deeps troubled +him whenever he did so. + +Indoors, Miriam touched her younger sister's shoulder and looked +at her affectionately. + +"Won't you decide to-night, Mollie?" she asked, in a voice +tremulous with emotion. + +Mollie crimsoned and turned her face away uncomfortably. She did +not know what answer to make, and was glad that a jingle of bells +outside saved her the necessity of replying. + +"There's your beau, Miriam," she said, as she darted into the +sitting room. + +Soon after, Eben brought the family pung and his chubby red mare +to the door for Mollie. He had not as yet attained to the +dignity of a cutter of his own. That was for his elder brother, +Robert, who presently came out in his new fur coat and drove +dashingly away with bells and glitter. + +"Thinks he's the people," remarked Eben, with a fraternal grin. + +The rich winter twilight was purpling over the white world as +they drove down the lane under the over-arching wild cherry trees +that glittered with gemmy hoar-frost. The snow creaked and +crisped under the runners. A shrill wind was keening in the +leafless dogwoods. Over the trees the sky was a dome of silver, +with a lucent star or two on the slope of the west. Earth-stars +gleamed warmly out here and there, where homesteads were tucked +snugly away in their orchards or groves of birch. + +"The church will be jammed to-night," said Eben. "It's so fine +that folks will come from near and far. Guess it'll be +exciting." + +"If only father would testify!" sighed Mollie, from the bottom of +the pung, where she was snuggled amid furs and straw. "Miriam +can say what she likes, but I do feels as if we were all +disgraced. It sends a creep all over me to hear Mr. Bentley say, +'Now, isn't there one more to say a word for Jesus?' and look +right over at father." + +Eben flicked his mare with his whip, and she broke into a trot. +The silence was filled with a faint, fairy-like melody from afar +down the road where a pungful of young folks from White Sands +were singing hymns on their way to meeting. + +"Look here, Mollie," said Eben awkwardly at last, "are you going +to stand up for prayers to-night?" + +"I--I can't as long as father acts this way," answered Mollie, in +a choked voice. "I--I want to, Eb, and Mirry and Bob want me to, +but I can't. I do hope that the evangelist won't come and talk +to me special to-night. I always feels as if I was being pulled +two different ways, when he does." + +Back in the kitchen at home Mrs. Bell was waiting for her husband +to bring the horse to the door. She was a slight, dark-eyed +little woman, with thin, vivid-red cheeks. From out of the +swathings in which she had wrapped her bonnet, her face gleamed +sad and troubled. Now and then she sighed heavily. + +The cat came to her from under the stove, languidly stretching +himself, and yawning until all the red cavern of his mouth and +throat was revealed. At the moment he had an uncanny resemblance +to Elder Joseph Blewett of White Sands--Roaring Joe, the +irreverent boys called him--when he grew excited and shouted. +Mrs. Bell saw it--and then reproached herself for the sacrilege. + +"But it's no wonder I've wicked thoughts," she said, wearily. +"I'm that worried I ain't rightly myself. If he would only tell +me what the trouble is, maybe I could help him. At any rate, I'd +KNOW. It hurts me so to see him going about, day after day, with +his head hanging and that look on his face, as if he had +something fearful on his conscience--him that never harmed a +living soul. And then the way he groans and mutters in his +sleep! He has always lived a just, upright life. He hasn't no +right to go on like this, disgracing his family." + +Mrs. Bell's angry sob was cut short by the sleigh at the door. +Her husband poked in his busy, iron-gray head and said, "Now, +mother." He helped her into the sleigh, tucked the rugs warmly +around her, and put a hot brick at her feet. His solicitude hurt +her. It was all for her material comfort. It did not matter to +him what mental agony she might suffer over his strange attitude. +For the first time in their married life Mary Bell felt +resentment against her husband. + +They drove along in silence, past the snow-powdered hedges of +spruce, and under the arches of the forest roadways. They were +late, and a great stillness was over all the land. David Bell +never spoke. All his usual cheerful talkativeness had +disappeared since the revival meetings had begun in Avonlea. +From the first he had gone about as a man over whom some strange +doom is impending, seemingly oblivious to all that might be said +or thought of him in his own family or in the church. Mary Bell +thought she would go out of her mind if her husband continued to +act in this way. Her reflections were bitter and rebellious as +they sped along through the glittering night of the winter's +prime. + +"I don't get one bit of good out of the meetings," she thought +resentfully. "There ain't any peace or joy for me, not even in +testifying myself, when David sits there like a stick or stone. +If he'd been opposed to the revivalist coming here, like old +Uncle Jerry, or if he didn't believe in public testimony, I +wouldn't mind. I'd understand. But, as it is, I feel dreadful +humiliated." + +Revival meetings had never been held in Avonlea before. "Uncle" +Jerry MacPherson, who was the supreme local authority in church +matters, taking precedence of even the minister, had been +uncompromisingly opposed to them. He was a stern, deeply +religious Scotchman, with a horror of the emotional form of +religion. As long as Uncle Jerry's spare, ascetic form and +deeply-graved square-jawed face filled his accustomed corner by +the northwest window of Avonlea church no revivalist might +venture therein, although the majority of the congregation, +including the minister, would have welcomed one warmly. + +But now Uncle Jerry was sleeping peacefully under the tangled +grasses and white snows of the burying ground, and, if dead +people ever do turn in their graves, Uncle Jerry might well have +turned in his when the revivalist came to Avonlea church, and +there followed the emotional services, public testimonies, and +religious excitement which the old man's sturdy soul had always +abhorred. + +Avonlea was a good field for an evangelist. The Rev. Geoffrey +Mountain, who came to assist the Avonlea minister in revivifying +the dry bones thereof, knew this and reveled in the knowledge. +It was not often that such a virgin parish could be found +nowadays, with scores of impressionable, unspoiled souls on which +fervid oratory could play skillfully, as a master on a mighty +organ, until every note in them thrilled to life and utterance. +The Rev. Geoffrey Mountain was a good man; of the earth, earthy, +to be sure, but with an unquestionable sincerity of belief and +purpose which went far to counterbalance the sensationalism of +some of his methods. + +He was large and handsome, with a marvelously sweet and winning +voice--a voice that could melt into irresistible tenderness, or +swell into sonorous appeal and condemnation, or ring like a +trumpet calling to battle. + +His frequent grammatical errors, and lapses into vulgarity, +counted for nothing against its charm, and the most commonplace +words in the world would have borrowed much of the power of real +oratory from its magic. He knew its value and used it +effectively--perhaps even ostentatiously. + +Geoffrey Mountain's religion and methods, like the man himself, +were showy, but, of their kind, sincere, and, though the good he +accomplished might not be unmixed, it was a quantity to be +reckoned with. + +So the Rev. Geoffrey Mountain came to Avonlea, conquering and to +conquer. Night after night the church was crowded with eager +listeners, who hung breathlessly