Chapter 1 of Rainbow Valley.
Rainbow Valley by Lucy Maud Montgomery.
“The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”—LONGFELLOW
TO THE MEMORY OF GOLDWIN LAPP, ROBERT BROOKES
AND MORLEY SHIER WHO MADE THE SUPREME SACRIFICE
THAT THE HAPPY VALLEYS OF THEIR HOME LAND
MIGHT BE KEPT SACRED FROM THE RAVAGE OF THE
INVADER.
CHAPTER I. HOME AGAIN
It was a clear, apple-green evening in May,
and Four Winds Harbour was mirroring back
the clouds of the golden west between its
softly dark shores. The sea moaned eerily
on the sand-bar, sorrowful even in spring,
but a sly, jovial wind came piping down the
red harbour road along which Miss Cornelia’s
comfortable, matronly figure was making its
way towards the village of Glen St. Mary.
Miss Cornelia was rightfully Mrs. Marshall
Elliott, and had been Mrs. Marshall Elliott
for thirteen years, but even yet more people
referred to her as Miss Cornelia than as Mrs.
Elliott. The old name was dear to her old
friends, only one of them contemptuously dropped
it. Susan Baker, the gray and grim and faithful
handmaiden of the Blythe family at Ingleside,
never lost an opportunity of calling her “Mrs.
Marshall Elliott,” with the most killing
and pointed emphasis, as if to say “You
wanted to be Mrs. and Mrs. you shall be with
a vengeance as far as I am concerned.”
Miss Cornelia was going up to Ingleside to
see Dr. and Mrs. Blythe, who were just home
from Europe. They had been away for three
months, having left in February to attend
a famous medical congress in London; and certain
things, which Miss Cornelia was anxious to
discuss, had taken place in the Glen during
their absence. For one thing, there was a
new family in the manse. And such a family!
Miss Cornelia shook her head over them several
times as she walked briskly along.
Susan Baker and the Anne Shirley of other
days saw her coming, as they sat on the big
veranda at Ingleside, enjoying the charm of
the cat’s light, the sweetness of sleepy
robins whistling among the twilit maples,
and the dance of a gusty group of daffodils
blowing against the old, mellow, red brick
wall of the lawn.
Anne was sitting on the steps, her hands clasped
over her knee, looking, in the kind dusk,
as girlish as a mother of many has any right
to be; and the beautiful gray-green eyes,
gazing down the harbour road, were as full
of unquenchable sparkle and dream as ever.
Behind her, in the hammock, Rilla Blythe was
curled up, a fat, roly-poly little creature
of six years, the youngest of the Ingleside
children. She had curly red hair and hazel
eyes that were now buttoned up after the funny,
wrinkled fashion in which Rilla always went
to sleep.
Shirley, “the little brown boy,” as he
was known in the family “Who’s Who,”
was asleep in Susan’s arms. He was brown-haired,
brown-eyed and brown-skinned, with very rosy
cheeks, and he was Susan’s especial love.
After his birth Anne had been very ill for
a long time, and Susan “mothered” the
baby with a passionate tenderness which none
of the other children, dear as they were to
her, had ever called out. Dr. Blythe had said
that but for her he would never have lived.
“I gave him life just as much as you did,
Mrs. Dr. dear,” Susan was wont to say. “He
is just as much my baby as he is yours.”
And, indeed, it was always to Susan that Shirley
ran, to be kissed for bumps, and rocked to
sleep, and protected from well-deserved spankings.
Susan had conscientiously spanked all the
other Blythe children when she thought they
needed it for their souls’ good, but she
would not spank Shirley nor allow his mother
to do it. Once, Dr. Blythe had spanked him
and Susan had been stormily indignant.
“That man would spank an angel, Mrs. Dr.
dear, that he would,” she had declared bitterly;
and she would not make the poor doctor a pie
for weeks.
She had taken Shirley with her to her brother’s
home during his parents’ absence, while
all the other children had gone to Avonlea,
and she had three blessed months of him all
to herself. Nevertheless, Susan was very glad
to find herself back at Ingleside, with all
her darlings around her again. Ingleside was
her world and in it she reigned supreme. Even
Anne seldom questioned her decisions, much
to the disgust of Mrs. Rachel Lynde of Green
Gables, who gloomily told Anne, whenever she
visited Four Winds, that she was letting Susan
get to be entirely too much of a boss and
would live to rue it.
“Here is Cornelia Bryant coming up the harbour
road, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan. “She
will be coming up to unload three months’
gossip on us.”
“I hope so,” said Anne, hugging her knees.
“I’m starving for Glen St. Mary gossip,
Susan. I hope Miss Cornelia can tell me everything
that has happened while we’ve been away—EVERYTHING—who
has got born, or married, or drunk; who has
died, or gone away, or come, or fought, or
lost a cow, or found a beau. It’s so delightful
to be home again with all the dear Glen folks,
and I want to know all about them. Why, I
remember wondering, as I walked through Westminster
Abbey which of her two especial beaux Millicent
Drew would finally marry. Do you know, Susan,
I have a dreadful suspicion that I love gossip.”
“Well, of course, Mrs. Dr. dear,” admitted
Susan, “every proper woman likes to hear
the news. I am rather interested in Millicent
Drew’s case myself. I never had a beau,
much less two, and I do not mind now, for
being an old maid does not hurt when you get
used to it. Millicent’s hair always looks
to me as if she had swept it up with a broom.
But the men do not seem to mind that.”
“They see only her pretty, piquant, mocking,
little face, Susan.”
“That may very well be, Mrs. Dr. dear. The
Good Book says that favour is deceitful and
beauty is vain, but I should not have minded
finding that out for myself, if it had been
so ordained. I have no doubt we will all be
beautiful when we are angels, but what good
will it do us then? Speaking of gossip, however,
they do say that poor Mrs. Harrison Miller
over harbour tried to hang herself last week.”
“Oh, Susan!”
“Calm yourself, Mrs. Dr. dear. She did not
succeed. But I really do not blame her for
trying, for her husband is a terrible man.
But she was very foolish to think of hanging
herself and leaving the way clear for him
to marry some other woman. If I had been in
her shoes, Mrs. Dr. dear, I would have gone
to work to worry him so that he would try
to hang himself instead of me. Not that I
hold with people hanging themselves under
any circumstances, Mrs. Dr. dear.”
“What is the matter with Harrison Miller,
anyway?” said Anne impatiently. “He is
always driving some one to extremes.”
“Well, some people call it religion and
some call it cussedness, begging your pardon,
Mrs. Dr. dear, for using such a word. It seems
they cannot make out which it is in Harrison’s
case. There are days when he growls at everybody
because he thinks he is fore-ordained to eternal
punishment. And then there are days when he
says he does not care and goes and gets drunk.
My own opinion is that he is not sound in
his intellect, for none of that branch of
the Millers were. His grandfather went out
of his mind. He thought he was surrounded
by big black spiders. They crawled over him
and floated in the air about him. I hope I
shall never go insane, Mrs. Dr. dear, and
I do not think I will, because it is not a
habit of the Bakers. But, if an all-wise Providence
should decree it, I hope it will not take
the form of big black spiders, for I loathe
the animals. As for Mrs. Miller, I do not
know whether she really deserves pity or not.
There are some who say she just married Harrison
to spite Richard Taylor, which seems to me
a very peculiar reason for getting married.
But then, of course, I am no judge of things
matrimonial, Mrs. Dr. dear. And there is Cornelia
Bryant at the gate, so I will put this blessed
brown baby on his bed and get my knitting.”
CHAPTER II. SHEER GOSSIP
“Where are the other children?” asked
Miss Cornelia, when the first greetings—cordial
on her side, rapturous on Anne’s, and dignified
on Susan’s—were over.
“Shirley is in bed and Jem and Walter and
the twins are down in their beloved Rainbow
Valley,” said Anne. “They just came home
this afternoon, you know, and they could hardly
wait until supper was over before rushing
down to the valley. They love it above every
spot on earth. Even the maple grove doesn’t
rival it in their affections.”
“I am afraid they love it too well,” said
Susan gloomily. “Little Jem said once he
would rather go to Rainbow Valley than to
heaven when he died, and that was not a proper
remark.”
“I suppose they had a great time in Avonlea?”
said Miss Cornelia.
“Enormous. Marilla does spoil them terribly.
Jem, in particular, can do no wrong in her
eyes.”
“Miss Cuthbert must be an old lady now,”
said Miss Cornelia, getting out her knitting,
so that she could hold her own with Susan.
Miss Cornelia held that the woman whose hands
were employed always had the advantage over
the woman whose hands were not.
“Marilla is eighty-five,” said Anne with
a sigh. “Her hair is snow-white. But, strange
to say, her eyesight is better than it was
when she was sixty.”
“Well, dearie, I’m real glad you’re
all back. I’ve been dreadful lonesome. But
we haven’t been dull in the Glen, believe
ME. There hasn’t been such an exciting spring
in my time, as far as church matters go. We’ve
got settled with a minister at last, Anne
dearie.”
“The Reverend John Knox Meredith, Mrs. Dr.
dear,” said Susan, resolved not to let Miss
Cornelia tell all the news.
“Is he nice?” asked Anne interestedly.
Miss Cornelia sighed and Susan groaned.
“Yes, he’s nice enough if that were all,”
said the former. “He is VERY nice—and
very learned—and very spiritual. But, oh
Anne dearie, he has no common sense!
“How was it you called him, then?”
“Well, there’s no doubt he is by far the
best preacher we ever had in Glen St. Mary
church,” said Miss Cornelia, veering a tack
or two. “I suppose it is because he is so
moony and absent-minded that he never got
a town call. His trial sermon was simply wonderful,
believe ME. Every one went mad about it—and
his looks.”
“He is VERY comely, Mrs. Dr. dear, and when
all is said and done, I DO like to see a well-looking
man in the pulpit,” broke in Susan, thinking
it was time she asserted herself again.
“Besides,” said Miss Cornelia, “we were
anxious to get settled. And Mr. Meredith was
the first candidate we were all agreed on.
Somebody had some objection to all the others.
There was some talk of calling Mr. Folsom.
He was a good preacher, too, but somehow people
didn’t care for his appearance. He was too
dark and sleek.”
“He looked exactly like a great black tomcat,
that he did, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan.
“I never could abide such a man in the pulpit
every Sunday.”
“Then Mr. Rogers came and he was like a
chip in porridge—neither harm nor good,”
resumed Miss Cornelia. “But if he had preached
like Peter and Paul it would have profited
him nothing, for that was the day old Caleb
Ramsay’s sheep strayed into church and gave
a loud ‘ba-a-a’ just as he announced his
text. Everybody laughed, and poor Rogers had
no chance after that. Some thought we ought
to call Mr. Stewart, because he was so well
educated. He could read the New Testament
in five languages.”
“But I do not think he was any surer than
other men of getting to heaven because of
that,” interjected Susan.
“Most of us didn’t like his delivery,”
said Miss Cornelia, ignoring Susan. “He
talked in grunts, so to speak. And Mr. Arnett
couldn’t preach AT ALL. And he picked about
the worst candidating text there is in the
Bible—‘Curse ye Meroz.’”
“Whenever he got stuck for an idea, he would
bang the Bible and shout very bitterly, ‘Curse
ye Meroz.’ Poor Meroz got thoroughly cursed
that day, whoever he was, Mrs. Dr. dear,”
said Susan.
“The minister who is candidating can’t
be too careful what text he chooses,” said
Miss Cornelia solemnly. “I believe Mr. Pierson
would have got the call if he had picked a
different text. But when he announced ‘I
will lift my eyes to the hills’ HE was done
for. Every one grinned, for every one knew
that those two Hill girls from the Harbour
Head have been setting their caps for every
single minister who came to the Glen for the
last fifteen years. And Mr. Newman had too
large a family.”
“He stayed with my brother-in-law, James
Clow,” said Susan. “‘How many children
have you got?’ I asked him. ‘Nine boys
and a sister for each of them,’ he said.
‘Eighteen!’ said I. ‘Dear me, what a
family!’ And then he laughed and laughed.
But I do not know why, Mrs. Dr. dear, and
I am certain that eighteen children would
be too many for any manse.”
“He had only ten children, Susan,” explained
Miss Cornelia, with contemptuous patience.
“And ten good children would not be much
worse for the manse and congregation than
the four who are there now. Though I wouldn’t
say, Anne dearie, that they are so bad, either.
I like them—everybody likes them. It’s
impossible to help liking them. They would
be real nice little souls if there was anyone
to look after their manners and teach them
what is right and proper. For instance, at
school the teacher says they are model children.
But at home they simply run wild.”
“What about Mrs. Meredith?” asked Anne.
“There’s NO Mrs. Meredith. That is just
the trouble. Mr. Meredith is a widower. His
wife died four years ago. If we had known
that I don’t suppose we would have called
him, for a widower is even worse in a congregation
than a single man. But he was heard to speak
of his children and we all supposed there
was a mother, too. And when they came there
was nobody but old Aunt Martha, as they call
her. She’s a cousin of Mr. Meredith’s
mother, I believe, and he took her in to save
her from the poorhouse. She is seventy-five
years old, half blind, and very deaf and very
cranky.”
“And a very poor cook, Mrs. Dr. dear.”
“The worst possible manager for a manse,”
said Miss Cornelia bitterly. “Mr. Meredith
won’t get any other housekeeper because
he says it would hurt Aunt Martha’s feelings.
Anne dearie, believe me, the state of that
manse is something terrible. Everything is
thick with dust and nothing is ever in its
place. And we had painted and papered it all
so nice before they came.”
“There are four children, you say?” asked
Anne, beginning to mother them already in
her heart.
“Yes. They run up just like the steps of
a stair. Gerald’s the oldest. He’s twelve
and they call him Jerry. He’s a clever boy.
Faith is eleven. She is a regular tomboy but
pretty as a picture, I must say.”
“She looks like an angel but she is a holy
terror for mischief, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said
Susan solemnly. “I was at the manse one
night last week and Mrs. James Millison was
there, too. She had brought them up a dozen
eggs and a little pail of milk—a VERY little
pail, Mrs. Dr. dear. Faith took them and whisked
down the cellar with them. Near the bottom
of the stairs she caught her toe and fell
the rest of the way, milk and eggs and all.
You can imagine the result, Mrs. Dr. dear.
But that child came up laughing. ‘I don’t
know whether I’m myself or a custard pie,’
she said. And Mrs. James Millison was very
angry. She said she would never take another
thing to the manse if it was to be wasted
and destroyed in that fashion.”
“Maria Millison never hurt herself taking
things to the manse,” sniffed Miss Cornelia.
“She just took them that night as an excuse
for curiosity. But poor Faith is always getting
into scrapes. She is so heedless and impulsive.”
“Just like me. I’m going to like your
Faith,” said Anne decidedly.
“She is full of spunk—and I do like spunk,
Mrs. Dr. dear,” admitted Susan.
“There’s something taking about her,”
conceded Miss Cornelia. “You never see her
but she’s laughing, and somehow it always
makes you want to laugh too. She can’t even
keep a straight face in church. Una is ten—she’s
a sweet little thing—not pretty, but sweet.
And Thomas Carlyle is nine. They call him
Carl, and he has a regular mania for collecting
toads and bugs and frogs and bringing them
into the house.”
“I suppose he was responsible for the dead
rat that was lying on a chair in the parlour
the afternoon Mrs. Grant called. It gave her
a turn,” said Susan, “and I do not wonder,
for manse parlours are no places for dead
rats. To be sure it may have been the cat
who left it, there. HE is as full of the old
Nick as he can be stuffed, Mrs. Dr. dear.
A manse cat should at least LOOK respectable,
in my opinion, whatever he really is. But
I never saw such a rakish-looking beast. And
he walks along the ridgepole of the manse
almost every evening at sunset, Mrs. Dr. dear,
and waves his tail, and that is not becoming.”
“The worst of it is, they are NEVER decently
dressed,” sighed Miss Cornelia. “And since
the snow went they go to school barefooted.
Now, you know Anne dearie, that isn’t the
right thing for manse children—especially
when the Methodist minister’s little girl
always wears such nice buttoned boots. And
I DO wish they wouldn’t play in the old
Methodist graveyard.”
“It’s very tempting, when it’s right
beside the manse,” said Anne. “I’ve
always thought graveyards must be delightful
places to play in.”
“Oh, no, you did not, Mrs. Dr. dear,”
said loyal Susan, determined to protect Anne
from herself. “You have too much good sense
and decorum.”
“Why did they ever build that manse beside
the graveyard in the first place?” asked
Anne. “Their lawn is so small there is no
place for them to play except in the graveyard.”
“It WAS a mistake,” admitted Miss Cornelia.
“But they got the lot cheap. And no other
manse children ever thought of playing there.
Mr. Meredith shouldn’t allow it. But he
has always got his nose buried in a book,
when he is home. He reads and reads, or walks
about in his study in a day-dream. So far
he hasn’t forgotten to be in church on Sundays,
but twice he has forgotten about the prayer-meeting
and one of the elders had to go over to the
manse and remind him. And he forgot about
Fanny Cooper’s wedding. They rang him up
on the ‘phone and then he rushed right over,
just as he was, carpet slippers and all. One
wouldn’t mind if the Methodists didn’t
laugh so about it. But there’s one comfort—they
can’t criticize his sermons. He wakes up
when he’s in the pulpit, believe ME. And
the Methodist minister can’t preach at all—so
they tell me. I have never heard him, thank
goodness.”
Miss Cornelia’s scorn of men had abated
somewhat since her marriage, but her scorn
of Methodists remained untinged of charity.
Susan smiled slyly.
“They do say, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that
the Methodists and Presbyterians are talking
of uniting,” she said.
“Well, all I hope is that I’ll be under
the sod if that ever comes to pass,” retorted
Miss Cornelia. “I shall never have truck
or trade with Methodists, and Mr. Meredith
will find that he’d better steer clear of
them, too. He is entirely too sociable with
them, believe ME. Why, he went to the Jacob
Drews’ silver-wedding supper and got into
a nice scrape as a result.”
“What was it?”
“Mrs. Drew asked him to carve the roast
goose—for Jacob Drew never did or could
carve. Well, Mr. Meredith tackled it, and
in the process he knocked it clean off the
platter into Mrs. Reese’s lap, who was sitting
next him. And he just said dreamily. ‘Mrs.
Reese, will you kindly return me that goose?’
Mrs. Reese ‘returned’ it, as meek as Moses,
but she must have been furious, for she had
on her new silk dress. The worst of it is,
she was a Methodist.”
“But I think that is better than if she
was a Presbyterian,” interjected Susan.
“If she had been a Presbyterian she would
mostly likely have left the church and we
cannot afford to lose our members. And Mrs.
Reese is not liked in her own church, because
she gives herself such great airs, so that
the Methodists would be rather pleased that
Mr. Meredith spoiled her dress.”
“The point is, he made himself ridiculous,
and I, for one, do not like to see my minister
made ridiculous in the eyes of the Methodists,”
said Miss Cornelia stiffly. “If he had had
a wife it would not have happened.”
“I do not see if he had a dozen wives how
they could have prevented Mrs. Drew from using
up her tough old gander for the wedding-feast,”
said Susan stubbornly.
“They say that was her husband’s doing,”
said Miss Cornelia. “Jacob Drew is a conceited,
stingy, domineering creature.”
“And they do say he and his wife detest
each other—which does not seem to me the
proper way for married folks to get along.
But then, of course, I have had no experience
along that line,” said Susan, tossing her
head. “And I am not one to blame everything
on the men. Mrs. Drew is mean enough herself.
They say that the only thing she was ever
known to give away was a crock of butter made
out of cream a rat had fell into. She contributed
it to a church social. Nobody found out about
the rat until afterwards.”
“Fortunately, all the people the Merediths
have offended so far are Methodists,” said
Miss Cornelia. “That Jerry went to the Methodist
prayer-meeting one night about a fortnight
ago and sat beside old William Marsh who got
up as usual and testified with fearful groans.
‘Do you feel any better now?’ whispered
Jerry when William sat down. Poor Jerry meant
to be sympathetic, but Mr. Marsh thought he
was impertinent and is furious at him. Of
course, Jerry had no business to be in a Methodist
prayer-meeting at all. But they go where they
like.”
“I hope they will not offend Mrs. Alec Davis
of the Harbour Head,” said Susan. “She
is a very touchy woman, I understand, but
she is very well off and pays the most of
any one to the salary. I have heard that she
says the Merediths are the worst brought up
children she ever saw.”
“Every word you say convinces me more and
more that the Merediths belong to the race
that knows Joseph,” said Mistress Anne decidedly.
“When all is said and done, they DO,”
admitted Miss Cornelia. “And that balances
everything. Anyway, we’ve got them now and
we must just do the best we can by them and
stick up for them to the Methodists. Well,
I suppose I must be getting down harbour.
Marshall will soon be home—he went over-harbour
to-day—and wanting his super, man-like.
I’m sorry I haven’t seen the other children.
And where’s the doctor?”
“Up at the Harbour Head. We’ve only been
home three days and in that time he has spent
three hours in his own bed and eaten two meals
in his own house.”
“Well, everybody who has been sick for the
last six weeks has been waiting for him to
come home—and I don’t blame them. When
that over-harbour doctor married the undertaker’s
daughter at Lowbridge people felt suspicious
of him. It didn’t look well. You and the
doctor must come down soon and tell us all
about your trip. I suppose you’ve had a
splendid time.”
“We had,” agreed Anne. “It was the fulfilment
of years of dreams. The old world is very
lovely and very wonderful. But we have come
back very well satisfied with our own land.
Canada is the finest country in the world,
Miss Cornelia.”
“Nobody ever doubted that,” said Miss
Cornelia, complacently.
“And old P.E.I. is the loveliest province
in it and Four Winds the loveliest spot in
P.E.I.,” laughed Anne, looking adoringly
out over the sunset splendour of glen and
harbour and gulf. She waved her hand at it.
“I saw nothing more beautiful than that
in Europe, Miss Cornelia. Must you go? The
children will be sorry to have missed you.”
“They must come and see me soon. Tell them
the doughnut jar is always full.”
“Oh, at supper they were planning a descent
on you. They’ll go soon; but they must settle
down to school again now. And the twins are
going to take music lessons.”
“Not from the Methodist minister’s wife,
I hope?” said Miss Cornelia anxiously.
“No—from Rosemary West. I was up last
evening to arrange it with her. What a pretty
girl she is!”
“Rosemary holds her own well. She isn’t
as young as she once was.”
“I thought her very charming. I’ve never
had any real acquaintance with her, you know.
Their house is so out of the way, and I’ve
seldom ever seen her except at church.”
“People always have liked Rosemary West,
though they don’t understand her,” said
Miss Cornelia, quite unconscious of the high
tribute she was paying to Rosemary’s charm.
“Ellen has always kept her down, so to speak.
She has tyrannized over her, and yet she has
always indulged her in a good many ways. Rosemary
was engaged once, you know—to young Martin
Crawford. His ship was wrecked on the Magdalens
and all the crew were drowned. Rosemary was
just a child—only seventeen. But she was
never the same afterwards. She and Ellen have
stayed very close at home since their mother’s
death. They don’t often get to their own
church at Lowbridge and I understand Ellen
doesn’t approve of going too often to a
Presbyterian church. To the Methodist she
NEVER goes, I’ll say that much for her.
That family of Wests have always been strong
Episcopalians. Rosemary and Ellen are pretty
well off. Rosemary doesn’t really need to
give music lessons. She does it because she
likes to. They are distantly related to Leslie,
you know. Are the Fords coming to the harbour
this summer?”
“No. They are going on a trip to Japan and
will probably be away for a year. Owen’s
new novel is to have a Japanese setting. This
will be the first summer that the dear old
House of Dreams will be empty since we left
it.”
“I should think Owen Ford might find enough
to write about in Canada without dragging
his wife and his innocent children off to
a heathen country like Japan,” grumbled
Miss Cornelia. “The Life Book was the best
book he’s ever written and he got the material
for that right here in Four Winds.”
“Captain Jim gave him the most of that,
you know. And he collected it all over the
world. But Owen’s books are all delightful,
I think.”
“Oh, they’re well enough as far as they
go. I make it a point to read every one he
writes, though I’ve always held, Anne dearie,
that reading novels is a sinful waste of time.
I shall write and tell him my opinion of this
Japanese business, believe ME. Does he want
Kenneth and Persis to be converted into pagans?”
With which unanswerable conundrum Miss Cornelia
took her departure. Susan proceeded to put
Rilla in bed and Anne sat on the veranda steps
under the early stars and dreamed her incorrigible
dreams and learned all over again for the
hundredth happy time what a moonrise splendour
and sheen could be on Four Winds Harbour.
CHAPTER III. THE INGLESIDE CHILDREN
In daytime the Blythe children liked very
well to play in the rich, soft greens and
glooms of the big maple grove between Ingleside
and the Glen St. Mary pond; but for evening
revels there was no place like the little
valley behind the maple grove. It was a fairy
realm of romance to them. Once, looking from
the attic windows of Ingleside, through the
mist and aftermath of a summer thunderstorm,
they had seen the beloved spot arched by a
glorious rainbow, one end of which seemed
to dip straight down to where a corner of
the pond ran up into the lower end of the
valley.
“Let us call it Rainbow Valley,” said
Walter delightedly, and Rainbow Valley thenceforth
it was.
Outside of Rainbow Valley the wind might be
rollicking and boisterous. Here it always
went gently. Little, winding, fairy paths
ran here and there over spruce roots cushioned
with moss. Wild cherry trees, that in blossom
time would be misty white, were scattered
all over the valley, mingling with the dark
spruces. A little brook with amber waters
ran through it from the Glen village. The
houses of the village were comfortably far
away; only at the upper end of the valley
was a little tumble-down, deserted cottage,
referred to as “the old Bailey house.”
It had not been occupied for many years, but
a grass-grown dyke surrounded it and inside
was an ancient garden where the Ingleside
children could find violets and daisies and
June lilies still blooming in season. For
the rest, the garden was overgrown with caraway
that swayed and foamed in the moonshine of
summer eves like seas of silver.
To the sought lay the pond and beyond it the
ripened distance lost itself in purple woods,
save where, on a high hill, a solitary old
gray homestead looked down on glen and harbour.
There was a certain wild woodsiness and solitude
about Rainbow Valley, in spite of its nearness
to the village, which endeared it to the children
of Ingleside.
The valley was full of dear, friendly hollows
and the largest of these was their favourite
stamping ground. Here they were assembled
on this particular evening. There was a grove
of young spruces in this hollow, with a tiny,
grassy glade in its heart, opening on the
bank of the brook. By the brook grew a silver
birch-tree, a young, incredibly straight thing
which Walter had named the “White Lady.”
In this glade, too, were the “Tree Lovers,”
as Walter called a spruce and maple which
grew so closely together that their boughs
were inextricably intertwined. Jem had hung
an old string of sleigh-bells, given him by
the Glen blacksmith, on the Tree Lovers, and
every visitant breeze called out sudden fairy
tinkles from it.
“How nice it is to be back!” said Nan.
“After all, none of the Avonlea places are
quite as nice as Rainbow Valley.”
But they were very fond of the Avonlea places
for all that. A visit to Green Gables was
always considered a great treat. Aunt Marilla
was very good to them, and so was Mrs. Rachel
Lynde, who was spending the leisure of her
old age in knitting cotton-warp quilts against
the day when Anne’s daughters should need
a “setting-out.” There were jolly playmates
there, too—“Uncle” Davy’s children
and “Aunt” Diana’s children. They knew
all the spots their mother had loved so well
in her girlhood at old Green Gables—the
long Lover’s Lane, that was pink-hedged
in wild-rose time, the always neat yard, with
its willows and poplars, the Dryad’s Bubble,
lucent and lovely as of yore, the Lake of
Shining Waters, and Willowmere. The twins
had their mother’s old porch-gable room,
and Aunt Marilla used to come in at night,
when she thought they were asleep, to gloat
over them. But they all knew she loved Jem
the best.
Jem was at present busily occupied in frying
a mess of small trout which he had just caught
in the pond. His stove consisted of a circle
of red stones, with a fire kindled in it,
and his culinary utensils were an old tin
can, hammered out flat, and a fork with only
one tine left. Nevertheless, ripping good
meals had before now been thus prepared.
Jem was the child of the House of Dreams.
All the others had been born at Ingleside.
He had curly red hair, like his mother’s,
and frank hazel eyes, like his father’s;
he had his mother’s fine nose and his father’s
steady, humorous mouth. And he was the only
one of the family who had ears nice enough
to please Susan. But he had a standing feud
with Susan because she would not give up calling
him Little Jem. It was outrageous, thought
thirteen-year-old Jem. Mother had more sense.
“I’m NOT little any more, Mother,” he
had cried indignantly, on his eighth birthday.
“I’m AWFUL big.”
Mother had sighed and laughed and sighed again;
and she never called him Little Jem again—in
his hearing at least.
He was and always had been a sturdy, reliable
little chap. He never broke a promise. He
was not a great talker. His teachers did not
think him brilliant, but he was a good, all-round
student. He never took things on faith; he
always liked to investigate the truth of a
statement for himself. Once Susan had told
him that if he touched his tongue to a frosty
latch all the skin would tear off it. Jem
had promptly done it, “just to see if it
was so.” He found it was “so,” at the
cost of a very sore tongue for several days.
But Jem did not grudge suffering in the interests
of science. By constant experiment and observation
he learned a great deal and his brothers and
sisters thought his extensive knowledge of
their little world quite wonderful. Jem always
knew where the first and ripest berries grew,
where the first pale violets shyly wakened
from their winter’s sleep, and how many
blue eggs were in a given robin’s nest in
the maple grove. He could tell fortunes from
daisy petals and suck honey from red clovers,
and grub up all sorts of edible roots on the
banks of the pond, while Susan went in daily
fear that they would all be poisoned. He knew
where the finest spruce-gum was to be found,
in pale amber knots on the lichened bark,
he knew where the nuts grew thickest in the
beechwoods around the Harbour Head, and where
the best trouting places up the brooks were.
He could mimic the call of any wild bird or
beast in Four Winds and he knew the haunt
of every wild flower from spring to autumn.
Walter Blythe was sitting under the White
Lady, with a volume of poems lying beside
him, but he was not reading. He was gazing
now at the emerald-misted willows by the pond,
and now at a flock of clouds, like little
silver sheep, herded by the wind, that were
drifting over Rainbow Valley, with rapture
in his wide splendid eyes. Walter’s eyes
were very wonderful. All the joy and sorrow
and laughter and loyalty and aspiration of
many generations lying under the sod looked
out of their dark gray depths.
Walter was a “hop out of kin,” as far
as looks went. He did not resemble any known
relative. He was quite the handsomest of the
Ingleside children, with straight black hair
and finely modelled features. But he had all
his mother’s vivid imagination and passionate
love of beauty. Frost of winter, invitation
of spring, dream of summer and glamour of
autumn, all meant much to Walter.
In school, where Jem was a chieftain, Walter
was not thought highly of. He was supposed
to be “girly” and milk-soppish, because
he never fought and seldom joined in the school
sports, preferring to herd by himself in out
of the way corners and read books—especially
“po’try books.” Walter loved the poets
and pored over their pages from the time he
could first read. Their music was woven into
his growing soul—the music of the immortals.
Walter cherished the ambition to be a poet
himself some day. The thing could be done.
A certain Uncle Paul—so called out of courtesy—who
lived now in that mysterious realm called
“the States,” was Walter’s model. Uncle
Paul had once been a little school boy in
Avonlea and now his poetry was read everywhere.
But the Glen schoolboys did not know of Walter’s
dreams and would not have been greatly impressed
if they had. In spite of his lack of physical
prowess, however, he commanded a certain unwilling
respect because of his power of “talking
book talk.” Nobody in Glen St. Mary school
could talk like him. He “sounded like a
preacher,” one boy said; and for this reason
he was generally left alone and not persecuted,
as most boys were who were suspected of disliking
or fearing fisticuffs.
The ten year old Ingleside twins violated
twin tradition by not looking in the least
alike. Anne, who was always called Nan, was
very pretty, with velvety nut-brown eyes and
silky nut-brown hair. She was a very blithe
and dainty little maiden—Blythe by name
and blithe by nature, one of her teachers
had said. Her complexion was quite faultless,
much to her mother’s satisfaction.
“I’m so glad I have one daughter who can
wear pink,” Mrs. Blythe was wont to say
jubilantly.
Diana Blythe, known as Di, was very like her
mother, with gray-green eyes that always shone
with a peculiar lustre and brilliancy in the
dusk, and red hair. Perhaps this was why she
was her father’s favourite. She and Walter
were especial chums; Di was the only one to
whom he would ever read the verses he wrote
himself—the only one who knew that he was
secretly hard at work on an epic, strikingly
resembling “Marmion” in some things, if
not in others. She kept all his secrets, even
from Nan, and told him all hers.
“Won’t you soon have those fish ready,
Jem?” said Nan, sniffing with her dainty
nose. “The smell makes me awfully hungry.”
“They’re nearly ready,” said Jem, giving
one a dexterous turn. “Get out the bread
and the plates, girls. Walter, wake up.”
“How the air shines to-night,” said Walter
dreamily. Not that he despised fried trout
either, by any means; but with Walter food
for the soul always took first place. “The
flower angel has been walking over the world
to-day, calling to the flowers. I can see
his blue wings on that hill by the woods.”
“Any angels’ wings I ever saw were white,”
said Nan.
“The flower angel’s aren’t. They are
a pale misty blue, just like the haze in the
valley. Oh, how I wish I could fly. It must
be glorious.”
“One does fly in dreams sometimes,” said
Di.
“I never dream that I’m flying exactly,”
said Walter. “But I often dream that I just
rise up from the ground and float over the
fences and the trees. It’s delightful—and
I always think, ‘This ISN’T a dream like
it’s always been before. THIS is real’—and
then I wake up after all, and it’s heart-breaking.”
“Hurry up, Nan,” ordered Jem.
Nan had produced the banquet-board—a board
literally as well as figuratively—from which
many a feast, seasoned as no viands were elsewhere,
had been eaten in Rainbow Valley. It was converted
into a table by propping it on two large,
mossy stones. Newspapers served as tablecloth,
and broken plates and handleless cups from
Susan’s discard furnished the dishes. From
a tin box secreted at the root of a spruce
tree Nan brought forth bread and salt. The
brook gave Adam’s ale of unsurpassed crystal.
For the rest, there was a certain sauce, compounded
of fresh air and appetite of youth, which
gave to everything a divine flavour. To sit
in Rainbow Valley, steeped in a twilight half
gold, half amethyst, rife with the odours
of balsam-fir and woodsy growing things in
their springtime prime, with the pale stars
of wild strawberry blossoms all around you,
and with the sough of the wind and tinkle
of bells in the shaking tree tops, and eat
fried trout and dry bread, was something which
the mighty of earth might have envied them.
“Sit in,” invited Nan, as Jem placed his
sizzling tin platter of trout on the table.
“It’s your turn to say grace, Jem.”
“I’ve done my part frying the trout,”
protested Jem, who hated saying grace. “Let
Walter say it. He LIKES saying grace. And
cut it short, too, Walt. I’m starving.”
But Walter said no grace, short or long, just
then. An interruption occurred.
“Who’s coming down from the manse hill?”
said Di.
CHAPTER IV. THE MANSE CHILDREN
Aunt Martha might be, and was, a very poor
housekeeper; the Rev. John Knox Meredith might
be, and was, a very absent-minded, indulgent
man. But it could not be denied that there
was something very homelike and lovable about
the Glen St. Mary manse in spite of its untidiness.
Even the critical housewives of the Glen felt
it, and were unconsciously mellowed in judgment
because of it. Perhaps its charm was in part
due to accidental circumstances—the luxuriant
vines clustering over its gray, clap-boarded
walls, the friendly acacias and balm-of-gileads
that crowded about it with the freedom of
old acquaintance, and the beautiful views
of harbour and sand-dunes from its front windows.
But these things had been there in the reign
of Mr. Meredith’s predecessor, when the
manse had been the primmest, neatest, and
dreariest house in the Glen. So much of the
credit must be given to the personality of
its new inmates. There was an atmosphere of
laughter and comradeship about it; the doors
were always open; and inner and outer worlds
joined hands. Love was the only law in Glen
St. Mary manse.
The people of his congregation said that Mr.
Meredith spoiled his children. Very likely
he did. It is certain that he could not bear
to scold them. “They have no mother,”
he used to say to himself, with a sigh, when
some unusually glaring peccadillo forced itself
upon his notice. But he did not know the half
of their goings-on. He belonged to the sect
of dreamers. The windows of his study looked
out on the graveyard but, as he paced up and
down the room, reflecting deeply on the immortality
of the soul, he was quite unaware that Jerry
and Carl were playing leap-frog hilariously
over the flat stones in that abode of dead
Methodists. Mr. Meredith had occasional acute
realizations that his children were not so
well looked after, physically or morally,
as they had been before his wife died, and
he had always a dim sub-consciousness that
house and meals were very different under
Aunt Martha’s management from what they
had been under Cecilia’s. For the rest,
he lived in a world of books and abstractions;
and, therefore, although his clothes were
seldom brushed, and although the Glen housewives
concluded, from the ivory-like pallor of his
clear-cut features and slender hands, that
he never got enough to eat, he was not an
unhappy man.