on his words and wept and +thrilled and exulted as he willed. Into many young souls his +appeals and warnings burned their way, and each night they rose +for prayer in response to his invitation. Older Christians, too, +took on a new lease of intensity, and even the unregenerate and +the scoffers found a certain fascination in the meetings. +Threading through it all, for old and young, converted and +unconverted, was an unacknowledged feeling for religious +dissipation. Avonlea was a quiet place,--and the revival +meetings were lively. + +When David and Mary Bell reached the church the services had +begun, and they heard the refrain of a hallelujah hymn as they +were crossing Harmon Andrews' field. David Bell left his wife at +the platform and drove to the horse-shed. + +Mrs. Bell unwound the scarf from her bonnet and shook the frost +crystals from it. In the porch Flora Jane Fletcher and her +sister, Mrs. Harmon Andrews, were talking in low whispers. +Presently Flora Jane put out her lank, cashmere-gloved hand and +plucked Mrs. Bell's shawl. + +"Mary, is the elder going to testify to-night?" she asked, in a +shrill whisper. + +Mrs. Bell winced. She would have given much to be able to answer +"Yes," but she had to say stiffly, + +"I don't know." + +Flora Jane lifted her chin. + +"Well, Mrs. Bell, I only asked because every one thinks it is +strange he doesn't--and an elder, of all people. It looks as if +he didn't think himself a Christian, you know. Of course, we all +know better, but it LOOKS that way. If I was you, I'd tell him +folks was talking about it. Mr. Bentley says it is hindering +the full success of the meetings." + +Mrs. Bell turned on her tormentor in swift anger. She might +resent her husband's strange behavior herself, but nobody else +should dare to criticize him to her. + +"I don't think you need to worry yourself about the elder, Flora +Jane," she said bitingly. "Maybe 'tisn't the best Christians +that do the most talking about it always. I guess, as far as +living up to his profession goes, the elder will compare pretty +favorably with Levi Boulter, who gets up and testifies every +night, and cheats the very eye-teeth out of people in the +daytime." + +Levi Boulter was a middle-aged widower, with a large family, who +was supposed to have cast a matrimonial eye Flora Janeward. The +use of his name was an effective thrust on Mrs. Bell's part, and +silenced Flora Jane. Too angry for speech she seized her +sister's arm and hurried her into church. + +But her victory could not remove from Mary Bell's soul the sting +implanted there by Flora Jane's words. When her husband came up +to the platform she put her hand on his snowy arm appealingly. + +"Oh, David, won't you get up to-night? I do feel so dreadful +bad--folks are talking so--I just feel humiliated." + +David Bell hung his head like a shamed schoolboy. + +"I can't, Mary," he said huskily. "'Tain't no use to pester me." + +"You don't care for my feelings," said his wife bitterly. "And +Mollie won't come out because you're acting so. You're keeping +her back from salvation. And you're hindering the success of the +revival--Mr. Bentley says so." + +David Bell groaned. This sign of suffering wrung his wife's +heart. With quick contrition she whispered, + +"There, never mind, David. I oughtn't to have spoken to you so. +You know your duty best. Let's go in." + +"Wait." His voice was imploring. + +"Mary, is it true that Mollie won't come out because of me? Am I +standing in my child's light?" + +"I--don't--know. I guess not. Mollie's just a foolish young +girl yet. Never mind--come in." + +He followed her dejectedly in, and up the aisle to their pew in +the center of the church. The building was warm and crowded. +The pastor was reading the Bible lesson for the evening. In the +choir, behind him, David Bell saw Mollie's girlish face, tinged +with a troubled seriousness. His own wind-ruddy face and bushy +gray eyebrows worked convulsively with his inward throes. A sigh +that was almost a groan burst from him. + +"I'll have to do it," he said to himself in agony. + +When several more hymns had been sung, and late arrivals began to +pack the aisles, the evangelist arose. His style for the evening +was the tender, the pleading, the solemn. He modulated his tones +to marvelous sweetness, and sent them thrillingly over the +breathless pews, entangling the hearts and souls of his listeners +in a mesh of subtle emotion. Many of the women began to cry +softly. Fervent amens broke from some of the members. When the +evangelist sat down, after a closing appeal which, in its way, +was a masterpiece, an audible sigh of relieved tension passed +like a wave over the audience. + +After prayer the pastor made the usual request that, if any of +those present wished to come out on the side of Christ, they +would signify the wish by rising for a moment in their places. +After a brief interval, a pale boy under the gallery rose, +followed by an old man at the top of the church. A frightened, +sweet-faced child of twelve got tremblingly upon her feet, and a +dramatic thrill passed over the congregation when her mother +suddenly stood up beside her. The evangelist's "Thank God" was +hearty and insistent. + +David Bell looked almost imploringly at Mollie; but she kept her +seat, with downcast eyes. Over in the big square "stone pew" he +saw Eben bending forward, with his elbows on his knees, gazing +frowningly at the floor. + +"I'm a stumbling block to them both," he thought bitterly. + +A hymn was sung and prayer offered for those under conviction. +Then testimonies were called for. The evangelist asked for them +in tones which made it seem a personal request to every one in +that building. + +Many testimonies followed, each infused with the personality of +the giver. Most of them were brief and stereotyped. Finally a +pause ensued. The evangelist swept the pews with his kindling +eyes and exclaimed, appealingly, + +"Has EVERY Christian in this church to-night spoken a word for +his Master?" + +There were many who had not testified, but every eye in the +building followed the pastor's accusing glance to the Bell pew. +Mollie crimsoned with shame. Mrs. Bell cowered visibly. + +Although everybody looked thus at David Bell, nobody now expected +him to testify. When he rose to his feet, a murmur of surprise +passed over the audience, followed by a silence so complete as to +be terrible. To David Bell it seemed to possess the awe of final +judgment. + +Twice he opened his lips, and tried vainly to speak. The third +time he succeeded; but his voice sounded strangely in his own +ears. He gripped the back of the pew before him with his knotty +hands, and fixed his eyes unseeingly on the Christian Endeavor +pledge that hung over the heads of the choir. + +"Brethren and sisters," he said hoarsely, "before I can say a +word of Christian testimony here to-night I've got something to +confess. It's been lying hard and heavy on my conscience ever +since these meetings begun. As long as I kept silence about it I +couldn't get up and bear witness for Christ. Many of you have +expected me to do it. Maybe I've been a stumbling block to some +of you. This season of revival has brought no blessing to me +because of my sin, which I repented of, but tried to conceal. +There has been a spiritual darkness over me. + +"Friends and neighbors, I have always been held by you as an +honest man. It was the shame of having you know I was not which +has kept me back from open confession and testimony. Just afore +these meetings commenced I come home from town one night and +found that somebody had passed a counterfeit ten-dollar bill on +me. Then Satan entered into me and possessed me. When Mrs. +Rachel Lynde come next day, collecting for foreign missions, I +give her that ten dollar