If ever a graveyard could be called a cheerful
place, the old Methodist graveyard at Glen
St. Mary might be so called. The new graveyard,
at the other side of the Methodist church,
was a neat and proper and doleful spot; but
the old one had been left so long to Nature’s
kindly and gracious ministries that it had
become very pleasant.
It was surrounded on three sides by a dyke
of stones and sod, topped by a gray and uncertain
paling. Outside the dyke grew a row of tall
fir trees with thick, balsamic boughs. The
dyke, which had been built by the first settlers
of the Glen, was old enough to be beautiful,
with mosses and green things growing out of
its crevices, violets purpling at its base
in the early spring days, and asters and golden-rod
making an autumnal glory in its corners. Little
ferns clustered companionably between its
stones, and here and there a big bracken grew.
On the eastern side there was neither fence
nor dyke. The graveyard there straggled off
into a young fir plantation, ever pushing
nearer to the graves and deepening eastward
into a thick wood. The air was always full
of the harp-like voices of the sea, and the
music of gray old trees, and in the spring
mornings the choruses of birds in the elms
around the two churches sang of life and not
of death. The Meredith children loved the
old graveyard.
Blue-eyed ivy, “garden-spruce,” and mint
ran riot over the sunken graves. Blueberry
bushes grew lavishly in the sandy corner next
to the fir wood. The varying fashions of tombstones
for three generations were to be found there,
from the flat, oblong, red sandstone slabs
of old settlers, down through the days of
weeping willows and clasped hands, to the
latest monstrosities of tall “monuments”
and draped urns. One of the latter, the biggest
and ugliest in the graveyard, was sacred to
the memory of a certain Alec Davis who had
been born a Methodist but had taken to himself
a Presbyterian bride of the Douglas clan.
She had made him turn Presbyterian and kept
him toeing the Presbyterian mark all his life.
But when he died she did not dare to doom
him to a lonely grave in the Presbyterian
graveyard over-harbour. His people were all
buried in the Methodist cemetery; so Alec
Davis went back to his own in death and his
widow consoled herself by erecting a monument
which cost more than any of the Methodists
could afford. The Meredith children hated
it, without just knowing why, but they loved
the old, flat, bench-like stones with the
tall grasses growing rankly about them. They
made jolly seats for one thing. They were
all sitting on one now. Jerry, tired of leap
frog, was playing on a jew’s-harp. Carl
was lovingly poring over a strange beetle
he had found; Una was trying to make a doll’s
dress, and Faith, leaning back on her slender
brown wrists, was swinging her bare feet in
lively time to the jew’s-harp.
Jerry had his father’s black hair and large
black eyes, but in him the latter were flashing
instead of dreamy. Faith, who came next to
him, wore her beauty like a rose, careless
and glowing. She had golden-brown eyes, golden-brown
curls and crimson cheeks. She laughed too
much to please her father’s congregation
and had shocked old Mrs. Taylor, the disconsolate
spouse of several departed husbands, by saucily
declaring—in the church-porch at that—“The
world ISN’T a vale of tears, Mrs. Taylor.
It’s a world of laughter.”
Little dreamy Una was not given to laughter.
Her braids of straight, dead-black hair betrayed
no lawless kinks, and her almond-shaped, dark-blue
eyes had something wistful and sorrowful in
them. Her mouth had a trick of falling open
over her tiny white teeth, and a shy, meditative
smile occasionally crept over her small face.
She was much more sensitive to public opinion
than Faith, and had an uneasy consciousness
that there was something askew in their way
of living. She longed to put it right, but
did not know how. Now and then she dusted
the furniture—but it was so seldom she could
find the duster because it was never in the
same place twice. And when the clothes-brush
was to be found she tried to brush her father’s
best suit on Saturdays, and once sewed on
a missing button with coarse white thread.
When Mr. Meredith went to church next day
every female eye saw that button and the peace
of the Ladies’ Aid was upset for weeks.
Carl had the clear, bright, dark-blue eyes,
fearless and direct, of his dead mother, and
her brown hair with its glints of gold. He
knew the secrets of bugs and had a sort of
freemasonry with bees and beetles. Una never
liked to sit near him because she never knew
what uncanny creature might be secreted about
him. Jerry refused to sleep with him because
Carl had once taken a young garter snake to
bed with him; so Carl slept in his old cot,
which was so short that he could never stretch
out, and had strange bed-fellows. Perhaps
it was just as well that Aunt Martha was half
blind when she made that bed. Altogether they
were a jolly, lovable little crew, and Cecilia
Meredith’s heart must have ached bitterly
when she faced the knowledge that she must
leave them.
“Where would you like to be buried if you
were a Methodist?” asked Faith cheerfully.
This opened up an interesting field of speculation.
“There isn’t much choice. The place is
full,” said Jerry. “I’D like that corner
near the road, I guess. I could hear the teams
going past and the people talking.”
“I’d like that little hollow under the
weeping birch,” said Una. “That birch
is such a place for birds and they sing like
mad in the mornings.”
“I’d take the Porter lot where there’s
so many children buried. I like lots of company,”
said Faith. “Carl, where’d you?”
“I’d rather not be buried at all,” said
Carl, “but if I had to be I’d like the
ant-bed. Ants are AWF’LY int’resting.”
“How very good all the people who are buried
here must have been,” said Una, who had
been reading the laudatory old epitaphs. “There
doesn’t seem to be a single bad person in
the whole graveyard. Methodists must be better
than Presbyterians after all.”
“Maybe the Methodists bury their bad people
just like they do cats,” suggested Carl.
“Maybe they don’t bother bringing them
to the graveyard at all.”
“Nonsense,” said Faith. “The people
that are buried here weren’t any better
than other folks, Una. But when anyone is
dead you mustn’t say anything of him but
good or he’ll come back and ha’nt you.
Aunt Martha told me that. I asked father if
it was true and he just looked through me
and muttered, ‘True? True? What is truth?
What IS truth, O jesting Pilate?’ I concluded
from that it must be true.”
“I wonder if Mr. Alec Davis would come back
and ha’nt me if I threw a stone at the urn
on top of his tombstone,” said Jerry.
“Mrs. Davis would,” giggled Faith. “She
just watches us in church like a cat watching
mice. Last Sunday I made a face at her nephew
and he made one back at me and you should
have seen her glare. I’ll bet she boxed
HIS ears when they got out. Mrs. Marshall
Elliott told me we mustn’t offend her on
any account or I’d have made a face at her,
too!”
“They say Jem Blythe stuck out his tongue
at her once and she would never have his father
again, even when her husband was dying,”
said Jerry. “I wonder what the Blythe gang
will be like.”
“I liked their looks,” said Faith. The
manse children had been at the station that
afternoon when the Blythe small fry had arrived.
“I liked Jem’s looks ESPECIALLY.”
“They say in school that Walter’s a sissy,”
said Jerry.
“I don’t believe it,” said Una, who
had thought Walter very handsome.
“Well, he writes poetry, anyhow. He won
the prize the teacher offered last year for
writing a poem, Bertie Shakespeare Drew told
me. Bertie’s mother thought HE should have
got the prize because of his name, but Bertie
said he couldn’t write poetry to save his
soul, name or no name.”
“I suppose we’ll get acquainted with them
as soon as they begin going to school,”
mused Faith. “I hope the girls are nice.
I don’t like most of the girls round here.
Even the nice ones are poky. But the Blythe
twins look jolly. I thought twins always looked
alike, but they don’t. I think the red-haired
one is the nicest.”
“I liked their mother’s looks,” said
Una with a little sigh. Una envied all children
their mothers. She had been only six when
her mother died, but she had some very precious
memories, treasured in her soul like jewels,
of twilight cuddlings and morning frolics,
of loving eyes, a tender voice, and the sweetest,
gayest laugh.
“They say she isn’t like other people,”
said Jerry.
“Mrs. Elliot says that is because she never
really grew up,” said Faith.
“She’s taller than Mrs. Elliott.”
“Yes, yes, but it is inside—Mrs. Elliot
says Mrs. Blythe just stayed a little girl
inside.”
“What do I smell?” interrupted Carl, sniffing.
They all smelled it now. A most delectable
odour came floating up on the still evening
air from the direction of the little woodsy
dell below the manse hill.
“That makes me hungry,” said Jerry.
“We had only bread and molasses for supper
and cold ditto for dinner,” said Una plaintively.
Aunt Martha’s habit was to boil a large
slab of mutton early in the week and serve
it up every day, cold and greasy, as long
as it lasted. To this Faith, in a moment of
inspiration, had give the name of “ditto”,
and by this it was invariably known at the
manse.
“Let’s go and see where that smell is
coming from,” said Jerry.
They all sprang up, frolicked over the lawn
with the abandon of young puppies, climbed
a fence, and tore down the mossy slope, guided
by the savory lure that ever grew stronger.
A few minutes later they arrived breathlessly
in the sanctum sanctorum of Rainbow Valley
where the Blythe children were just about
to give thanks and eat.
They halted shyly. Una wished they had not
been so precipitate: but Di Blythe was equal
to that and any occasion. She stepped forward,
with a comrade’s smile.
“I guess I know who you are,” she said.
“You belong to the manse, don’t you?”
Faith nodded, her face creased by dimples.
“We smelled your trout cooking and wondered
what it was.”
“You must sit down and help us eat them,”
said Di.
“Maybe you haven’t more than you want
yourselves,” said Jerry, looking hungrily
at the tin platter.
“We’ve heaps—three apiece,” said Jem.
“Sit down.”
No more ceremony was necessary. Down they
all sat on mossy stones. Merry was that feast
and long. Nan and Di would probably have died
of horror had they known what Faith and Una
knew perfectly well—that Carl had two young
mice in his jacket pocket. But they never
knew it, so it never hurt them. Where can
folks get better acquainted than over a meal
table? When the last trout had vanished, the
manse children and the Ingleside children
were sworn friends and allies. They had always
known each other and always would. The race
of Joseph recognized its own.
They poured out the history of their little
pasts. The manse children heard of Avonlea
and Green Gables, of Rainbow Valley traditions,
and of the little house by the harbour shore
where Jem had been born. The Ingleside children
heard of Maywater, where the Merediths had
lived before coming to the Glen, of Una’s
beloved, one-eyed doll and Faith’s pet rooster.
Faith was inclined to resent the fact that
people laughed at her for petting a rooster.
She liked the Blythes because they accepted
it without question.
“A handsome rooster like Adam is just as
nice a pet as a dog or cat, I think,” she
said. “If he was a canary nobody would wonder.
And I brought him up from a little, wee, yellow
chicken. Mrs. Johnson at Maywater gave him
to me. A weasel had killed all his brothers
and sisters. I called him after her husband.
I never liked dolls or cats. Cats are too
sneaky and dolls are DEAD.”
“Who lives in that house away up there?”
asked Jerry.
“The Miss Wests—Rosemary and Ellen,”
answered Nan. “Di and I are going to take
music lessons from Miss Rosemary this summer.”
Una gazed at the lucky twins with eyes whose
longing was too gentle for envy. Oh, if she
could only have music lessons! It was one
of the dreams of her little hidden life. But
nobody ever thought of such a thing.
“Miss Rosemary is so sweet and she always
dresses so pretty,” said Di. “Her hair
is just the colour of new molasses taffy,”
she added wistfully—for Di, like her mother
before her, was not resigned to her own ruddy
tresses.
“I like Miss Ellen, too,” said Nan. “She
always used to give me candies when she came
to church. But Di is afraid of her.”
“Her brows are so black and she has such
a great deep voice,” said Di. “Oh, how
scared of her Kenneth Ford used to be when
he was little! Mother says the first Sunday
Mrs. Ford brought him to church Miss Ellen
happened to be there, sitting right behind
them. And the minute Kenneth saw her he just
screamed and screamed until Mrs. Ford had
to carry him out.”
“Who is Mrs. Ford?” asked Una wonderingly.
“Oh, the Fords don’t live here. They only
come here in the summer. And they’re not
coming this summer. They live in that little
house ‘way, ‘way down on the harbour shore
where father and mother used to lie. I wish
you could see Persis Ford. She is just like
a picture.”
“I’ve heard of Mrs. Ford,” broke in
Faith. “Bertie Shakespeare Drew told me
about her. She was married fourteen years
to a dead man and then he came to life.”
“Nonsense,” said Nan. “That isn’t
the way it goes at all. Bertie Shakespeare
can never get anything straight. I know the
whole story and I’ll tell it to you some
time, but not now, for it’s too long and
it’s time for us to go home. Mother doesn’t
like us to be out late these damp evenings.”
Nobody cared whether the manse children were
out in the damp or not. Aunt Martha was already
in bed and the minister was still too deeply
lost in speculations concerning the immortality
of the soul to remember the mortality of the
body. But they went home, too, with visions
of good times coming in their heads.
“I think Rainbow Valley is even nicer than
the graveyard,” said Una. “And I just
love those dear Blythes. It’s SO nice when
you can love people because so often you CAN’T.
Father said in his sermon last Sunday that
we should love everybody. But how can we?
How could we love Mrs. Alec Davis?”
“Oh, father only said that in the pulpit,”
said Faith airily. “He has more sense than
to really think it outside.”
The Blythe children went up to Ingleside,
except Jem, who slipped away for a few moments
on a solitary expedition to a remote corner
of Rainbow Valley. Mayflowers grew there and
Jem never forgot to take his mother a bouquet
as long as they lasted.
CHAPTER V. THE ADVENT OF MARY VANCE
“This is just the sort of day you feel as
if things might happen,” said Faith, responsive
to the lure of crystal air and blue hills.
She hugged herself with delight and danced
a hornpipe on old Hezekiah Pollock’s bench
tombstone, much to the horror of two ancient
maidens who happened to be driving past just
as Faith hopped on one foot around the stone,
waving the other and her arms in the air.
“And that,” groaned one ancient maiden,
“is our minister’s daughter.”
“What else could you expect of a widower’s
family?” groaned the other ancient maiden.
And then they both shook their heads.
It was early on Saturday morning and the Merediths
were out in the dew-drenched world with a
delightful consciousness of the holiday. They
had never had anything to do on a holiday.
Even Nan and Di Blythe had certain household
tasks for Saturday mornings, but the daughters
of the manse were free to roam from blushing
morn to dewy eve if so it pleased them. It
DID please Faith, but Una felt a secret, bitter
humiliation because they never learned to
do anything. The other girls in her class
at school could cook and sew and knit; she
only was a little ignoramus.
Jerry suggested that they go exploring; so
they went lingeringly through the fir grove,
picking up Carl on the way, who was on his
knees in the dripping grass studying his darling
ants. Beyond the grove they came out in Mr.
Taylor’s pasture field, sprinkled over with
the white ghosts of dandelions; in a remote
corner was an old tumbledown barn, where Mr.
Taylor sometimes stored his surplus hay crop
but which was never used for any other purpose.
Thither the Meredith children trooped, and
prowled about the ground floor for several
minutes.
“What was that?” whispered Una suddenly.
They all listened. There was a faint but distinct
rustle in the hayloft above. The Merediths
looked at each other.
“There’s something up there,” breathed
Faith.
“I’m going up to see what it is,” said
Jerry resolutely.
“Oh, don’t,” begged Una, catching his
arm.
“I’m going.”
“We’ll all go, too, then,” said Faith.
The whole four climbed the shaky ladder, Jerry
and Faith quite dauntless, Una pale from fright,
and Carl rather absent-mindedly speculating
on the possibility of finding a bat up in
the loft. He longed to see a bat in daylight.
When they stepped off the ladder they saw
what had made the rustle and the sight struck
them dumb for a few moments.
In a little nest in the hay a girl was curled
up, looking as if she had just wakened from
sleep. When she saw them she stood up, rather
shakily, as it seemed, and in the bright sunlight
that streamed through the cobwebbed window
behind her, they saw that her thin, sunburned
face was very pale under its tan. She had
two braids of lank, thick, tow-coloured hair
and very odd eyes—“white eyes,” the
manse children thought, as she stared at them
half defiantly, half piteously. They were
really of so pale a blue that they did seem
almost white, especially when contrasted with
the narrow black ring that circled the iris.
She was barefooted and bareheaded, and was
clad in a faded, ragged, old plaid dress,
much too short and tight for her. As for years,
she might have been almost any age, judging
from her wizened little face, but her height
seemed to be somewhere in the neighbourhood
of twelve.
“Who are you?” asked Jerry.
The girl looked about her as if seeking a
way of escape. Then she seemed to give in
with a little shiver of despair.
“I’m Mary Vance,” she said.
“Where’d you come from?” pursued Jerry.
Mary, instead of replying, suddenly sat, or
fell, down on the hay and began to cry. Instantly
Faith had flung herself down beside her and
put her arm around the thin, shaking shoulders.
“You stop bothering her,” she commanded
Jerry. Then she hugged the waif. “Don’t
cry, dear. Just tell us what’s the matter.
WE’RE friends.”
“I’m so—so—hungry,” wailed Mary.
“I—I hain’t had a thing to eat since
Thursday morning, ‘cept a little water from
the brook out there.”
The manse children gazed at each other in
horror. Faith sprang up.
“You come right up to the manse and get
something to eat before you say another word.”
Mary shrank.
“Oh—I can’t. What will your pa and ma
say? Besides, they’d send me back.”
“We’ve no mother, and father won’t bother
about you. Neither will Aunt Martha. Come,
I say.” Faith stamped her foot impatiently.
Was this queer girl going to insist on starving
to death almost at their very door?
Mary yielded. She was so weak that she could
hardly climb down the ladder, but somehow
they got her down and over the field and into
the manse kitchen. Aunt Martha, muddling through
her Saturday cooking, took no notice of her.
Faith and Una flew to the pantry and ransacked
it for such eatables as it contained—some
“ditto,” bread, butter, milk and a doubtful
pie. Mary Vance attacked the food ravenously
and uncritically, while the manse children
stood around and watched her. Jerry noticed
that she had a pretty mouth and very nice,
even, white teeth. Faith decided, with secret
horror, that Mary had not one stitch on her
except that ragged, faded dress. Una was full
of pure pity, Carl of amused wonder, and all
of them of curiosity.
“Now come out to the graveyard and tell
us about yourself,” ordered Faith, when
Mary’s appetite showed signs of failing
her. Mary was now nothing loath. Food had
restored her natural vivacity and unloosed
her by no means reluctant tongue.
“You won’t tell your pa or anybody if
I tell you?” she stipulated, when she was
enthroned on Mr. Pollock’s tombstone. Opposite
her the manse children lined up on another.
Here was spice and mystery and adventure.
Something HAD happened.
“No, we won’t.”
“Cross your hearts?”
“Cross our hearts.”
“Well, I’ve run away. I was living with
Mrs. Wiley over-harbour. Do you know Mrs.
Wiley?”
“No.”
“Well, you don’t want to know her. She’s
an awful woman. My, how I hate her! She worked
me to death and wouldn’t give me half enough
to eat, and she used to larrup me ‘most
every day. Look a-here.”
Mary rolled up her ragged sleeves, and held
up her scrawny arms and thin hands, chapped
almost to rawness. They were black with bruises.
The manse children shivered. Faith flushed
crimson with indignation. Una’s blue eyes
filled with tears.
“She licked me Wednesday night with a stick,”
said Mary, indifferently. “It was ‘cause
I let the cow kick over a pail of milk. How’d
I know the darn old cow was going to kick?”
A not unpleasant thrill ran over her listeners.
They would never dream of using such dubious
words, but it was rather titivating to hear
someone else use them—and a girl, at that.
Certainly this Mary Vance was an interesting
creature.
“I don’t blame you for running away,”
said Faith.
“Oh, I didn’t run away ‘cause she licked
me. A licking was all in the day’s work
with me. I was darn well used to it. Nope,
I’d meant to run away for a week ‘cause
I’d found out that Mrs. Wiley was going
to rent her farm and go to Lowbridge to live
and give me to a cousin of hers up Charlottetown
way. I wasn’t going to stand for THAT. She
was a worse sort than Mrs. Wiley even. Mrs.
Wiley lent me to her for a month last summer
and I’d rather live with the devil himself.”
Sensation number two. But Una looked doubtful.
“So I made up my mind I’d beat it. I had
seventy cents saved up that Mrs. John Crawford
give me in the spring for planting potatoes
for her. Mrs. Wiley didn’t know about it.
She was away visiting her cousin when I planted
them. I thought I’d sneak up here to the
Glen and buy a ticket to Charlottetown and
try to get work there. I’m a hustler, let
me tell you. There ain’t a lazy bone in
MY body. So I lit out Thursday morning ‘fore
Mrs. Wiley was up and walked to the Glen—six
miles. And when I got to the station I found
I’d lost my money. Dunno how—dunno where.
Anyhow, it was gone. I didn’t know what
to do. If I went back to old Lady Wiley she’d
take the hide off me. So I went and hid in
that old barn.”
“And what will you do now?” asked Jerry.
“Dunno. I s’pose I’ll have to go back
and take my medicine. Now that I’ve got
some grub in my stomach I guess I can stand
it.”
But there was fear behind the bravado in Mary’s
eyes. Una suddenly slipped from the one tombstone
to the other and put her arm about Mary.
“Don’t go back. Just stay here with us.”
“Oh, Mrs. Wiley’ll hunt me up,” said
Mary. “It’s likely she’s on my trail
before this. I might stay here till she finds
me, I s’pose, if your folks don’t mind.
I was a darn fool ever to think of skipping
out. She’d run a weasel to earth. But I
was so misrebul.”
Mary’s voice quivered, but she was ashamed
of showing her weakness.
“I hain’t had the life of a dog for these
four years,” she explained defiantly.
“You’ve been four years with Mrs. Wiley?”
“Yip. She took me out of the asylum over
in Hopetown when I was eight.”
“That’s the same place Mrs. Blythe came
from,” exclaimed Faith.
“I was two years in the asylum. I was put
there when I was six. My ma had hung herself
and my pa had cut his throat.”
“Holy cats! Why?” said Jerry.
“Booze,” said Mary laconically.
“And you’ve no relations?”
“Not a darn one that I know of. Must have
had some once, though. I was called after
half a dozen of them. My full name is Mary
Martha Lucilla Moore Ball Vance. Can you beat
that? My grandfather was a rich man. I’ll
bet he was richer than YOUR grandfather. But
pa drunk it all up and ma, she did her part.
THEY used to beat me, too. Laws, I’ve been
licked so much I kind of like it.”
Mary tossed her head. She divined that the
manse children were pitying her for her many
stripes and she did not want pity. She wanted
to be envied. She looked gaily about her.
Her strange eyes, now that the dullness of
famine was removed from them, were brilliant.
She would show these youngsters what a personage
she was.
“I’ve been sick an awful lot,” she said
proudly. “There’s not many kids could
have come through what I have. I’ve had
scarlet fever and measles and ersipelas and
mumps and whooping cough and pewmonia.”
“Were you ever fatally sick?” asked Una.
“I don’t know,” said Mary doubtfully.
“Of course she wasn’t,” scoffed Jerry.
“If you’re fatally sick you die.”
“Oh, well, I never died exactly,” said
Mary, “but I come blamed near it once. They
thought I was dead and they were getting ready
to lay me out when I up and come to.”
“What is it like to be half dead?” asked
Jerry curiously.
“Like nothing. I didn’t know it for days
afterwards. It was when I had the pewmonia.
Mrs. Wiley wouldn’t have the doctor—said
she wasn’t going to no such expense for
a home girl. Old Aunt Christina MacAllister
nursed me with poultices. She brung me round.
But sometimes I wish I’d just died the other
half and done with it. I’d been better off.”
“If you went to heaven I s’pose you would,”
said Faith, rather doubtfully.
“Well, what other place is there to go to?”
demanded Mary in a puzzled voice.
“There’s hell, you know,” said Una,
dropping her voice and hugging Mary to lessen
the awfulness of the suggestion.
“Hell? What’s that?”
“Why, it’s where the devil lives,” said
Jerry. “You’ve heard of him—you spoke
about him.”
“Oh, yes, but I didn’t know he lived anywhere.
I thought he just roamed round. Mr. Wiley
used to mention hell when he was alive. He
was always telling folks to go there. I thought
it was some place over in New Brunswick where
he come from.”
“Hell is an awful place,” said Faith,
with the dramatic enjoyment that is born of
telling dreadful things. “Bad people go
there when they die and burn in fire for ever
and ever and ever.”
“Who told you that?” demanded Mary incredulously.
“It’s in the Bible. And Mr. Isaac Crothers
at Maywater told us, too, in Sunday School.
He was an elder and a pillar in the church
and knew all about it. But you needn’t worry.
If you’re good you’ll go to heaven and
if you’re bad I guess you’d rather go
to hell.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Mary positively.
“No matter how bad I was I wouldn’t want
to be burned and burned. I know what it’s
like. I picked up a red hot poker once by
accident. What must you do to be good?”
“You must go to church and Sunday School
and read your Bible and pray every night and
give to missions,” said Una.
“It sounds like a large order,” said Mary.
“Anything else?”
“You must ask God to forgive the sins you’ve
committed.
“But I’ve never com—committed any,”
said Mary. “What’s a sin any way?”
“Oh, Mary, you must have. Everybody does.
Did you never tell a lie?”
“Heaps of ‘em,” said Mary.
“That’s a dreadful sin,” said Una solemnly.
“Do you mean to tell me,” demanded Mary,
“that I’d be sent to hell for telling
a lie now and then? Why, I HAD to. Mr. Wiley
would have broken every bone in my body one
time if I hadn’t told him a lie. Lies have
saved me many a whack, I can tell you.”
Una sighed. Here were too many difficulties
for her to solve. She shuddered as she thought
of being cruelly whipped. Very likely she
would have lied too. She squeezed Mary’s
little calloused hand.
“Is that the only dress you’ve got?”
asked Faith, whose joyous nature refused to
dwell on disagreeable subjects.
“I just put on this dress because it was
no good,” cried Mary flushing. “Mrs. Wiley’d
bought my clothes and I wasn’t going to
be beholden to her for anything. And I’m
honest. If I was going to run away I wasn’t
going to take what belong to HER that was
worth anything. When I grow up I’m going
to have a blue sating dress. Your own clothes
don’t look so stylish. I thought ministers’
children were always dressed up.”
It was plain that Mary had a temper and was
sensitive on some points. But there was a
queer, wild charm about her which captivated
them all. She was taken to Rainbow Valley
that afternoon and introduced to the Blythes
as “a friend of ours from over-harbour who
is visiting us.” The Blythes accepted her
unquestioningly, perhaps because she was fairly
respectable now. After dinner—through which
Aunt Martha had mumbled and Mr. Meredith had
been in a state of semi-unconsciousness while
brooding his Sunday sermon—Faith had prevailed
on Mary to put on one of her dresses, as well
as certain other articles of clothing. With
her hair neatly braided Mary passed muster
tolerably well. She was an acceptable playmate,
for she knew several new and exciting games,
and her conversation lacked not spice. In
fact, some of her expressions made Nan and
Di look at her rather askance. They were not
quite sure what their mother would have thought
of her, but they knew quite well what Susan
would. However, she was a visitor at the manse,
so she must be all right.
When bedtime came there was the problem of
where Mary should sleep.
“We can’t put her in the spare room, you
know,” said Faith perplexedly to Una.
“I haven’t got anything in my head,”
cried Mary in an injured tone.
“Oh, I didn’t mean THAT,” protested
Faith. “The spare room is all torn up. The
mice have gnawed a big hole in the feather
tick and made a nest in it. We never found
it out till Aunt Martha put the Rev. Mr. Fisher
from Charlottetown there to sleep last week.
HE soon found it out. Then father had to give
him his bed and sleep on the study lounge.
Aunt Martha hasn’t had time to fix the spare
room bed up yet, so she says; so NOBODY can
sleep there, no matter how clean their heads
are. And our room is so small, and the bed
so small you can’t sleep with us.”
“I can go back to the hay in the old barn
for the night if you’ll lend me a quilt,”
said Mary philosophically. “It was kind
of chilly last night, but ‘cept for that
I’ve had worse beds.”
“Oh, no, no, you mustn’t do that,” said
Una. “I’ve thought of a plan, Faith. You
know that little trestle bed in the garret
room, with the old mattress on it, that the
last minister left there? Let’s take up
the spare room bedclothes and make Mary a
bed there. You won’t mind sleeping in the
garret, will you, Mary? It’s just above
our room.”
“Any place’ll do me. Laws, I never had
a decent place to sleep in my life. I slept
in the loft over the kitchen at Mrs. Wiley’s.
The roof leaked rain in the summer and the
snow druv in in winter. My bed was a straw
tick on the floor. You won’t find me a mite
huffy about where I sleep.”
The manse garret was a long, low, shadowy
place, with one gable end partitioned off.
Here a bed was made up for Mary of the dainty
hemstitched sheets and embroidered spread
which Cecilia Meredith had once so proudly
made for her spare-room, and which still survived
Aunt Martha’s uncertain washings. The good
nights were said and silence fell over the
manse. Una was just falling asleep when she
heard a sound in the room just above that
made her sit up suddenly.
“Listen, Faith—Mary’s crying,” she
whispered. Faith replied not, being already
asleep. Una slipped out of bed, and made her
way in her little white gown down the hall
and up the garret stairs. The creaking floor
gave ample notice of her coming, and when
she reached the corner room all was moonlit
silence and the trestle bed showed only a
hump in the middle.
“Mary,” whispered Una.
There was no response.
Una crept close to the bed and pulled at the
spread. “Mary, I know you are crying. I
heard you. Are you lonesome?”
Mary suddenly appeared to view but said nothing.
“Let me in beside you. I’m cold,” said
Una shivering in the chilly air, for the little
garret window was open and the keen breath
of the north shore at night blew in.
Mary moved over and Una snuggled down beside
her.
“NOW you won’t be lonesome. We shouldn’t
have left you here alone the first night.”
“I wasn’t lonesome,” sniffed Mary.
“What were you crying for then?”
“Oh, I just got to thinking of things when
I was here alone. I thought of having to go
back to Mrs. Wiley—and of being licked for
running away—and—and—and of going to
hell for telling lies. It all worried me something
scandalous.”
“Oh, Mary,” said poor Una in distress.
“I don’t believe God will send you to
hell for telling lies when you didn’t know
it was wrong. He COULDN’T. Why, He’s kind
and good. Of course, you mustn’t tell any
more now that you know it’s wrong.”
“If I can’t tell lies what’s to become
of me?” said Mary with a sob. “YOU don’t
understand. You don’t know anything about
it. You’ve got a home and a kind father—though
it does seem to me that he isn’t more’n
about half there. But anyway he doesn’t
lick you, and you get enough to eat such as
it is—though that old aunt of yours doesn’t
know ANYTHING about cooking. Why, this is
the first day I ever remember of feeling ‘sif
I’d enough to eat. I’ve been knocked about
all of my life, ‘cept for the two years
I was at the asylum. They didn’t lick me
there and it wasn’t too bad, though the
matron was cross. She always looked ready
to bite my head off a nail. But Mrs. Wiley
is a holy terror, that’s what SHE is, and
I’m just scared stiff when I think of going
back to her.”
“Perhaps you won’t have to. Perhaps we’ll
be able to think of a way out. Let’s both
ask God to keep you from having to go back
to Mrs. Wiley. You say your prayers, don’t
you Mary?”
“Oh, yes, I always go over an old rhyme
‘fore I get into bed,” said Mary indifferently.
“I never thought of asking for anything
in particular though. Nobody in this world
ever bothered themselves about me so I didn’t
s’pose God would. He MIGHT take more trouble
for you, seeing you’re a minister’s daughter.”
“He’d take every bit as much trouble for
you, Mary, I’m sure,” said Una. “It
doesn’t matter whose child you are. You
just ask Him—and I will, too.”
“All right,” agreed Mary. “It won’t
do any harm if it doesn’t do much good.
If you knew Mrs. Wiley as well as I do you
wouldn’t think God would want to meddle
with her. Anyhow, I won’t cry any more about
it. This is a big sight better’n last night
down in that old barn, with the mice running
about. Look at the Four Winds light. Ain’t
it pretty?”
“This is the only window we can see it from,”
said Una. “I love to watch it.”
“Do you? So do I. I could see it from the
Wiley loft and it was the only comfort I had.
When I was all sore from being licked I’d
watch it and forget about the places that
hurt. I’d think of the ships sailing away
and away from it and wish I was on one of
them sailing far away too—away from everything.
On winter nights when it didn’t shine, I
just felt real lonesome. Say, Una, what makes
all you folks so kind to me when I’m just
a stranger?”
“Because it’s right to be. The bible tells
us to be kind to everybody.”
“Does it? Well, I guess most folks don’t
mind it much then. I never remember of any
one being kind to me before—true’s you
live I don’t. Say, Una, ain’t them shadows
on the walls pretty? They look just like a
flock of little dancing birds. And say, Una,
I like all you folks and them Blythe boys
and Di, but I don’t like that Nan. She’s
a proud one.”
“Oh, no, Mary, she isn’t a bit proud,”
said Una eagerly. “Not a single bit.”
“Don’t tell me. Any one that holds her
head like that IS proud. I don’t like her.”
“WE all like her very much.”
“Oh, I s’pose you like her better’n
me?” said Mary jealously. “Do you?”
“Why, Mary—we’ve known her for weeks
and we’ve only known you a few hours,”
stammered Una.
“So you do like her better then?” said
Mary in a rage. “All right! Like her all
you want to. I don’t care. I can get along
without you.”
She flung herself over against the wall of
the garret with a slam.
“Oh, Mary,” said Una, pushing a tender
arm over Mary’s uncompromising back, “don’t
talk like that. I DO like you ever so much.
And you make me feel so bad.”
No answer. Presently Una gave a sob. Instantly
Mary squirmed around again and engulfed Una
in a bear’s hug.
“Hush up,” she ordered. “Don’t go
crying over what I said. I was as mean as
the devil to talk that way. I orter to be
skinned alive—and you all so good to me.
I should think you WOULD like any one better’n
me. I deserve every licking I ever got. Hush,
now. If you cry any more I’ll go and walk
right down to the harbour in this night-dress
and drown myself.”
This terrible threat made Una choke back her
sobs. Her tears were wiped away by Mary with
the lace frill of the spare-room pillow and
forgiver and forgiven cuddled down together
again, harmony restored, to watch the shadows
of the vine leaves on the moonlit wall until
they fell asleep.
And in the study below Rev. John Meredith
walked the floor with rapt face and shining
eyes, thinking out his message of the morrow,
and knew not that under his own roof there
was a little forlorn soul, stumbling in darkness
and ignorance, beset by terror and compassed
about with difficulties too great for it to
grapple in its unequal struggle with a big
indifferent world.
CHAPTER VI. MARY STAYS AT THE MANSE
The manse children took Mary Vance to church
with them the next day. At first Mary objected
to the idea.
“Didn’t you go to church over-harbour?”
asked Una.
“You bet. Mrs. Wiley never troubled church
much, but I went every Sunday I could get
off. I was mighty thankful to go to some place
where I could sit down for a spell. But I
can’t go to church in this old ragged dress.”
This difficulty was removed by Faith offering
the loan of her second best dress.
“It’s faded a little and two of the buttons
are off, but I guess it’ll do.”
“I’ll sew the buttons on in a jiffy,”
said Mary.
“Not on Sunday,” said Una, shocked.
“Sure. The better the day the better the
deed. You just gimme a needle and thread and
look the other way if you’re squeamish.”
Faith’s school boots, and an old black velvet
cap that had once been Cecilia Meredith’s,
completed Mary’s costume, and to church
she went. Her behaviour was quite conventional,
and though some wondered who the shabby little
girl with the manse children was she did not
attract much attention. She listened to the
sermon with outward decorum and joined lustily
in the singing. She had, it appeared, a clear,
strong voice and a good ear.
“His blood can make the VIOLETS clean,”
carolled Mary blithely. Mrs. Jimmy Milgrave,
whose pew was just in front of the manse pew,
turned suddenly and looked the child over
from top to toe. Mary, in a mere superfluity
of naughtiness, stuck out her tongue at Mrs.
Milgrave, much to Una’s horror.
“I couldn’t help it,” she declared after
church. “What’d she want to stare at me
like that for? Such manners! I’m GLAD stuck
my tongue out at her. I wish I’d stuck it
farther out. Say, I saw Rob MacAllister from
over-harbour there. Wonder if he’ll tell
Mrs. Wiley on me.”
No Mrs. Wiley appeared, however, and in a
few day the children forgot to look for her.
Mary was apparently a fixture at the manse.
But she refused to go to school with the others.
“Nope. I’ve finished my education,”
she said, when Faith urged her to go. “I
went to school four winters since I come to
Mrs. Wiley’s and I’ve had all I want of
THAT. I’m sick and tired of being everlastingly
jawed at ‘cause I didn’t get my home-lessons
done. I’D no time to do home-lessons.”
“Our teacher won’t jaw you. He is awfully
nice,” said Faith.
“Well, I ain’t going. I can read and write
and cipher up to fractions. That’s all I
want. You fellows go and I’ll stay home.
You needn’t be scared I’ll steal anything.
I swear I’m honest.”
Mary employed herself while the others were
at school in cleaning up the manse. In a few
days it was a different place. Floors were
swept, furniture dusted, everything straightened
out. She mended the spare-room bed-tick, she
sewed on missing buttons, she patched clothes
neatly, she even invaded the study with broom
and dustpan and ordered Mr. Meredith out while
she put it to rights. But there was one department
with which Aunt Martha refused to let her
interfere. Aunt Martha might be deaf and half
blind and very childish, but she was resolved
to keep the commissariat in her own hands,
in spite of all Mary’s wiles and stratagems.
“I can tell you if old Martha’d let ME
cook you’d have some decent meals,” she
told the manse children indignantly. “There’d
be no more ‘ditto’—and no more lumpy
porridge and blue milk either. What DOES she
do with all the cream?”
“She gives it to the cat. He’s hers, you
know,” said Faith.
“I’d like to CAT her,” exclaimed Mary
bitterly. “I’ve no use for cats anyhow.
They belong to the old Nick. You can tell
that by their eyes. Well, if old Martha won’t,
she won’t, I s’pose. But it gits on my
nerves to see good vittles spoiled.”
When school came out they always went to Rainbow
Valley. Mary refused to play in the graveyard.
She declared she was afraid of ghosts.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” declared
Jem Blythe.
“Oh, ain’t there?”
“Did you ever see any?”
“Hundreds of ‘em,” said Mary promptly.
“What are they like?” said Carl.
“Awful-looking. Dressed all in white with
skellington hands and heads,” said Mary.
“What did you do?” asked Una.
“Run like the devil,” said Mary. Then
she caught Walter’s eyes and blushed. Mary
was a good deal in awe of Walter. She declared
to the manse girls that his eyes made her
nervous.
“I think of all the lies I’ve ever told
when I look into them,” she said, “and
I wish I hadn’t.”
Jem was Mary’s favourite. When he took her
to the attic at Ingleside and showed her the
museum of curios that Captain Jim Boyd had
bequeathed to him she was immensely pleased
and flattered. She also won Carl’s heart
entirely by her interest in his beetles and
ants. It could not be denied that Mary got
on rather better with the boys than with the
girls. She quarrelled bitterly with Nan Blythe
the second day.
“Your mother is a witch,” she told Nan
scornfully. “Red-haired women are always
witches.” Then she and Faith fell out about
the rooster. Mary said its tail was too short.
Faith angrily retorted that she guessed God
know what length to make a rooster’s tail.
They did not “speak” for a day over this.
Mary treated Una’s hairless, one-eyed doll
with consideration; but when Una showed her
other prized treasure—a picture of an angel
carrying a baby, presumably to heaven, Mary
declared that it looked too much like a ghost
for her. Una crept away to her room and cried
over this, but Mary hunted her out, hugged
her repentantly and implored forgiveness.
No one could keep up a quarrel long with Mary—not
even Nan, who was rather prone to hold grudges
and never quite forgave the insult to her
mother. Mary was jolly. She could and did
tell the most thrilling ghost stories. Rainbow
Valley seances were undeniably more exciting
after Mary came. She learned to play on the
jew’s-harp and soon eclipsed Jerry.
“Never struck anything yet I couldn’t
do if I put my mind to it,” she declared.
Mary seldom lost a chance of tooting her own
horn. She taught them how to make “blow-bags”
out of the thick leaves of the “live-forever”
that flourished in the old Bailey garden,
she initiated them into the toothsome qualities
of the “sours” that grew in the niches
of the graveyard dyke, and she could make
the most wonderful shadow pictures on the
walls with her long, flexible fingers. And
when they all went picking gum in Rainbow
Valley Mary always got “the biggest chew”
and bragged about it. There were times when
they hated her and times when they loved her.
But at all times they found her interesting.
So they submitted quite meekly to her bossing,
and by the end of a fortnight had come to
feel that she must always have been with them.
“It’s the queerest thing that Mrs. Wiley
hain’t been after me,” said Mary. “I
can’t understand it.”
“Maybe she isn’t going to bother about
you at all,” said Una. “Then you can just
go on staying here.”
“This house ain’t hardly big enough for
me and old Martha,” said Mary darkly. “It’s
a very fine thing to have enough to eat—I’ve
often wondered what it would be like—but
I’m p’ticler about my cooking. And Mrs.
Wiley’ll be here yet. SHE’S got a rod
in pickle for me all right. I don’t think
about it so much in daytime but say, girls,
up there in that garret at night I git to
thinking and thinking of it, till I just almost
wish she’d come and have it over with. I
dunno’s one real good whipping would be
much worse’n all the dozen I’ve lived
through in my mind ever since I run away.
Were any of you ever licked?”
“No, of course not,” said Faith indignantly.
“Father would never do such a thing.”
“You don’t know you’re alive,” said
Mary with a sigh half of envy, half of superiority.
“You don’t know what I’ve come through.
And I s’pose the Blythes were never licked
either?”
“No-o-o, I guess not. But I THINK they were
sometimes spanked when they were small.”
“A spanking doesn’t amount to anything,”
said Mary contemptuously. “If my folks had
just spanked me I’d have thought they were
petting me. Well, it ain’t a fair world.
I wouldn’t mind taking my share of wallopings
but I’ve had a darn sight too many.”
“It isn’t right to say that word, Mary,”
said Una reproachfully. “You promised me
you wouldn’t say it.”
“G’way,” responded Mary. “If you knew
some of the words I COULD say if I liked you
wouldn’t make such a fuss over darn. And
you know very well I hain’t ever told any
lies since I come here.”
“What about all those ghosts you said you
saw?” asked Faith.
Mary blushed.
“That was diff’runt,” she said defiantly.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe them yarns
and I didn’t intend you to. And I really
did see something queer one night when I was
passing the over-harbour graveyard, true’s
you live. I dunno whether ‘twas a ghost
or Sandy Crawford’s old white nag, but it
looked blamed queer and I tell you I scooted
at the rate of no man’s business.”
CHAPTER VII. A FISHY EPISODE
Rilla Blythe walked proudly, and perhaps a
little primly, through the main “street”
of the Glen and up the manse hill, carefully
carrying a small basketful of early strawberries,
which Susan had coaxed into lusciousness in
one of the sunny nooks of Ingleside. Susan
had charged Rilla to give the basket to nobody
except Aunt Martha or Mr. Meredith, and Rilla,
very proud of being entrusted with such an
errand, was resolved to carry out her instructions
to the letter.
Susan had dressed her daintily in a white,
starched, and embroidered dress, with sash
of blue and beaded slippers. Her long ruddy
curls were sleek and round, and Susan had
let her put on her best hat, out of compliment
to the manse. It was a somewhat elaborate
affair, wherein Susan’s taste had had more
to say than Anne’s, and Rilla’s small
soul gloried in its splendours of silk and
lace and flowers. She was very conscious of
her hat, and I am afraid she strutted up the
manse hill. The strut, or the hat, or both,
got on the nerves of Mary Vance, who was swinging
on the lawn gate. Mary’s temper was somewhat
ruffled just then, into the bargain. Aunt
Martha had refused to let her peel the potatoes
and had ordered her out of the kitchen.
“Yah! You’ll bring the potatoes to the
table with strips of skin hanging to them
and half boiled as usual! My, but it’ll
be nice to go to your funeral,” shrieked
Mary. She went out of the kitchen, giving
the door such a bang that even Aunt Martha
heard it, and Mr. Meredith in his study felt
the vibration and thought absently that there
must have been a slight earthquake shock.
Then he went on with his sermon.
Mary slipped from the gate and confronted
the spick-and-span damsel of Ingleside.
“What you got there?” she demanded, trying
to take the basket.
Rilla resisted. “It’th for Mithter Meredith,”
she lisped.
“Give it to me. I’LL give it to him,”
said Mary.
“No. Thuthan thaid that I wathn’t to give
it to anybody but Mithter Mer’dith or Aunt
Martha,” insisted Rilla.
Mary eyed her sourly.
“You think you’re something, don’t you,
all dressed up like a doll! Look at me. My
dress is all rags and I don’t care! I’d
rather be ragged than a doll baby. Go home
and tell them to put you in a glass case.
Look at me—look at me—look at me!”
Mary executed a wild dance around the dismayed
and bewildered Rilla, flirting her ragged
skirt and vociferating “Look at me—look
at me” until poor Rilla was dizzy. But as
the latter tried to edge away towards the
gate Mary pounced on her again.
“You give me that basket,” she ordered
with a grimace. Mary was past mistress in
the art of “making faces.” She could give
her countenance a most grotesque and unearthly
appearance out of which her strange, brilliant,
white eyes gleamed with weird effect.
“I won’t,” gasped Rilla, frightened
but staunch. “You let me go, Mary Vanth.”
Mary let go for a minute and looked around
here. Just inside the gate was a small “flake,”
on which a half a dozen large codfish were
drying. One of Mr. Meredith’s parishioners
had presented him with them one day, perhaps
in lieu of the subscription he was supposed
to pay to the stipend and never did. Mr. Meredith
had thanked him and then forgotten all about
the fish, which would have promptly spoiled
had not the indefatigable Mary prepared them
for drying and rigged up the “flake” herself
on which to dry them.
Mary had a diabolical inspiration. She flew
to the “flake” and seized the largest
fish there—a huge, flat thing, nearly as
big as herself. With a whoop she swooped down
on the terrified Rilla, brandishing her weird
missile. Rilla’s courage gave way. To be
lambasted with a dried codfish was such an
unheard-of thing that Rilla could not face
it. With a shriek she dropped her basket and
fled. The beautiful berries, which Susan had
so tenderly selected for the minister, rolled
in a rosy torrent over the dusty road and
were trodden on by the flying feet of pursuer
and pursued. The basket and contents were
no longer in Mary’s mind. She thought only
of the delight of giving Rilla Blythe the
scare of her life. She would teach HER to
come giving herself airs because of her fine
clothes.
Rilla flew down the hill and along the street.
Terror lent wings to her feet, and she just
managed to keep ahead of Mary, who was somewhat
hampered by her own laughter, but who had
breath enough to give occasional blood-curdling
whoops as she ran, flourishing her codfish
in the air. Through the Glen street they swept,
while everybody ran to the windows and gates
to see them. Mary felt she was making a tremendous
sensation and enjoyed it. Rilla, blind with
terror and spent of breath, felt that she
could run no longer. In another instant that
terrible girl would be on her with the codfish.
At this point the poor mite stumbled and fell
into the mud-puddle at the end of the street
just as Miss Cornelia came out of Carter Flagg’s
store.
Miss Cornelia took the whole situation in
at a glance. So did Mary. The latter stopped
short in her mad career and before Miss Cornelia
could speak she had whirled around and was
running up as fast as she had run down. Miss
Cornelia’s lips tightened ominously, but
she knew it was no use to think of chasing
her. So she picked up poor, sobbing, dishevelled
Rilla instead and took her home. Rilla was
heart-broken. Her dress and slippers and hat
were ruined and her six year old pride had
received terrible bruises.
Susan, white with indignation, heard Miss
Cornelia’s story of Mary Vance’s exploit.
“Oh, the hussy—oh, the littly hussy!”
she said, as she carried Rilla away for purification
and comfort.
“This thing has gone far enough, Anne dearie,”
said Miss Cornelia resolutely. “Something
must be done. WHO is this creature who is
staying at the manse and where does she come
from?”
“I understood she was a little girl from
over-harbour who was visiting at the manse,”
answered Anne, who saw the comical side of
the codfish chase and secretly thought Rilla
was rather vain and needed a lesson or two.
“I know all the over-harbour families who
come to our church and that imp doesn’t
belong to any of them,” retorted Miss Cornelia.
“She is almost in rags and when she goes
to church she wears Faith Meredith’s old
clothes. There’s some mystery here, and
I’m going to investigate it, since it seems
nobody else will. I believe she was at the
bottom of their goings-on in Warren Mead’s
spruce bush the other day. Did you hear of
their frightening his mother into a fit?”
“No. I knew Gilbert had been called to see
her, but I did not hear what the trouble was.”
“Well, you know she has a weak heart. And
one day last week, when she was all alone
on the veranda, she heard the most awful shrieks
of ‘murder’ and ‘help’ coming from
the bush—positively frightful sounds, Anne
dearie. Her heart gave out at once. Warren
heard them himself at the barn, and went straight
to the bush to investigate, and there he found
all the manse children sitting on a fallen
tree and screaming ‘murder’ at the top
of their lungs. They told him they were only
in fun and didn’t think anyone would hear
them. They were just playing Indian ambush.
Warren went back to the house and found his
poor mother unconscious on the veranda.”
Susan, who had returned, sniffed contemptuously.
“I think she was very far from being unconscious,
Mrs. Marshall Elliott, and that you may tie
to. I have been hearing of Amelia Warren’s
weak heart for forty years. She had it when
she was twenty. She enjoys making a fuss and
having the doctor, and any excuse will do.”
“I don’t think Gilbert thought her attack
very serious,” said Anne.
“Oh, that may very well be,” said Miss
Cornelia. “But the matter has made an awful
lot of talk and the Meads being Methodists
makes it that much worse. What is going to
become of those children? Sometimes I can’t
sleep at nights for thinking about them, Anne
dearie. I really do question if they get enough
to eat, even, for their father is so lost
in dreams that he doesn’t often remember
he has a stomach, and that lazy old woman
doesn’t bother cooking what she ought. They
are just running wild and now that school
is closing they’ll be worse than ever.”
“They do have jolly times,” said Anne,
laughing over the recollections of some Rainbow
Valley happenings that had come to her ears.
“And they are all brave and frank and loyal
and truthful.”
“That’s a true word, Anne dearie, and
when you come to think of all the trouble
in the church those two tattling, deceitful
youngsters of the last minister’s made,
I’m inclined to overlook a good deal in
the Merediths.”
“When all is said and done, Mrs. Dr. dear,
they are very nice children,” said Susan.
“They have got plenty of original sin in
them and that I will admit, but maybe it is
just as well, for if they had not they might
spoil from over-sweetness. Only I do think
it is not proper for them to play in a graveyard
and that I will maintain.”
“But they really play quite quietly there,”
excused Anne. “They don’t run and yell
as they do elsewhere. Such howls as drift
up here from Rainbow Valley sometimes! Though
I fancy my own small fry bear a valiant part
in them. They had a sham battle there last
night and had to ‘roar’ themselves, because
they had no artillery to do it, so Jem says.
Jem is passing through the stage where all
boys hanker to be soldiers.”
“Well, thank goodness, he’ll never be
a soldier,” said Miss Cornelia. “I never
approved of our boys going to that South African
fracas. But it’s over, and not likely anything
of the kind will ever happen again. I think
the world is getting more sensible. As for
the Merediths, I’ve said many a time and
I say it again, if Mr. Meredith had a wife
all would be well.”
“He called twice at the Kirks’ last week,
so I am told,” said Susan.
“Well,” said Miss Cornelia thoughtfully,
“as a rule, I don’t approve of a minister
marrying in his congregation. It generally
spoils him. But in this case it would do no
harm, for every one likes Elizabeth Kirk and
nobody else is hankering for the job of stepmothering
those youngsters. Even the Hill girls balk
at that. They haven’t been found laying
traps for Mr. Meredith. Elizabeth would make
him a good wife if he only thought so. But
the trouble is, she really is homely and,
Anne dearie, Mr. Meredith, abstracted as he
is, has an eye for a good-looking woman, man-like.
He isn’t SO other-worldly when it comes
to that, believe ME.”
“Elizabeth Kirk is a very nice person, but
they do say that people have nearly frozen
to death in her mother’s spare-room bed
before now, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan darkly.
“If I felt I had any right to express an
opinion concerning such a solemn matter as
a minister’s marriage I would say that I
think Elizabeth’s cousin Sarah, over-harbour,
would make Mr. Meredith a better wife.”
“Why, Sarah Kirk is a Methodist,” said
Miss Cornelia, much as if Susan had suggested
a Hottentot as a manse bride.
“She would likely turn Presbyterian if she
married Mr. Meredith,” retorted Susan.
Miss Cornelia shook her head. Evidently with
her it was, once a Methodist, always a Methodist.
“Sarah Kirk is entirely out of the question,”
she said positively. “And so is Emmeline
Drew—though the Drews are all trying to
make the match. They are literally throwing
poor Emmeline at his head, and he hasn’t
the least idea of it.”
“Emmeline Drew has no gumption, I must allow,”
said Susan. “She is the kind of woman, Mrs.
Dr. dear, who would put a hot-water bottle
in your bed on a dog-night and then have her
feelings hurt because you were not grateful.
And her mother was a very poor housekeeper.
Did you ever hear the story of her dishcloth?
She lost her dishcloth one day. But the next
day she found it. Oh, yes, Mrs. Dr. dear,
she found it, in the goose at the dinner-table,
mixed up with the stuffing. Do you think a
woman like that would do for a minister’s
mother-in-law? I do not. But no doubt I would
be better employed in mending little Jem’s
trousers than in talking gossip about my neighbours.
He tore them something scandalous last night
in Rainbow Valley.”
“Where is Walter?” asked Anne.
“He is up to no good, I fear, Mrs. Dr. dear.
He is in the attic writing something in an
exercise book. And he has not done as well
in arithmetic this term as he should, so the
teacher tells me. Too well I know the reason
why. He has been writing silly rhymes when
he should have been doing his sums. I am afraid
that boy is going to be a poet, Mrs. Dr. dear.”
“He is a poet now, Susan.”
“Well, you take it real calm, Mrs. Dr. dear.
I suppose it is the best way, when a person
has the strength. I had an uncle who began
by being a poet and ended up by being a tramp.
Our family were dreadfully ashamed of him.”
“You don’t seem to think very highly of
poets, Susan,” said Anne, laughing.
“Who does, Mrs. Dr. dear?” asked Susan
in genuine astonishment.
“What about Milton and Shakespeare? And
the poets of the Bible?”
“They tell me Milton could not get along
with his wife, and Shakespeare was no more
than respectable by times. As for the Bible,
of course things were different in those sacred
days—although I never had a high opinion
of King David, say what you will. I never
knew any good to come of writing poetry, and
I hope and pray that blessed boy will outgrow
the tendency. If he does not—we must see
what emulsion of cod-liver oil will do.”
CHAPTER VIII. MISS CORNELIA INTERVENES
Miss Cornelia descended upon the manse the
next day and cross-questioned Mary, who, being
a young person of considerable discernment
and astuteness, told her story simple and
truthfully, with an entire absence of complaint
or bravado. Miss Cornelia was more favourably
impressed than she had expected to be, but
deemed it her duty to be severe.
“Do you think,” she said sternly, “that
you showed your gratitude to this family,
who have been far too kind to you, by insulting
and chasing one of their little friends as
you did yesterday?”
“Say, it was rotten mean of me,” admitted
Mary easily. “I dunno what possessed me.
That old codfish seemed to come in so blamed
handy. But I was awful sorry—I cried last
night after I went to bed about it, honest
I did. You ask Una if I didn’t. I wouldn’t
tell her what for ‘cause I was ashamed of
it, and then she cried, too, because she was
afraid someone had hurt my feelings. Laws,
I ain’t got any feelings to hurt worth speaking
of. What worries me is why Mrs. Wiley hain’t
been hunting for me. It ain’t like her.”
Miss Cornelia herself thought it rather peculiar,
but she merely admonished Mary sharply not
to take any further liberties with the minister’s
codfish, and went to report progress at Ingleside.
“If the child’s story is true the matter
ought to be looked into,” she said. “I
know something about that Wiley woman, believe
ME. Marshall used to be well acquainted with
her when he lived over-harbour. I heard him
say something last summer about her and a
home child she had—likely this very Mary-creature.
He said some one told him she was working
the child to death and not half feeding and
clothing it. You know, Anne dearie, it has
always been my habit neither to make nor meddle
with those over-harbour folks. But I shall
send Marshall over to-morrow to find out the
rights of this if he can. And THEN I’ll
speak to the minister. Mind you, Anne dearie,
the Merediths found this girl literally starving
in James Taylor’s old hay barn. She had
been there all night, cold and hungry and
alone. And us sleeping warm in our beds after
good suppers.”
“The poor little thing,” said Anne, picturing
one of her own dear babies, cold and hungry
and alone in such circumstances. “If she
has been ill-used, Miss Cornelia, she mustn’t
be taken back to such a place. I was an orphan
once in a very similar situation.”
“We’ll have to consult the Hopetown asylum
folks,” said Miss Cornelia. “Anyway, she
can’t be left at the manse. Dear knows what
those poor children might learn from her.
I understand that she has been known to swear.
But just think of her being there two whole
weeks and Mr Meredith never waking up to it!
What business has a man like that to have
a family? Why, Anne dearie, he ought to be
a monk.”
Two evenings later Miss Cornelia was back
at Ingleside.
“It’s the most amazing thing!” she said.
“Mrs. Wiley was found dead in her bed the
very morning after this Mary-creature ran
away. She has had a bad heart for years and
the doctor had warned her it might happen
at any time. She had sent away her hired man
and there was nobody in the house. Some neighbours
found her the next day. They missed the child,
it seems, but supposed Mrs. Wiley had sent
her to her cousin near Charlottetown as she
had said she was going to do. The cousin didn’t
come to the funeral and so nobody ever knew
that Mary wasn’t with her. The people Marshall
talked to told him some things about the way
Mrs. Wiley used this Mary that made his blood
boil, so he declares. You know, it puts Marshall
in a regular fury to hear of a child being
ill-used. They said she whipped her mercilessly
for every little fault or mistake. Some folks
talked of writing to the asylum authorities
but everybody’s business is nobody’s business
and it was never done.”
“I am sorry that Wiley person is dead,”
said Susan fiercely. “I should like to go
over-harbour and give her a piece of my mind.
Starving and beating a child, Mrs. Dr. dear!
As you know, I hold with lawful spanking,
but I go no further. And what is to become
of this poor child now, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?”
“I suppose she must be sent back to Hopetown,”
said Miss Cornelia. “I think every one hereabouts
who wants a home child has one. I’ll see
Mr. Meredith to-morrow and tell him my opinion
of the whole affair.”
“And no doubt she will, Mrs. Dr. dear,”
said Susan, after Miss Cornelia had gone.
“She would stick at nothing, not even at
shingling the church spire if she took it
into her head. But I cannot understand how
even Cornelia Bryant can talk to a minister
as she does. You would think he was just any
common person.”
When Miss Cornelia had gone, Nan Blythe uncurled
herself from the hammock where she had been
studying her lessons and slipped away to Rainbow
Valley. The others were already there. Jem
and Jerry were playing quoits with old horseshoes
borrowed from the Glen blacksmith. Carl was
stalking ants on a sunny hillock. Walter,
lying on his stomach among the fern, was reading
aloud to Mary and Di and Faith and Una from
a wonderful book of myths wherein were fascinating
accounts of Prester John and the Wandering
Jew, divining rods and tailed men, of Schamir,
the worm that split rocks and opened the way
to golden treasure, of Fortunate Isles and
swan-maidens. It was a great shock to Walter
to learn that William Tell and Gelert were
myths also; and the story of Bishop Hatto
was to keep him awake all that night; but
best of all he loved the stories of the Pied
Piper and the San Greal. He read them thrillingly,
while the bells on the Tree Lovers tinkled
in the summer wind and the coolness of the
evening shadows crept across the valley.
“Say, ain’t them in’resting lies?”
said Mary admiringly when Walter had closed
the book.
“They aren’t lies,” said Di indignantly.
“You don’t mean they’re true?” asked
Mary incredulously.
“No—not exactly. They’re like those
ghost-stories of yours. They weren’t true—but
you didn’t expect us to believe them, so
they weren’t lies.”
“That yarn about the divining rod is no
lie, anyhow,” said Mary. “Old Jake Crawford
over-harbour can work it. They send for him
from everywhere when they want to dig a well.
And I believe I know the Wandering Jew.”
“Oh, Mary,” said Una, awe-struck.
“I do—true’s you’re alive. There was
an old man at Mrs. Wiley’s one day last
fall. He looked old enough to be ANYTHING.
She was asking him about cedar posts, if he
thought they’d last well. And he said, ‘Last
well? They’ll last a thousand years. I know,
for I’ve tried them twice.’ Now, if he
was two thousand years old who was he but
your Wandering Jew?”
“I don’t believe the Wandering Jew would
associate with a person like Mrs. Wiley,”
said Faith decidedly.
“I love the Pied Piper story,” said Di,
“and so does mother. I always feel so sorry
for the poor little lame boy who couldn’t
keep up with the others and got shut out of
the mountain. He must have been so disappointed.
I think all the rest of his life he’d be
wondering what wonderful thing he had missed
and wishing he could have got in with the
others.”
“But how glad his mother must have been,”
said Una softly. “I think she had been sorry
all her life that he was lame. Perhaps she
even used to cry about it. But she would never
be sorry again—never. She would be glad
he was lame because that was why she hadn’t
lost him.”
“Some day,” said Walter dreamily, looking
afar into the sky, “the Pied Piper will
come over the hill up there and down Rainbow
Valley, piping merrily and sweetly. And I
will follow him—follow him down to the shore—down
to the sea—away from you all. I don’t
think I’ll want to go—Jem will want to
go—it will be such an adventure—but I
won’t. Only I’ll HAVE to—the music will
call and call and call me until I MUST follow.”
“We’ll all go,” cried Di, catching fire
at the flame of Walter’s fancy, and half-believing
she could see the mocking, retreating figure
of the mystic piper in the far, dim end of
the valley.
“No. You’ll sit here and wait,” said
Walter, his great, splendid eyes full of strange
glamour. “You’ll wait for us to come back.
And we may not come—for we cannot come as
long as the Piper plays. He may pipe us round
the world. And still you’ll sit here and
wait—and WAIT.”
“Oh, dry up,” said Mary, shivering. “Don’t
look like that, Walter Blythe. You give me
the creeps. Do you want to set me bawling?
I could just see that horrid old Piper going
away on, and you boys following him, and us
girls sitting here waiting all alone. I dunno
why it is—I never was one of the blubbering
kind—but as soon as you start your spieling
I always want to cry.”
Walter smiled in triumph. He liked to exercise
this power of his over his companions—to
play on their feelings, waken their fears,
thrill their souls. It satisfied some dramatic
instinct in him. But under his triumph was
a queer little chill of some mysterious dread.
The Pied Piper had seemed very real to him—as
if the fluttering veil that hid the future
had for a moment been blown aside in the starlit
dusk of Rainbow Valley and some dim glimpse
of coming years granted to him.
Carl, coming up to their group with a report
of the doings in ant-land, brought them all
back to the realm of facts.
“Ants ARE darned in’resting,” exclaimed
Mary, glad to escape the shadowy Piper’s
thrall. “Carl and me watched that bed in
the graveyard all Saturday afternoon. I never
thought there was so much in bugs. Say, but
they’re quarrelsome little cusses—some
of ‘em like to start a fight ‘thout any
reason, far’s we could see. And some of
‘em are cowards. They got so scared they
just doubled theirselves up into a ball and
let the other fellows bang ‘em. They wouldn’t
put up a fight at all. Some of ‘em are lazy
and won’t work. We watched ‘em shirking.
And there was one ant died of grief ‘cause
another ant got killed—wouldn’t work—wouldn’t
eat—just died—it did, honest to Go—oodness.”
A shocked silence prevailed. Every one knew
that Mary had not started out to say “goodness.”
Faith and Di exchanged glances that would
have done credit to Miss Cornelia herself.
Walter and Carl looked uncomfortable and Una’s
lip trembled.
Mary squirmed uncomfortably.
“That slipped out ‘fore I thought—it
did, honest to—I mean, true’s you live,
and I swallowed half of it. You folks over
here are mighty squeamish seems to me. Wish
you could have heard the Wileys when they
had a fight.”
“Ladies don’t say such things,” said
Faith, very primly for her.
“It isn’t right,” whispered Una.
“I ain’t a lady,” said Mary. “What
chance’ve I ever had of being a lady? But
I won’t say that again if I can help it.
I promise you.”
“Besides,” said Una, “you can’t expect
God to answer your prayers if you take His
name in vain, Mary.”
“I don’t expect Him to answer ‘em anyhow,”
said Mary of little faith. “I’ve been
asking Him for a week to clear up this Wiley
affair and He hasn’t done a thing. I’m
going to give up.”
At this juncture Nan arrived breathless.
“Oh, Mary, I’ve news for you. Mrs. Elliott
has been over-harbour and what do you think
she found out? Mrs. Wiley is dead—she was
found dead in bed the morning after you ran
away. So you’ll never have to go back to
her.”
“Dead!” said Mary stupefied. Then she
shivered.
“Do you s’pose my praying had anything
to do with that?” she cried imploringly
to Una. “If it had I’ll never pray again
as long as I live. Why, she may come back
and ha’nt me.”
“No, no, Mary,” said Una comfortingly,
“it hadn’t. Why, Mrs. Wiley died long
before you ever began to pray about it at
all.”
“That’s so,” said Mary recovering from
her panic. “But I tell you it gave me a
start. I wouldn’t like to think I’d prayed
anybody to death. I never thought of such
a thing as her dying when I was praying. She
didn’t seem much like the dying kind. Did
Mrs. Elliott say anything about me?”
“She said you would likely have to go back
to the asylum.”
“I thought as much,” said Mary drearily.
“And then they’ll give me out again—likely
to some one just like Mrs. Wiley. Well, I
s’pose I can stand it. I’m tough.”
“I’m going to pray that you won’t have
to go back,” whispered Una, as she and Mary
walked home to the manse.
“You can do as you like,” said Mary decidedly,
“but I vow I won’t. I’m good and scared
of this praying business. See what’s come
of it. If Mrs. Wiley HAD died after I started
praying it would have been my doings.”
“Oh, no, it wouldn’t,” said Una. “I
wish I could explain things better—father
could, I know, if you’d talk to him, Mary.”
“Catch me! I don’t know what to make of
your father, that’s the long and short of
it. He goes by me and never sees me in broad
daylight. I ain’t proud—but I ain’t
a door-mat, neither!”
“Oh, Mary, it’s just father’s way. Most
of the time he never sees us, either. He is
thinking deeply, that is all. And I AM going
to pray that God will keep you in Four Winds—because
I like you, Mary.”
“All right. Only don’t let me hear of
any more people dying on account of it,”
said Mary. “I’d like to stay in Four Winds
fine. I like it and I like the harbour and
the light house—and you and the Blythes.
You’re the only friends I ever had and I’d
hate to leave you.”
CHAPTER IX. UNA INTERVENES
Miss Cornelia had an interview with Mr. Meredith
which proved something of a shock to that
abstracted gentleman. She pointed out to him,
none too respectfully, his dereliction of
duty in allowing a waif like Mary Vance to
come into his family and associate with his
children without knowing or learning anything
about her.
“I don’t say there is much harm done,
of course,” she concluded. “This Mary-creature
isn’t what you might call bad, when all
is said and done. I’ve been questioning
your children and the Blythes, and from what
I can make out there’s nothing much to be
said against the child except that she’s
slangy and doesn’t use very refined language.
But think what might have happened if she’d
been like some of those home children we know
of. You know yourself what that poor little
creature the Jim Flaggs’ had, taught and
told the Flagg children.”
Mr. Meredith did know and was honestly shocked
over his own carelessness in the matter.
“But what is to be done, Mrs. Elliott?”
he asked helplessly. “We can’t turn the
poor child out. She must be cared for.”
“Of course. We’d better write to the Hopetown
authorities at once. Meanwhile, I suppose
she might as well stay here for a few more
days till we hear from them. But keep your
eyes and ears open, Mr. Meredith.”
Susan would have died of horror on the spot
if she had heard Miss Cornelia so admonishing
a minister. But Miss Cornelia departed in
a warm glow of satisfaction over duty done,
and that night Mr. Meredith asked Mary to
come into his study with him. Mary obeyed,
looking literally ghastly with fright. But
she got the surprise of her poor, battered
little life. This man, of whom she had stood
so terribly in awe, was the kindest, gentlest
soul she had ever met. Before she knew what
happened Mary found herself pouring all her
troubles into his ear and receiving in return
such sympathy and tender understanding as
it had never occurred to her to imagine. Mary
left the study with her face and eyes so softened
that Una hardly knew her.
“Your father’s all right, when he does
wake up,” she said with a sniff that just
escaped being a sob. “It’s a pity he doesn’t
wake up oftener. He said I wasn’t to blame
for Mrs. Wiley dying, but that I must try
to think of her good points and not of her
bad ones. I dunno what good points she had,
unless it was keeping her house clean and
making first-class butter. I know I ‘most
wore my arms out scrubbing her old kitchen
floor with the knots in it. But anything your
father says goes with me after this.”
Mary proved a rather dull companion in the
following days, however. She confided to Una
that the more she thought of going back to
the asylum the more she hated it. Una racked
her small brains for some way of averting
it, but it was Nan Blythe who came to the
rescue with a somewhat startling suggestion.
“Mrs. Elliott might take Mary herself. She
has a great big house and Mr. Elliott is always
wanting her to have help. It would be just
a splendid place for Mary. Only she’d have
to behave herself.”
“Oh, Nan, do you think Mrs. Elliott would
take her?”
“It wouldn’t do any harm if you asked
her,” said Nan. At first Una did not think
she could. She was so shy that to ask a favour
of anybody was agony to her. And she was very
much in awe of the bustling, energetic Mrs.
Elliott. She liked her very much and always
enjoyed a visit to her house; but to go and
ask her to adopt Mary Vance seemed such a
height of presumption that Una’s timid spirit
quailed.
When the Hopetown authorities wrote to Mr.
Meredith to send Mary to them without delay
Mary cried herself to sleep in the manse attic
that night and Una found a desperate courage.
The next evening she slipped away from the
manse to the harbour road. Far down in Rainbow
Valley she heard joyous laughter but her way
lay not there. She was terribly pale and terribly
in earnest—so much so that she took no notice
of the people she met—and old Mrs. Stanley
Flagg was quite huffed and said Una Meredith
would be as absentminded as her father when
she grew up.
Miss Cornelia lived half way between the Glen
and Four Winds Point, in a house whose original
glaring green hue had mellowed down to an
agreeable greenish gray. Marshall Elliott
had planted trees about it and set out a rose
garden and a spruce hedge. It was quite a
different place from what it had been in years
agone. The manse children and the Ingleside
children liked to go there. It was a beautiful
walk down the old harbour road, and there
was always a well-filled cooky jar at the
end.
The misty sea was lapping softly far down
on the sands. Three big boats were skimming
down the harbour like great white sea-birds.
A schooner was coming up the channel. The
world of Four Winds was steeped in glowing
colour, and subtle music, and strange glamour,
and everybody should have been happy in it.
But when Una turned in at Miss Cornelia’s
gate her very legs had almost refused to carry
her.
Miss Cornelia was alone on the veranda. Una
had hoped Mr. Elliott would be there. He was
so big and hearty and twinkly that there would
be encouragement in his presence. She sat
on the little stool Miss Cornelia brought
out and tried to eat the doughnut Miss Cornelia
gave her. It stuck in her throat, but she
swallowed desperately lest Miss Cornelia be
offended. She could not talk; she was still
pale; and her big, dark-blue eyes looked so
piteous that Miss Cornelia concluded the child
was in some trouble.
“What’s on your mind, dearie?” she asked.
“There’s something, that’s plain to
be seen.”
Una swallowed the last twist of doughnut with
a desperate gulp.
“Mrs. Elliott, won’t you take Mary Vance?”
she said beseechingly.
Miss Cornelia stared blankly.
“Me! Take Mary Vance! Do you mean keep her?”
“Yes—keep her—adopt her,” said Una
eagerly, gaining courage now that the ice
was broken. “Oh, Mrs. Elliott, PLEASE do.
She doesn’t want to go back to the asylum—she
cries every night about it. She’s so afraid
of being sent to another hard place. And she’s
SO smart—there isn’t anything she can’t
do. I know you wouldn’t be sorry if you
took her.”
“I never thought of such a thing,” said
Miss Cornelia rather helplessly.
“WON’T you think of it?” implored Una.
“But, dearie, I don’t want help. I’m
quite able to do all the work here. And I
never thought I’d like to have a home girl
if I did need help.”