bill. She never knowed the difference, +and sent it away with the rest. But I knew I'd done a mean and +sinful thing. I couldn't drive it out of my thoughts. A few +days afterwards I went down to Mrs. Rachel's and give her ten +good dollars for the fund. I told her I had come to the +conclusion I ought to give more than ten dollars, out of my +abundance, to the Lord. That was a lie. Mrs. Lynde thought I +was a generous man, and I felt ashamed to look her in the face. +But I'd done what I could to right the wrong, and I thought it +would be all right. But it wasn't. I've never known a minute's +peace of mind or conscience since. I tried to cheat the Lord, +and then tried to patch it up by doing something that redounded +to my worldly credit. When these meetings begun, and everybody +expected me to testify, I couldn't do it. It would have seemed +like blasphemy. And I couldn't endure the thought of telling +what I'd done, either. I argued it all out a thousand times that +I hadn't done any real harm after all, but it was no use. I've +been so wrapped up in my own brooding and misery that I didn't +realize I was inflicting suffering on those dear to me by my +conduct, and, maybe, holding some of them back from the paths of +salvation. But my eyes have been opened to this to-night, and +the Lord has given me strength to confess my sin and glorify His +holy name." + +The broken tones ceased, and David Bell sat down, wiping the +great drops of perspiration from his brow. To a man of his +training, and cast of thought, no ordeal could be more terrible +than that through which he had just passed. But underneath the +turmoil of his emotion he felt a great calm and peace, threaded +with the exultation of a hard-won spiritual victory. + +Over the church was a solemn hush. The evangelist's "amen" was +not spoken with his usual unctuous fervor, but very gently and +reverently. In spite of his coarse fiber, he could appreciate +the nobility behind such a confession as this, and the deeps of +stern suffering it sounded. + +Before the last prayer the pastor paused and looked around. + +"Is there yet one," he asked gently, "who wishes to be especially +remembered in our concluding prayer?" + +For a moment nobody moved. Then Mollie Bell stood up in the +choir seat, and, down by the stove, Eben, his flushed, boyish +face held high, rose sturdily to his feet in the midst of his +companions. + +"Thank God," whispered Mary Bell. + +"Amen," said her husband huskily. + +"Let us pray," said Mr. Bentley. + + + +XIV. ONLY A COMMON FELLOW + +On my dearie's wedding morning I wakened early and went to her +room. Long and long ago she had made me promise that I would be +the one to wake her on the morning of her wedding day. + +"You were the first to take me in your arms when I came into the +world, Aunt Rachel," she had said, "and I want you to be the +first to greet me on that wonderful day." + +But that was long ago, and now my heart foreboded that there +would be no need of wakening her. And there was not. She was +lying there awake, very quiet, with her hand under her cheek, and +her big blue eyes fixed on the window, through which a pale, dull +light was creeping in--a joyless light it was, and enough to make +a body shiver. I felt more like weeping than rejoicing, and my +heart took to aching when I saw her there so white and patient, +more like a girl who was waiting for a winding-sheet than for a +bridal veil. But she smiled brave-like, when I sat down on her +bed and took her hand. + +"You look as if you haven't slept all night, dearie," I said. + +"I didn't--not a great deal," she answered me. "But the night +didn't seem long; no, it seemed too short. I was thinking of a +great many things. What time is it, Aunt Rachel?" + +"Five o'clock." + +"Then in six hours more--" + +She suddenly sat up in her bed, her great, thick rope of brown +hair falling over her white shoulders, and flung her arms about +me, and burst into tears on my old breast. I petted and soothed +her, and said not a word; and, after a while, she stopped crying; +but she still sat with her head so that I couldn't see her face. + +"We didn't think it would be like this once, did we, Aunt +Rachel?" she said, very softly. + +"It shouldn't be like this, now," I said. I had to say it. I +never could hide the thought of that marriage, and I couldn't +pretend to. It was all her stepmother's doings--right well I +knew that. My dearie would never have taken Mark Foster else. + +"Don't let us talk of that," she said, soft and beseeching, just +the same way she used to speak when she was a baby-child and +wanted to coax me into something. "Let us talk about the old +days--and HIM." + +"I don't see much use in talking of HIM, when you're going to +marry Mark Foster to-day," I said. + +But she put her hand on my mouth. + +"It's for the last time, Aunt Rachel. After to-day I can never +talk of him, or even think of him. It's four years since he went +away. Do you remember how he looked, Aunt Rachel?" + +"I mind well enough, I reckon," I said, kind of curt-like. And I +did. Owen Blair hadn't a face a body could forget--that long +face of his with its clean color and its eyes made to look love +into a woman's. When I thought of Mark Foster's sallow skin and +lank jaws I felt sick-like. Not that Mark was ugly--he was just +a common-looking fellow. + +"He was so handsome, wasn't he, Aunt Rachel?" my dearie went on, +in that patient voice of hers. "So tall and strong and handsome. +I wish we hadn't parted in anger. It was so foolish of us to +quarrel. But it would have been all right if he had lived to +come back. I know it would have been all right. I know he +didn't carry any bitterness against me to his death. I thought +once, Aunt Rachel, that I would go through life true to him, and +then, over on the other side, I'd meet him just as before, all +his and his only. But it isn't to be." + +"Thanks to your stepma's wheedling and Mark Foster's scheming," +said I. + +"No, Mark didn't scheme," she said patiently. "Don't be unjust +to Mark, Aunt Rachel. He has been very good and kind." + +"He's as stupid as an owlet and as stubborn as Solomon's mule," I +said, for I WOULD say it. "He's just a common fellow, and yet he +thinks he's good enough for my beauty." + +"Don't talk about Mark," she pleaded again. "I mean to be a +good, faithful wife to him. But I'm my own woman yet--YET--for +just a few more sweet hours, and I want to give them to HIM. The +last hours of my maidenhood--they must belong to HIM." + +So she talked of him, me sitting there and holding her, with her +lovely hair hanging down over my arm, and my heart aching so for +her that it hurt bitter. She didn't feel as bad as I did, +because she'd made up her mind what to do and was resigned. She +was going to marry Mark Foster, but her heart was in France, in +that grave nobody knew of, where the Huns had buried Owen +Blair--if they had buried him at all. And she went over all they +had been to each other, since they were mites of babies, going to +school together and meaning, even then, to be married when they +grew up; and the first words of love he'd said to her, and what +she'd dreamed and hoped for. The only thing she didn't bring up +was the time he thrashed Mark Foster for bringing her apples. +She never mentioned Mark's name; it was all Owen--Owen--and how +he looked, and what might have been, if he hadn't gone off to the +awful war and got shot. And there was me, holding her and +listening to it all, and her stepma sleeping sound and triumphant +in the next room. + +When she had talked it all out she lay down on her pillow again. +I got up and went downstairs to light the fire. I felt terrible +old and tired. My feet seemed to drag, and the tears kept coming +to my eyes, though I tried to keep them away, for well I knew it +was a bad omen to be weeping on a wedding day. + +Before long Isabella Clark came down; bright and pleased-looking +enough, SHE was. I'd never liked Isabella, from the day +Phillippa's father brought her here; and I liked her less than +ever this morning. She was one of your sly, deep women, always +smiling smooth, and scheming underneath it. I'll say it for her, +though, she had been good to Phillippa; but it was her doings +that my dearie was to marry Mark Foster that day. + +"Up betimes, Rachel," she said, smiling and speaking me fair, as +she always did, and hating me in her heart, as I well knew. +"That is right, for we'll have plenty to do to-day. A wedding +makes lots of work." + +"Not this sort of a wedding," I said, sour-like. "I don't call +it a wedding when two people get married and sneak off as if they +were ashamed of it--as well they might be in this case." + +"It was Phillippa's own wish that all should be very quiet," said +Isabella, as smooth as cream. "You know I'd have given her a big +wedding, if she'd wanted it." + +"Oh, it's better quiet," I said. "The fewer to see Phillippa +marry a man like Mark Foster the better." + +"Mark Foster is a good man, Rachel." + +"No good man would be content to buy a girl as he's bought +Phillippa," I said, determined to give it in to her. "He's a +common fellow, not fit for my dearie to wipe her feet on. It's +well that her mother didn't live to see this day; but this day +would never have come, if she'd lived." + +"I dare say Phillippa's mother would have remembered that Mark +Foster is very well off, quite as readily as worse people," said +Isabella, a little spitefully. + +I liked her better when she was spiteful than when she was +smooth. I didn't feel so scared of her then. + +The marriage was to be at eleven o'clock, and, at nine, I went up +to help Phillippa dress. She was no fussy bride, caring much +what she looked like. If Owen had been the bridegroom it would +have been different. Nothing would have pleased her then; but +now it was only just "That will do very well, Aunt Rachel," +without even glancing at it. + +Still, nothing could prevent her from looking lovely when she was +dressed. My dearie would have been a beauty in a beggarmaid's +rags. In her white dress and veil she was as fair as a queen. +And she was as good as she was pretty. It was the right sort of +goodness, too, with just enough spice of original sin in it to +keep it from spoiling by reason of over-sweetness. + +Then she sent me out. + +"I want to be alone my last hour," she said. "Kiss me, Aunt +Rachel--MOTHER Rachel." + +When I'd gone down, crying like the old fool I was, I heard a rap +at the door. My first thought was to go out and send Isabella to +it, for I supposed it was Mark Foster, come ahead of time, and +small stomach I had for seeing him. I fall trembling, even yet, +when I think, "What if I had sent Isabella to that door?" + +But go I did, and opened it, defiant-like, kind of hoping it was +Mark Foster to see the tears on my face. I opened it--and +staggered back like I'd got a blow. + +"Owen! Lord ha' mercy on us! Owen!" I said, just like that, +going cold all over, for it's the truth that I thought it was his +spirit come back to forbid that unholy marriage. + +But he sprang right in, and caught my wrinkled old hands in a +grasp that was of flesh and blood. + +"Aunt Rachel, I'm not too late?" he said, savage-like. "Tell me +I'm in time." + +I looked up at him, standing over me there, tall and handsome, no +change in him except he was so brown and had a little white scar +on his forehead; and, though I couldn't understand at all, being +all bewildered-like, I felt a great deep thankfulness. + +"No, you're not too late," I said. + +"Thank God," said he, under his breath. And then he pulled me +into the parlor and shut the door. + +"They told me at the station that Phillippa was to be married to +Mark Foster to-day. I couldn't believe it, but I came here as +fast as horse-flesh could bring me. Aunt Rachel, it can't be +true! She can't care for Mark Foster, even if she had forgotten +me!" + +"It's true enough that she is to marry Mark," I said, +half-laughing, half-crying, "but she doesn't care for him. Every +beat of her heart is for you. It's all her stepma's doings. +Mark has got a mortgage on the place, and he told Isabella Clark +that, if Phillippa would marry him, he'd burn the mortgage, and, +if she wouldn't, he'd foreclose. Phillippa is sacrificing +herself to save her stepma for her dead father's sake. It's all +your fault," I cried, getting over my bewilderment. "We thought +you were dead. Why didn't you come home when you were alive? +Why didn't you write?" + +"I DID write, after I got out of the hospital, several times," he +said, "and never a word in answer, Aunt Rachel. What was I to +think when Phillippa wouldn't answer my letters?" + +"She never got one," I cried. "She wept her sweet eyes out over +you. SOMEBODY must have got those letters." + +And I knew then, and I know now, though never a shadow of proof +have I, that Isabella Clark had got them--and kept them. That +woman would stick at nothing. + +"Well, we'll sift that matter some other time," said Owen +impatiently. "There are other things to think of now. I must +see Phillippa." + +"I'll manage it for you," I said eagerly; but, just as I spoke, +the door opened and Isabella and Mark came in. Never shall I +forget the look on Isabella's face. I almost felt sorry for her. +She turned sickly yellow and her eyes went wild; they were +looking at the downfall of all her schemes and hopes. I didn't +look at Mark Foster, at first, and, when I did, there wasn't +anything to see. His face was just as sallow and wooden as ever; +he looked undersized and common beside Owen. Nobody'd ever have +picked him out for a bridegroom. + +Owen spoke first. + +"I want to see Phillippa," he said, as if it were but yesterday +that he had gone away. + +All Isabella's smoothness and policy had dropped away from her, +and the real woman stood there, plotting and unscrupulous, as I'd +always know her. + +"You can't see her," she said desperate-like. "She doesn't want +to see you. You went and left her and never wrote, and she knew +you weren't worth fretting over, and she has learned to care for +a better man." + +"I DID write and I think you know that better than most folks," +said Owen, trying hard to speak quiet. "As for the rest, I'm not +going to discuss it with you. When I hear from Phillippa's own +lips that she cares for another man I'll believe it--and not +before." + +"You'll never hear it from her lips," said I. + +Isabella gave me a venomous look. + +"You'll not see Phillippa until she is a better man's wife," she +said stubbornly, "and I order you to leave my house, Owen Blair!" + +"No!" + +It was Mark Foster who spoke. He hadn't said a word; but he came +forward now, and stood before Owen. Such a difference as there +was between them! But he looked Owen right in the face, +quiet-like, and Owen glared back in fury. + +"Will it satisfy you, Owen, if Phillippa comes down here and +chooses between us?" + +"Yes, it will," said Owen. + +Mark Foster turned to me. + +"Go and bring her down," said he. + +Isabella, judging Phillippa by herself, gave a little moan of +despair, and Owen, blinded by love and hope, thought his cause +was won. But I knew my dearie too well to be glad, and Mark +Foster did, too, and I hated him for it. + +I went up to my dearie's room, all pale and shaking. When I went +in she came to meet me, like a girl going to meet death. + +"Is--it--time?" she said, with her hands locked tight together. + +I said not a word, hoping that the unlooked-for sight of Owen +would break down her resolution. I just held out my hand to her, +and led her downstairs. She