The light went out of Una’s eyes. Her lips
trembled. She sat down on her stool again,
a pathetic little figure of disappointment,
and began to cry.
“Don’t—dearie—don’t,” exclaimed
Miss Cornelia in distress. She could never
bear to hurt a child. “I don’t say I WON’T
take her—but the idea is so new it has just
kerflummuxed me. I must think it over.”
“Mary is SO smart,” said Una again.
“Humph! So I’ve heard. I’ve heard she
swears, too. Is that true?”
“I’ve never heard her swear EXACTLY,”
faltered Una uncomfortably. “But I’m afraid
she COULD.”
“I believe you! Does she always tell the
truth?”
“I think she does, except when she’s afraid
of a whipping.”
“And yet you want me to take her!”
“SOME ONE has to take her,” sobbed Una.
“SOME ONE has to look after her, Mrs. Elliott.”
“That’s true. Perhaps it IS my duty to
do it,” said Miss Cornelia with a sigh.
“Well, I’ll have to talk it over with
Mr. Elliott. So don’t say anything about
it just yet. Take another doughnut, dearie.”
Una took it and ate it with a better appetite.
“I’m very fond of doughnuts,” she confessed
“Aunt Martha never makes any. But Miss Susan
at Ingleside does, and sometimes she lets
us have a plateful in Rainbow Valley. Do you
know what I do when I’m hungry for doughnuts
and can’t get any, Mrs. Elliott?”
“No, dearie. What?”
“I get out mother’s old cook book and
read the doughnut recipe—and the other recipes.
They sound SO nice. I always do that when
I’m hungry—especially after we’ve had
ditto for dinner. THEN I read the fried chicken
and the roast goose recipes. Mother could
make all those nice things.”
“Those manse children will starve to death
yet if Mr. Meredith doesn’t get married,”
Miss Cornelia told her husband indignantly
after Una had gone. “And he won’t—and
what’s to be done? And SHALL we take this
Mary-creature, Marshall?”
“Yes, take her,” said Marshall laconically.
“Just like a man,” said his wife, despairingly.
“‘Take her’—as if that was all. There
are a hundred things to be considered, believe
ME.”
“Take her—and we’ll consider them afterwards,
Cornelia,” said her husband.
In the end Miss Cornelia did take her and
went up to announce her decision to the Ingleside
people first.
“Splendid!” said Anne delightedly. “I’ve
been hoping you would do that very thing,
Miss Cornelia. I want that poor child to get
a good home. I was a homeless little orphan
just like her once.”
“I don’t think this Mary-creature is or
ever will be much like you,” retorted Miss
Cornelia gloomily. “She’s a cat of another
colour. But she’s also a human being with
an immortal soul to save. I’ve got a shorter
catechism and a small tooth comb and I’m
going to do my duty by her, now that I’ve
set my hand to the plough, believe me.”
Mary received the news with chastened satisfaction.
“It’s better luck than I expected,”
she said.
“You’ll have to mind your p’s and q’s
with Mrs. Elliott,” said Nan.
“Well, I can do that,” flashed Mary. “I
know how to behave when I want to just as
well as you, Nan Blythe.”
“You mustn’t use bad words, you know,
Mary,” said Una anxiously.
“I s’pose she’d die of horror if I did,”
grinned Mary, her white eyes shining with
unholy glee over the idea. “But you needn’t
worry, Una. Butter won’t melt in my mouth
after this. I’ll be all prunes and prisms.”
“Nor tell lies,” added Faith.
“Not even to get off from a whipping?”
pleaded Mary.
“Mrs. Elliott will NEVER whip you—NEVER,”
exclaimed Di.
“Won’t she?” said Mary skeptically.
“If I ever find myself in a place where
I ain’t licked I’ll think it’s heaven
all right. No fear of me telling lies then.
I ain’t fond of telling ‘em—I’d ruther
not, if it comes to that.”
The day before Mary’s departure from the
manse they had a picnic in her honour in Rainbow
Valley, and that evening all the manse children
gave her something from their scanty store
of treasured things for a keepsake. Carl gave
her his Noah’s ark and Jerry his second
best jew’s-harp. Faith gave her a little
hairbrush with a mirror in the back of it,
which Mary had always considered very wonderful.
Una hesitated between an old beaded purse
and a gay picture of Daniel in the lion’s
den, and finally offered Mary her choice.
Mary really hankered after the beaded purse,
but she knew Una loved it, so she said,
“Give me Daniel. I’d rusher have it ‘cause
I’m partial to lions. Only I wish they’d
et Daniel up. It would have been more exciting.”
At bedtime Mary coaxed Una to sleep with her.
“It’s for the last time,” she said,
“and it’s raining tonight, and I hate
sleeping up there alone when it’s raining
on account of that graveyard. I don’t mind
it on fine nights, but a night like this I
can’t see anything but the rain pouring
down on them old white stones, and the wind
round the window sounds as if them dead people
were trying to get in and crying ‘cause
they couldn’t.”
“I like rainy nights,” said Una, when
they were cuddled down together in the little
attic room, “and so do the Blythe girls.”
“I don’t mind ‘em when I’m not handy
to graveyards,” said Mary. “If I was alone
here I’d cry my eyes out I’d be so lonesome.
I feel awful bad to be leaving you all.”
“Mrs. Elliott will let you come up and play
in Rainbow Valley quite often I’m sure,”
said Una. “And you WILL be a good girl,
won’t you, Mary?”
“Oh, I’ll try,” sighed Mary. “But
it won’t be as easy for me to be good—inside,
I mean, as well as outside—as it is for
you. You hadn’t such scalawags of relations
as I had.”
“But your people must have had some good
qualities as well as bad ones,” argued Una.
“You must live up to them and never mind
their bad ones.”
“I don’t believe they had any good qualities,”
said Mary gloomily. “I never heard of any.
My grandfather had money, but they say he
was a rascal. No, I’ll just have to start
out on my own hook and do the best I can.”
“And God will help you, you know, Mary,
if you ask Him.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Oh, Mary. You know we asked God to get
a home for you and He did.”
“I don’t see what He had to do with it,”
retorted Mary. “It was you put it into Mrs.
Elliott’s head.”
“But God put it into her HEART to take you.
All my putting it into her HEAD wouldn’t
have done any good if He hadn’t.”
“Well, there may be something in that,”
admitted Mary. “Mind you, I haven’t got
anything against God, Una. I’m willing to
give Him a chance. But, honest, I think He’s
an awful lot like your father—just absent-minded
and never taking any notice of a body most
of the time, but sometimes waking up all of
a suddent and being awful good and kind and
sensible.”
“Oh, Mary, no!” exclaimed horrified Una.
“God isn’t a bit like father—I mean
He’s a thousand times better and kinder.”
“If He’s as good as your father He’ll
do for me,” said Mary. “When your father
was talking to me I felt as if I never could
be bad any more.”
“I wish you’d talk to father about Him,”
sighed Una. “He can explain it all so much
better than I can.”
“Why, so I will, next time he wakes up,”
promised Mary. “That night he talked to
me in the study he showed me real clear that
my praying didn’t kill Mrs. Wiley. My mind’s
been easy since, but I’m real cautious about
praying. I guess the old rhyme is the safest.
Say, Una, it seems to me if one has to pray
to anybody it’d be better to pray to the
devil than to God. God’s good, anyhow so
you say, so He won’t do you any harm, but
from all I can make out the devil needs to
be pacified. I think the sensible way would
be to say to HIM, ‘Good devil, please don’t
tempt me. Just leave me alone, please.’
Now, don’t you?”
“Oh, no, no, Mary. I’m sure it couldn’t
be right to pray to the devil. And it wouldn’t
do any good because he’s bad. It might aggravate
him and he’d be worse than ever.”
“Well, as to this God-matter,” said Mary
stubbornly, “since you and I can’t settle
it, there ain’t no use in talking more about
it until we’ve a chanct to find out the
rights of it. I’ll do the best I can alone
till then.”
“If mother was alive she could tell us everything,”
said Una with a sigh.
“I wisht she was alive,” said Mary. “I
don’t know what’s going to become of you
youngsters when I’m gone. Anyhow, DO try
and keep the house a little tidy. The way
people talks about it is scandalous. And the
first thing you know your father will be getting
married again and then your noses will be
out of joint.”
Una was startled. The idea of her father marrying
again had never presented itself to her before.
She did not like it and she lay silent under
the chill of it.
“Stepmothers are AWFUL creatures,” Mary
went on. “I could make your blood run cold
if I was to tell you all I know about ‘em.
The Wilson kids across the road from Wiley’s
had a stepmother. She was just as bad to ‘em
as Mrs. Wiley was to me. It’ll be awful
if you get a stepmother.”
“I’m sure we won’t,” said Una tremulously.
“Father won’t marry anybody else.”
“He’ll be hounded into it, I expect,”
said Mary darkly. “All the old maids in
the settlement are after him. There’s no
being up to them. And the worst of stepmothers
is, they always set your father against you.
He’d never care anything about you again.
He’d always take her part and her children’s
part. You see, she’d make him believe you
were all bad.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me this, Mary,”
cried Una. “It makes me feel so unhappy.”
“I only wanted to warn you,” said Mary,
rather repentantly. “Of course, your father’s
so absent-minded he mightn’t happen to think
of getting married again. But it’s better
to be prepared.”
Long after Mary slept serenely little Una
lay awake, her eyes smarting with tears. On,
how dreadful it would be if her father should
marry somebody who would make him hate her
and Jerry and Faith and Carl! She couldn’t
bear it—she couldn’t!
Mary had not instilled any poison of the kind
Miss Cornelia had feared into the manse children’s
minds. Yet she had certainly contrived to
do a little mischief with the best of intentions.
But she slept dreamlessly, while Una lay awake
and the rain fell and the wind wailed around
the old gray manse. And the Rev. John Meredith
forgot to go to bed at all because he was
absorbed in reading a life of St. Augustine.
It was gray dawn when he finished it and went
upstairs, wrestling with the problems of two
thousand years ago. The door of the girls’
room was open and he saw Faith lying asleep,
rosy and beautiful. He wondered where Una
was. Perhaps she had gone over to “stay
all night” with the Blythe girls. She did
this occasionally, deeming it a great treat.
John Meredith sighed. He felt that Una’s
whereabouts ought not to be a mystery to him.
Cecelia would have looked after her better
than that.
If only Cecelia were still with him! How pretty
and gay she had been! How the old manse up
at Maywater had echoed to her songs! And she
had gone away so suddenly, taking her laughter
and music and leaving silence—so suddenly
that he had never quite got over his feeling
of amazement. How could SHE, the beautiful
and vivid, have died?
The idea of a second marriage had never presented
itself seriously to John Meredith. He had
loved his wife so deeply that he believed
he could never care for any woman again. He
had a vague idea that before very long Faith
would be old enough to take her mother’s
place. Until then, he must do the best he
could alone. He sighed and went to his room,
where the bed was still unmade. Aunt Martha
had forgotten it, and Mary had not dared to
make it because Aunt Martha had forbidden
her to meddle with anything in the minister’s
room. But Mr. Meredith did not notice that
it was unmade. His last thoughts were of St.
Augustine.
CHAPTER X. THE MANSE GIRLS CLEAN HOUSE
“Ugh,” said Faith, sitting up in bed with
a shiver. “It’s raining. I do hate a rainy
Sunday. Sunday is dull enough even when it’s
fine.”
“We oughtn’t to find Sunday dull,” said
Una sleepily, trying to pull her drowsy wits
together with an uneasy conviction that they
had overslept.
“But we DO, you know,” said Faith candidly.
“Mary Vance says most Sundays are so dull
she could hang herself.”
“We ought to like Sunday better than Mary
Vance,” said Una remorsefully. “We’re
the minister’s children.”
“I wish we were a blacksmith’s children,”
protested Faith angrily, hunting for her stockings.
“THEN people wouldn’t expect us to be
better than other children. JUST look at the
holes in my heels. Mary darned them all up
before she went away, but they’re as bad
as ever now. Una, get up. I can’t get the
breakfast alone. Oh, dear. I wish father and
Jerry were home. You wouldn’t think we’d
miss father much—we don’t see much of
him when he is home. And yet EVERYTHING seems
gone. I must run in and see how Aunt Martha
is.”
“Is she any better?” asked Una, when Faith
returned.
“No, she isn’t. She’s groaning with
the misery still. Maybe we ought to tell Dr.
Blythe. But she says not—she never had a
doctor in her life and she isn’t going to
begin now. She says doctors just live by poisoning
people. Do you suppose they do?”
“No, of course not,” said Una indignantly.
“I’m sure Dr. Blythe wouldn’t poison
anybody.”
“Well, we’ll have to rub Aunt Martha’s
back again after breakfast. We’d better
not make the flannels as hot as we did yesterday.”
Faith giggled over the remembrance. They had
nearly scalded the skin off poor Aunt Martha’s
back. Una sighed. Mary Vance would have known
just what the precise temperature of flannels
for a misery back should be. Mary knew everything.
They knew nothing. And how could they learn,
save by bitter experience for which, in this
instance, unfortunate Aunt Martha had paid?
The preceding Monday Mr. Meredith had left
for Nova Scotia to spend his short vacation,
taking Jerry with him. On Wednesday Aunt Martha
was suddenly seized with a recurring and mysterious
ailment which she always called “the misery,”
and which was tolerably certain to attack
her at the most inconvenient times. She could
not rise from her bed, any movement causing
agony. A doctor she flatly refused to have.
Faith and Una cooked the meals and waited
on her. The less said about the meals the
better—yet they were not much worse than
Aunt Martha’s had been. There were many
women in the village who would have been glad
to come and help, but Aunt Martha refused
to let her plight be known.
“You must worry on till I kin git around,”
she groaned. “Thank goodness, John isn’t
here. There’s a plenty o’ cold biled meat
and bread and you kin try your hand at making
porridge.”
The girls had tried their hand, but so far
without much success. The first day it had
been too thin. The next day so thick that
you could cut it in slices. And both days
it had been burned.
“I hate porridge,” said Faith viciously.
“When I have a house of my own I’m NEVER
going to have a single bit of porridge in
it.”
“What’ll your children do then?” asked
Una. “Children have to have porridge or
they won’t grow. Everybody says so.”
“They’ll have to get along without it
or stay runts,” retorted Faith stubbornly.
“Here, Una, you stir it while I set the
table. If I leave it for a minute the horrid
stuff will burn. It’s half past nine. We’ll
be late for Sunday School.”
“I haven’t seen anyone going past yet,”
said Una. “There won’t likely be many
out. Just see how it’s pouring. And when
there’s no preaching the folks won’t come
from a distance to bring the children.”
“Go and call Carl,” said Faith.
Carl, it appeared, had a sore throat, induced
by getting wet in the Rainbow Valley marsh
the previous evening while pursuing dragon-flies.
He had come home with dripping stockings and
boots and had sat out the evening in them.
He could not eat any breakfast and Faith made
him go back to bed again. She and Una left
the table as it was and went to Sunday School.
There was no one in the school room when they
got there and no one came. They waited until
eleven and then went home.
“There doesn’t seem to be anybody at the
Methodist Sunday School either,” said Una.
“I’m GLAD,” said Faith. “I’d hate
to think the Methodists were better at going
to Sunday School on rainy Sundays than the
Presbyterians. But there’s no preaching
in their Church to-day, either, so likely
their Sunday School is in the afternoon.”
Una washed the dishes, doing them quite nicely,
for so much had she learned from Mary Vance.
Faith swept the floor after a fashion and
peeled the potatoes for dinner, cutting her
finger in the process.
“I wish we had something for dinner besides
ditto,” sighed Una. “I’m so tired of
it. The Blythe children don’t know what
ditto is. And we NEVER have any pudding. Nan
says Susan would faint if they had no pudding
on Sundays. Why aren’t we like other people,
Faith?”
“I don’t want to be like other people,”
laughed Faith, tying up her bleeding finger.
“I like being myself. It’s more interesting.
Jessie Drew is as good a housekeeper as her
mother, but would you want to be as stupid
as she is?”
“But our house isn’t right. Mary Vance
says so. She says people talk about it being
so untidy.”
Faith had an inspiration.
“We’ll clean it all up,” she cried.
“We’ll go right to work to-morrow. It’s
a real good chance when Aunt Martha is laid
up and can’t interfere with us. We’ll
have it all lovely and clean when father comes
home, just like it was when Mary went away.
ANY ONE can sweep and dust and wash windows.
People won’t be able to talk about us any
more. Jem Blythe says it’s only old cats
that talk, but their talk hurts just as much
as anybody’s.”
“I hope it will be fine to-morrow,” said
Una, fired with enthusiasm. “Oh, Faith,
it will be splendid to be all cleaned up and
like other people.”
“I hope Aunt Martha’s misery will last
over to-morrow,” said Faith. “If it doesn’t
we won’t get a single thing done.”
Faith’s amiable wish was fulfilled. The
next day found Aunt Martha still unable to
rise. Carl, too, was still sick and easily
prevailed on to stay in bed. Neither Faith
nor Una had any idea how sick the boy really
was; a watchful mother would have had a doctor
without delay; but there was no mother, and
poor little Carl, with his sore throat and
aching head and crimson cheeks, rolled himself
up in his twisted bedclothes and suffered
alone, somewhat comforted by the companionship
of a small green lizard in the pocket of his
ragged nighty.
The world was full of summer sunshine after
the rain. It was a peerless day for house-cleaning
and Faith and Una went gaily to work.
“We’ll clean the dining-room and the parlour,”
said Faith. “It wouldn’t do to meddle
with the study, and it doesn’t matter much
about the upstairs. The first thing is to
take everything out.”
Accordingly, everything was taken out. The
furniture was piled on the veranda and lawn
and the Methodist graveyard fence was gaily
draped with rugs. An orgy of sweeping followed,
with an attempt at dusting on Una’s part,
while Faith washed the windows of the dining-room,
breaking one pane and cracking two in the
process. Una surveyed the streaked result
dubiously.
“They don’t look right, somehow,” she
said. “Mrs. Elliott’s and Susan’s windows
just shine and sparkle.”
“Never mind. They let the sunshine through
just as well,” said Faith cheerfully. “They
MUST be clean after all the soap and water
I’ve used, and that’s the main thing.
Now, it’s past eleven, so I’ll wipe up
this mess on the floor and we’ll go outside.
You dust the furniture and I’ll shake the
rugs. I’m going to do it in the graveyard.
I don’t want to send dust flying all over
the lawn.”
Faith enjoyed the rug shaking. To stand on
Hezekiah Pollock’s tombstone, flapping and
shaking rugs, was real fun. To be sure, Elder
Abraham Clow and his wife, driving past in
their capacious double-seated buggy, seemed
to gaze at her in grim disapproval.
“Isn’t that a terrible sight?” said
Elder Abraham solemnly.
“I would never have believed it if I hadn’t
seen it with my own eyes,” said Mrs. Elder
Abraham, more solemnly still.
Faith waved a door mat cheerily at the Clow
party. It did not worry her that the elder
and his wife did not return her greeting.
Everybody knew that Elder Abraham had never
been known to smile since he had been appointed
Superintendent of the Sunday School fourteen
years previously. But it hurt her that Minnie
and Adella Clow did not wave back. Faith liked
Minnie and Adella. Next to the Blythes, they
were her best friends in school and she always
helped Adella with her sums. This was gratitude
for you. Her friends cut her because she was
shaking rugs in an old graveyard where, as
Mary Vance said, not a living soul had been
buried for years. Faith flounced around to
the veranda, where she found Una grieved in
spirit because the Clow girls had not waved
to her, either.
“I suppose they’re mad over something,”
said Faith. “Perhaps they’re jealous because
we play so much in Rainbow Valley with the
Blythes. Well, just wait till school opens
and Adella wants me to show her how to do
her sums! We’ll get square then. Come on,
let’s put the things back in. I’m tired
to death and I don’t believe the rooms will
look much better than before we started—though
I shook out pecks of dust in the graveyard.
I HATE house-cleaning.”
It was two o’clock before the tired girls
finished the two rooms. They got a dreary
bite in the kitchen and intended to wash the
dishes at once. But Faith happened to pick
up a new story-book Di Blythe had lent her
and was lost to the world until sunset. Una
took a cup of rank tea up to Carl but found
him asleep; so she curled herself up on Jerry’s
bed and went to sleep too. Meanwhile, a weird
story flew through Glen St. Mary and folks
asked each other seriously what was to be
done with those manse youngsters.
“That is past laughing at, believe ME,”
said Miss Cornelia to her husband, with a
heavy sigh. “I couldn’t believe it at
first. Miranda Drew brought the story home
from the Methodist Sunday School this afternoon
and I simply scoffed at it. But Mrs. Elder
Abraham says she and the Elder saw it with
their own eyes.”
“Saw what?” asked Marshall.
“Faith and Una Meredith stayed home from
Sunday School this morning and CLEANED HOUSE,”
said Miss Cornelia, in accents of despair.
“When Elder Abraham went home from the church—he
had stayed behind to straighten out the library
books—he saw them shaking rugs in the Methodist
graveyard. I can never look a Methodist in
the face again. Just think what a scandal
it will make!”
A scandal it assuredly did make, growing more
scandalous as it spread, until the over-harbour
people heard that the manse children had not
only cleaned house and put out a washing on
Sunday, but had wound up with an afternoon
picnic in the graveyard while the Methodist
Sunday School was going on. The only household
which remained in blissful ignorance of the
terrible thing was the manse itself; on what
Faith and Una fondly believed to be Tuesday
it rained again; for the next three days it
rained; nobody came near the manse; the manse
folk went nowhere; they might have waded through
the misty Rainbow Valley up to Ingleside,
but all the Blythe family, save Susan and
the doctor, were away on a visit to Avonlea.
“This is the last of our bread,” said
Faith, “and the ditto is done. If Aunt Martha
doesn’t get better soon WHAT will we do?”
“We can buy some bread in the village and
there’s the codfish Mary dried,” said
Una. “But we don’t know how to cook it.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” laughed Faith. “You
just boil it.”
Boil it they did; but as it did not occur
to them to soak it beforehand it was too salty
to eat. That night they were very hungry;
but by the following day their troubles were
over. Sunshine returned to the world; Carl
was well and Aunt Martha’s misery left her
as suddenly as it had come; the butcher called
at the manse and chased famine away. To crown
all, the Blythes returned home, and that evening
they and the manse children and Mary Vance
kept sunset tryst once more in Rainbow Valley,
where the daisies were floating upon the grass
like spirits of the dew and the bells on the
Tree Lovers rang like fairy chimes in the
scented twilight.
CHAPTER XI. A DREADFUL DISCOVERY
“Well, you kids have gone and done it now,”
was Mary’s greeting, as she joined them
in the Valley. Miss Cornelia was up at Ingleside,
holding agonized conclave with Anne and Susan,
and Mary hoped that the session might be a
long one, for it was all of two weeks since
she had been allowed to revel with her chums
in the dear valley of rainbows.
“Done what?” demanded everybody but Walter,
who was day-dreaming as usual.
“It’s you manse young ones, I mean,”
said Mary. “It was just awful of you. I
wouldn’t have done such a thing for the
world, and I weren’t brought up in a manse—weren’t
brought up ANYWHERE—just COME up.”
“What have WE done?” asked Faith blankly.
“Done! You’d BETTER ask! The talk is something
terrible. I expect it’s ruined your father
in this congregation. He’ll never be able
to live it down, poor man! Everybody blames
him for it, and that isn’t fair. But nothing
IS fair in this world. You ought to be ashamed
of yourselves.”
“What HAVE we done?” asked Una again,
despairingly. Faith said nothing, but her
eyes flashed golden-brown scorn at Mary.
“Oh, don’t pretend innocence,” said
Mary, witheringly. “Everybody knows what
you have done.”
“I don’t,” interjected Jem Blythe indignantly.
“Don’t let me catch you making Una cry,
Mary Vance. What are you talking about?”
“I s’pose you don’t know, since you’re
just back from up west,” said Mary, somewhat
subdued. Jem could always manage her. “But
everybody else knows, you’d better believe.”
“Knows what?”
“That Faith and Una stayed home from Sunday
School last Sunday and CLEANED HOUSE.”
“We didn’t,” cried Faith and Una, in
passionate denial.
Mary looked haughtily at them.
“I didn’t suppose you’d deny it, after
the way you’ve combed ME down for lying,”
she said. “What’s the good of saying you
didn’t? Everybody knows you DID. Elder Clow
and his wife saw you. Some people say it will
break up the church, but I don’t go that
far. You ARE nice ones.”
Nan Blythe stood up and put her arms around
the dazed Faith and Una.
“They were nice enough to take you in and
feed you and clothe you when you were starving
in Mr. Taylor’s barn, Mary Vance,” she
said. “You are VERY grateful, I must say.”
“I AM grateful,” retorted Mary. “You’d
know it if you’d heard me standing up for
Mr. Meredith through thick and thin. I’ve
blistered my tongue talking for him this week.
I’ve said again and again that he isn’t
to blame if his young ones did clean house
on Sunday. He was away—and they knew better.”
“But we didn’t,” protested Una. “It
was MONDAY we cleaned house. Wasn’t it,
Faith?”
“Of course it was,” said Faith, with flashing
eyes. “We went to Sunday School in spite
of the rain—and no one came—not even Elder
Abraham, for all his talk about fair-weather
Christians.”
“It was Saturday it rained,” said Mary.
“Sunday was as fine as silk. I wasn’t
at Sunday School because I had toothache,
but every one else was and they saw all your
stuff out on the lawn. And Elder Abraham and
Mrs. Elder Abraham saw you shaking rugs in
the graveyard.”
Una sat down among the daisies and began to
cry.
“Look here,” said Jem resolutely, “this
thing must be cleared up. SOMEBODY has made
a mistake. Sunday WAS fine, Faith. How could
you have thought Saturday was Sunday?”
“Prayer-meeting was Thursday night,” cried
Faith, “and Adam flew into the soup-pot
on Friday when Aunt Martha’s cat chased
him, and spoiled our dinner; and Saturday
there was a snake in the cellar and Carl caught
it with a forked stick and carried it out,
and Sunday it rained. So there!”
“Prayer-meeting was Wednesday night,”
said Mary. “Elder Baxter was to lead and
he couldn’t go Thursday night and it was
changed to Wednesday. You were just a day
out, Faith Meredith, and you DID work on Sunday.”
Suddenly Faith burst into a peal of laughter.
“I suppose we did. What a joke!”
“It isn’t much of a joke for your father,”
said Mary sourly.
“It’ll be all right when people find out
it was just a mistake,” said Faith carelessly.
“We’ll explain.”
“You can explain till you’re black in
the face,” said Mary, “but a lie like
that’ll travel faster’n further than you
ever will. I’VE seen more of the world than
you and I know. Besides, there are plenty
of folks won’t believe it was a mistake.”
“They will if I tell them,” said Faith.
“You can’t tell everybody,” said Mary.
“No, I tell you you’ve disgraced your
father.”
Una’s evening was spoiled by this dire reflection,
but Faith refused to be made uncomfortable.
Besides, she had a plan that would put everything
right. So she put the past with its mistake
behind her and gave herself over to enjoyment
of the present. Jem went away to fish and
Walter came out of his reverie and proceeded
to describe the woods of heaven. Mary pricked
up her ears and listened respectfully. Despite
her awe of Walter she revelled in his “book
talk.” It always gave her a delightful sensation.
Walter had been reading his Coleridge that
day, and he pictured a heaven where
“There were gardens bright with sinuous
rills
Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree,
And there were forests ancient as the hills
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.”
“I didn’t know there was any woods in
heaven,” said Mary, with a long breath.
“I thought it was all streets—and streets—AND
streets.”
“Of course there are woods,” said Nan.
“Mother can’t live without trees and I
can’t, so what would be the use of going
to heaven if there weren’t any trees?”
“There are cities, too,” said the young
dreamer, “splendid cities—coloured just
like the sunset, with sapphire towers and
rainbow domes. They are built of gold and
diamonds—whole streets of diamonds, flashing
like the sun. In the squares there are crystal
fountains kissed by the light, and everywhere
the asphodel blooms—the flower of heaven.”
“Fancy!” said Mary. “I saw the main
street in Charlottetown once and I thought
it was real grand, but I s’pose it’s nothing
to heaven. Well, it all sounds gorgeous the
way you tell it, but won’t it be kind of
dull, too?”
“Oh, I guess we can have some fun when the
angels’ backs are turned,” said Faith
comfortably.
“Heaven is ALL fun,” declared Di.
“The Bible doesn’t say so,” cried Mary,
who had read so much of the Bible on Sunday
afternoons under Miss Cornelia’s eye that
she now considered herself quite an authority
on it.
“Mother says the Bible language is figurative,”
said Nan.
“Does that mean that it isn’t true?”
asked Mary hopefully.
“No—not exactly—but I think it means
that heaven will be just like what you’d
like it to be.”
“I’d like it to be just like Rainbow Valley,”
said Mary, “with all you kids to gas and
play with. THAT’S good enough for me. Anyhow,
we can’t go to heaven till we’re dead
and maybe not then, so what’s the use of
worrying? Here’s Jem with a string of trout
and it’s my turn to fry them.”
“We ought to know more about heaven than
Walter does when we’re the minister’s
family,” said Una, as they walked home that
night.
“We KNOW just as much, but Walter can IMAGINE,”
said Faith. “Mrs. Elliott says he gets it
from his mother.”
“I do wish we hadn’t made that mistake
about Sunday,” sighed Una.
“Don’t worry over that. I’ve thought
of a great plan to explain so that everybody
will know,” said Faith. “Just wait till
to-morrow night.”
CHAPTER XII. AN EXPLANATION AND A DARE
The Rev. Dr. Cooper preached in Glen St. Mary
the next evening and the Presbyterian Church
was crowded with people from near and far.
The Reverend Doctor was reputed to be a very
eloquent speaker; and, bearing in mind the
old dictum that a minister should take his
best clothes to the city and his best sermons
to the country, he delivered a very scholarly
and impressive discourse. But when the folks
went home that night it was not of Dr. Cooper’s
sermon they talked. They had completely forgotten
all about it.
Dr. Cooper had concluded with a fervent appeal,
had wiped the perspiration from his massive
brow, had said “Let us pray” as he was
famed for saying it, and had duly prayed.
There was a slight pause. In Glen St. Mary
church the old fashion of taking the collection
after the sermon instead of before still held—mainly
because the Methodists had adopted the new
fashion first, and Miss Cornelia and Elder
Clow would not hear of following where Methodists
had led. Charles Baxter and Thomas Douglas,
whose duty it was to pass the plates, were
on the point of rising to their feet. The
organist had got out the music of her anthem
and the choir had cleared its throat. Suddenly
Faith Meredith rose in the manse pew, walked
up to the pulpit platform, and faced the amazed
audience.
Miss Cornelia half rose in her seat and then
sat down again. Her pew was far back and it
occurred to her that whatever Faith meant
to do or say would be half done or said before
she could reach her. There was no use making
the exhibition worse than it had to be. With
an anguished glance at Mrs. Dr. Blythe, and
another at Deacon Warren of the Methodist
Church, Miss Cornelia resigned herself to
another scandal.
“If the child was only dressed decently
itself,” she groaned in spirit.
Faith, having spilled ink on her good dress,
had serenely put on an old one of faded pink
print. A caticornered rent in the skirt had
been darned with scarlet tracing cotton and
the hem had been let down, showing a bright
strip of unfaded pink around the skirt. But
Faith was not thinking of her clothes at all.
She was feeling suddenly nervous. What had
seemed easy in imagination was rather hard
in reality. Confronted by all those staring
questioning eyes Faith’s courage almost
failed her. The lights were so bright, the
silence so awesome. She thought she could
not speak after all. But she MUST—her father
MUST be cleared of suspicion. Only—the words
would NOT come.
Una’s little pearl-pure face gleamed up
at her beseechingly from the manse pew. The
Blythe children were lost in amazement. Back
under the gallery Faith saw the sweet graciousness
of Miss Rosemary West’s smile and the amusement
of Miss Ellen’s. But none of these helped
her. It was Bertie Shakespeare Drew who saved
the situation. Bertie Shakespeare sat in the
front seat of the gallery and he made a derisive
face at Faith. Faith promptly made a dreadful
one back at him, and, in her anger over being
grimaced at by Bertie Shakespeare, forgot
her stage fright. She found her voice and
spoke out clearly and bravely.
“I want to explain something,” she said,
“and I want to do it now because everybody
will hear it that heard the other. People
are saying that Una and I stayed home last
Sunday and cleaned house instead of going
to Sunday School. Well, we did—but we didn’t
mean to. We got mixed up in the days of the
week. It was all Elder Baxter’s fault”—sensation
in Baxter’s pew—“because he went and
changed the prayer-meeting to Wednesday night
and then we thought Thursday was Friday and
so on till we thought Saturday was Sunday.
Carl was laid up sick and so was Aunt Martha,
so they couldn’t put us right. We went to
Sunday School in all that rain on Saturday
and nobody came. And then we thought we’d
clean house on Monday and stop old cats from
talking about how dirty the manse was”—general
sensation all over the church—“and we
did. I shook the rugs in the Methodist graveyard
because it was such a convenient place and
not because I meant to be disrespectful of
the dead. It isn’t the dead folks who have
made the fuss over this—it’s the living
folks. And it isn’t right for any of you
to blame my father for this, because he was
away and didn’t know, and anyhow we thought
it was Monday. He’s just the best father
that ever lived in the world and we love him
with all our hearts.”
Faith’s bravado ebbed out in a sob. She
ran down the steps and flashed out of the
side door of the church. There the friendly
starlit, summer night comforted her and the
ache went out of her eyes and throat. She
felt very happy. The dreadful explanation
was over and everybody knew now that her father
wasn’t to blame and that she and Una were
not so wicked as to have cleaned house knowingly
on Sunday.
Inside the church people gazed blankly at
each other, but Thomas Douglas rose and walked
up the aisle with a set face. HIS duty was
clear; the collection must be taken if the
skies fell. Taken it was; the choir sang the
anthem, with a dismal conviction that it fell
terribly flat, and Dr. Cooper gave out the
concluding hymn and pronounced the benediction
with considerably less unction than usual.
The Reverend Doctor had a sense of humour
and Faith’s performance tickled him. Besides,
John Meredith was well known in Presbyterian
circles.
Mr. Meredith returned home the next afternoon,
but before his coming Faith contrived to scandalize
Glen St. Mary again. In the reaction from
Sunday evening’s intensity and strain she
was especially full of what Miss Cornelia
would have called “devilment” on Monday.
This led her to dare Walter Blythe to ride
through Main Street on a pig, while she rode
another one.
The pigs in question were two tall, lank animals,
supposed to belong to Bertie Shakespeare Drew’s
father, which had been haunting the roadside
by the manse for a couple of weeks. Walter
did not want to ride a pig through Glen St.
Mary, but whatever Faith Meredith dared him
to do must be done. They tore down the hill
and through the village, Faith bent double
with laughter over her terrified courser,
Walter crimson with shame. They tore past
the minister himself, just coming home from
the station; he, being a little less dreamy
and abstracted than usual—owing to having
had a talk on the train with Miss Cornelia
who always wakened him up temporarily—noticed
them, and thought he really must speak to
Faith about it and tell her that such conduct
was not seemly. But he had forgotten the trifling
incident by the time he reached home. They
passed Mrs. Alec Davis, who shrieked in horror,
and they passed Miss Rosemary West who laughed
and sighed. Finally, just before the pigs
swooped into Bertie Shakespeare Drew’s back
yard, never to emerge therefrom again, so
great had been the shock to their nerves—Faith
and Walter jumped off, as Dr. and Mrs. Blythe
drove swiftly by.
“So that is how you bring up your boys,”
said Gilbert with mock severity.
“Perhaps I do spoil them a little,” said
Anne contritely, “but, oh, Gilbert, when
I think of my own childhood before I came
to Green Gables I haven’t the heart to be
very strict. How hungry for love and fun I
was—an unloved little drudge with never
a chance to play! They do have such good times
with the manse children.”
“What about the poor pigs?” asked Gilbert.
Anne tried to look sober and failed.
“Do you really think it hurt them?” she
said. “I don’t think anything could hurt
those animals. They’ve been the plague of
the neighbourhood this summer and the Drews
WON’T shut them up. But I’ll talk to Walter—if
I can keep from laughing when I do it.”
Miss Cornelia came up to Ingleside that evening
to relieve her feelings over Sunday night.
To her surprise she found that Anne did not
view Faith’s performance in quite the same
light as she did.
“I thought there was something brave and
pathetic in her getting up there before that
churchful of people, to confess,” she said.
“You could see she was frightened to death—yet
she was bound to clear her father. I loved
her for it.”
“Oh, of course, the poor child meant well,”
sighed Miss Cornelia, “but just the same
it was a terrible thing to do, and is making
more talk than the house-cleaning on Sunday.