clung to me and her hands were as +cold as snow. When I opened the parlor door I stood back, and +pushed her in before me. + +She just cried, "Owen!" and shook so that I put my arms about her +to steady her. + +Owen made a step towards her, his face and eyes all aflame with +his love and longing, but Mark barred his way. + +"Wait till she has made her choice," he said, and then he turned +to Phillippa. I couldn't see my dearie's face, but I could see +Mark's, and there wasn't a spark of feeling in it. Behind it was +Isabella's, all pinched and gray. + +"Phillippa," said Mark, "Owen Blair has come back. He says he +has never forgotten you, and that he wrote to you several times. +I have told him that you have promised me, but I leave you +freedom of choice. Which of us will you marry, Phillippa?" + +My dearie stood straight up and the trembling left her. She +stepped back, and I could see her face, white as the dead, but +calm and resolved. + +"I have promised to marry you, Mark, and I will keep my word," +she said. + +The color came back to Isabella Clark's face; but Mark's did not +change. + +"Phillippa," said Owen, and the pain in his voice made my old +heart ache bitterer than ever, "have you ceased to love me?" + +My dearie would have been more than human, if she could have +resisted the pleading in his tone. She said no word, but just +looked at him for a moment. We all saw the look; her whole soul, +full of love for Owen, showed out in it. Then she turned and +stood by Mark. + +Owen never said a word. He went as white as death, and started +for the door. But again Mark Foster put himself in the way. + +"Wait," he said. "She has made her choice, as I knew she would; +but I have yet to make mine. And I choose to marry no woman +whose love belongs to another living man. Phillippa, I thought +Owen Blair was dead, and I believed that, when you were my wife, +I could win your love. But I love you too well to make you +miserable. Go to the man you love--you are free!" + +"And what is to become of me?" wailed Isabella. + +"Oh, you!--I had forgotten about you," said Mark, kind of +weary-like. He took a paper from his pocket, and dropped it in +the grate. "There is the mortgage. That is all you care about, +I think. Good-morning." + +He went out. He was only a common fellow, but, somehow, just +then he looked every inch the gentleman. I would have gone after +him and said something but--the look on his face--no, it was no +time for my foolish old words! + +Phillippa was crying, with her head on Owen's shoulder. Isabella +Clark waited to see the mortgage burned up, and then she came to +me in the hall, all smooth and smiling again. + +"Really, it's all very romantic, isn't it? I suppose it's better +as it is, all things considered. Mark behaved splendidly, didn't +he? Not many men would have done as he did." + +For once in my life I agreed with Isabella. But I felt like +having a good cry over it all--and I had it. I was glad for my +dearie's sake and Owen's; but Mark Foster had paid the price of +their joy, and I knew it had beggared him of happiness for life. + + + +XV. TANNIS OF THE FLATS + +Few people in Avonlea could understand why Elinor Blair had never +married. She had been one of the most beautiful girls in our +part of the Island and, as a woman of fifty, she was still very +attractive. In her youth she had had ever so many beaux, as we +of our generation well remembered; but, after her return from +visiting her brother Tom in the Canadian Northwest, more than +twenty-five years ago, she had seemed to withdraw within herself, +keeping all men at a safe, though friendly, distance. She had +been a gay, laughing girl when she went West; she came back quiet +and serious, with a shadowed look in her eyes which time could +not quite succeed in blotting out. + +Elinor had never talked much about her visit, except to describe +the scenery and the life, which in that day was rough indeed. +Not even to me, who had grown up next door to her and who had +always seemed more a sister than a friend, did she speak of other +than the merest commonplaces. But when Tom Blair made a flying +trip back home, some ten years later, there were one or two of us +to whom he related the story of Jerome Carey,--a story revealing +only too well the reason for Elinor's sad eyes and utter +indifference to masculine attentions. I can recall almost his +exact words and the inflections of his voice, and I remember, +too, that it seemed to me a far cry from the tranquil, pleasant +scene before us, on that lovely summer day, to the elemental life +of the Flats. + +The Flats was a forlorn little trading station fifteen miles up +the river from Prince Albert, with a scanty population of +half-breeds and three white men. When Jerome Carey was sent to +take charge of the telegraph office there, he cursed his fate in +the picturesque language permissible in the far Northwest. + +Not that Carey was a profane man, even as men go in the West. He +was an English gentleman, and he kept both his life and his +vocabulary pretty clean. But--the Flats! + +Outside of the ragged cluster of log shacks, which comprised the +settlement, there was always a shifting fringe of teepees where +the Indians, who drifted down from the Reservation, camped with +their dogs and squaws and papooses. There are standpoints from +which Indians are interesting, but they cannot be said to offer +congenial social attractions. For three weeks after Carey went +to the Flats he was lonelier than he had ever imagined it +possible to be, even in the Great Lone Land. If it had not been +for teaching Paul Dumont the telegraphic code, Carey believed he +would have been driven to suicide in self-defense. + +The telegraphic importance of the Flats consisted in the fact +that it was the starting point of three telegraph lines to remote +trading posts up North. Not many messages came therefrom, but +the few that did come generally amounted to something worth +while. Days and even weeks would pass without a single one being +clicked to the Flats. Carey was debarred from talking over the +wires to the Prince Albert man for the reason that they were on +officially bad terms. He blamed the latter for his transfer to +the Flats. + +Carey slept in a loft over the office, and got his meals as Joe +Esquint's, across the "street." Joe Esquint's wife was a good +cook, as cooks go among the breeds, and Carey soon became a great +pet of hers. Carey had a habit of becoming a pet with women. He +had the "way" that has to be born in a man and can never be +acquired. Besides, he was as handsome as clean-cut features, +deep-set, dark-blue eyes, fair curls and six feet of muscle could +make him. Mrs. Joe Esquint thought that his mustache was the +most wonderfully beautiful thing, in its line, that she had ever +seen. + +Fortunately, Mrs. Joe was so old and fat and ugly that even the +malicious and inveterate gossip of skulking breeds and Indians, +squatting over teepee fires, could not hint at anything +questionable in the relations between her and Carey. But it was +a different matter with Tannis Dumont. + +Tannis came home from the academy at Prince Albert early in July, +when Carey had been at the Flats a month and had exhausted all +the few novelties of his position. Paul Dumont had already +become so expert at the code that his mistakes no longer afforded +Carey any fun, and the latter was getting desperate. He had +serious intentions of throwing up the business altogether, and +betaking himself to an Alberta ranch, where at least one would +have the excitement of roping horses. When he saw Tannis Dumont +he thought he would hang on awhile longer, anyway. + +Tannis was the daughter of old Auguste Dumont, who kept the one +small store at the Flats, lived in the one frame house that the +place