THAT had begun to die away, and this has started
it all up again. Rosemary West is like you—she
said last night as she left the church that
it was a plucky thing for Faith to do, but
it made her feel sorry for the child, too.
Miss Ellen thought it all a good joke, and
said she hadn’t had as much fun in church
for years. Of course THEY don’t care—they
are Episcopalians. But we Presbyterians feel
it. And there were so many hotel people there
that night and scores of Methodists. Mrs.
Leander Crawford cried, she felt so bad. And
Mrs. Alec Davis said the little hussy ought
to be spanked.”
“Mrs. Leander Crawford is always crying
in church,” said Susan contemptuously. “She
cries over every affecting thing the minister
says. But you do not often see her name on
a subscription list, Mrs. Dr. dear. Tears
come cheaper. She tried to talk to me one
day about Aunt Martha being such a dirty housekeeper;
and I wanted to say, ‘Every one knows that
YOU have been seen mixing up cakes in the
kitchen wash-pan, Mrs. Leander Crawford!’
But I did not say it, Mrs. Dr. dear, because
I have too much respect for myself to condescend
to argue with the likes of her. But I could
tell worse things than THAT of Mrs. Leander
Crawford, if I was disposed to gossip. And
as for Mrs. Alec Davis, if she had said that
to me, Mrs. Dr. dear, do you know what I would
have said? I would have said, ‘I have no
doubt you would like to spank Faith, Mrs.
Davis, but you will never have the chance
to spank a minister’s daughter either in
this world or in that which is to come.’”
“If poor Faith had only been decently dressed,”
lamented Miss Cornelia again, “it wouldn’t
have been quite that bad. But that dress looked
dreadful, as she stood there upon the platform.”
“It was clean, though, Mrs. Dr. dear,”
said Susan. “They ARE clean children. They
may be very heedless and reckless, Mrs. Dr.
dear, and I am not saying they are not, but
they NEVER forget to wash behind their ears.”
“The idea of Faith forgetting what day was
Sunday,” persisted Miss Cornelia. “She
will grow up just as careless and impractical
as her father, believe ME. I suppose Carl
would have known better if he hadn’t been
sick. I don’t know what was wrong with him,
but I think it very likely he had been eating
those blueberries that grew in the graveyard.
No wonder they made him sick. If I was a Methodist
I’d try to keep my graveyard cleaned up
at least.”
“I am of the opinion that Carl only ate
the sours that grow on the dyke,” said Susan
hopefully. “I do not think ANY minister’s
son would eat blueberries that grew on the
graves of dead people. You know it would not
be so bad, Mrs. Dr. dear, to eat things that
grew on the dyke.”
“The worst of last night’s performance
was the face Faith made made at somebody in
the congregation before she started in,”
said Miss Cornelia. “Elder Clow declares
she made it at him. And DID you hear that
she was seen riding on a pig to-day?”
“I saw her. Walter was with her. I gave
him a little—a VERY little—scolding about
it. He did not say much, but he gave me the
impression that it had been his idea and that
Faith was not to blame.”
“I do not not believe THAT, Mrs. Dr. dear,”
cried Susan, up in arms. “That is just Walter’s
way—to take the blame on himself. But you
know as well as I do, Mrs. Dr. dear, that
that blessed child would never have thought
of riding on a pig, even if he does write
poetry.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt the notion was hatched
in Faith Meredith’s brain,” said Miss
Cornelia. “And I don’t say that I’m
sorry that Amos Drew’s old pigs did get
their come-uppance for once. But the minister’s
daughter!”
“AND the doctor’s son!” said Anne, mimicking
Miss Cornelia’s tone. Then she laughed.
“Dear Miss Cornelia, they’re only little
children. And you KNOW they’ve never yet
done anything bad—they’re just heedless
and impulsive—as I was myself once. They’ll
grow sedate and sober—as I’ve done.”
Miss Cornelia laughed, too.
“There are times, Anne dearie, when I know
by your eyes that YOUR soberness is put on
like a garment and you’re really aching
to do something wild and young again. Well,
I feel encouraged. Somehow, a talk with you
always does have that effect on me. Now, when
I go to see Barbara Samson, it’s just the
opposite. She makes me feel that everything’s
wrong and always will be. But of course living
all your life with a man like Joe Samson wouldn’t
be exactly cheering.”
“It is a very strange thing to think that
she married Joe Samson after all her chances,”
remarked Susan. “She was much sought after
when she was a girl. She used to boast to
me that she had twenty-one beaus and Mr. Pethick.”
“What was Mr. Pethick?”
“Well, he was a sort of hanger-on, Mrs.
Dr. dear, but you could not exactly call him
a beau. He did not really have any intentions.
Twenty-one beaus—and me that never had one!
But Barbara went through the woods and picked
up the crooked stick after all. And yet they
say her husband can make better baking powder
biscuits than she can, and she always gets
him to make them when company comes to tea.”
“Which reminds ME that I have company coming
to tea to-morrow and I must go home and set
my bread,” said Miss Cornelia. “Mary said
she could set it and no doubt she could. But
while I live and move and have my being I
set my own bread, believe me.”
“How is Mary getting on?” asked Anne.
“I’ve no fault to find with Mary,” said
Miss Cornelia rather gloomily. “She’s
getting some flesh on her bones and she’s
clean and respectful—though there’s more
in her than I can fathom. She’s a sly puss.
If you dug for a thousand years you couldn’t
get to the bottom of that child’s mind,
believe ME! As for work, I never saw anything
like her. She EATS it up. Mrs. Wiley may have
been cruel to her, but folks needn’t say
she made Mary work. Mary’s a born worker.
Sometimes I wonder which will wear out first—her
legs or her tongue. I don’t have enough
to do to keep me out of mischief these days.
I’ll be real glad when school opens, for
then I’ll have something to do again. Mary
doesn’t want to go to school, but I put
my foot down and said that go she must. I
shall NOT have the Methodists saying that
I kept her out of school while I lolled in
idleness.”
CHAPTER XIII. THE HOUSE ON THE HILL
There was a little unfailing spring, always
icy cold and crystal pure, in a certain birch-screened
hollow of Rainbow Valley in the lower corner
near the marsh. Not a great many people knew
of its existence. The manse and Ingleside
children knew, of course, as they knew everything
else about the magic valley. Occasionally
they went there to get a drink, and it figured
in many of their plays as a fountain of old
romance. Anne knew of it and loved it because
it somehow reminded her of the beloved Dryad’s
Bubble at Green Gables. Rosemary West knew
of it; it was her fountain of romance, too.
Eighteen years ago she had sat behind it one
spring twilight and heard young Martin Crawford
stammer out a confession of fervent, boyish
love. She had whispered her own secret in
return, and they had kissed and promised by
the wild wood spring. They had never stood
together by it again—Martin had sailed on
his fatal voyage soon after; but to Rosemary
West it was always a sacred spot, hallowed
by that immortal hour of youth and love. Whenever
she passed near it she turned aside to hold
a secret tryst with an old dream—a dream
from which the pain had long gone, leaving
only its unforgettable sweetness.
The spring was a hidden thing. You might have
passed within ten feet of it and never have
suspected its existence. Two generations past
a huge old pine had fallen almost across it.
Nothing was left of the tree but its crumbling
trunk out of which the ferns grew thickly,
making a green roof and a lacy screen for
the water. A maple-tree grew beside it with
a curiously gnarled and twisted trunk, creeping
along the ground for a little way before shooting
up into the air, and so forming a quaint seat;
and September had flung a scarf of pale smoke-blue
asters around the hollow.
John Meredith, taking the cross-lots road
through Rainbow Valley on his way home from
some pastoral visitations around the Harbour
head one evening, turned aside to drink of
the little spring. Walter Blythe had shown
it to him one afternoon only a few days before,
and they had had a long talk together on the
maple seat. John Meredith, under all his shyness
and aloofness, had the heart of a boy. He
had been called Jack in his youth, though
nobody in Glen St. Mary would ever have believed
it. Walter and he had taken to each other
and had talked unreservedly. Mr. Meredith
found his way into some sealed and sacred
chambers of the lad’s soul wherein not even
Di had ever looked. They were to be chums
from that friendly hour and Walter knew that
he would never be frightened of the minister
again.
“I never believed before that it was possible
to get really acquainted with a minister,”
he told his mother that night.
John Meredith drank from his slender white
hand, whose grip of steel always surprised
people who were unacquainted with it, and
then sat down on the maple seat. He was in
no hurry to go home; this was a beautiful
spot and he was mentally weary after a round
of rather uninspiring conversations with many
good and stupid people. The moon was rising.
Rainbow Valley was wind-haunted and star-sentinelled
only where he was, but afar from the upper
end came the gay notes of children’s laughter
and voices.
The ethereal beauty of the asters in the moonlight,
the glimmer of the little spring, the soft
croon of the brook, the wavering grace of
the brackens all wove a white magic round
John Meredith. He forgot congregational worries
and spiritual problems; the years slipped
away from him; he was a young divinity student
again and the roses of June were blooming
red and fragrant on the dark, queenly head
of his Cecilia. He sat there and dreamed like
any boy. And it was at this propitious moment
that Rosemary West stepped aside from the
by-path and stood beside him in that dangerous,
spell-weaving place. John Meredith stood up
as she came in and saw her—REALLY saw her—for
the first time.
He had met her in his church once or twice
and shaken hands with her abstractedly as
he did with anyone he happened to encounter
on his way down the aisle. He had never met
her elsewhere, for the Wests were Episcopalians,
with church affinities in Lowbridge, and no
occasion for calling upon them had ever arisen.
Before to-night, if anyone had asked John
Meredith what Rosemary West looked like he
would not have had the slightest notion. But
he was never to forget her, as she appeared
to him in the glamour of kind moonlight by
the spring.
She was certainly not in the least like Cecilia,
who had always been his ideal of womanly beauty.
Cecilia had been small and dark and vivacious—Rosemary
West was tall and fair and placid, yet John
Meredith thought he had never seen so beautiful
a woman.
She was bareheaded and her golden hair—hair
of a warm gold, “molasses taffy” colour
as Di Blythe had said—was pinned in sleek,
close coils over her head; she had large,
tranquil, blue eyes that always seemed full
of friendliness, a high white forehead and
a finely shaped face.
Rosemary West was always called a “sweet
woman.” She was so sweet that even her high-bred,
stately air had never gained for her the reputation
of being “stuck-up,” which it would inevitably
have done in the case of anyone else in Glen
St. Mary. Life had taught her to be brave,
to be patient, to love, to forgive. She had
watched the ship on which her lover went sailing
out of Four Winds Harbour into the sunset.
But, though she watched long, she had never
seen it coming sailing back. That vigil had
taken girlhood from her eyes, yet she kept
her youth to a marvellous degree. Perhaps
this was because she always seemed to preserve
that attitude of delighted surprise towards
life which most of us leave behind in childhood—an
attitude which not only made Rosemary herself
seem young, but flung a pleasing illusion
of youth over the consciousness of every one
who talked to her.
John Meredith was startled by her loveliness
and Rosemary was startled by his presence.
She had never thought she would find anyone
by that remote spring, least of all the recluse
of Glen St. Mary manse. She almost dropped
the heavy armful of books she was carrying
home from the Glen lending library, and then,
to cover her confusion, she told one of those
small fibs which even the best of women do
tell at times.
“I—I came for a drink,” she said, stammering
a little, in answer to Mr. Meredith’s grave
“good evening, Miss West.” She felt that
she was an unpardonable goose and she longed
to shake herself. But John Meredith was not
a vain man and he knew she would likely have
been as much startled had she met old Elder
Clow in that unexpected fashion. Her confusion
put him at ease and he forgot to be shy; besides,
even the shyest of men can sometimes be quite
audacious in moonlight.
“Let me get you a cup,” he said smiling.
There was a cup near by, if he had only known
it, a cracked, handleless blue cup secreted
under the maple by the Rainbow Valley children;
but he did not know it, so he stepped out
to one of the birch-trees and stripped a bit
of its white skin away. Deftly he fashioned
this into a three-cornered cup, filled it
from the spring, and handed it to Rosemary.
Rosemary took it and drank every drop to punish
herself for her fib, for she was not in the
least thirsty, and to drink a fairly large
cupful of water when you are not thirsty is
somewhat of an ordeal. Yet the memory of that
draught was to be very pleasant to Rosemary.
In after years it seemed to her that there
was something sacramental about it. Perhaps
this was because of what the minister did
when she handed him back the cup. He stooped
again and filled it and drank of it himself.
It was only by accident that he put his lips
just where Rosemary had put hers, and Rosemary
knew it. Nevertheless, it had a curious significance
for her. They two had drunk of the same cup.
She remembered idly that an old aunt of hers
used to say that when two people did this
their after-lives would be linked in some
fashion, whether for good or ill.
John Meredith held the cup uncertainly. He
did not know what to do with it. The logical
thing would have been to toss it away, but
somehow he was disinclined to do this. Rosemary
held out her hand for it.
“Will you let me have it?” she said. “You
made it so knackily. I never saw anyone make
a birch cup so since my little brother used
to make them long ago—before he died.”
“I learned how to make them when I was a
boy, camping out one summer. An old hunter
taught me,” said Mr. Meredith. “Let me
carry your books, Miss West.”
Rosemary was startled into another fib and
said oh, they were not heavy. But the minister
took them from her with quite a masterful
air and they walked away together. It was
the first time Rosemary had stood by the valley
spring without thinking of Martin Crawford.
The mystic tryst had been broken.
The little by-path wound around the marsh
and then struck up the long wooded hill on
the top of which Rosemary lived. Beyond, through
the trees, they could see the moonlight shining
across the level summer fields. But the little
path was shadowy and narrow. Trees crowded
over it, and trees are never quite as friendly
to human beings after nightfall as they are
in daylight. They wrap themselves away from
us. They whisper and plot furtively. If they
reach out a hand to us it has a hostile, tentative
touch. People walking amid trees after night
always draw closer together instinctively
and involuntarily, making an alliance, physical
and mental, against certain alien powers around
them. Rosemary’s dress brushed against John
Meredith as they walked. Not even an absent-minded
minister, who was after all a young man still,
though he firmly believed he had outlived
romance, could be insensible to the charm
of the night and the path and the companion.
It is never quite safe to think we have done
with life. When we imagine we have finished
our story fate has a trick of turning the
page and showing us yet another chapter. These
two people each thought their hearts belonged
irrevocably to the past; but they both found
their walk up that hill very pleasant. Rosemary
thought the Glen minister was by no means
as shy and tongue-tied as he had been represented.
He seemed to find no difficulty in talking
easily and freely. Glen housewives would have
been amazed had they heard him. But then so
many Glen housewives talked only gossip and
the price of eggs, and John Meredith was not
interested in either. He talked to Rosemary
of books and music and wide-world doings and
something of his own history, and found that
she could understand and respond. Rosemary,
it appeared, possessed a book which Mr. Meredith
had not read and wished to read. She offered
to lend it to him and when they reached the
old homestead on the hill he went in to get
it.
The house itself was an old-fashioned gray
one, hung with vines, through which the light
in the sitting-room winked in friendly fashion.
It looked down the Glen, over the harbour,
silvered in the moonlight, to the sand-dunes
and the moaning ocean. They walked in through
a garden that always seemed to smell of roses,
even when no roses were in bloom. There was
a sisterhood of lilies at the gate and a ribbon
of asters on either side of the broad walk,
and a lacery of fir trees on the hill’s
edge beyond the house.
“You have the whole world at your doorstep
here,” said John Meredith, with a long breath.
“What a view—what an outlook! At times
I feel stifled down there in the Glen. You
can breathe up here.”
“It is calm to-night,” said Rosemary laughing.
“If there were a wind it would blow your
breath away. We get ‘a’ the airts the
wind can blow’ up here. This place should
be called Four Winds instead of the Harbour.”
“I like wind,” he said. “A day when
there is no wind seems to me DEAD. A windy
day wakes me up.” He gave a conscious laugh.
“On a calm day I fall into day dreams. No
doubt you know my reputation, Miss West. If
I cut you dead the next time we meet don’t
put it down to bad manners. Please understand
that it is only abstraction and forgive me—and
speak to me.”
They found Ellen West in the sitting room
when they went in. She laid her glasses down
on the book she had been reading and looked
at them in amazement tinctured with something
else. But she shook hands amiably with Mr.
Meredith and he sat down and talked to her,
while Rosemary hunted out his book.
Ellen West was ten years older than Rosemary,
and so different from her that it was hard
to believe they were sisters. She was dark
and massive, with black hair, thick, black
eyebrows and eyes of the clear, slaty blue
of the gulf water in a north wind. She had
a rather stern, forbidding look, but she was
in reality very jolly, with a hearty, gurgling
laugh and a deep, mellow, pleasant voice with
a suggestion of masculinity about it. She
had once remarked to Rosemary that she would
really like to have a talk with that Presbyterian
minister at the Glen, to see if he could find
a word to say to a woman when he was cornered.
She had her chance now and she tackled him
on world politics. Miss Ellen, who was a great
reader, had been devouring a book on the Kaiser
of Germany, and she demanded Mr. Meredith’s
opinion of him.
“A dangerous man,” was his answer.
“I believe you!” Miss Ellen nodded. “Mark
my words, Mr. Meredith, that man is going
to fight somebody yet. He’s ACHING to. He
is going to set the world on fire.”
“If you mean that he will wantonly precipitate
a great war I hardly think so,” said Mr.
Meredith. “The day has gone by for that
sort of thing.”
“Bless you, it hasn’t,” rumbled Ellen.
“The day never goes by for men and nations
to make asses of themselves and take to the
fists. The millenniun isn’t THAT near, Mr.
Meredith, and YOU don’t think it is any
more than I do. As for this Kaiser, mark my
words, he is going to make a heap of trouble”—and
Miss Ellen prodded her book emphatically with
her long finger. “Yes, if he isn’t nipped
in the bud he’s going to make trouble. WE’LL
live to see it—you and I will live to see
it, Mr. Meredith. And who is going to nip
him? England should, but she won’t. WHO
is going to nip him? Tell me that, Mr. Meredith.”
Mr. Meredith couldn’t tell her, but they
plunged into a discussion of German militarism
that lasted long after Rosemary had found
the book. Rosemary said nothing, but sat in
a little rocker behind Ellen and stroked an
important black cat meditatively. John Meredith
hunted big game in Europe with Ellen, but
he looked oftener at Rosemary than at Ellen,
and Ellen noticed it. After Rosemary had gone
to the door with him and come back Ellen rose
and looked at her accusingly.
“Rosemary West, that man has a notion of
courting you.”
Rosemary quivered. Ellen’s speech was like
a blow to her. It rubbed all the bloom off
the pleasant evening. But she would not let
Ellen see how it hurt her.
“Nonsense,” she said, and laughed, a little
too carelessly. “You see a beau for me in
every bush, Ellen. Why he told me all about
his wife to-night—how much she was to him—how
empty her death had left the world.”
“Well, that may be HIS way of courting,”
retorted Ellen. “Men have all kinds of ways,
I understand. But don’t forget your promise,
Rosemary.”
“There is no need of my either forgetting
or remembering it,” said Rosemary, a little
wearily. “YOU forget that I’m an old maid,
Ellen. It is only your sisterly delusion that
I am still young and blooming and dangerous.
Mr. Meredith merely wants to be a friend—if
he wants that much itself. He’ll forget
us both long before he gets back to the manse.”
“I’ve no objection to your being friends
with him,” conceded Ellen, “but it musn’t
go beyond friendship, remember. I’m always
suspicious of widowers. They are not given
to romantic ideas about friendship. They’re
apt to mean business. As for this Presbyterian
man, what do they call him shy for? He’s
not a bit shy, though he may be absent-minded—so
absent-minded that he forgot to say goodnight
to ME when you started to go to the door with
him. He’s got brains, too. There’s so
few men round here that can talk sense to
a body. I’ve enjoyed the evening. I wouldn’t
mind seeing more of him. But no philandering,
Rosemary, mind you—no philandering.”
Rosemary was quite used to being warned by
Ellen from philandering if she so much as
talked five minutes to any marriageable man
under eighty or over eighteen. She had always
laughed at the warning with unfeigned amusement.
This time it did not amuse her—it irritated
her a little. Who wanted to philander?
“Don’t be such a goose, Ellen,” she
said with unaccustomed shortness as she took
her lamp. She went upstairs without saying
goodnight.
Ellen shook her head dubiously and looked
at the black cat.
“What is she so cross about, St. George?”
she asked. “When you howl you’re hit,
I’ve always heard, George. But she promised,
Saint—she promised, and we Wests always
keep our word. So it won’t matter if he
does want to philander, George. She promised.
I won’t worry.”
Upstairs, in her room, Rosemary sat for a
long while looking out of the window across
the moonlit garden to the distant, shining
harbour. She felt vaguely upset and unsettled.
She was suddenly tired of outworn dreams.
And in the garden the petals of the last red
rose were scattered by a sudden little wind.
Summer was over—it was autumn.
CHAPTER XIV. MRS. ALEC DAVIS MAKES A CALL
John Meredith walked slowly home. At first
he thought a little about Rosemary, but by
the time he reached Rainbow Valley he had
forgotten all about her and was meditating
on a point regarding German theology which
Ellen had raised. He passed through Rainbow
Valley and knew it not. The charm of Rainbow
Valley had no potency against German theology.
When he reached the manse he went to his study
and took down a bulky volume in order to see
which had been right, he or Ellen. He remained
immersed in its mazes until dawn, struck a
new trail of speculation and pursued it like
a sleuth hound for the next week, utterly
lost to the world, his parish and his family.
He read day and night; he forgot to go to
his meals when Una was not there to drag him
to them; he never thought about Rosemary or
Ellen again. Old Mrs. Marshall, over-harbour,
was very ill and sent for him, but the message
lay unheeded on his desk and gathered dust.
Mrs. Marshall recovered but never forgave
him. A young couple came to the manse to be
married and Mr. Meredith, with unbrushed hair,
in carpet slippers and faded dressing gown,
married them. To be sure, he began by reading
the funeral service to them and got along
as far as “ashes to ashes and dust to dust”
before he vaguely suspected that something
was wrong.
“Dear me,” he said absently, “that is
strange—very strange.”
The bride, who was very nervous, began to
cry. The bridegroom, who was not in the least
nervous, giggled.
“Please, sir, I think you’re burying us
instead of marrying us,” he said.
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Meredith, as it
it did not matter much. He turned up the marriage
service and got through with it, but the bride
never felt quite properly married for the
rest of her life.
He forgot his prayer-meeting again—but that
did not matter, for it was a wet night and
nobody came. He might even have forgotten
his Sunday service if it had not been for
Mrs. Alec Davis. Aunt Martha came in on Saturday
afternoon and told him that Mrs. Davis was
in the parlour and wanted to see him. Mr.
Meredith sighed. Mrs. Davis was the only woman
in Glen St. Mary church whom he positively
detested. Unfortunately, she was also the
richest, and his board of managers had warned
Mr. Meredith against offending her. Mr. Meredith
seldom thought of such a worldly matter as
his stipend; but the managers were more practical.
Also, they were astute. Without mentioning
money, they contrived to instil into Mr. Meredith’s
mind a conviction that he should not offend
Mrs. Davis. Otherwise, he would likely have
forgotten all about her as soon as Aunt Martha
had gone out. As it was, he turned down his
Ewald with a feeling of annoyance and went
across the hall to the parlour.
Mrs. Davis was sitting on the sofa, looking
about her with an air of scornful disapproval.
What a scandalous room! There were no curtains
on the window. Mrs. Davis did not know that
Faith and Una had taken them down the day
before to use as court trains in one of their
plays and had forgotten to put them up again,
but she could not have accused those windows
more fiercely if she had known. The blinds
were cracked and torn. The pictures on the
walls were crooked; the rugs were awry; the
vases were full of faded flowers; the dust
lay in heaps—literally in heaps.
“What are we coming to?” Mrs. Davis asked
herself, and then primmed up her unbeautiful
mouth.
Jerry and Carl had been whooping and sliding
down the banisters as she came through the
hall. They did not see her and continued whooping
and sliding, and Mrs. Davis was convinced
they did it on purpose. Faith’s pet rooster
ambled through the hall, stood in the parlour
doorway and looked at her. Not liking her
looks, he did not venture in. Mrs. Davis gave
a scornful sniff. A pretty manse, indeed,
where roosters paraded the halls and stared
people out of countenance.
“Shoo, there,” commanded Mrs. Davis, poking
her flounced, changeable-silk parasol at him.
Adam shooed. He was a wise rooster and Mrs.
Davis had wrung the necks of so many roosters
with her own fair hands in the course of her
fifty years that an air of the executioner
seemed to hang around her. Adam scuttled through
the hall as the minister came in.
Mr. Meredith still wore slippers and dressing
gown, and his dark hair still fell in uncared-for
locks over his high brow. But he looked the
gentleman he was; and Mrs. Alec Davis, in
her silk dress and beplumed bonnet, and kid
gloves and gold chain looked the vulgar, coarse-souled
woman she was. Each felt the antagonisn of
the other’s personality. Mr. Meredith shrank,
but Mrs. Davis girded up her loins for the
fray. She had come to the manse to propose
a certain thing to the minister and she meant
to lose no time in proposing it. She was going
to do him a favour—a great favour—and
the sooner he was made aware of it the better.
She had been thinking about it all summer
and had come to a decision at last. This was
all that mattered, Mrs. Davis thought. When
she decided a thing it WAS decided. Nobody
else had any say in the matter. That had always
been her attitude. When she had made her mind
up to marry Alec Davis she had married him
and that was the end to it. Alec had never
known how it happened, but what odds? So in
this case—Mrs. Davis had arranged everything
to her own satisfaction. Now it only remained
to inform Mr. Meredith.
“Will you please shut that door?” said
Mrs. Davis, unprimming her mouth slightly
to say it, but speaking with asperity. “I
have something important to say, and I can’t
say it with that racket in the hall.”
Mr. Meredith shut the door meekly. Then he
sat down before Mrs. Davis. He was not wholly
aware of her yet. His mind was still wrestling
with Ewald’s arguments. Mrs. Davis sensed
this detachment and it annoyed her.
“I have come to tell you, Mr. Meredith,”
she said aggressively, “that I have decided
to adopt Una.”
“To—adopt—Una!” Mr. Meredith gazed
at her blankly, not understanding in the least.
“Yes. I’ve been thinking it over for some
time. I have often thought of adopting a child,
since my husband’s death. But it seemed
so hard to get a suitable one. It is very
few children I would want to take into MY
home. I wouldn’t think of taking a home
child—some outcast of the slums in all probability.
And there is hardly ever any other child to
be got. One of the fishermen down at the harbour
died last fall and left six youngsters. They
tried to get me to take one, but I soon gave
them to understand that I had no idea of adopting
trash like that. Their grandfather stole a
horse. Besides, they were all boys and I wanted
a girl—a quiet, obedient girl that I could
train up to be a lady. Una will suit me exactly.
She would be a nice little thing if she was
properly looked after—so different from
Faith. I would never dream of adopting Faith.
But I’ll take Una and I’ll give her a
good home, and up-bringing, Mr. Meredith,
and if she behaves herself I’ll leave her
all my money when I die. Not one of my own
relatives shall have a cent of it in any case,
I’m determined on that. It was the idea
of aggravating them that set me to thinking
of adopting a child as much as anything in
the first place. Una shall be well dressed
and educated and trained, Mr. Meredith, and
I shall give her music and painting lessons
and treat her as if she was my own.”
Mr. Meredith was wide enough awake by this
time. There was a faint flush in his pale
cheek and a dangerous light in his fine dark
eyes. Was this woman, whose vulgarity and
consciousness of money oozed out of her at
every pore, actually asking him to give her
Una—his dear little wistful Una with Cecilia’s
own dark-blue eyes—the child whom the dying
mother had clasped to her heart after the
other children had been led weeping from the
room. Cecilia had clung to her baby until
the gates of death had shut between them.
She had looked over the little dark head to
her husband.
“Take good care of her, John,” she had
entreated. “She is so small—and sensitive.
The others can fight their way—but the world
will hurt HER. Oh, John, I don’t know what
you and she are going to do. You both need
me so much. But keep her close to you—keep
her close to you.”
These had been almost her last words except
a few unforgettable ones for him alone. And
it was this child whom Mrs. Davis had coolly
announced her intention of taking from him.
He sat up straight and looked at Mrs. Davis.
In spite of the worn dressing gown and the
frayed slippers there was something about
him that made Mrs. Davis feel a little of
the old reverence for “the cloth” in which
she had been brought up. After all, there
WAS a certain divinity hedging a minister,
even a poor, unworldly, abstracted one.
“I thank you for your kind intentions, Mrs.
Davis,” said Mr. Meredith with a gentle,
final, quite awful courtesy, “but I cannot
give you my child.”
Mrs. Davis looked blank. She had never dreamed
of his refusing.
“Why, Mr. Meredith,” she said in astonishment.
“You must be cr—you can’t mean it. You
must think it over—think of all the advantages
I can give her.”
“There is no need to think it over, Mrs.
Davis. It is entirely out of the question.
All the worldly advantages it is in your power
to bestow on her could not compensate for
the loss of a father’s love and care. I
thank you again—but it is not to be thought
of.”
Disappointment angered Mrs. Davis beyond the
power of old habit to control. Her broad red
face turned purple and her voice trembled.
“I thought you’d be only too glad to let
me have her,” she sneered.
“Why did you think that?” asked Mr. Meredith
quietly.
“Because nobody ever supposed you cared
anything about any of your children,” retorted
Mrs. Davis contemptuously. “You neglect
them scandalously. It is the talk of the place.
They aren’t fed and dressed properly, and
they’re not trained at all. They have no
more manners than a pack of wild Indians.
You never think of doing your duty as a father.
You let a stray child come here among them
for a fortnight and never took any notice
of her—a child that swore like a trooper
I’m told. YOU wouldn’t have cared if they’d
caught small-pox from her. And Faith made
an exhibition of herself getting up in preaching
and making that speech! And she rid a pig
down the street—under your very eyes I understand.
The way they act is past belief and you never
lift a finger to stop them or try to teach
them anything. And now when I offer one of
them a good home and good prospects you refuse
it and insult me. A pretty father you, to
talk of loving and caring for your children!”
“That will do, woman!” said Mr. Meredith.
He stood up and looked at Mrs. Davis with
eyes that made her quail. “That will do,”
he repeated. “I desire to hear no more,
Mrs. Davis. You have said too much. It may
be that I have been remiss in some respects
in my duty as a parent, but it is not for
you to remind me of it in such terms as you
have used. Let us say good afternoon.”
Mrs. Davis did not say anything half so amiable
as good afternoon, but she took her departure.
As she swept past the minister a large, plump
toad, which Carl had secreted under the lounge,
hopped out almost under her feet. Mrs. Davis
gave a shriek and in trying to avoid treading
on the awful thing, lost her balance and her
parasol. She did not exactly fall, but she
staggered and reeled across the room in a
very undignified fashion and brought up against
the door with a thud that jarred her from
head to foot. Mr. Meredith, who had not seen
the toad, wondered if she had been attacked
with some kind of apoplectic or paralytic
seizure, and ran in alarm to her assistance.
But Mrs. Davis, recovering her feet, waved
him back furiously.
“Don’t you dare to touch me,” she almost
shouted. “This is some more of your children’s
doings, I suppose. This is no fit place for
a decent woman. Give me my umbrella and let
me go. I’ll never darken the doors of your
manse or your church again.”
Mr. Meredith picked up the gorgeous parasol
meekly enough and gave it to her. Mrs. Davis
seized it and marched out. Jerry and Carl
had given up banister sliding and were sitting
on the edge of the veranda with Faith. Unfortunately,
all three were singing at the tops of their
healthy young voices “There’ll be a hot
time in the old town to-night.” Mrs. Davis
believed the song was meant for her and her
only. She stopped and shook her parasol at
them.
“Your father is a fool,” she said, “and
you are three young varmints that ought to
be whipped within an inch of your lives.”
“He isn’t,” cried Faith. “We’re
not,” cried the boys. But Mrs. Davis was
gone.
“Goodness, isn’t she mad!” said Jerry.
“And what is a ‘varmint’ anyhow?”
John Meredith paced up and down the parlour
for a few minutes; then he went back to his
study and sat down. But he did not return
to his German theology. He was too grievously
disturbed for that. Mrs. Davis had wakened
him up with a vengeance. WAS he such a remiss,
careless father as she had accused him of
being? HAD he so scandalously neglected the
bodily and spiritual welfare of the four little
motherless creatures dependent on him? WERE
his people talking of it as harshly as Mrs.
Davis had declared? It must be so, since Mrs.
Davis had come to ask for Una in the full
and confident belief that he would hand the
child over to her as unconcernedly and gladly
as one might hand over a strayed, unwelcome
kitten. And, if so, what then?
John Meredith groaned and resumed his pacing
up and down the dusty, disordered room. What
could he do? He loved his children as deeply
as any father could and he knew, past the
power of Mrs. Davis or any of her ilk, to
disturb his conviction, that they loved him
devotedly. But WAS he fit to have charge of
them? He knew—none better—his weaknesses
and limitations. What was needed was a good
woman’s presence and influence and common
sense. But how could that be arranged? Even
were he able to get such a housekeeper it
would cut Aunt Martha to the quick. She believed
she could still do all that was meet and necessary.
He could not so hurt and insult the poor old
woman who had been so kind to him and his.
How devoted she had been to Cecilia! And Cecilia
had asked him to be very considerate of Aunt
Martha. To be sure, he suddenly remembered
that Aunt Martha had once hinted that he ought
to marry again. He felt she would not resent
a wife as she would a housekeeper. But that
was out of the question. He did not wish to
marry—he did not and could not care for
anyone. Then what could he do? It suddenly
occurred to him that he would go over to Ingleside
and talk over his difficulties with Mrs. Blythe.
Mrs. Blythe was one of the few women he never
felt shy or tongue-tied with. She was always
so sympathetic and refreshing. It might be
that she could suggest some solution of his
problems. And even if she could not Mr. Meredith
felt that he needed a little decent human
companionship after his dose of Mrs. Davis—something
to take the taste of her out of his soul.
He dressed hurriedly and ate his supper less
abstractedly than usual. It occurred to him
that it was a poor meal. He looked at his
children; they were rosy and healthy looking
enough—except Una, and she had never been
very strong even when her mother was alive.
They were all laughing and talking—certainly
they seemed happy. Carl was especially happy
because he had two most beautiful spiders
crawling around his supper plate. Their voices
were pleasant, their manners did not seem
bad, they were considerate of and gentle to
one another. Yet Mrs. Davis had said their
behaviour was the talk of the congregation.
As Mr. Meredith went through his gate Dr.
Blythe and Mrs. Blythe drove past on the road
that led to Lowbridge. The minister’s face
fell. Mrs. Blythe was going away—there was
no use in going to Ingleside. And he craved
a little companionship more than ever. As
he gazed rather hopelessly over the landscape
the sunset light struck on a window of the
old West homestead on the hill. It flared
out rosily like a beacon of good hope. He
suddenly remembered Rosemary and Ellen West.
He thought that he would relish some of Ellen’s
pungent conversation. He thought it would
be pleasant to see Rosemary’s slow, sweet
smile and calm, heavenly blue eyes again.
What did that old poem of Sir Philip Sidney’s
say?—“continual comfort in a face”—that
just suited her. And he needed comfort. Why
not go and call? He remembered that Ellen
had asked him to drop in sometimes and there
was Rosemary’s book to take back—he ought
to take it back before he forgot. He had an
uneasy suspicion that there were a great many
books in his library which he had borrowed
at sundry times and in divers places and had
forgotten to take back. It was surely his
duty to guard against that in this case. He
went back into his study, got the book, and
plunged downward into Rainbow Valley.
CHAPTER XV. MORE GOSSIP
On the evening after Mrs. Myra Murray of the
over-harbour section had been buried Miss
Cornelia and Mary Vance came up to Ingleside.
There were several things concerning which
Miss Cornelia wished to unburden her soul.
The funeral had to be all talked over, of
course. Susan and Miss Cornelia thrashed this
out between them; Anne took no part or delight
in such goulish conversations. She sat a little
apart and watched the autumnal flame of dahlias
in the garden, and the dreaming, glamorous
harbour of the September sunset. Mary Vance
sat beside her, knitting meekly. Mary’s
heart was down in the Rainbow Valley, whence
came sweet, distance-softened sounds of children’s
laughter, but her fingers were under Miss
Cornelia’s eye. She had to knit so many
rounds of her stocking before she might go
to the valley. Mary knit and held her tongue,
but used her ears.
“I never saw a nicer looking corpse,”
said Miss Cornelia judicially. “Myra Murray
was always a pretty woman—she was a Corey
from Lowbridge and the Coreys were noted for
their good looks.”
“I said to the corpse as I passed it, ‘poor
woman. I hope you are as happy as you look.’”
sighed Susan. “She had not changed much.
That dress she wore was the black satin she
got for her daughter’s wedding fourteen
years ago. Her Aunt told her then to keep
it for her funeral, but Myra laughed and said,
‘I may wear it to my funeral, Aunty, but
I will have a good time out of it first.’
And I may say she did. Myra Murray was not
a woman to attend her own funeral before she
died. Many a time afterwards when I saw her
enjoying herself out in company I thought
to myself, ‘You are a handsome woman, Myra
Murray, and that dress becomes you, but it
will likely be your shroud at last.’ And
you see my words have come true, Mrs. Marshall
Elliott.”
Susan sighed again heavily. She was enjoying
herself hugely. A funeral was really a delightful
subject of conversation.
“I always liked to meet Myra,” said Miss
Cornelia. “She was always so gay and cheerful—she
made you feel better just by her handshake.
Myra always made the best of things.”
“That is true,” asserted Susan. “Her
sister-in-law told me that when the doctor
told her at last that he could do nothing
for her and she would never rise from that
bed again, Myra said quite cheerfully, ‘Well,
if that is so, I’m thankful the preserving
is all done, and I will not have to face the
fall house-cleaning. I always liked house-cleaning
in spring,’ she says, ‘but I always hated
it in the fall. I will get clear of it this
year, thank goodness.’ There are people
who would call that levity, Mrs. Marshall
Elliott, and I think her sister-in-law was
a little ashamed of it. She said perhaps her
sickness had made Myra a little light-headed.
But I said, ‘No, Mrs. Murray, do not worry
over it. It was just Myra’s way of looking
at the bright side.’”
“Her sister Luella was just the opposite,”
said Miss Cornelia. “There was no bright
side for Luella—there was just black and
shades of gray. For years she used always
to be declaring she was going to die in a
week or so. ‘I won’t be here to burden
you long,’ she would tell her family with
a groan. And if any of them ventured to talk
about their little future plans she’d groan
also and say, ‘Ah, I won’t be here then.’
When I went to see her I always agreed with
her and it made her so mad that she was always
quite a lot better for several days afterwards.
She has better health now but no more cheerfulness.
Myra was so different. She was always doing
or saying something to make some one feel
good. Perhaps the men they married had something
to do with it. Luella’s man was a Tartar,
believe ME, while Jim Murray was decent, as
men go. He looked heart-broken to-day. It
isn’t often I feel sorry for a man at his
wife’s funeral, but I did feel for Jim Murray.”
“No wonder he looked sad. He will not get
a wife like Myra again in a hurry,” said
Susan. “Maybe he will not try, since his
children are all grown up and Mirabel is able
to keep house. But there is no predicting
what a widower may or may not do and I, for
one, will not try.”
“We’ll miss Myra terrible in church,”
said Miss Cornelia. “She was such a worker.
Nothing ever stumped HER. If she couldn’t
get over a difficulty she’d get around it,
and if she couldn’t get around it she’d
pretend it wasn’t there—and generally
it wasn’t. ‘I’ll keep a stiff upper
lip to my journey’s end,’ said she to
me once. Well, she has ended her journey.”
“Do you think so?” asked Anne suddenly,
coming back from dreamland. “I can’t picture
HER journey as being ended. Can YOU think
of her sitting down and folding her hands—that
eager, asking spirit of hers, with its fine
adventurous outlook? No, I think in death
she just opened a gate and went through—on—on—to
new, shining adventures.”
“Maybe—maybe,” assented Miss Cornelia.
“Do you know, Anne dearie, I never was much
taken with this everlasting rest doctrine
myself—though I hope it isn’t heresy to
say so. I want to bustle round in heaven the
same as here. And I hope there’ll be a celestial
substitute for pies and doughnuts—something
that has to be MADE. Of course, one does get
awful tired at times—and the older you are
the tireder you get. But the very tiredest
could get rested in something short of eternity,
you’d think—except, perhaps, a lazy man.”
“When I meet Myra Murray again,” said
Anne, “I want to see her coming towards
me, brisk and laughing, just as she always
did here.”
“Oh, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan, in a
shocked tone, “you surely do not think that
Myra will be laughing in the world to come?”
“Why not, Susan? Do you think we will be
crying there?”
“No, no, Mrs. Dr. dear, do not misunderstand
me. I do not think we shall be either crying
or laughing.”
“What then?”
“Well,” said Susan, driven to it, “it
is my opinion, Mrs. Dr. dear, that we shall
just look solemn and holy.”
“And do you really think, Susan,” said
Anne, looking solemn enough, “that either
Myra Murray or I could look solemn and holy
all the time—ALL the time, Susan?”
“Well,” admitted Susan reluctantly, “I
might go so far as to say that you both would
have to smile now and again, but I can never
admit that there will be laughing in heaven.
The idea seems really irreverent, Mrs. Dr.
dear.”
“Well, to come back to earth,” said Miss
Cornelia, “who can we get to take Myra’s
class in Sunday School? Julia Clow has been
teaching it since Myra took ill, but she’s
going to town for the winter and we’ll have
to get somebody else.”
“I heard that Mrs. Laurie Jamieson wanted
it,” said Anne. “The Jamiesons have come
to church very regularly since they moved
to the Glen from Lowbridge.”
“New brooms!” said Miss Cornelia dubiously.
“Wait till they’ve gone regularly for
a year.”
“You cannot depend on Mrs. Jamieson a bit,
Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan solemnly. “She
died once and when they were measuring her
for her coffin, after laying her out just
beautiful, did she not go and come back to
life! Now, Mrs. Dr. dear, you know you CANNOT
depend on a woman like that.”
“She might turn Methodist at any moment,”
said Miss Cornelia. “They tell me they went
to the Methodist Church at Lowbridge quite
as often as to the Presbyterian. I haven’t
caught them at it here yet, but I would not
approve of taking Mrs. Jamieson into the Sunday
School. Yet we must not offend them. We are
losing too many people, by death or bad temper.
Mrs. Alec Davis has left the church, no one
knows why. She told the managers that she
would never pay another cent to Mr. Meredith’s
salary. Of course, most people say that the
children offended her, but somehow I don’t
think so. I tried to pump Faith, but all I
could get out of her was that Mrs. Davis had
come, seemingly in high good humour, to see
her father, and had left in an awful rage,
calling them all ‘varmints!’”
“Varmints, indeed!” said Susan furiously.
“Does Mrs. Alec Davis forget that her uncle
on her mother’s side was suspected of poisoning
his wife? Not that it was ever proved, Mrs.
Dr. dear, and it does not do to believe all
you hear. But if I had an uncle whose wife
died without any satisfactory reason, I would
not go about the country calling innocent
children varmints.”
“The point is,” said Miss Cornelia, “that
Mrs. Davis paid a large subscription, and
how its loss is going to be made up is a problem.
And if she turns the other Douglases against
Mr. Meredith, as she will certainly try to
do, he will just have to go.”
“I do not think Mrs. Alec Davis is very
well liked by the rest of the clan,” said
Susan. “It is not likely she will be able
to influence them.”
“But those Douglases all hang together so.
If you touch one, you touch all. We can’t
do without them, so much is certain. They
pay half the salary. They are not mean, whatever
else may be said of them. Norman Douglas used
to give a hundred a year long ago before he
left.”
“What did he leave for?” asked Anne.
“He declared a member of the session cheated
him in a cow deal. He hasn’t come to church
for twenty years. His wife used to come regular
while she was alive, poor thing, but he never
would let her pay anything, except one red
cent every Sunday. She felt dreadfully humiliated.
I don’t know that he was any too good a
husband to her, though she was never heard
to complain. But she always had a cowed look.
Norman Douglas didn’t get the woman he wanted
thirty years ago and the Douglases never liked
to put up with second best.”
“Who was the woman he did want.”
“Ellen West. They weren’t engaged exactly,
I believe, but they went about together for
two years. And then they just broke off—nobody
ever know why. Just some silly quarrel, I
suppose. And Norman went and married Hester
Reese before his temper had time to cool—married
her just to spite Ellen, I haven’t a doubt.
So like a man! Hester was a nice little thing,
but she never had much spirit and he broke
what little she had. She was too meek for
Norman. He needed a woman who could stand
up to him. Ellen would have kept him in fine
order and he would have liked her all the
better for it. He despised Hester, that is
the truth, just because she always gave in
to him. I used to hear him say many a time,
long ago when he was a young fellow ‘Give
me a spunky woman—spunk for me every time.’
And then he went and married a girl who couldn’t
say boo to a goose—man-like. That family
of Reeses were just vegetables. They went
through the motions of living, but they didn’t
LIVE.”
“Russell Reese used his first wife’s wedding-ring
to marry his second,” said Susan reminiscently.
“That was TOO economical in my opinion,
Mrs. Dr. dear. And his brother John has his
own tombstone put up in the over-harbour graveyard,
with everything on it but the date of death,
and he goes and looks at it every Sunday.
Most folks would not consider that much fun,
but it is plain he does. People do have such
different ideas of enjoyment. As for Norman
Douglas, he is a perfect heathen. When the
last minister asked him why he never went
to church he said ‘Too many ugly women there,
parson—too many ugly women!’ I should
like to go to such a man, Mrs. Dr. dear, and
say to him solemnly, ‘There is a hell!’”
“Oh, Norman doesn’t believe there is such
a place,” said Miss Cornelia. “I hope
he’ll find out his mistake when he comes
to die. There, Mary, you’ve knit your three
inches and you can go and play with the children
for half an hour.”
Mary needed no second bidding. She flew to
Rainbow Valley with a heart as light as her
heels, and in the course of conversation told
Faith Meredith all about Mrs. Alec Davis.
“And Mrs. Elliott says that she’ll turn
all the Douglases against your father and
then he’ll have to leave the Glen because
his salary won’t be paid,” concluded Mary.
“I don’t know what is to be done, honest
to goodness. If only old Norman Douglas would
come back to church and pay, it wouldn’t
be so bad. But he won’t—and the Douglases
will leave—and you all will have to go.”
Faith carried a heavy heart to bed with her
that night. The thought of leaving the Glen
was unbearable. Nowhere else in the world
were there such chums as the Blythes. Her
little heart had been wrung when they had
left Maywater—she had shed many bitter tears
when she parted with Maywater chums and the
old manse there where her mother had lived
and died. She could not contemplate calmly
the thought of such another and harder wrench.
She COULDN’T leave Glen St. Mary and dear
Rainbow Valley and that delicious graveyard.
“It’s awful to be minister’s family,”
groaned Faith into her pillow. “Just as
soon as you get fond of a place you are torn
up by the roots. I’ll never, never, NEVER
marry a minister, no matter how nice he is.”
Faith sat up in bed and looked out of the
little vine-hung window. The night was very
still, the silence broken only by Una’s
soft breathing. Faith felt terribly alone
in the world. She could see Glen St. Mary
lying under the starry blue meadows of the
autumn night. Over the valley a light shone
from the girls’ room at Ingleside, and another
from Walter’s room. Faith wondered if poor
Walter had toothache again. Then she sighed,
with a little passing sigh of envy of Nan
and Di. They had a mother and a settled home—THEY
were not at the mercy of people who got angry
without any reason and called you a varmint.
Away beyond the Glen, amid fields that were
very quiet with sleep, another light was burning.
Faith knew it shone in the house where Norman
Douglas lived. He was reputed to sit up all
hours of the night reading. Mary had said
if he could only be induced to return to the
church all would be well. And why not? Faith
looked at a big, low star hanging over the
tall, pointed spruce at the gate of the Methodist
Church and had an inspiration. She knew what
ought to be done and she, Faith Meredith,
would do it. She would make everything right.
With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned from
the lonely, dark world and cuddled down beside
Una.
CHAPTER XVI. TIT FOR TAT
With Faith, to decide was to act. She lost
no time in carrying out the idea. As soon
as she came home from school the next day
she left the manse and made her way down the
Glen. Walter Blythe joined her as she passed
the post office.
“I’m going to Mrs. Elliott’s on an errand
for mother,” he said. “Where are you going,
Faith?”
“I am going somewhere on church business,”
said Faith loftily. She did not volunteer
any further information and Walter felt rather
snubbed. They walked on in silence for a little
while. It was a warm, windy evening with a
sweet, resinous air. Beyond the sand dunes
were gray seas, soft and beautiful. The Glen
brook bore down a freight of gold and crimson
leaves, like fairy shallops. In Mr. James
Reese’s buckwheat stubble-land, with its
beautiful tones of red and brown, a crow parliament
was being held, whereat solemn deliberations
regarding the welfare of crowland were in
progress. Faith cruelly broke up the august
assembly by climbing up on the fence and hurling
a broken rail at it. Instantly the air was
filled with flapping black wings and indignant
caws.
“Why did you do that?” said Walter reproachfully.
“They were having such a good time.”
“Oh, I hate crows,” said Faith airily.
“The are so black and sly I feel sure they’re
hypocrites. They steal little birds’ eggs
out of their nests, you know. I saw one do
it on our lawn last spring. Walter, what makes
you so pale to-day? Did you have the toothache
again last night?”
Walter shivered.
“Yes—a raging one. I couldn’t sleep
a wink—so I just paced up and down the floor
and imagined I was an early Christian martyr
being tortured at the command of Nero. That
helped ever so much for a while—and then
I got so bad I couldn’t imagine anything.”
“Did you cry?” asked Faith anxiously.
“No—but I lay down on the floor and groaned,”
admitted Walter. “Then the girls came in
and Nan put cayenne pepper in it—and that
made it worse—Di made me hold a swallow
of cold water in my mouth—and I couldn’t
stand it, so they called Susan. Susan said
it served me right for sitting up in the cold
garret yesterday writing poetry trash. But
she started up the kitchen fire and got me
a hot-water bottle and it stopped the toothache.
As soon as I felt better I told Susan my poetry
wasn’t trash and she wasn’t any judge.
And she said no, thank goodness she was not
and she did not know anything about poetry
except that it was mostly a lot of lies. Now
you know, Faith, that isn’t so. That is
one reason why I like writing poetry—you
can say so many things in it that are true
in poetry but wouldn’t be true in prose.
I told Susan so, but she said to stop my jawing
and go to sleep before the water got cold,
or she’d leave me to see if rhyming would
cure toothache, and she hoped it would be
a lesson to me.”
“Why don’t you go to the dentist at Lowbridge
and get the tooth out?”
Walter shivered again.
“They want me to—but I can’t. It would
hurt so.”
“Are you afraid of a little pain?” asked
Faith contemptuously.
Walter flushed.
“It would be a BIG pain. I hate being hurt.
Father said he wouldn’t insist on my going—he’d
wait until I’d made up my own mind to go.”
“It wouldn’t hurt as long as the toothache,”
argued Faith, “You’ve had five spells
of toothache. If you’d just go and have
it out there’d be no more bad nights. I
had a tooth out once. I yelled for a moment,
but it was all over then—only the bleeding.”
“The bleeding is worst of all—it’s so
ugly,” cried Walter. “It just made me
sick when Jem cut his foot last summer. Susan
said I looked more like fainting than Jem
did. But I couldn’t hear to see Jem hurt,
either. Somebody is always getting hurt, Faith—and
it’s awful. I just can’t BEAR to see things
hurt. It makes me just want to run—and run—and
run—till I can’t hear or see them.”
“There’s no use making a fuss over anyone
getting hurt,” said Faith, tossing her curls.
“Of course, if you’ve hurt yourself very
bad, you have to yell—and blood IS messy—and
I don’t like seeing other people hurt, either.
But I don’t want to run—I want to go to
work and help them. Your father HAS to hurt
people lots of times to cure them. What would
they do if HE ran away?”
“I didn’t say I WOULD run. I said I WANTED
to run. That’s a different thing. I want
to help people, too. But oh, I wish there
weren’t any ugly, dreadful things in the
world. I wish everything was glad and beautiful.”
“Well, don’t let’s think of what isn’t,”
said Faith. “After all, there’s lots of
fun in being alive. You wouldn’t have toothache
if you were dead, but still, wouldn’t you
lots rather be alive than dead? I would, a
hundred times. Oh, here’s Dan Reese. He’s
been down to the harbour for fish.”
“I hate Dan Reese,” said Walter.
“So do I. All us girls do. I’m just going
to walk past and never take the least notice
of him. You watch me!”
Faith accordingly stalked past Dan with her
chin out and an expression of scorn that bit
into his soul. He turned and shouted after
her.
“Pig-girl! Pig-girl!! Pig-girl!!!” in
a crescendo of insult.
Faith walked on, seemingly oblivious. But
her lip trembled slightly with a sense of
outrage. She knew she was no match for Dan
Reese when it came to an exchange of epithets.
She wished Jem Blythe had been with her instead
of Walter. If Dan Reese had dared to call
her a pig-girl in Jem’s hearing, Jem would
have wiped up the dust with him. But it never
occurred to Faith to expect Walter to do it,
or blame him for not doing it. Walter, she
knew, never fought other boys. Neither did
Charlie Clow of the north road. The strange
part was that, while she despised Charlie
for a coward, it never occurred to her to
disdain Walter. It was simply that he seemed
to her an inhabitant of a world of his own,
where different traditions prevailed. Faith
would as soon have expected a starry-eyed
young angel to pummel dirty, freckled Dan
Reese for her as Walter Blythe. She would
not have blamed the angel and she did not
blame Walter Blythe. But she wished that sturdy
Jem or Jerry had been there and Dan’s insult
continued to rankle in her soul.
Walter was pale no longer. He had flushed
crimson and his beautiful eyes were clouded
with shame and anger. He knew that he ought
to have avenged Faith. Jem would have sailed
right in and made Dan eat his words with bitter
sauce. Ritchie Warren would have overwhelmed
Dan with worse “names” than Dan had called
Faith. But Walter could not—simply could
not—“call names.” He knew he would get
the worst of it. He could never conceive or
utter the vulgar, ribald insults of which
Dan Reese had unlimited command. And as for
the trial by fist, Walter couldn’t fight.
He hated the idea. It was rough and painful—and,
worst of all, it was ugly. He never could
understand Jem’s exultation in an occasional
conflict. But he wished he COULD fight Dan
Reese. He was horribly ashamed because Faith
Meredith had been insulted in his presence
and he had not tried to punish her insulter.
He felt sure she must despise him. She had
not even spoken to him since Dan had called
her pig-girl. He was glad when they came to
the parting of the ways.
Faith, too, was relieved, though for a different
reason. She wanted to be alone because she
suddenly felt rather nervous about her errand.
Impulse had cooled, especially since Dan had
bruised her self-respect. She must go through
with it, but she no longer had enthusiasm
to sustain her. She was going to see Norman
Douglas and ask him to come back to church,
and she began to be afraid of him. What had
seemed so easy and simple up at the Glen seemed
very different down here. She had heard a
good deal about Norman Douglas, and she knew
that even the biggest boys in school were
afraid of him. Suppose he called her something
nasty—she had heard he was given to that.
Faith could not endure being called names—they
subdued her far more quickly than a physical
blow. But she would go on—Faith Meredith
always went on. If she did not her father
might have to leave the Glen.
At the end of the long lane Faith came to
the house—a big, old-fashioned one with
a row of soldierly Lombardies marching past
it. On the back veranda Norman Douglas himself
was sitting, reading a newspaper. His big
dog was beside him. Behind, in the kitchen,
where his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, was getting
supper, there was a clatter of dishes—an
angry clatter, for Norman Douglas had just
had a quarrel with Mrs. Wilson, and both were
in a very bad temper over it. Consequently,
when Faith stepped on the veranda and Norman
Douglas lowered his newspaper she found herself
looking into the choleric eyes of an irritated
man.
Norman Douglas was rather a fine-looking personage
in his way. He had a sweep of long red beard
over his broad chest and a mane of red hair,
ungrizzled by the years, on his massive head.
His high, white forehead was unwrinkled and
his blue eyes could flash still with all the
fire of his tempestuous youth. He could be
very amiable when he liked, and he could be
very terrible. Poor Faith, so anxiously bent
on retrieving the situation in regard to the
church, had caught him in one of his terrible
moods.
He did not know who she was and he gazed at
her with disfavour. Norman Douglas liked girls
of spirit and flame and laughter. At this
moment Faith was very pale. She was of the
type to which colour means everything. Lacking
her crimson cheeks she seemed meek and even
insignificant. She looked apologetic and afraid,
and the bully in Norman Douglas’s heart
stirred.
“Who the dickens are you? And what do you
want here?” he demanded in his great resounding
voice, with a fierce scowl.
For once in her life Faith had nothing to
say. She had never supposed Norman Douglas
was like THIS. She was paralyzed with terror
of him. He saw it and it made him worse.
“What’s the matter with you?” he boomed.
“You look as if you wanted to say something
and was scared to say it. What’s troubling
you? Confound it, speak up, can’t you?”
No. Faith could not speak up. No words would
come. But her lips began to tremble.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t cry,” shouted
Norman. “I can’t stand snivelling. If
you’ve anything to say, say it and have
done. Great Kitty, is the girl possessed of
a dumb spirit? Don’t look at me like that—I’m
human—I haven’t got a tail! Who are you—who
are you, I say?”
Norman’s voice could have been heard at
the harbour. Operations in the kitchen were
suspended. Mrs. Wilson was listening open-eared
and eyed. Norman put his huge brown hands
on his knees and leaned forward, staring into
Faith’s pallid, shrinking face. He seemed
to loom over her like some evil giant out
of a fairy tale. She felt as if he would eat
her up next thing, body and bones.
“I—am—Faith—Meredith,” she said,
in little more than a whisper.
“Meredith, hey? One of the parson’s youngsters,
hey? I’ve heard of you—I’ve heard of
you! Riding on pigs and breaking the Sabbath!
A nice lot! What do you want here, hey? What
do you want of the old pagan, hey? I don’t
ask favours of parsons—and I don’t give
any. What do you want, I say?”
Faith wished herself a thousand miles away.
She stammered out her thought in its naked
simplicity.
“I came—to ask you—to go to church—and
pay—to the salary.”
Norman glared at her. Then he burst forth
again.
“You impudent hussy—you! Who put you up
to it, jade? Who put you up to it?”
“Nobody,” said poor Faith.
“That’s a lie. Don’t lie to me! Who
sent you here? It wasn’t your father—he
hasn’t the smeddum of a flea—but he wouldn’t
send you to do what he dassn’t do himself.
I suppose it was some of them confounded old
maids at the Glen, was it—was it, hey?”
“No—I—I just came myself.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” shouted Norman.
“No—I thought you were a gentleman,”
said Faith faintly, and certainly without
any thought of being sarcastic.
Norman bounced up.
“Mind your own business. I don’t want
to hear another word from you. If you wasn’t
such a kid I’d teach you to interfere in
what doesn’t concern you. When I want parsons
or pill-dosers I’ll send for them. Till
I do I’ll have no truck with them. Do you
understand? Now, get out, cheese-face.”
Faith got out. She stumbled blindly down the
steps, out of the yard gate and into the lane.
Half way up the lane her daze of fear passed
away and a reaction of tingling anger possessed
her. By the time she reached the end of the
lane she was in such a furious temper as she
had never experienced before. Norman Douglas’
insults burned in her soul, kindling a scorching
flame. Go home! Not she! She would go straight
back and tell that old ogre just what she
thought of him—she would show him—oh,
wouldn’t she! Cheese-face, indeed!
Unhesitatingly she turned and walked back.
The veranda was deserted and the kitchen door
shut. Faith opened the door without knocking,
and went in. Norman Douglas had just sat down
at the supper table, but he still held his
newspaper. Faith walked inflexibly across
the room, caught the paper from his hand,
flung it on the floor and stamped on it. Then
she faced him, with her flashing eyes and
scarlet cheeks. She was such a handsome young
fury that Norman Douglas hardly recognized
her.
“What’s brought you back?” he growled,
but more in bewilderment than rage.
Unquailingly she glared back into the angry
eyes against which so few people could hold
their own.
“I have come back to tell you exactly what
I think of you,” said Faith in clear, ringing
tones. “I am not afraid of you. You are
a rude, unjust, tyrannical, disagreeable old
man. Susan says you are sure to go to hell,
and I was sorry for you, but I am not now.
Your wife never had a new hat for ten years—no
wonder she died. I am going to make faces
at you whenever I see you after this. Every
time I am behind you you will know what is
happening. Father has a picture of the devil
in a book in his study, and I mean to go home
and write your name under it. You are an old
vampire and I hope you’ll have the Scotch
fiddle!”
Faith did not know what a vampire meant any
more than she knew what the Scotch fiddle
was. She had heard Susan use the expressions
and gathered from her tone that both were
dire things. But Norman Douglas knew what
the latter meant at least. He had listened
in absolute silence to Faith’s tirade. When
she paused for breath, with a stamp of her
foot, he suddenly burst into loud laughter.
With a mighty slap of hand on knee he exclaimed,
“I vow you’ve got spunk, after all—I
like spunk. Come, sit down—sit down!”
“I will not.” Faith’s eyes flashed more
passionately. She thought she was being made
fun of—treated contemptuously. She would
have enjoyed another explosion of rage, but
this cut deep. “I will not sit down in your
house. I am going home. But I am glad I came
back here and told you exactly what my opinion
of you is.”
“So am I—so am I,” chuckled Norman.
“I like you—you’re fine—you’re great.
Such roses—such vim! Did I call her cheese-face?
Why, she never smelt a cheese. Sit down. If
you’d looked like that at the first, girl!
So you’ll write my name under the devil’s
picture, will you? But he’s black, girl,
he’s black—and I’m red. It won’t do—it
won’t do! And you hope I’ll have the Scotch
fiddle, do you? Lord love you, girl, I had
IT when I was a boy. Don’t wish it on me
again. Sit down—sit in. We’ll tak’ a
cup o’ kindness.”
“No, thank you,” said Faith haughtily.
“Oh, yes, you will. Come, come now, I apologize,
girl—I apologize. I made a fool of myself
and I’m sorry. Man can’t say fairer. Forget
and forgive. Shake hands, girl—shake hands.
She won’t—no, she won’t! But she must!
Look-a-here, girl, if you’ll shake hands
and break bread with me I’ll pay what I
used to to the salary and I’ll go to church
the first Sunday in every month and I’ll
make Kitty Alec hold her jaw. I’m the only
one in the clan can do it. Is it a bargain,
girl?”
It seemed a bargain. Faith found herself shaking
hands with the ogre and then sitting at his
board. Her temper was over—Faith’s tempers
never lasted very long—but its excitement
still sparkled in her eyes and crimsoned her
cheeks. Norman Douglas looked at her admiringly.
“Go, get some of your best preserves, Wilson,”
he ordered, “and stop sulking, woman, stop
sulking. What if we did have a quarrel, woman?
A good squall clears the air and briskens
things up. But no drizzling and fogging afterwards—no
drizzling and fogging, woman. I can’t stand
that. Temper in a woman but no tears for me.
Here, girl, is some messed up meat and potatoes
for you. Begin on that. Wilson has some fancy
name for it, but I call lit macanaccady. Anything
I can’t analyze in the eating line I call
macanaccady and anything wet that puzzles
me I call shallamagouslem. Wilson’s tea
is shallamagouslem. I swear she makes it out
of burdocks. Don’t take any of the ungodly
black liquid—here’s some milk for you.
What did you say your name was?”
“Faith.”
“No name that—no name that! I can’t
stomach such a name. Got any other?”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t like the name, don’t like it.
There’s no smeddum to it. Besides, it makes
me think of my Aunt Jinny. She called her
three girls Faith, Hope, and Charity. Faith
didn’t believe in anything—Hope was a
born pessimist—and Charity was a miser.
You ought to be called Red Rose—you look
like one when you’re mad. I’LL call you
Red Rose. And you’ve roped me into promising
to go to church? But only once a month, remember—only
once a month. Come now, girl, will you let
me off? I used to pay a hundred to the salary
every year and go to church. If I promise
to pay two hundred a year will you let me
off going to church? Come now!”
“No, no, sir,” said Faith, dimpling roguishly.
“I want you to go to church, too.”
“Well, a bargain is a bargain. I reckon
I can stand it twelve times a year. What a
sensation it’ll make the first Sunday I
go! And old Susan Baker says I’m going to
hell, hey? Do you believe I’ll go there—come,
now, do you?”
“I hope not, sir,” stammered Faith in
some confusion.
“WHY do you hope not? Come, now, WHY do
you hope not? Give us a reason, girl—give
us a reason.”
“It—it must be a very—uncomfortable
place, sir.”
“Uncomfortable? All depends on your taste
in comfortable, girl. I’d soon get tired
of angels. Fancy old Susan in a halo, now!”
Faith did fancy it, and it tickled her so
much that she had to laugh. Norman eyed her
approvingly.
“See the fun of it, hey? Oh, I like you—you’re
great. About this church business, now—can
your father preach?”
“He is a splendid preacher,” said loyal
Faith.
“He is, hey? I’ll see—I’ll watch out
for flaws. He’d better be careful what he
says before ME. I’ll catch him—I’ll
trip him up—I’ll keep tabs on his arguments.
I’m bound to have some fun out of this church
going business. Does he ever preach hell?”
“No—o—o—I don’t think so.”
“Too bad. I like sermons on that subject.
You tell him that if he wants to keep me in
good humour to preach a good rip-roaring sermon
on hell once every six months—and the more
brimstone the better. I like ‘em smoking.
And think of all the pleasure he’d give
the old maids, too. They’d all keep looking
at old Norman Douglas and thinking, ‘That’s
for you, you old reprobate. That’s what’s
in store for YOU!’ I’ll give an extra
ten dollars every time you get your father
to preach on hell. Here’s Wilson and the
jam. Like that, hey? IT isn’t macanaccady.
Taste!”
Faith obediently swallowed the big spoonful
Norman held out to her. Luckily it WAS good.
“Best plum jam in the world,” said Norman,
filling a large saucer and plumping it down
before her. “Glad you like it. I’ll give
you a couple of jars to take home with you.
There’s nothing mean about me—never was.
The devil can’t catch me at THAT corner,
anyhow. It wasn’t my fault that Hester didn’t
have a new hat for ten years. It was her own—she
pinched on hats to save money to give yellow
fellows over in China. I never gave a cent
to missions in my life—never will. Never
you try to bamboozle me into that! A hundred
a year to the salary and church once a month—but
no spoiling good heathens to make poor Christians!
Why, girl, they wouldn’t be fit for heaven
or hell—clean spoiled for either place—clean
spoiled. Hey, Wilson, haven’t you got a
smile on yet? Beats all how you women can
sulk! I never sulked in my life—it’s just
one big flash and crash with me and then—pouf—the
squall’s over and the sun is out and you
could eat out of my hand.”
Norman insisted on driving Faith home after
supper and he filled the buggy up with apples,
cabbages, potatoes and pumpkins and jars of
jam.
“There’s a nice little tom-pussy out in
the barn. I’ll give you that too, if you’d
like it. Say the word,” he said.
“No, thank you,” said Faith decidedly.
“I don’t like cats, and besides, I have
a rooster.”
“Listen to her. You can’t cuddle a rooster
as you can a kitten. Who ever heard of petting
a rooster? Better take little Tom. I want
to find a good home for him.”
“No. Aunt Martha has a cat and he would
kill a strange kitten.”
Norman yielded the point rather reluctantly.
He gave Faith an exciting drive home, behind
his wild two-year old, and when he had let
her out at the kitchen door of the manse and
dumped his cargo on the back veranda he drove
away shouting,
“It’s only once a month—only once a
month, mind!”
Faith went up to bed, feeling a little dizzy
and breathless, as if she had just escaped
from the grasp of a genial whirlwind. She
was happy and thankful. No fear now that they
would have to leave the Glen and the graveyard
and Rainbow Valley. But she fell asleep troubled
by a disagreeable subconsciousness that Dan
Reese had called her pig-girl and that, having
stumbled on such a congenial epithet, he would
continue to call her so whenever opportunity
offered.
CHAPTER XVII. A DOUBLE VICTORY
Norman Douglas came to church the first Sunday
in November and made all the sensation he
desired. Mr. Meredith shook hands with him
absently on the church steps and hoped dreamily
that Mrs. Douglas was well.
“She wasn’t very well just before I buried
her ten years ago, but I reckon she has better
health now,” boomed Norman, to the horror
and amusement of every one except Mr. Meredith,
who was absorbed in wondering if he had made
the last head of his sermon as clear as he
might have, and hadn’t the least idea what
Norman had said to him or he to Norman.
Norman intercepted Faith at the gate.
“Kept my word, you see—kept my word, Red
Rose. I’m free now till the first Sunday
in December. Fine sermon, girl—fine sermon.
Your father has more in his head than he carries
on his face. But he contradicted himself once—tell
him he contradicted himself. And tell him
I want that brimstone sermon in December.
Great way to wind up the old year—with a
taste of hell, you know. And what’s the
matter with a nice tasty discourse on heaven
for New Year’s? Though it wouldn’t be
half as interesting as hell, girl—not half.
Only I’d like to know what your father thinks
about heaven—he CAN think—rarest thing
in the world—a person who can think. But
he DID contradict himself. Ha, ha! Here’s
a question you might ask him sometime when
he’s awake, girl. ‘Can God make a stone
so big He couldn’t lift it Himself?’ Don’t
forget now. I want to hear his opinion on
it. I’ve stumped many a minister with that,
girl.”
Faith was glad to escape him and run home.
Dan Reese, standing among the crowd of boys
at the gate, looked at her and shaped his
mouth into “pig-girl,” but dared not utter
it aloud just there. Next day in school was
a different matter. At noon recess Faith encountered
Dan in the little spruce plantation behind
the school and Dan shouted once more,
“Pig-girl! Pig-girl! ROOSTER-GIRL!”
Walter Blythe suddenly rose from a mossy cushion
behind a little clump of firs where he had
been reading. He was very pale, but his eyes
blazed.
“You hold your tongue, Dan Reese!” he
said.
“Oh, hello, Miss Walter,” retorted Dan,
not at all abashed. He vaulted airily to the
top of the rail fence and chanted insultingly,
“Cowardy, cowardy-custard
Stole a pot of mustard,
Cowardy, cowardy-custard!”
“You are a coincidence!” said Walter scornfully,
turning still whiter. He had only a very hazy
idea what a coincidence was, but Dan had none
at all and thought it must be something peculiarly
opprobrious.
“Yah! Cowardy!” he yelled gain. “Your
mother writes lies—lies—lies! And Faith
Meredith is a pig-girl—a—pig-girl—a
pig-girl! And she’s a rooster-girl—a rooster-girl—a
rooster-girl! Yah! Cowardy—cowardy—cust—”
Dan got no further. Walter had hurled himself
across the intervening space and knocked Dan
off the fence backward with one well-directed
blow. Dan’s sudden inglorious sprawl was
greeted with a burst of laughter and a clapping
of hands from Faith. Dan sprang up, purple
with rage, and began to climb the fence. But
just then the school-bell rang and Dan knew
what happened to boys who were late during
Mr. Hazard’s regime.
“We’ll fight this out,” he howled. “Cowardy!”
“Any time you like,” said Walter.
“Oh, no, no, Walter,” protested Faith.
“Don’t fight him. I don’t mind what
he says—I wouldn’t condescend to mind
the like of HIM.”
“He insulted you and he insulted my mother,”
said Walter, with the same deadly calm. “Tonight
after school, Dan.”
“I’ve got to go right home from school
to pick taters after the harrows, dad says,”
answered Dan sulkily. “But to-morrow night’ll
do.”
“All right—here to-morrow night,” agreed
Walter.
“And I’ll smash your sissy-face for you,”
promised Dan.
Walter shuddered—not so much from fear of
the threat as from repulsion over the ugliness
and vulgarity of it. But he held his head
high and marched into school. Faith followed
in a conflict of emotions. She hated to think
of Walter fighting that little sneak, but
oh, he had been splendid! And he was going
to fight for HER—Faith Meredith—to punish
her insulter! Of course he would win—such
eyes spelled victory.
Faith’s confidence in her champion had dimmed
a little by evening, however. Walter had seemed
so very quiet and dull the rest of the day
in school.
“If it were only Jem,” she sighed to Una,
as they sat on Hezekiah Pollock’s tombstone
in the graveyard. “HE is such a fighter—he
could finish Dan off in no time. But Walter
doesn’t know much about fighting.”
“I’m so afraid he’ll be hurt,” sighed
Una, who hated fighting and couldn’t understand
the subtle, secret exultation she divined
in Faith.
“He oughtn’t to be,” said Faith uncomfortably.
“He’s every bit as big as Dan.”
“But Dan’s so much older,” said Una.
“Why, he’s nearly a year older.”
“Dan hasn’t done much fighting when you
come to count up,” said Faith. “I believe
he’s really a coward. He didn’t think
Walter would fight, or he wouldn’t have
called names before him. Oh, if you could
just have seen Walter’s face when he looked
at him, Una! It made me shiver—with a nice
shiver. He looked just like Sir Galahad in
that poem father read us on Saturday.”