boasted, and was reputed to be worth an amount of money +which, in half-breed eyes, was a colossal fortune. Old Auguste +was black and ugly and notoriously bad-tempered. But Tannis was +a beauty. + +Tannis' great-grandmother had been a Cree squaw who married a +French trapper. The son of this union became in due time the +father of Auguste Dumont. Auguste married a woman whose mother +was a French half-breed and whose father was a pure-bred Highland +Scotchman. The result of this atrocious mixture was its +justification--Tannis of the Flats--who looked as if all the +blood of all the Howards might be running in her veins. + +But, after all, the dominant current in those same veins was from +the race of plain and prairie. The practiced eye detected it in +the slender stateliness of carriage, in the graceful, yet +voluptuous, curves of the lithe body, in the smallness and +delicacy of hand and foot, in the purple sheen on +straight-falling masses of blue-black hair, and, more than all +else, in the long, dark eye, full and soft, yet alight with a +slumbering fire. France, too, was responsible for somewhat in +Tannis. It gave her a light step in place of the stealthy +half-breed shuffle, it arched her red upper lip into a more +tremulous bow, it lent a note of laughter to her voice and a +sprightlier wit to her tongue. As for her red-headed Scotch +grandfather, he had bequeathed her a somewhat whiter skin and +ruddier bloom than is usually found in the breeds. + +Old Auguste was mightily proud of Tannis. He sent her to school +for four years in Prince Albert, bound that his girl should have +the best. A High School course and considerable mingling in the +social life of the town--for old Auguste was a man to be +conciliated by astute politicians, since he controlled some two +or three hundred half-breed votes--sent Tannis home to the Flats +with a very thin, but very deceptive, veneer of culture and +civilization overlying the primitive passions and ideas of her +nature. + +Carey saw only the beauty and the veneer. He made the mistake of +thinking that Tannis was what she seemed to be--a fairly +well-educated, up-to-date young woman with whom a friendly +flirtation was just what it was with white womankind--the +pleasant amusement of an hour or season. It was a mistake--a +very big mistake. Tannis understood something of piano playing, +something less of grammar and Latin, and something less still of +social prevarications. But she understood absolutely nothing of +flirtation. You can never get an Indian to see the sense of +Platonics. + +Carey found the Flats quite tolerable after the homecoming of +Tannis. He soon fell into the habit of dropping into the Dumont +house to spend the evening, talking with Tannis in the +parlor--which apartment was amazingly well done for a place like +the Flats--Tannis had not studied Prince Albert parlors four +years for nothing--or playing violin and piano duets with her. +When music and conversation palled, they went for long gallops +over the prairies together. Tannis rode to perfection, and +managed her bad-tempered brute of a pony with a skill and grace +that made Carey applaud her. She was glorious on horseback. + +Sometimes he grew tired of the prairies and then he and Tannis +paddled themselves over the river in Nitchie Joe's dug-out, and +landed on the old trail that struck straight into the wooded belt +of the Saskatchewan valley, leading north to trading posts on the +frontier of civilization. There they rambled under huge pines, +hoary with the age of centuries, and Carey talked to Tannis about +England and quoted poetry to her. Tannis liked poetry; she had +studied it at school, and understood it fairly well. But once +she told Carey that she thought it a long, round-about way of +saying what you could say just as well in about a dozen plain +words. Carey laughed. He liked to evoke those little speeches +of hers. They sounded very clever, dropping from such arched, +ripely-tinted lips. + +If you had told Carey that he was playing with fire he would have +laughed at you. In the first place he was not in the slightest +degree in love with Tannis--he merely admired and liked her. In +the second place, it never occurred to him that Tannis might be +in love with him. Why, he had never attempted any love-making +with her! And, above all, he was obsessed with that aforesaid +fatal idea that Tannis was like the women he had associated with +all his life, in reality as well as in appearance. He did not +know enough of the racial characteristics to understand. + +But, if Carey thought his relationship with Tannis was that of +friendship merely, he was the only one at the Flats who did think +so. All the half-breeds and quarter-breeds and any-fractional +breeds there believed that he meant to marry Tannis. There would +have been nothing surprising to them in that. They did not know +that Carey's second cousin was a baronet, and they would not have +understood that it need make any difference, if they had. They +thought that rich old Auguste's heiress, who had been to school +for four years in Prince Albert, was a catch for anybody. + +Old Auguste himself shrugged his shoulders over it and was +well-pleased enough. An Englishman was a prize by way of a +husband for a half-breed girl, even if he were only a telegraph +operator. Young Paul Dumont worshipped Carey, and the +half-Scotch mother, who might have understood, was dead. In all +the Flats there were but two people who disapproved of the match +they thought an assured thing. One of these was the little +priest, Father Gabriel. He liked Tannis, and he liked Carey; but +he shook his head dubiously when he heard the gossip of the +shacks and teepees. Religions might mingle, but the different +bloods--ah, it was not the right thing! Tannis was a good girl, +and a beautiful one; but she was no fit mate for the fair, +thorough-bred Englishman. Father Gabriel wished fervently that +Jerome Carey might soon be transferred elsewhere. He even went +to Prince Albert and did a little wire-pulling on his own +account, but nothing came of it. He was on the wrong side of +politics. + +The other malcontent was Lazarre Mérimée, a lazy, +besotted French half-breed, who was, after his fashion, in love +with Tannis. He could never have got her, and he knew it--old +Auguste and young Paul would have incontinently riddled him with +bullets had he ventured near the house as a suitor,--but he hated +Carey none the less, and watched for a chance to do him an +ill-turn. There is no worse enemy in all the world than a +half-breed. Your true Indian is bad enough, but his diluted +descendant is ten times worse. + +As for Tannis, she loved Carey with all her heart, and that was +all there was about it. + +If Elinor Blair had never gone to Prince Albert there is no +knowing what might have happened, after all. Carey, so powerful +in propinquity, might even have ended by learning to love Tannis +and marrying her, to his own worldly undoing. But Elinor did go +to Prince Albert, and her going ended all things for Tannis of +the Flats. + +Carey met her one evening in September, when he had ridden into +town to attend a dance, leaving Paul Dumont in charge of the +telegraph office. Elinor had just arrived in Prince Albert on a +visit to Tom, to which she had been looking forward during the +five years since he had married and moved out West from Avonlea. +As I have already said, she was very beautiful at that time, and +Carey fell in love with her at the first moment of their meeting. + +During the next three weeks he went to town nine times and called +at the Dumonts' only once. There were no more rides and walks +with Tannis. This was not intentional neglect on his part. He +had simply forgotten all about her. The breeds surmised a +lover's