“I hate the thought of them fighting and
I wish it could be stopped,” said Una.
“Oh, it’s got to go on now,” cried Faith.
“It’s a matter of honour. Don’t you
DARE tell anyone, Una. If you do I’ll never
tell you secrets again!”
“I won’t tell,” agreed Una. “But I
won’t stay to-morrow to watch the fight.
I’m coming right home.”
“Oh, all right. I have to be there—it
would be mean not to, when Walter is fighting
for me. I’m going to tie my colours on his
arm—that’s the thing to do when he’s
my knight. How lucky Mrs. Blythe gave me that
pretty blue hair-ribbon for my birthday! I’ve
only worn it twice so it will be almost new.
But I wish I was sure Walter would win. It
will be so—so HUMILIATING if he doesn’t.”
Faith would have been yet more dubious if
she could have seen her champion just then.
Walter had gone home from school with all
his righteous anger at a low ebb and a very
nasty feeling in its place. He had to fight
Dan Reese the next night—and he didn’t
want to—he hated the thought of it. And
he kept thinking of it all the time. Not for
a minute could he get away from the thought.
Would it hurt much? He was terribly afraid
that it would hurt. And would he be defeated
and shamed?
He could not eat any supper worth speaking
of. Susan had made a big batch of his favourite
monkey-faces, but he could choke only one
down. Jem ate four. Walter wondered how he
could. How could ANYBODY eat? And how could
they all talk gaily as they were doing? There
was mother, with her shining eyes and pink
cheeks. SHE didn’t know her son had to fight
next day. Would she be so gay if she knew,
Walter wondered darkly. Jem had taken Susan’s
picture with his new camera and the result
was passed around the table and Susan was
terribly indignant over it.
“I am no beauty, Mrs. Dr. dear, and well
I know it, and have always known it,” she
said in an aggrieved tone, “but that I am
as ugly as that picture makes me out I will
never, no, never believe.”
Jem laughed over this and Anne laughed again
with him. Walter couldn’t endure it. He
got up and fled to his room.
“That child has got something on his mind,
Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan. “He has et
next to nothing. Do you suppose he is plotting
another poem?”
Poor Walter was very far removed in spirit
from the starry realms of poesy just then.
He propped his elbow on his open window-sill
and leaned his head drearily on his hands.
“Come on down to the shore, Walter,” cried
Jem, busting in. “The boys are going to
burn the sand-hill grass to-night. Father
says we can go. Come on.”
At any other time Walter would have been delighted.
He gloried in the burning of the sand-hill
grass. But now he flatly refused to go, and
no arguments or entreaties could move him.
Disappointed Jem, who did not care for the
long dark walk to Four Winds Point alone,
retreated to his museum in the garret and
buried himself in a book. He soon forgot his
disappointment, revelling with the heroes
of old romance, and pausing occasionally to
picture himself a famous general, leading
his troops to victory on some great battlefield.
Walter sat at his window until bedtime. Di
crept in, hoping to be told what was wrong,
but Walter could not talk of it, even to Di.
Talking of it seemed to give it a reality
from which he shrank. It was torture enough
to think of it. The crisp, withered leaves
rustled on the maple trees outside his window.
The glow of rose and flame had died out of
the hollow, silvery sky, and the full moon
was rising gloriously over Rainbow Valley.
Afar off, a ruddy woodfire was painting a
page of glory on the horizon beyond the hills.
It was a sharp, clear evening when far-away
sounds were heard distinctly. A fox was barking
across the pond; an engine was puffing down
at the Glen station; a blue-jay was screaming
madly in the maple grove; there was laughter
over on the manse lawn. How could people laugh?
How could foxes and blue-jays and engines
behave as if nothing were going to happen
on the morrow?
“Oh, I wish it was over,” groaned Walter.
He slept very little that night and had hard
work choking down his porridge in the morning.
Susan WAS rather lavish in her platefuls.
Mr. Hazard found him an unsatisfactory pupil
that day. Faith Meredith’s wits seemed to
be wool-gathering, too. Dan Reese kept drawing
surreptitious pictures of girls, with pig
or rooster heads, on his slate and holding
them up for all to see. The news of the coming
battle had leaked out and most of the boys
and many of the girls were in the spruce plantation
when Dan and Walter sought it after school.
Una had gone home, but Faith was there, having
tied her blue ribbon around Walter’s arm.
Walter was thankful that neither Jem nor Di
nor Nan were among the crowd of spectators.
Somehow they had not heard of what was in
the wind and had gone home, too. Walter faced
Dan quite undauntedly now. At the last moment
all his fear had vanished, but he still felt
disgust at the idea of fighting. Dan, it was
noted, was really paler under his freckles
than Walter was. One of the older boys gave
the word and Dan struck Walter in the face.
Walter reeled a little. The pain of the blow
tingled through all his sensitive frame for
a moment. Then he felt pain no longer. Something,
such as he had never experienced before, seemed
to roll over him like a flood. His face flushed
crimson, his eyes burned like flame. The scholars
of Glen St. Mary school had never dreamed
that “Miss Walter” could look like that.
He hurled himself forward and closed with
Dan like a young wildcat.
There were no particular rules in the fights
of the Glen school boys. It was catch-as-catch
can, and get your blows in anyhow. Walter
fought with a savage fury and a joy in the
struggle against which Dan could not hold
his ground. It was all over very speedily.
Walter had no clear consciousness of what
he was doing until suddenly the red mist cleared
from his sight and he found himself kneeling
on the body of the prostrate Dan whose nose—oh,
horror!—was spouting blood.
“Have you had enough?” demanded Walter
through his clenched teeth.
Dan sulkily admitted that he had.
“My mother doesn’t write lies?”
“No.”
“Faith Meredith isn’t a pig-girl?”
“No.”
“Nor a rooster-girl?”
“No.”
“And I’m not a coward?”
“No.”
Walter had intended to ask, “And you are
a liar?” but pity intervened and he did
not humiliate Dan further. Besides, that blood
was so horrible.
“You can go, then,” he said contemptuously.
There was a loud clapping from the boys who
were perched on the rail fence, but some of
the girls were crying. They were frightened.
They had seen schoolboy fights before, but
nothing like Walter as he had grappled with
Dan. There had been something terrifying about
him. They thought he would kill Dan. Now that
all was over they sobbed hysterically—except
Faith, who still stood tense and crimson cheeked.
Walter did not stay for any conqueror’s
meed. He sprang over the fence and rushed
down the spruce hill to Rainbow Valley. He
felt none of the victor’s joy, but he felt
a certain calm satisfaction in duty done and
honour avenged—mingled with a sickish qualm
when he thought of Dan’s gory nose. It had
been so ugly, and Walter hated ugliness.
Also, he began to realize that he himself
was somewhat sore and battered up. His lip
was cut and swollen and one eye felt very
strange. In Rainbow Valley he encountered
Mr. Meredith, who was coming home from an
afternoon call on the Miss Wests. That reverend
gentleman looked gravely at him.
“It seems to me that you have been fighting,
Walter?”
“Yes, sir,” said Walter, expecting a scolding.
“What was it about?”
“Dan Reese said my mother wrote lies and
that that Faith was a pig-girl,” answered
Walter bluntly.
“Oh—h! Then you were certainly justified,
Walter.”
“Do you think it’s right to fight, sir?”
asked Walter curiously.
“Not always—and not often—but sometimes—yes,
sometimes,” said John Meredith. “When
womenkind are insulted for instance—as in
your case. My motto, Walter, is, don’t fight
till you’re sure you ought to, and THEN
put every ounce of you into it. In spite of
sundry discolorations I infer that you came
off best.”
“Yes. I made him take it all back.”
“Very good—very good, indeed. I didn’t
think you were such a fighter, Walter.”
“I never fought before—and I didn’t
want to right up to the last—and then,”
said Walter, determined to make a clean breast
of it, “I liked it while I was at it.”
The Rev. John’s eyes twinkled.
“You were—a little frightened—at first?”
“I was a whole lot frightened,” said honest
Walter. “But I’m not going to be frightened
any more, sir. Being frightened of things
is worse than the things themselves. I’m
going to ask father to take me over to Lowbridge
to-morrow to get my tooth out.”
“Right again. ‘Fear is more pain than
is the pain it fears.’ Do you know who wrote
that, Walter? It was Shakespeare. Was there
any feeling or emotion or experience of the
human heart that that wonderful man did not
know? When you go home tell your mother I
am proud of you.”
Walter did not tell her that, however; but
he told her all the rest, and she sympathized
with him and told him she was glad he had
stood up for her and Faith, and she anointed
his sore spots and rubbed cologne on his aching
head.
“Are all mothers as nice as you?” asked
Walter, hugging her. “You’re WORTH standing
up for.”
Miss Cornelia and Susan were in the living
room when Anne came downstairs, and listened
to the story with much enjoyment. Susan in
particular was highly gratified.
“I am real glad to hear he has had a good
fight, Mrs. Dr. dear. Perhaps it may knock
that poetry nonsense out of him. And I never,
no, never could bear that little viper of
a Dan Reese. Will you not sit nearer to the
fire, Mrs. Marshall Elliott? These November
evenings are very chilly.”
“Thank you, Susan, I’m not cold. I called
at the manse before I came here and got quite
warm—though I had to go to the kitchen to
do it, for there was no fire anywhere else.
The kitchen looked as if it had been stirred
up with a stick, believe ME. Mr. Meredith
wasn’t home. I couldn’t find out where
he was, but I have an idea that he was up
at the Wests’. Do you know, Anne dearie,
they say he has been going there frequently
all the fall and people are beginning to think
he is going to see Rosemary.”
“He would get a very charming wife if he
married Rosemary,” said Anne, piling driftwood
on the fire. “She is one of the most delightful
girls I’ve ever known—truly one of the
race of Joseph.”
“Ye—s—only she is an Episcopalian,”
said Miss Cornelia doubtfully. “Of course,
that is better than if she was a Methodist—but
I do think Mr. Meredith could find a good
enough wife in his own denomination. However,
very likely there is nothing in it. It’s
only a month ago that I said to him, ‘You
ought to marry again, Mr. Meredith.’ He
looked as shocked as if I had suggested something
improper. ‘My wife is in her grave, Mrs.
Elliott,’ he said, in that gentle, saintly
way of his. ‘I suppose so,’ I said, ‘or
I wouldn’t be advising you to marry again.’
Then he looked more shocked than ever. So
I doubt if there is much in this Rosemary
story. If a single minister calls twice at
a house where there is a single woman all
the gossips have it he is courting her.”
“It seems to me—if I may presume to say
so—that Mr. Meredith is too shy to go courting
a second wife,” said Susan solemnly.
“He ISN’T shy, believe ME,” retorted
Miss Cornelia. “Absent-minded,—yes—but
shy, no. And for all he is so abstracted and
dreamy he has a very good opinion of himself,
man-like, and when he is really awake he wouldn’t
think it much of a chore to ask any woman
to have him. No, the trouble is, he’s deluding
himself into believing that his heart is buried,
while all the time it’s beating away inside
of him just like anybody else’s. He may
have a notion of Rosemary West and he may
not. If he has, we must make the best of it.
She is a sweet girl and a fine housekeeper,
and would make a good mother for those poor,
neglected children. And,” concluded Miss
Cornelia resignedly, “my own grandmother
was an Episcopalian.”
CHAPTER XVIII. MARY BRINGS EVIL TIDINGS
Mary Vance, whom Mrs. Elliott had sent up
to the manse on an errand, came tripping down
Rainbow Valley on her way to Ingleside where
she was to spend the afternoon with Nan and
Di as a Saturday treat. Nan and Di had been
picking spruce gum with Faith and Una in the
manse woods and the four of them were now
sitting on a fallen pine by the brook, all,
it must be admitted, chewing rather vigorously.
The Ingleside twins were not allowed to chew
spruce gum anywhere but in the seclusion of
Rainbow Valley, but Faith and Una were unrestricted
by such rules of etiquette and cheerfully
chewed it everywhere, at home and abroad,
to the very proper horror of the Glen. Faith
had been chewing it in church one day; but
Jerry had realized the enormity of THAT, and
had given her such an older-brotherly scolding
that she never did it again.
“I was so hungry I just felt as if I had
to chew something,” she protested. “You
know well enough what breakfast was like,
Jerry Meredith. I COULDN’T eat scorched
porridge and my stomach just felt so queer
and empty. The gum helped a lot—and I didn’t
chew VERY hard. I didn’t make any noise
and I never cracked the gum once.”
“You mustn’t chew gum in church, anyhow,”
insisted Jerry. “Don’t let me catch you
at it again.”
“You chewed yourself in prayer-meeting last
week,” cried Faith.
“THAT’S different,” said Jerry loftily.
“Prayer-meeting isn’t on Sunday. Besides,
I sat away at the back in a dark seat and
nobody saw me. You were sitting right up front
where every one saw you. And I took the gum
out of my mouth for the last hymn and stuck
it on the back of the pew right up in front
where every one saw you. Then I came away
and forgot it. I went back to get it next
morning, but it was gone. I suppose Rod Warren
swiped it. And it was a dandy chew.”
Mary Vance walked down the Valley with her
head held high. She had on a new blue velvet
cap with a scarlet rosette in it, a coat of
navy blue cloth and a little squirrel-fur
muff. She was very conscious of her new clothes
and very well pleased with herself. Her hair
was elaborately crimped, her face was quite
plump, her cheeks rosy, her white eyes shining.
She did not look much like the forlorn and
ragged waif the Merediths had found in the
old Taylor barn. Una tried not to feel envious.
Here was Mary with a new velvet cap, but she
and Faith had to wear their shabby old gray
tams again this winter. Nobody ever thought
of getting them new ones and they were afraid
to ask their father for them for fear that
he might be short of money and then he would
feel badly. Mary had told them once that ministers
were always short of money, and found it “awful
hard” to make ends meet. Since then Faith
and Una would have gone in rags rather than
ask their father for anything if they could
help it. They did not worry a great deal over
their shabbiness; but it was rather trying
to see Mary Vance coming out in such style
and putting on such airs about it, too. The
new squirrel muff was really the last straw.
Neither Faith nor Una had ever had a muff,
counting themselves lucky if they could compass
mittens without holes in them. Aunt Martha
could not see to darn holes and though Una
tried to, she made sad cobbling. Somehow,
they could not make their greeting of Mary
very cordial. But Mary did not mind or notice
that; she was not overly sensitive. She vaulted
lightly to a seat on the pine tree, and laid
the offending muff on a bough. Una saw that
it was lined with shirred red satin and had
red tassels. She looked down at her own rather
purple, chapped, little hands and wondered
if she would ever, EVER be able to put them
into a muff like that.
“Give us a chew,” said Mary companionably.
Nan, Di and Faith all produced an amber-hued
knot or two from their pockets and passed
them to Mary. Una sat very still. She had
four lovely big knots in the pocket of her
tight, thread-bare little jacket, but she
wasn’t going to give one of them to Mary
Vance—not one Let Mary pick her own gum!
People with squirrel muffs needn’t expect
to get everything in the world.
“Great day, isn’t it?” said Mary, swinging
her legs, the better, perhaps, to display
new boots with very smart cloth tops. Una
tucked HER feet under her. There was a hole
in the toe of one of her boots and both laces
were much knotted. But they were the best
she had. Oh, this Mary Vance! Why hadn’t
they left her in the old barn?
Una never felt badly because the Ingleside
twins were better dressed than she and Faith
were. THEY wore their pretty clothes with
careless grace and never seemed to think about
them at all. Somehow, they did not make other
people feel shabby. But when Mary Vance was
dressed up she seemed fairly to exude clothes—to
walk in an atmosphere of clothes—to make
everybody else feel and think clothes. Una,
as she sat there in the honey-tinted sunshine
of the gracious December afternoon, was acutely
and miserably conscious of everything she
had on—the faded tam, which was yet her
best, the skimpy jacket she had worn for three
winters, the holes in her skirt and her boots,
the shivering insufficiency of her poor little
undergarments. Of course, Mary was going out
for a visit and she was not. But even if she
had been she had nothing better to put on
and in this lay the sting.
“Say, this is great gum. Listen to me cracking
it. There ain’t any gum spruces down at
Four Winds,” said Mary. “Sometimes I just
hanker after a chew. Mrs. Elliott won’t
let me chew gum if she sees me. She says it
ain’t lady-like. This lady-business puzzles
me. I can’t get on to all its kinks. Say,
Una, what’s the matter with you? Cat got
your tongue?”
“No,” said Una, who could not drag her
fascinated eyes from that squirrel muff. Mary
leaned past her, picked it up and thrust it
into Una’s hands.
“Stick your paws in that for a while,”
she ordered. “They look sorter pinched.
Ain’t that a dandy muff? Mrs. Elliott give
it to me last week for a birthday present.
I’m to get the collar at Christmas. I heard
her telling Mr. Elliott that.”
“Mrs. Elliott is very good to you,” said
Faith.
“You bet she is. And I’M good to her,
too,” retorted Mary. “I work like a nigger
to make it easy for her and have everything
just as she likes it. We was made for each
other. ‘Tisn’t every one could get along
with her as well as I do. She’s pizen neat,
but so am I, and so we agree fine.”
“I told you she would never whip you.”
“So you did. She’s never tried to lay
a finger on me and I ain’t never told a
lie to her—not one, true’s you live. She
combs me down with her tongue sometimes though,
but that just slips off ME like water off
a duck’s back. Say, Una, why didn’t you
hang on to the muff?”
Una had put it back on the bough.
“My hands aren’t cold, thank you,” she
said stiffly.
“Well, if you’re satisfied, I am. Say,
old Kitty Alec has come back to church as
meek as Moses and nobody knows why. But everybody
is saying it was Faith brought Norman Douglas
out. His housekeeper says you went there and
gave him an awful tongue-lashing. Did you?”
“I went and asked him to come to church,”
said Faith uncomfortably.
“Fancy your spunk!” said Mary admiringly.
“I wouldn’t have dared do that and I’m
not so slow. Mrs. Wilson says the two of you
jawed something scandalous, but you come off
best and then he just turned round and like
to eat you up. Say, is your father going to
preach here to-morrow?”
“No. He’s going to exchange with Mr. Perry
from Charlottetown. Father went to town this
morning and Mr. Perry is coming out to-night.”
“I THOUGHT there was something in the wind,
though old Martha wouldn’t give me any satisfaction.
But I felt sure she wouldn’t have been killing
that rooster for nothing.”
“What rooster? What do you mean?” cried
Faith, turning pale.
“I don’t know what rooster. I didn’t
see it. When she took the butter Mrs. Elliott
sent up she said she’d been out to the barn
killing a rooster for dinner tomorrow.”
Faith sprang down from the pine.
“It’s Adam—we have no other rooster—she
has killed Adam.”
“Now, don’t fly off the handle. Martha
said the butcher at the Glen had no meat this
week and she had to have something and the
hens were all laying and too poor.”
“If she has killed Adam—” Faith began
to run up the hill.
Mary shrugged her shoulders.
“She’ll go crazy now. She was so fond
of that Adam. He ought to have been in the
pot long ago—he’ll be as tough as sole
leather. But I wouldn’t like to be in Martha’s
shoes. Faith’s just white with rage; Una,
you’d better go after her and try to peacify
her.”
Mary had gone a few steps with the Blythe
girls when Una suddenly turned and ran after
her.
“Here’s some gum for you, Mary,” she
said, with a little repentant catch in her
voice, thrusting all her four knots into Mary’s
hands, “and I’m glad you have such a pretty
muff.”
“Why, thanks,” said Mary, rather taken
by surprise. To the Blythe girls, after Una
had gone, she said, “Ain’t she a queer
little mite? But I’ve always said she had
a good heart.”
CHAPTER XIX. POOR ADAM!
When Una got home Faith was lying face downwards
on her bed, utterly refusing to be comforted.
Aunt Martha had killed Adam. He was reposing
on a platter in the pantry that very minute,
trussed and dressed, encircled by his liver
and heart and gizzard. Aunt Martha heeded
Faith’s passion of grief and anger not a
whit.
“We had to have something for the strange
minister’s dinner,” she said. “You’re
too big a girl to make such a fuss over an
old rooster. You knew he’d have to be killed
sometime.”
“I’ll tell father when he comes home what
you’ve done,” sobbed Faith.
“Don’t you go bothering your poor father.
He has troubles enough. And I’M housekeeper
here.”
“Adam was MINE—Mrs. Johnson gave him to
me. You had no business to touch him,” stormed
Faith.
“Don’t you get sassy now. The rooster’s
killed and there’s an end of it. I ain’t
going to set no strange minister down to a
dinner of cold b’iled mutton. I was brought
up to know better than that, if I have come
down in the world.”
Faith would not go down to supper that night
and she would not go to church the next morning.
But at dinner time she went to the table,
her eyes swollen with crying, her face sullen.
The Rev. James Perry was a sleek, rubicund
man, with a bristling white moustache, bushy
white eyebrows, and a shining bald head. He
was certainly not handsome and he was a very
tiresome, pompous sort of person. But if he
had looked like the Archangel Michael and
talked with the tongues of men and angels
Faith would still have utterly detested him.
He carved Adam up dexterously, showing off
his plump white hands and very handsome diamond
ring. Also, he made jovial remarks all through
the performance. Jerry and Carl giggled, and
even Una smiled wanly, because she thought
politeness demanded it. But Faith only scowled
darkly. The Rev. James thought her manners
shockingly bad. Once, when he was delivering
himself of an unctuous remark to Jerry, Faith
broke in rudely with a flat contradiction.
The Rev. James drew his bushy eyebrows together
at her.
“Little girls should not interrupt,” he
said, “and they should not contradict people
who know far more than they do.”
This put Faith in a worse temper than ever.
To be called “little girl” as if she were
no bigger than chubby Rilla Blythe over at
Ingleside! It was insufferable. And how that
abominable Mr. Perry did eat! He even picked
poor Adam’s bones. Neither Faith nor Una
would touch a mouthful, and looked upon the
boys as little better than cannibals. Faith
felt that if that awful repast did not soon
come to an end she would wind it up by throwing
something at Mr. Perry’s gleaming head.
Fortunately, Mr. Perry found Aunt Martha’s
leathery apple pie too much even for his powers
of mastication and the meal came to an end,
after a long grace in which Mr. Perry offered
up devout thanks for the food which a kind
and beneficent Providence had provided for
sustenance and temperate pleasure.
“God hadn’t a single thing to do with
providing Adam for you,” muttered Faith
rebelliously under her breath.
The boys gladly made their escape to outdoors,
Una went to help Aunt Martha with the dishes—though
that rather grumpy old dame never welcomed
her timid assistance—and Faith betook herself
to the study where a cheerful wood fire was
burning in the grate. She thought she would
thereby escape from the hated Mr. Perry, who
had announced his intention of taking a nap
in his room during the afternoon. But scarcely
had Faith settled herself in a corner, with
a book, when he walked in and, standing before
the fire, proceeded to survey the disorderly
study with an air of disapproval.
“You father’s books seem to be in somewhat
deplorable confusion, my little girl,” he
said severely.
Faith darkled in her corner and said not a
word. She would NOT talk to this—this creature.
“You should try to put them in order,”
Mr. Perry went on, playing with his handsome
watch chain and smiling patronizingly on Faith.
“You are quite old enough to attend to such
duties. MY little daughter at home is only
ten and she is already an excellent little
housekeeper and the greatest help and comfort
to her mother. She is a very sweet child.
I wish you had the privilege of her acquaintance.
She could help you in many ways. Of course,
you have not had the inestimable privilege
of a good mother’s care and training. A
sad lack—a very sad lack. I have spoken
more than once to your father in this connection
and pointed out his duty to him faithfully,
but so far with no effect. I trust he may
awaken to a realization of his responsibility
before it is too late. In the meantime, it
is your duty and privilege to endeavour to
take your sainted mother’s place. You might
exercise a great influence over your brothers
and your little sister—you might be a true
mother to them. I fear that you do not think
of these things as you should. My dear child,
allow me to open your eyes in regard to them.”
Mr. Perry’s oily, complacent voice trickled
on. He was in his element. Nothing suited
him better than to lay down the law, patronize
and exhort. He had no idea of stopping, and
he did not stop. He stood before the fire,
his feet planted firmly on the rug, and poured
out a flood of pompous platitudes. Faith heard
not a word. She was really not listening to
him at all. But she was watching his long
black coat-tails with impish delight growing
in her brown eyes. Mr. Perry was standing
VERY near the fire. His coat-tails began to
scorch—his coat-tails began to smoke. He
still prosed on, wrapped up in his own eloquence.
The coat-tails smoked worse. A tiny spark
flew up from the burning wood and alighted
in the middle of one. It clung and caught
and spread into a smouldering flame. Faith
could restrain herself no longer and broke
into a stifled giggle.
Mr. Perry stopped short, angered over this
impertinence. Suddenly he became conscious
that a reek of burning cloth filled the room.
He whirled round and saw nothing. Then he
clapped his hands to his coat-tails and brought
them around in front of him. There was already
quite a hole in one of them—and this was
his new suit. Faith shook with helpless laughter
over his pose and expression.
“Did you see my coat-tails burning?” he
demanded angrily.
“Yes, sir,” said Faith demurely.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded,
glaring at her.
“You said it wasn’t good manners to interrupt,
sir,” said Faith, more demurely still.
“If—if I was your father, I would give
you a spanking that you would remember all
your life, Miss,” said a very angry reverend
gentleman, as he stalked out of the study.
The coat of Mr. Meredith’s second best suit
would not fit Mr. Perry, so he had to go to
the evening service with his singed coat-tail.
But he did not walk up the aisle with his
usual consciousness of the honour he was conferring
on the building. He never would agree to an
exchange of pulpits with Mr. Meredith again,
and he was barely civil to the latter when
they met for a few minutes at the station
the next morning. But Faith felt a certain
gloomy satisfaction. Adam was partially avenged.
CHAPTER XX. FAITH MAKES A FRIEND
Next day in school was a hard one for Faith.
Mary Vance had told the tale of Adam, and
all the scholars, except the Blythes, thought
it quite a joke. The girls told Faith, between
giggles, that it was too bad, and the boys
wrote sardonic notes of condolence to her.
Poor Faith went home from school feeling her
very soul raw and smarting within her.
“I’m going over to Ingleside to have a
talk with Mrs. Blythe,” she sobbed. “SHE
won’t laugh at me, as everybody else does.
I’ve just GOT to talk to somebody who understands
how bad I feel.”
She ran down through Rainbow Valley. Enchantment
had been at work the night before. A light
snow had fallen and the powdered firs were
dreaming of a spring to come and a joy to
be. The long hill beyond was richly purple
with leafless beeches. The rosy light of sunset
lay over the world like a pink kiss. Of all
the airy, fairy places, full of weird, elfin
grace, Rainbow Valley that winter evening
was the most beautiful. But all its dreamlike
loveliness was lost on poor, sore-hearted
little Faith.
By the brook she came suddenly upon Rosemary
West, who was sitting on the old pine tree.
She was on her way home from Ingleside, where
she had been giving the girls their music
lesson. She had been lingering in Rainbow
Valley quite a little time, looking across
its white beauty and roaming some by-ways
of dream. Judging from the expression of her
face, her thoughts were pleasant ones. Perhaps
the faint, occasional tinkle from the bells
on the Tree Lovers brought the little lurking
smile to her lips. Or perhaps it was occasioned
by the consciousness that John Meredith seldom
failed to spend Monday evening in the gray
house on the white wind-swept hill.
Into Rosemary’s dreams burst Faith Meredith
full of rebellious bitterness. Faith stopped
abruptly when she saw Miss West. She did not
know her very well—just well enough to speak
to when they met. And she did not want to
see any one just then—except Mrs. Blythe.
She knew her eyes and nose were red and swollen
and she hated to have a stranger know she
had been crying.
“Good evening, Miss West,” she said uncomfortably.
“What is the matter, Faith?” asked Rosemary
gently.
“Nothing,” said Faith rather shortly.
“Oh!” Rosemary smiled. “You mean nothing
that you can tell to outsiders, don’t you?”
Faith looked at Miss West with sudden interest.
Here was a person who understood things. And
how pretty she was! How golden her hair was
under her plumy hat! How pink her cheeks were
over her velvet coat! How blue and companionable
her eyes were! Faith felt that Miss West could
be a lovely friend—if only she were a friend
instead of a stranger!
“I—I’m going up to tell Mrs. Blythe,”
said Faith. “She always understands—she
never laughs at us. I always talk things over
with her. It helps.”
“Dear girlie, I’m sorry to have to tell
you that Mrs. Blythe isn’t home,” said
Miss West, sympathetically. “She went to
Avonlea to-day and isn’t coming back till
the last of the week.”
Faith’s lip quivered.
“Then I might as well go home again,”
she said miserably.
“I suppose so—unless you think you could
bring yourself to talk it over with me instead,”
said Miss Rosemary gently. “It IS such a
help to talk things over. I know. I don’t
suppose I can be as good at understanding
as Mrs. Blythe—but I promise you that I
won’t laugh.”
“You wouldn’t laugh outside,” hesitated
Faith. “But you might—inside.”
“No, I wouldn’t laugh inside, either.
Why should I? Something has hurt you—it
never amuses me to see anybody hurt, no matter
what hurts them. If you feel that you’d
like to tell me what has hurt you I’ll be
glad to listen. But if you think you’d rather
not—that’s all right, too, dear.”
Faith took another long, earnest look into
Miss West’s eyes. They were very serious—there
was no laughter in them, not even far, far
back. With a little sigh she sat down on the
old pine beside her new friend and told her
all about Adam and his cruel fate.
Rosemary did not laugh or feel like laughing.
She understood and sympathized—really, she
was almost as good as Mrs. Blythe—yes, quite
as good.
“Mr. Perry is a minister, but he should
have been a BUTCHER,” said Faith bitterly.
“He is so fond of carving things up. He
ENJOYED cutting poor Adam to pieces. He just
sliced into him as if he were any common rooster.”
“Between you and me, Faith, I don’t like
Mr. Perry very well myself,” said Rosemary,
laughing a little—but at Mr. Perry, not
at Adam, as Faith clearly understood. “I
never did like him. I went to school with
him—he was a Glen boy, you know—and he
was a most detestable little prig even then.
Oh, how we girls used to hate holding his
fat, clammy hands in the ring-around games.
But we must remember, dear, that he didn’t
know that Adam had been a pet of yours. He
thought he WAS just a common rooster. We must
be just, even when we are terribly hurt.”
“I suppose so,” admitted Faith. “But
why does everybody seem to think it funny
that I should have loved Adam so much, Miss
West? If it had been a horrid old cat nobody
would have thought it queer. When Lottie Warren’s
kitten had its legs cut off by the binder
everybody was sorry for her. She cried two
days in school and nobody laughed at her,
not even Dan Reese. And all her chums went
to the kitten’s funeral and helped her bury
it—only they couldn’t bury its poor little
paws with it, because they couldn’t find
them. It was a horrid thing to have happen,
of course, but I don’t think it was as dreadful
as seeing your pet EATEN UP. Yet everybody
laughs at ME.”
“I think it is because the name ‘rooster’
seems rather a funny one,” said Rosemary
gravely. “There IS something in it that
is comical. Now, ‘chicken’ is different.
It doesn’t sound so funny to talk of loving
a chicken.”
“Adam was the dearest little chicken, Miss
West. He was just a little golden ball. He
would run up to me and peck out of my hand.
And he was handsome when he grew up, too—white
as snow, with such a beautiful curving white
tail, though Mary Vance said it was too short.
He knew his name and always came when I called
him—he was a very intelligent rooster. And
Aunt Martha had no right to kill him. He was
mine. It wasn’t fair, was it, Miss West?”
“No, it wasn’t,” said Rosemary decidedly.
“Not a bit fair. I remember I had a pet
hen when I was a little girl. She was such
a pretty little thing—all golden brown and
speckly. I loved her as much as I ever loved
any pet. She was never killed—she died of
old age. Mother wouldn’t have her killed
because she was my pet.”
“If MY mother had been living she wouldn’t
have let Adam be killed,” said Faith. “For
that matter, father wouldn’t have either,
if he’d been home and known of it. I’m
SURE he wouldn’t, Miss West.”
“I’m sure, too,” said Rosemary. There
was a little added flush on her face. She
looked rather conscious but Faith noticed
nothing.
“Was it VERY wicked of me not to tell Mr.
Perry his coat-tails were scorching?” she
asked anxiously.
“Oh, terribly wicked,” answered Rosemary,
with dancing eyes. “But I would have been
just as naughty, Faith—I wouldn’t have
told him they were scorching—and I don’t
believe I would ever have been a bit sorry
for my wickedness, either.”
“Una thought I should have told him because
he was a minister.”
“Dearest, if a minister doesn’t behave
as a gentleman we are not bound to respect
his coat-tails. I know I would just have loved
to see Jimmy Perry’s coat-tails burning
up. It must have been fun.”
Both laughed; but Faith ended with a bitter
little sigh.
“Well, anyway, Adam is dead and I am NEVER
going to love anything again.”
“Don’t say that, dear. We miss so much
out of life if we don’t love. The more we
love the richer life is—even if it is only
some little furry or feathery pet. Would you
like a canary, Faith—a little golden bit
of a canary? If you would I’ll give you
one. We have two up home.”
“Oh, I WOULD like that,” cried Faith.
“I love birds. Only—would Aunt Martha’s
cat eat it? It’s so TRAGIC to have your
pets eaten. I don’t think I could endure
it a second time.”
“If you hang the cage far enough from the
wall I don’t think the cat could harm it.
I’ll tell you just how to take care of it
and I’ll bring it to Ingleside for you the
next time I come down.”
To herself, Rosemary was thinking,
“It will give every gossip in the Glen something
to talk of, but I WILL not care. I want to
comfort this poor little heart.”
Faith was comforted. Sympathy and understanding
were very sweet. She and Miss Rosemary sat
on the old pine until the twilight crept softly
down over the white valley and the evening
star shone over the gray maple grove. Faith
told Rosemary all her small history and hopes,
her likes and dislikes, the ins and outs of
life at the manse, the ups and downs of school
society. Finally they parted firm friends.
Mr. Meredith was, as usual, lost in dreams
when supper began that evening, but presently
a name pierced his abstraction and brought
him back to reality. Faith was telling Una
of her meeting with Rosemary.
“She is just lovely, I think,” said Faith.
“Just as nice as Mrs. Blythe—but different.
I felt as if I wanted to hug her. She did
hug ME—such a nice, velvety hug. And she
called me ‘dearest.’ It THRILLED me. I
could tell her ANYTHING.”
“So you liked Miss West, Faith?” Mr. Meredith
asked, with a rather odd intonation.
“I love her,” cried Faith.
“Ah!” said Mr. Meredith. “Ah!”
CHAPTER XXI. THE IMPOSSIBLE WORD
John Meredith walked meditatively through
the clear crispness of a winter night in Rainbow
Valley. The hills beyond glistened with the
chill splendid lustre of moonlight on snow.
Every little fir tree in the long valley sang
its own wild song to the harp of wind and
frost. His children and the Blythe lads and
lasses were coasting down the eastern slope
and whizzing over the glassy pond. They were
having a glorious time and their gay voices
and gayer laughter echoed up and down the
valley, dying away in elfin cadences among
the trees. On the right the lights of Ingleside
gleamed through the maple grove with the genial
lure and invitation which seems always to
glow in the beacons of a home where we know
there is love and good-cheer and a welcome
for all kin, whether of flesh or spirit. Mr.
Meredith liked very well on occasion to spend
an evening arguing with the doctor by the
drift wood fire, where the famous china dogs
of Ingleside kept ceaseless watch and ward,
as became deities of the hearth, but to-night
he did not look that way. Far on the western
hill gleamed a paler but more alluring star.
Mr. Meredith was on his way to see Rosemary
West, and he meant to tell her something which
had been slowly blossoming in his heart since
their first meeting and had sprung into full
flower on the evening when Faith had so warmly
voiced her admiration for Rosemary.
He had come to realize that he had learned
to care for Rosemary. Not as he had cared
for Cecilia, of course. THAT was entirely
different. That love of romance and dream
and glamour could never, he thought, return.
But Rosemary was beautiful and sweet and dear—very
dear. She was the best of companions. He was
happier in her company than he had ever expected
to be again. She would be an ideal mistress
for his home, a good mother to his children.