quarrel, but Tannis understood. There was another woman +back there in town. + +It would be quite impossible to put on paper any adequate idea of +her emotions at this stage. One night, she followed Carey when +he went to Prince Albert, riding out of earshot, behind him on +her plains pony, but keeping him in sight. Lazarre, in a fit of +jealousy, had followed Tannis, spying on her until she started +back to the Flats. After that he watched both Carey and Tannis +incessantly, and months later had told Tom all he had learned +through his low sneaking. + +Tannis trailed Carey to the Blair house, on the bluffs above the +town, and saw him tie his horse at the gate and enter. She, too, +tied her pony to a poplar, lower down, and then crept stealthily +through the willows at the side of the house until she was close +to the windows. Through one of them she could see Carey and +Elinor. The half-breed girl crouched down in the shadow and +glared at her rival. She saw the pretty, fair-tinted face, the +fluffy coronal of golden hair, the blue, laughing eyes of the +woman whom Jerome Carey loved, and she realized very plainly that +there was nothing left to hope for. She, Tannis of the Flats, +could never compete with that other. It was well to know so +much, at least. + +After a time, she crept softly away, loosed her pony, and lashed +him mercilessly with her whip through the streets of the town and +out the long, dusty river trail. A man turned and looked after +her as she tore past a brightly lighted store on Water Street. + +"That was Tannis of the Flats," he said to a companion. "She was +in town last winter, going to school--a beauty and a bit of the +devil, like all those breed girls. What in thunder is she riding +like that for?" + +One day, a fortnight later, Carey went over the river alone for a +ramble up the northern trail, and an undisturbed dream of Elinor. +When he came back Tannis was standing at the canoe landing, under +a pine tree, in a rain of finely sifted sunlight. She was +waiting for him and she said, with any preface: + +"Mr. Carey, why do you never come to see me, now?" + +Carey flushed like any girl. Her tone and look made him feel +very uncomfortable. He remembered, self-reproachfully, that he +must have seemed very neglectful, and he stammered something +about having been busy. + +"Not very busy," said Tannis, with her terrible directness. "It +is not that. It is because you are going to Prince Albert to see +a white woman!" + +Even in his embarrassment Carey noted that this was the first +time he had ever heard Tannis use the expression, "a white +woman," or any other that would indicate her sense of a +difference between herself and the dominant race. He understood, +at the same moment, that this girl was not to be trifled +with--that she would have the truth out of him, first or last. +But he felt indescribably foolish. + +"I suppose so," he answered lamely. + +"And what about me?" asked Tannis. + +When you come to think of it, this was an embarrassing question, +especially for Carey, who had believed that Tannis understood the +game, and played it for its own sake, as he did. + +"I don't understand you, Tannis," he said hurriedly. + +"You have made me love you," said Tannis. + +The words sound flat enough on paper. They did not sound flat to +Tom, as repeated by Lazarre, and they sounded anything but flat +to Carey, hurled at him as they were by a woman trembling with +all the passions of her savage ancestry. Tannis had justified +her criticism of poetry. She had said her half-dozen words, +instinct with all the despair and pain and wild appeal that all +the poetry in the world had ever expressed. + +They made Carey feel like a scoundrel. All at once he realized +how impossible it would be to explain matters to Tannis, and that +he would make a still bigger fool of himself, if he tried. + +"I am very sorry," he stammered, like a whipped schoolboy. + +"It is no matter," interrupted Tannis violently. "What +difference does it make about me--a half-breed girl? We breed +girls are only born to amuse the white men. That is so--is it +not? Then, when they are tired of us, they push us aside and go +back to their own kind. Oh, it is very well. But I will not +forget--my father and brother will not forget. They will make +you sorry to some purpose!" + +She turned, and stalked away to her canoe. He waited under the +pines until she crossed the river; then he, too, went miserably +home. What a mess he had contrived to make of things! Poor +Tannis! How handsome she had looked in her fury--and how much +like a squaw! The racial marks always come out plainly under the +stress of emotion, as Tom noted later. + +Her threat did not disturb him. If young Paul and old Auguste +made things unpleasant for him, he thought himself more than a +match for them. It was the thought of the suffering he had +brought upon Tannis that worried him. He had not, to be sure, +been a villain; but he had been a fool, and that is almost as +bad, under some circumstances. + +The Dumonts, however, did not trouble him. After all, Tannis' +four years in Prince Albert had not been altogether wasted. She +knew that white girls did not mix their male relatives up in a +vendetta when a man ceased calling on them--and she had nothing +else to complain of that could be put in words. After some +reflection she concluded to hold her tongue. She even laughed +when old Auguste asked her what was up between her and her +fellow, and said she had grown tired of him. Old Auguste +shrugged his shoulders resignedly. It was just as well, maybe. +Those English sons-in-law sometimes gave themselves too many +airs. + +So Carey rode often to town and Tannis bided her time, and +plotted futile schemes of revenge, and Lazarre Merimee scowled +and got drunk--and life went on at the Flats as usual, until +the last week in October, when a big wind and rainstorm swept +over the northland. + +It was a bad night. The wires were down between the Flats and +Prince Albert and all communication with the outside world was +cut off. Over at Joe Esquint's the breeds were having a carouse +in honor of Joe's birthday. Paul Dumont had gone over, and Carey +was alone in the office, smoking lazily and dreaming of Elinor. + +Suddenly, above the plash of rain and whistle of wind, he heard +outcries in the street. Running to the door he was met by Mrs. +Joe Esquint, who grasped him breathlessly. + +"Meestair Carey--come quick! Lazarre, he kill Paul--they fight!" + +Carey, with a smothered oath, rushed across the street. He had +been afraid of something of the sort, and had advised Paul not to +go, for those half-breed carouses almost always ended in a free +fight. He burst into the kitchen at Joe Esquint's, to find a +circle of mute spectators ranged around the room and Paul and +Lazarre in a clinch in the center. Carey was relieved to find it +was only an affair of fists. He promptly hurled himself at the +combatants and dragged Paul away, while Mrs. Joe Esquint--Joe +himself being dead-drunk in a corner--flung her fat arms about +Lazarre and held him back. + +"Stop this," said Carey sternly. + +"Let me get at him," foamed Paul. "He insulted my sister. He +said that you--let me get at him!" + +He could not writhe free from Carey's iron grip. Lazarre, with a +snarl like a wolf, sent Mrs. Joe spinning, and rushed at Paul. +Carey struck out as best he could, and Lazarre went reeling back +against the table. It went over with a crash and the light went +out! + +Mrs. Joe's shrieks might have brought the roof down. In the +confusion that ensued, two pistol shots rang out sharply. There +was a cry, a groan, a fall--then a rush for the door. When Mrs. +Joe Esquint's sister-in-law, Marie, dashed in with another lamp, +Mrs. Joe was still shrieking, Paul Dumont was leaning sickly +against the wall with a dangling arm, and Carey lay face downward +on the floor, with blood trickling from under him. + +Marie Esquint was a woman of nerve. She told Mrs. Joe to shut +up, and she turned Carey over. He was conscious, but seemed +dazed and could not help himself. Marie put a coat under his +head, told Paul to lie down on the bench, ordered Mrs. Joe to get +a bed ready, and went for the doctor. It happened that there was +a doctor at the Flats that night--a Prince Albert man who had +been up at the Reservation, fixing up some sick Indians, and had +been stormstaid at old Auguste's on his way back. + +Marie soon returned with the doctor, old Auguste, and Tannis. +Carey was carried in and laid on Mrs. Esquint's bed. The doctor +made a brief examination, while Mrs. Joe sat on the floor and +howled at the top of her lungs. Then he shook his head. + +"Shot in the back," he said briefly. + +"How long?" asked Carey, understanding. + +"Perhaps till morning," answered the doctor. Mrs. Joe gave a +louder howl than ever at this, and Tannis came and stood by the +bed. The doctor, knowing that he could do nothing for Carey, +hurried into the kitchen to attend to Paul, who had a badly +shattered arm, and Marie went with him. + +Carey looked stupidly at Tannis. + +"Send for her," he said. + +Tannis smiled cruelly. + +"There is no way. The wires are down, and there is no man at the +Flats who will go to town to-night," she answered. + +"My God, I MUST see her before I die," burst out Carey +pleadingly. "Where is Father Gabriel? HE will go." + +"The priest went to town last night and has not come back," said +Tannis. + +Carey groaned and shut his eyes. If Father Gabriel was away, +there was indeed no one to go. Old Auguste and the doctor could +not leave Paul and he knew well that no breed of them all at the +Flats would turn out on such a night, even if they were not, one +and all, mortally scared of being mixed up in the law and justice +that would be sure to follow the affair. He must die without +seeing Elinor. + +Tannis looked inscrutably down on the pale face on Mrs. Joe +Esquint's dirty pillows. Her immobile features gave no sign of +the conflict raging within her. After a short space she turned +and went out, shutting the door softly on the wounded man and +Mrs. Joe, whose howls had now simmered down to whines. In the +next room, Paul was crying out with pain as the doctor worked on +his arm, but Tannis did not go to him. Instead, she slipped out +and hurried down the stormy street to old Auguste's stable. Five +minutes later she was galloping down the black, wind-lashed river +trail, on her way to town, to bring Elinor Blair to her lover's +deathbed. + +I hold that no woman ever did anything more unselfish than this +deed of Tannis! For the sake of love she put under her feet the +jealousy and hatred that had clamored at her heart. She held, +not only revenge, but the dearer joy of watching by Carey to the +last, in the hollow of her hand, and she cast both away that the +man she loved might draw his dying breath somewhat easier. In a +white woman the deed would have been merely commendable. In +Tannis of the Flats, with her ancestry and tradition, it was +lofty self-sacrifice. + +It was eight o'clock when Tannis left the Flats; it was ten when +she drew bridle before the house on the bluff. Elinor was +regaling Tom and his wife with Avonlea gossip when the maid came +to the door. + +"Pleas'm, there's a breed girl out on the verandah and she's +asking for Miss Blair." + +Elinor went out wonderingly, followed by Tom. Tannis, whip in +hand, stood by the open door, with the stormy night behind her, +and the warm ruby light of the hall lamp showering over her white +face and the long rope of drenched hair that fell from her bare +head. She looked wild enough. + +"Jerome Carey was shot in a quarrel at Joe Esquint's to-night," +she said. "He is dying--he wants you--I have come for you." + +Elinor gave a little cry, and steadied herself on Tom's shoulder. +Tom said he knew he made some exclamation of horror. He had +never approved of Carey's attentions to Elinor, but such news was +enough to shock anybody. He was determined, however, that Elinor +should not go out in such a night and to such a scene, and told +Tannis so in no uncertain terms. + +"I came through the storm," said Tannis, contemptuously. "Cannot +she do as much for him as I can?" + +The good, old Island blood in Elinor's veins showed to some +purpose. "Yes," she answered firmly. "No, Tom, don't object--I +must go. Get my horse--and your own." + +Ten minutes later three riders galloped down the bluff road and +took the river trail. Fortunately the wind was at their backs +and the worst of the storm was over. Still, it was a wild, black +ride enough. Tom rode, cursing softly under his breath. He did +not like the whole thing--Carey done to death in some low +half-breed shack, this handsome, sullen girl coming as his +messenger, this nightmare ride, through wind and rain. It all +savored too much of melodrama, even for the Northland, where +people still did things in a primitive way. He heartily wished +Elinor had never left Avonlea. + +It was past twelve when they reached the Flats. Tannis was the +only one who seemed to be able to think coherently. It was she +who told Tom where to take the horses and then led Elinor to the +room where Carey was dying. The doctor was sitting by the +bedside and Mrs. Joe was curled up in a corner, sniffling to +herself. Tannis took her by the shoulder and turned her, none +too gently, out of the room. The doctor, understanding, left at +once. As Tannis shut the door she saw Elinor sink on her knees +by the bed, and Carey's trembling hand go out to her head. + +Tannis sat down on the floor outside of the door and wrapped +herself up in a shawl Marie Esquint had dropped. In that +attitude she looked exactly like a squaw, and all comers and +goers, even old Auguste, who was hunting for her, thought she was +one, and left her undisturbed. She watched there until dawn came +whitely up over the prairies and Jerome Carey died. She knew +when it happened by Elinor's cry. + +Tannis sprang up and rushed in. She was too late for even a +parting look. + +The girl took Carey's hand in hers, and turned to the weeping +Elinor with a cold dignity. + +"Now go," she said. "You had him in life to the very last. He +is mine now." + +"There must be some arrangements made," faltered Elinor. + +"My father and brother will make all arrangements, as you call +them," said Tannis steadily. "He had no near relatives in the +world--none at all in Canada--he told me so. You may send out a +Protestant minister from town, if you like; but he will be buried +here at the Flats and his grave with be mine--all mine! Go!" + +And Elinor, reluctant, sorrowful, yet swayed by a will and an +emotion stronger than her own, went slowly out, leaving Tannis of +the Flats alone with her dead. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Further Chronicles of Avonlea +by Lucy Maud Montgomery + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FURTHER CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA *** + +This file should be named fcrvn10.txt or fcrvn10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, fcrvn11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, fcrvn10a.txt + +This book has been put on-line as part of the BUILD-A-BOOK +Initiative at the Celebration of Women Writers through the +combined work of Leslee Suttie and Mary Mark Ockerbloom. + +http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/ + +Reformatted by Ben Crowder <crowderb@blankslate.net> +http://www.blankslate.net/lang/etexts.php + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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