During the years of his widowhood Mr. Meredith
had received innumerable hints from brother
members of Presbytery and from many parishioners
who could not be suspected of any ulterior
motive, as well as from some who could, that
he ought to marry again: But these hints never
made any impression on him. It was commonly
thought he was never aware of them. But he
was quite acutely aware of them. And in his
own occasional visitations of common sense
he knew that the common sensible thing for
him to do was to marry. But common sense was
not the strong point of John Meredith, and
to choose out, deliberately and cold-bloodedly,
some “suitable” woman, as one might choose
a housekeeper or a business partner, was something
he was quite incapable of doing. How he hated
that word “suitable.” It reminded him
so strongly of James Perry. “A SUIT able
woman of SUIT able age,” that unctuous brother
of the cloth had said, in his far from subtle
hint. For the moment John Meredith had had
a perfectly unbelievable desire to rush madly
away and propose marriage to the youngest,
most unsuitable woman it was possible to discover.
Mrs. Marshall Elliott was his good friend
and he liked her. But when she had bluntly
told him he should marry again he felt as
if she had torn away the veil that hung before
some sacred shrine of his innermost life,
and he had been more or less afraid of her
ever since. He knew there were women in his
congregation “of suitable age” who would
marry him quite readily. That fact had seeped
through all his abstraction very early in
his ministry in Glen St. Mary. They were good,
substantial, uninteresting women, one or two
fairly comely, the others not exactly so and
John Meredith would as soon have thought of
marrying any one of them as of hanging himself.
He had some ideals to which no seeming necessity
could make him false. He could ask no woman
to fill Cecilia’s place in his home unless
he could offer her at least some of the affection
and homage he had given to his girlish bride.
And where, in his limited feminine acquaintance,
was such a woman to be found?
Rosemary West had come into his life on that
autumn evening bringing with her an atmosphere
in which his spirit recognized native air.
Across the gulf of strangerhood they clasped
hands of friendship. He knew her better in
that ten minutes by the hidden spring than
he knew Emmeline Drew or Elizabeth Kirk or
Amy Annetta Douglas in a year, or could know
them, in a century. He had fled to her for
comfort when Mrs. Alec Davis had outraged
his mind and soul and had found it. Since
then he had gone often to the house on the
hill, slipping through the shadowy paths of
night in Rainbow Valley so astutely that Glen
gossip could never be absolutely certain that
he DID go to see Rosemary West. Once or twice
he had been caught in the West living room
by other visitors; that was all the Ladies’
Aid had to go by. But when Elizabeth Kirk
heard it she put away a secret hope she had
allowed herself to cherish, without a change
of expression on her kind plain face, and
Emmeline Drew resolved that the next time
she saw a certain old bachelor of Lowbridge
she would not snub him as she had done at
a previous meeting. Of course, if Rosemary
West was out to catch the minister she would
catch him; she looked younger than she was
and MEN thought her pretty; besides, the West
girls had money!
“It is to be hoped that he won’t be so
absent-minded as to propose to Ellen by mistake,”
was the only malicious thing she allowed herself
to say to a sympathetic sister Drew. Emmeline
bore no further grudge towards Rosemary. When
all was said and done, an unencumbered bachelor
was far better than a widower with four children.
It had been only the glamour of the manse
that had temporarily blinded Emmeline’s
eyes to the better part.
A sled with three shrieking occupants sped
past Mr. Meredith to the pond. Faith’s long
curls streamed in the wind and her laughter
rang above that of the others. John Meredith
looked after them kindly and longingly. He
was glad that his children had such chums
as the Blythes—glad that they had so wise
and gay and tender a friend as Mrs. Blythe.
But they needed something more, and that something
would be supplied when he brought Rosemary
West as a bride to the old manse. There was
in her a quality essentially maternal.
It was Saturday night and he did not often
go calling on Saturday night, which was supposed
to be dedicated to a thoughtful revision of
Sunday’s sermon. But he had chosen this
night because he had learned that Ellen West
was going to be away and Rosemary would be
alone. Often as he had spent pleasant evenings
in the house on the hill he had never, since
that first meeting at the spring, seen Rosemary
alone. Ellen had always been there.
He did not precisely object to Ellen being
there. He liked Ellen West very much and they
were the best of friends. Ellen had an almost
masculine understanding and a sense of humour
which his own shy, hidden appreciation of
fun found very agreeable. He liked her interest
in politics and world events. There was no
man in the Glen, not even excepting Dr. Blythe,
who had a better grasp of such things.
“I think it is just as well to be interested
in things as long as you live,” she had
said. “If you’re not, it doesn’t seem
to me that there’s much difference between
the quick and the dead.”
He liked her pleasant, deep, rumbly voice;
he liked the hearty laugh with which she always
ended up some jolly and well-told story. She
never gave him digs about his children as
other Glen women did; she never bored him
with local gossip; she had no malice and no
pettiness. She was always splendidly sincere.
Mr. Meredith, who had picked up Miss Cornelia’s
way of classifying people, considered that
Ellen belonged to the race of Joseph. Altogether,
an admirable woman for a sister-in-law. Nevertheless,
a man did not want even the most admirable
of women around when he was proposing to another
woman. And Ellen was always around. She did
not insist on talking to Mr. Meredith herself
all the time. She let Rosemary have a fair
share of him. Many evenings, indeed, Ellen
effaced herself almost totally, sitting back
in the corner with St. George in her lap,
and letting Mr. Meredith and Rosemary talk
and sing and read books together. Sometimes
they quite forgot her presence. But if their
conversation or choice of duets ever betrayed
the least tendency to what Ellen considered
philandering, Ellen promptly nipped that tendency
in the bud and blotted Rosemary out for the
rest of the evening. But not even the grimmest
of amiable dragons can altogether prevent
a certain subtle language of eye and smile
and eloquent silence; and so the minister’s
courtship progressed after a fashion.
But if it was ever to reach a climax that
climax must come when Ellen was away. And
Ellen was so seldom away, especially in winter.
She found her own fireside the pleasantest
place in the world, she vowed. Gadding had
no attraction for her. She was fond of company
but she wanted it at home. Mr. Meredith had
almost been driven to the conclusion that
he must write to Rosemary what he wanted to
say, when Ellen casually announced one evening
that she was going to a silver wedding next
Saturday night. She had been bridesmaid when
the principals were married. Only old guests
were invited, so Rosemary was not included.
Mr. Meredith pricked up his ears a trifle
and a gleam flashed into his dreamy dark eyes.
Both Ellen and Rosemary saw it; and both Ellen
and Rosemary felt, with a tingling shock,
that Mr. Meredith would certainly come up
the hill next Saturday night.
“Might as well have it over with, St. George,”
Ellen sternly told the black cat, after Mr.
Meredith had gone home and Rosemary had silently
gone upstairs. “He means to ask her, St.
George—I’m perfectly sure of that. So
he might as well have his chance to do it
and find out he can’t get her, George. She’d
rather like to take him, Saint. I know that—but
she promised, and she’s got to keep her
promise. I’m rather sorry in some ways,
St. George. I don’t know of a man I’d
sooner have for a brother-in-law if a brother-in-law
was convenient. I haven’t a thing against
him, Saint—not a thing except that he won’t
see and can’t be made to see that the Kaiser
is a menace to the peace of Europe. That’s
HIS blind spot. But he’s good company and
I like him. A woman can say anything she likes
to a man with a mouth like John Meredith’s
and be sure of not being misunderstood. Such
a man is more precious than rubies, Saint—and
much rarer, George. But he can’t have Rosemary—and
I suppose when he finds out he can’t have
her he’ll drop us both. And we’ll miss
him, Saint—we’ll miss him something scandalous,
George. But she promised, and I’ll see that
she keeps her promise!”
Ellen’s face looked almost ugly in its lowering
resolution. Upstairs Rosemary was crying into
her pillow.
So Mr. Meredith found his lady alone and looking
very beautiful. Rosemary had not made any
special toilet for the occasion; she wanted
to, but she thought it would be absurd to
dress up for a man you meant to refuse. So
she wore her plain dark afternoon dress and
looked like a queen in it. Her suppressed
excitement coloured her face to brilliancy,
her great blue eyes were pools of light less
placid than usual.
She wished the interview were over. She had
looked forward to it all day with dread. She
felt quite sure that John Meredith cared a
great deal for her after a fashion—and she
felt just as sure that he did not care for
her as he had cared for his first love. She
felt that her refusal would disappoint him
considerably, but she did not think it would
altogether overwhelm him. Yet she hated to
make it; hated for his sake and—Rosemary
was quite honest with herself—for her own.
She knew she could have loved John Meredith
if—if it had been permissible. She knew
that life would be a blank thing if, rejected
as lover, he refused longer to be a friend.
She knew that she could be very happy with
him and that she could make him happy. But
between her and happiness stood the prison
gate of the promise she had made to Ellen
years ago. Rosemary could not remember her
father. He had died when she was only three
years old. Ellen, who had been thirteen, remembered
him, but with no special tenderness. He had
been a stern, reserved man many years older
than his fair, pretty wife. Five years later
their brother of twelve died also; since his
death the two girls had always lived alone
with their mother. They had never mingled
very freely in the social life of the Glen
or Lowbridge, though where they went the wit
and spirit of Ellen and the sweetness and
beauty of Rosemary made them welcome guests.
Both had what was called “a disappointment”
in their girlhood. The sea had not given up
Rosemary’s lover; and Norman Douglas, then
a handsome, red-haired young giant, noted
for wild driving and noisy though harmless
escapades, had quarrelled with Ellen and left
her in a fit of pique.
There were not lacking candidates for both
Martin’s and Norman’s places, but none
seemed to find favour in the eyes of the West
girls, who drifted slowly out of youth and
bellehood without any seeming regret. They
were devoted to their mother, who was a chronic
invalid. The three had a little circle of
home interests—books and pets and flowers—which
made them happy and contented.
Mrs. West’s death, which occurred on Rosemary’s
twenty-fifth birthday, was a bitter grief
to them. At first they were intolerably lonely.
Ellen, especially, continued to grieve and
brood, her long, moody musings broken only
by fits of stormy, passionate weeping. The
old Lowbridge doctor told Rosemary that he
feared permanent melancholy or worse.
Once, when Ellen had sat all day, refusing
either to speak or eat, Rosemary had flung
herself on her knees by her sister’s side.
“Oh, Ellen, you have me yet,” she said
imploringly. “Am I nothing to you? We have
always loved each other so.”
“I won’t have you always,” Ellen had
said, breaking her silence with harsh intensity.
“You will marry and leave me. I shall be
left all alone. I cannot bear the thought—I
CANNOT. I would rather die.”
“I will never marry,” said Rosemary, “never,
Ellen.”
Ellen bent forward and looked searchingly
into Rosemary’s eyes.
“Will you promise me that solemnly?” she
said. “Promise it on mother’s Bible.”
Rosemary assented at once, quite willing to
humour Ellen. What did it matter? She knew
quite well she would never want to marry any
one. Her love had gone down with Martin Crawford
to the deeps of the sea; and without love
she could not marry any one. So she promised
readily, though Ellen made rather a fearsome
rite of it. They clasped hands over the Bible,
in their mother’s vacant room, and both
vowed to each other that they would never
marry and would always live together.
Ellen’s condition improved from that hour.
She soon regained her normal cheery poise.
For ten years she and Rosemary lived in the
old house happily, undisturbed by any thought
of marrying or giving in marriage. Their promise
sat very lightly on them. Ellen never failed
to remind her sister of it whenever any eligible
male creature crossed their paths, but she
had never been really alarmed until John Meredith
came home that night with Rosemary. As for
Rosemary, Ellen’s obsession regarding that
promise had always been a little matter of
mirth to her—until lately. Now, it was a
merciless fetter, self-imposed but never to
be shaken off. Because of it to-night she
must turn her face from happiness.
It was true that the shy, sweet, rosebud love
she had given to her boy-lover she could never
give to another. But she knew now that she
could give to John Meredith a love richer
and more womanly. She knew that he touched
deeps in her nature that Martin had never
touched—that had not, perhaps, been in the
girl of seventeen to touch. And she must send
him away to-night—send him back to his lonely
hearth and his empty life and his heart-breaking
problems, because she had promised Ellen,
ten years before, on their mother’s Bible,
that she would never marry.
John Meredith did not immediately grasp his
opportunity. On the contrary, he talked for
two good hours on the least lover-like of
subjects. He even tried politics, though politics
always bored Rosemary. The later began to
think that she had been altogether mistaken,
and her fears and expectations suddenly seemed
to her grotesque. She felt flat and foolish.
The glow went out of her face and the lustre
out of her eyes. John Meredith had not the
slightest intention of asking her to marry
him.
And then, quite suddenly, he rose, came across
the room, and standing by her chair, he asked
it. The room had grown terribly still. Even
St. George ceased to purr. Rosemary heard
her own heart beating and was sure John Meredith
must hear it too.
Now was the time for her to say no, gently
but firmly. She had been ready for days with
her stilted, regretful little formula. And
now the words of it had completely vanished
from her mind. She had to say no—and she
suddenly found she could not say it. It was
the impossible word. She knew now that it
was not that she COULD have loved John Meredith,
but that she DID love him. The thought of
putting him from her life was agony.
She must say SOMETHING; she lifted her bowed
golden head and asked him stammeringly to
give her a few days for—for consideration.
John Meredith was a little surprised. He was
not vainer than any man has a right to be,
but he had expected that Rosemary West would
say yes. He had been tolerably sure she cared
for him. Then why this doubt—this hesitation?
She was not a school girl to be uncertain
as to her own mind. He felt an ugly shock
of disappointment and dismay. But he assented
to her request with his unfailing gentle courtesy
and went away at once.
“I will tell you in a few days,” said
Rosemary, with downcast eyes and burning face.
When the door shut behind him she went back
into the room and wrung her hands.
CHAPTER XXII. ST. GEORGE KNOWS ALL ABOUT IT
At midnight Ellen West was walking home from
the Pollock silver wedding. She had stayed
a little while after the other guests had
gone, to help the gray-haired bride wash the
dishes. The distance between the two houses
was not far and the road good, so that Ellen
was enjoying the walk back home in the moonlight.
The evening had been a pleasant one. Ellen,
who had not been to a party for years, found
it very pleasant. All the guests had been
members of her old set and there was no intrusive
youth to spoil the flavour, for the only son
of the bride and groom was far away at college
and could not be present. Norman Douglas had
been there and they had met socially for the
first time in years, though she had seen him
once or twice in church that winter. Not the
least sentiment was awakened in Ellen’s
heart by their meeting. She was accustomed
to wonder, when she thought about it at all,
how she could ever have fancied him or felt
so badly over his sudden marriage. But she
had rather liked meeting him again. She had
forgotten how bracing and stimulating he could
be. No gathering was ever stagnant when Norman
Douglas was present. Everybody had been surprised
when Norman came. It was well known he never
went anywhere. The Pollocks had invited him
because he had been one of the original guests,
but they never thought he would come. He had
taken his second cousin, Amy Annetta Douglas,
out to supper and seemed rather attentive
to her. But Ellen sat across the table from
him and had a spirited argument with him—an
argument during which all his shouting and
banter could not fluster her and in which
she came off best, flooring Norman so composedly
and so completely that he was silent for ten
minutes. At the end of which time he had muttered
in his ruddy beard—“spunky as ever—spunky
as ever”—and began to hector Amy Annetta,
who giggled foolishly over his sallies where
Ellen would have retorted bitingly.
Ellen thought these things over as she walked
home, tasting them with reminiscent relish.
The moonlit air sparkled with frost. The snow
crisped under her feet. Below her lay the
Glen with the white harbour beyond. There
was a light in the manse study. So John Meredith
had gone home. Had he asked Rosemary to marry
him? And after what fashion had she made her
refusal known? Ellen felt that she would never
know this, though she was quite curious. She
was sure Rosemary would never tell her anything
about it and she would not dare to ask. She
must just be content with the fact of the
refusal. After all, that was the only thing
that really mattered.
“I hope he’ll have sense enough to come
back once in a while and be friendly,” she
said to herself. She disliked so much to be
alone that thinking aloud was one of her devices
for circumventing unwelcome solitude. “It’s
awful never to have a man-body with some brains
to talk to once in a while. And like as not
he’ll never come near the house again. There’s
Norman Douglas, too—I like that man, and
I’d like to have a good rousing argument
with him now and then. But he’d never dare
come up for fear people would think he was
courting me again—for fear I’D think it,
too, most likely—though he’s more a stranger
to me now than John Meredith. It seems like
a dream that we could ever have been beaus.
But there it is—there’s only two men in
the Glen I’d ever want to talk to—and
what with gossip and this wretched love-making
business it’s not likely I’ll ever see
either of them again. I could,” said Ellen,
addressing the unmoved stars with a spiteful
emphasis, “I could have made a better world
myself.”
She paused at her gate with a sudden vague
feeling of alarm. There was still a light
in the living-room and to and fro across the
window-shades went the shadow of a woman walking
restlessly up and down. What was Rosemary
doing up at this hour of the night? And why
was she striding about like a lunatic?
Ellen went softly in. As she opened the hall
door Rosemary came out of the room. She was
flushed and breathless. An atmosphere of stress
and passion hung about her like a garment.
“Why aren’t you in bed, Rosemary?” demanded
Ellen.
“Come in here,” said Rosemary intensely.
“I want to tell you something.”
Ellen composedly removed her wraps and overshoes,
and followed her sister into the warm, fire-lighted
room. She stood with her hand on the table
and waited. She was looking very handsome
herself, in her own grim, black-browed style.
The new black velvet dress, with its train
and V-neck, which she had made purposely for
the party, became her stately, massive figure.
She wore coiled around her neck the rich heavy
necklace of amber beads which was a family
heirloom. Her walk in the frosty air had stung
her cheeks into a glowing scarlet. But her
steel-blue eyes were as icy and unyielding
as the sky of the winter night. She stood
waiting in a silence which Rosemary could
break only by a convulsive effort.
“Ellen, Mr. Meredith was here this evening.”
“Yes?”
“And—and—he asked me to marry him.”
“So I expected. Of course, you refused him?”
“No.”
“Rosemary.” Ellen clenched her hands and
took an involuntary step forward. “Do you
mean to tell me that you accepted him?”
“No—no.”
Ellen recovered her self-command.
“What DID you do then?”
“I—I asked him to give me a few days to
think it over.”
“I hardly see why that was necessary,”
said Ellen, coldly contemptuous, “when there
is only the one answer you can make him.”
Rosemary held out her hands beseechingly.
“Ellen,” she said desperately, “I love
John Meredith—I want to be his wife. Will
you set me free from that promise?”
“No,” said Ellen, merciless, because she
was sick from fear.
“Ellen—Ellen—”
“Listen,” interrupted Ellen. “I did
not ask you for that promise. You offered
it.”
“I know—I know. But I did not think then
that I could ever care for anyone again.”
“You offered it,” went on Ellen unmovably.
“You promised it over our mother’s Bible.
It was more than a promise—it was an oath.
Now you want to break it.”
“I only asked you to set me free from it,
Ellen.”
“I will not do it. A promise is a promise
in my eyes. I will not do it. Break your promise—be
forsworn if you will—but it shall not be
with any assent of mine.”
“You are very hard on me, Ellen.”
“Hard on you! And what of me? Have you ever
given a thought to what my loneliness would
be here if you left me? I could not bear it—I
would go crazy. I CANNOT live alone. Haven’t
I been a good sister to you? Have I ever opposed
any wish of yours? Haven’t I indulged you
in everything?”
“Yes—yes.”
“Then why do you want to leave me for this
man whom you hadn’t seen a year ago?”
“I love him, Ellen.”
“Love! You talk like a school miss instead
of a middle-aged woman. He doesn’t love
you. He wants a housekeeper and a governess.
You don’t love him. You want to be ‘Mrs.’—you
are one of those weak-minded women who think
it’s a disgrace to be ranked as an old maid.
That’s all there is to it.”
Rosemary quivered. Ellen could not, or would
not, understand. There was no use arguing
with her.
“So you won’t release me, Ellen?”
“No, I won’t. And I won’t talk of it
again. You promised and you’ve got to keep
your word. That’s all. Go to bed. Look at
the time! You’re all romantic and worked
up. To-morrow you’ll be more sensible. At
any rate, don’t let me hear any more of
this nonsense. Go.”
Rosemary went without another word, pale and
spiritless. Ellen walked stormily about the
room for a few minutes, then paused before
the chair where St. George had been calmly
sleeping through the whole evening. A reluctant
smile overspread her dark face. There had
been only one time in her life—the time
of her mother’s death—when Ellen had not
been able to temper tragedy with comedy. Even
in that long ago bitterness, when Norman Douglas
had, after a fashion, jilted her, she had
laughed at herself quite as often as she had
cried.
“I expect there’ll be some sulking, St.
George. Yes, Saint, I expect we are in for
a few unpleasant foggy days. Well, we’ll
weather them through, George. We’ve dealt
with foolish children before, Saint. Rosemary’ll
sulk a while—and then she’ll get over
it—and all will be as before, George. She
promised—and she’s got to keep her promise.
And that’s the last word on the subject
I’ll say to you or her or anyone, Saint.”
But Ellen lay savagely awake till morning.
There was no sulking, however. Rosemary was
pale and quiet the next day, but beyond that
Ellen could detect no difference in her. Certainly,
she seemed to bear Ellen no grudge. It was
stormy, so no mention was made of going to
church. In the afternoon Rosemary shut herself
in her room and wrote a note to John Meredith.
She could not trust herself to say “no”
in person. She felt quite sure that if he
suspected she was saying “no” reluctantly
he would not take it for an answer, and she
could not face pleading or entreaty. She must
make him think she cared nothing at all for
him and she could do that only by letter.
She wrote him the stiffest, coolest little
refusal imaginable. It was barely courteous;
it certainly left no loophole of hope for
the boldest lover—and John Meredith was
anything but that. He shrank into himself,
hurt and mortified, when he read Rosemary’s
letter next day in his dusty study. But under
his mortification a dreadful realization presently
made itself felt. He had thought he did not
love Rosemary as deeply as he had loved Cecilia.
Now, when he had lost her, he knew that he
did. She was everything to him—everything!
And he must put her out of his life completely.
Even friendship was impossible now. Life stretched
before him in intolerable dreariness. He must
go on—there was his work—his children—but
the heart had gone out of him. He sat alone
all that evening in his dark, cold, comfortless
study with his head bowed on his hands. Up
on the hill Rosemary had a headache and went
early to bed, while Ellen remarked to St.
George, purring his disdain of foolish humankind,
who did not know that a soft cushion was the
only thing that really mattered,
“What would women do if headaches had never
been invented, St. George? But never mind,
Saint. We’ll just wink the other eye for
a few weeks. I admit I don’t feel comfortable
myself, George. I feel as if I had drowned
a kitten. But she promised, Saint—and she
was the one to offer it, George. Bismillah!”
CHAPTER XXIII. THE GOOD-CONDUCT CLUB
A light rain had been falling all day—a
little, delicate, beautiful spring rain, that
somehow seemed to hint and whisper of mayflowers
and wakening violets. The harbour and the
gulf and the low-lying shore fields had been
dim with pearl-gray mists. But now in the
evening the rain had ceased and the mists
had blown out to sea. Clouds sprinkled the
sky over the harbour like little fiery roses.
Beyond it the hills were dark against a spendthrift
splendour of daffodil and crimson. A great
silvery evening star was watching over the
bar. A brisk, dancing, new-sprung wind was
blowing up from Rainbow Valley, resinous with
the odours of fir and damp mosses. It crooned
in the old spruces around the graveyard and
ruffled Faith’s splendid curls as she sat
on Hezekiah Pollock’s tombstone with her
arms round Mary Vance and Una. Carl and Jerry
were sitting opposite them on another tombstone
and all were rather full of mischief after
being cooped up all day.
“The air just SHINES to-night, doesn’t
it? It’s been washed so clean, you see,”
said Faith happily.
Mary Vance eyed her gloomily. Knowing what
she knew, or fancied she knew, Mary considered
that Faith was far too light-hearted. Mary
had something on her mind to say and she meant
to say it before she went home. Mrs. Elliott
had sent her up to the manse with some new-laid
eggs, and had told her not to stay longer
than half an hour. The half hour was nearly
up, so Mary uncurled her cramped legs from
under her and said abruptly,
“Never mind about the air. Just you listen
to me. You manse young ones have just got
to behave yourselves better than you’ve
been doing this spring—that’s all there
is to it. I just come up to-night a-purpose
to tell you so. The way people are talking
about you is awful.”
“What have we been doing now?” cried Faith
in amazement, pulling her arm away from Mary.
Una’s lips trembled and her sensitive little
soul shrank within her. Mary was always so
brutally frank. Jerry began to whistle out
of bravado. He meant to let Mary see he didn’t
care for HER tirades. Their behaviour was
no business of HERS anyway. What right had
SHE to lecture them on their conduct?
“Doing now! You’re doing ALL the time,”
retorted Mary. “Just as soon as the talk
about one of your didos fades away you do
something else to start it up again. It seems
to me you haven’t any idea of how manse
children ought to behave!”
“Maybe YOU can tell us,” said Jerry, killingly
sarcastic.
Sarcasm was quite thrown away on Mary.
“I can tell you what will happen if you
don’t learn to behave yourselves. The session
will ask your father to resign. There now,
Master Jerry-know-it-all. Mrs. Alec Davis
said so to Mrs. Elliott. I heard her. I always
have my ears pricked up when Mrs. Alec Davis
comes to tea. She said you were all going
from bad to worse and that though it was only
what was to be expected when you had nobody
to bring you up, still the congregation couldn’t
be expected to put up with it much longer,
and something would have to be done. The Methodists
just laugh and laugh at you, and that hurts
the Presbyterian feelings. SHE says you all
need a good dose of birch tonic. Lor’, if
that would make folks good I oughter be a
young saint. I’m not telling you this because
I want to hurt YOUR feelings. I’m sorry
for you”—Mary was past mistress of the
gentle art of condescension. “I understand
that you haven’t much chance, the way things
are. But other people don’t make as much
allowance as I do. Miss Drew says Carl had
a frog in his pocket in Sunday School last
Sunday and it hopped out while she was hearing
the lesson. She says she’s going to give
up the class. Why don’t you keep your insecks
home?”
“I popped it right back in again,” said
Carl. “It didn’t hurt anybody—a poor
little frog! And I wish old Jane Drew WOULD
give up our class. I hate her. Her own nephew
had a dirty plug of tobacco in his pocket
and offered us fellows a chew when Elder Clow
was praying. I guess that’s worse than a
frog.”
“No, ‘cause frogs are more unexpected-like.
They make more of a sensation. ‘Sides, he
wasn’t caught at it. And then that praying
competition you had last week has made a fearful
scandal. Everybody is talking about it.”
“Why, the Blythes were in that as well as
us,” cried Faith, indignantly. “It was
Nan Blythe who suggested it in the first place.
And Walter took the prize.”
“Well, you get the credit of it any way.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t
had it in the graveyard.”
“I should think a graveyard was a very good
place to pray in,” retorted Jerry.
“Deacon Hazard drove past when YOU were
praying,” said Mary, “and he saw and heard
you, with your hands folded over your stomach,
and groaning after every sentence. He thought
you were making fun of HIM.”
“So I was,” declared unabashed Jerry.
“Only I didn’t know he was going by, of
course. That was just a mean accident. I wasn’t
praying in real earnest—I knew I had no
chance of winning the prize. So I was just
getting what fun I could out of it. Walter
Blythe can pray bully. Why, he can pray as
well as dad.”
“Una is the only one of US who really likes
praying,” said Faith pensively.
“Well, if praying scandalizes people so
much we mustn’t do it any more,” sighed
Una.
“Shucks, you can pray all you want to, only
not in the graveyard—and don’t make a
game of it. That was what made it so bad—that,
and having a tea-party on the tombstones.”
“We hadn’t.”
“Well, a soap-bubble party then. You had
SOMETHING. The over-harbour people swear you
had a tea-party, but I’m willing to take
your word. And you used this tombstone as
a table.”
“Well, Martha wouldn’t let us blow bubbles
in the house. She was awful cross that day,”
explained Jerry. “And this old slab made
such a jolly table.”
“Weren’t they pretty?” cried Faith,
her eyes sparkling over the remembrance. “They
reflected the trees and the hills and the
harbour like little fairy worlds, and when
we shook them loose they floated away down
to Rainbow Valley.”
“All but one and it went over and bust up
on the Methodist spire,” said Carl.
“I’m glad we did it once, anyhow, before
we found out it was wrong,” said Faith.
“It wouldn’t have been wrong to blow them
on the lawn,” said Mary impatiently. “Seems
like I can’t knock any sense into your heads.
You’ve been told often enough you shouldn’t
play in the graveyard. The Methodists are
sensitive about it.”
“We forget,” said Faith dolefully. “And
the lawn is so small—and so caterpillary—and
so full of shrubs and things. We can’t be
in Rainbow Valley all the time—and where
are we to go?”
“It’s the things you DO in the graveyard.
It wouldn’t matter if you just sat here
and talked quiet, same as we’re doing now.
Well, I don’t know what is going to come
of it all, but I DO know that Elder Warren
is going to speak to your pa about it. Deacon
Hazard is his cousin.”
“I wish they wouldn’t bother father about
us,” said Una.
“Well, people think he ought to bother himself
about you a little more. I don’t—I understand
him. He’s a child in some ways himself—that’s
what he is, and needs some one to look after
him as bad as you do. Well, perhaps he’ll
have some one before long, if all tales is
true.”
“What do you mean?” asked Faith.
“Haven’t you got any idea—honest?”
demanded Mary.
“No, no. What DO you mean?”
“Well, you are a lot of innocents, upon
my word. Why, EVERYbody is talking of it.
Your pa goes to see Rosemary West. SHE is
going to be your step-ma.”
“I don’t believe it,” cried Una, flushing
crimson.
“Well, I dunno. I just go by what folks
say. I don’t give it for a fact. But it
would be a good thing. Rosemary West’d make
you toe the mark if she came here, I’ll
bet a cent, for all she’s so sweet and smiley
on the face of her. They’re always that
way till they’ve caught them. But you need
some one to bring you up. You’re disgracing
your pa and I feel for him. I’ve always
thought an awful lot of your pa ever since
that night he talked to me so nice. I’ve
never said a single swear word since, or told
a lie. And I’d like to see him happy and
comfortable, with his buttons on and his meals
decent, and you young ones licked into shape,
and that old cat of a Martha put in HER proper
place. The way she looked at the eggs I brought
her to-night. ‘I hope they’re fresh,’
says she. I just wished they WAS rotten. But
you just mind that she gives you all one for
breakfast, including your pa. Make a fuss
if she doesn’t. That was what they was sent
up for—but I don’t trust old Martha. She’s
quite capable of feeding ‘em to her cat.”
Mary’s tongue being temporarily tired, a
brief silence fell over the graveyard. The
manse children did not feel like talking.
They were digesting the new and not altogether
palatable ideas Mary had suggested to them.
Jerry and Carl were somewhat startled. But,
after all, what did it matter? And it wasn’t
likely there was a word of truth in it. Faith,
on the whole, was pleased. Only Una was seriously
upset. She felt that she would like to get
away and cry.
“Will there be any stars in my crown?”
sang the Methodist choir, beginning to practise
in the Methodist church.
“I want just three,” said Mary, whose
theological knowledge had increased notably
since her residence with Mrs. Elliott. “Just
three—setting up on my head, like a corownet,
a big one in the middle and a small one each
side.”
“Are there different sizes in souls?”
asked Carl.
“Of course. Why, little babies must have
smaller ones than big men. Well, it’s getting
dark and I must scoot home. Mrs. Elliott doesn’t
like me to be out after dark. Laws, when I
lived with Mrs. Wiley the dark was just the
same as the daylight to me. I didn’t mind
it no more’n a gray cat. Them days seem
a hundred years ago. Now, you mind what I’ve
said and try to behave yourselves, for you
pa’s sake. I’LL always back you up and
defend you—you can be dead sure of that.
Mrs. Elliott says she never saw the like of
me for sticking up for my friends. I was real
sassy to Mrs. Alec Davis about you and Mrs.
Elliott combed me down for it afterwards.
The fair Cornelia has a tongue of her own
and no mistake. But she was pleased underneath
for all, ‘cause she hates old Kitty Alec
and she’s real fond of you. I can see through
folks.”
Mary sailed off, excellently well pleased
with herself, leaving a rather depressed little
group behind her.
“Mary Vance always says something that makes
us feel bad when she comes up,” said Una
resentfully.
“I wish we’d left her to starve in the
old barn,” said Jerry vindictively.
“Oh, that’s wicked, Jerry,” rebuked
Una.
“May as well have the game as the name,”
retorted unrepentant Jerry. “If people say
we’re so bad let’s BE bad.”
“But not if it hurts father,” pleaded
Faith.
Jerry squirmed uncomfortably. He adored his
father. Through the unshaded study window
they could see Mr. Meredith at his desk. He
did not seem to be either reading or writing.
His head was in his hands and there was something
in his whole attitude that spoke of weariness
and dejection. The children suddenly felt
it.
“I dare say somebody’s been worrying him
about us to-day,” said Faith. “I wish
we COULD get along without making people talk.
Oh—Jem Blythe! How you scared me!”
Jem Blythe had slipped into the graveyard
and sat down beside the girls. He had been
prowling about Rainbow Valley and had succeeded
in finding the first little star-white cluster
of arbutus for his mother. The manse children
were rather silent after his coming. Jem was
beginning to grow away from them somewhat
this spring. He was studying for the entrance
examination of Queen’s Academy and stayed
after school with the older pupils for extra
lessons. Also, his evenings were so full of
work that he seldom joined the others in Rainbow
Valley now. He seemed to be drifting away
into grown-up land.
“What is the matter with you all to-night?”
he asked. “There’s no fun in you.”
“Not much,” agreed Faith dolefully. “There
wouldn’t be much fun in you either if YOU
knew you were disgracing your father and making
people talk about you.”
“Who’s been talking about you now?”
“Everybody—so Mary Vance says.” And
Faith poured out her troubles to sympathetic
Jem. “You see,” she concluded dolefully,
“we’ve nobody to bring us up. And so we
get into scrapes and people think we’re
bad.”
“Why don’t you bring yourselves up?”
suggested Jem. “I’ll tell you what to
do. Form a Good-Conduct Club and punish yourselves
every time you do anything that’s not right.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Faith, struck
by it. “But,” she added doubtfully, “things
that don’t seem a bit of harm to US seem
simply dreadful to other people. How can we
tell? We can’t be bothering father all the
time—and he has to be away a lot, anyhow.”
“You could mostly tell if you stopped to
think a thing over before doing it and ask
yourselves what the congregation would say
about it,” said Jem. “The trouble is you
just rush into things and don’t think them
over at all. Mother says you’re all too
impulsive, just as she used to be. The Good-Conduct
Club would help you to think, if you were
fair and honest about punishing yourselves
when you broke the rules. You’d have to
punish in some way that really HURT, or it
wouldn’t do any good.”
“Whip each other?”
“Not exactly. You’d have to think up different
ways of punishment to suit the person. You
wouldn’t punish each other—you’d punish
YOURSELVES. I read all about such a club in
a story-book. You try it and see how it works.”
“Let’s,” said Faith; and when Jem was
gone they agreed they would. “If things
aren’t right we’ve just got to make them
right,” said Faith, resolutely.
“We’ve got to be fair and square, as Jem
says,” said Jerry. “This is a club to
bring ourselves up, seeing there’s nobody
else to do it. There’s no use in having
many rules. Let’s just have one and any
of us that breaks it has got to be punished
hard.”
“But HOW.”
“We’ll think that up as we go along. We’ll
hold a session of the club here in the graveyard
every night and talk over what we’ve done
through the day, and if we think we’ve done
anything that isn’t right or that would
disgrace dad the one that does it, or is responsible
for it, must be punished. That’s the rule.
We’ll all decide on the kind of punishment—it
must be made to fit the crime, as Mr. Flagg
says. And the one that’s, guilty will be
bound to carry it out and no shirking. There’s
going to be fun in this,” concluded Jerry,
with a relish.
“You suggested the soap-bubble party,”
said Faith.
“But that was before we’d formed the club,”
said Jerry hastily. “Everything starts from
to-night.”
“But what if we can’t agree on what’s
right, or what the punishment ought to be?
S’pose two of us thought of one thing and
two another. There ought to be five in a club
like this.”
“We can ask Jem Blythe to be umpire. He
is the squarest boy in Glen St. Mary. But
I guess we can settle our own affairs mostly.
We want to keep this as much of a secret as
we can. Don’t breathe a word to Mary Vance.
She’d want to join and do the bringing up.”
“I think,” said Faith, “that there’s
no use in spoiling every day by dragging punishments
in. Let’s have a punishment day.”
“We’d better choose Saturday because there
is no school to interfere,” suggested Una.
“And spoil the one holiday in the week,”
cried Faith. “Not much! No, let’s take
Friday. That’s fish day, anyhow, and we
all hate fish. We may as well have all the
disagreeable things in one day. Then other
days we can go ahead and have a good time.”
“Nonsense,” said Jerry authoritatively.
“Such a scheme wouldn’t work at all. We’ll
just punish ourselves as we go along and keep
a clear slate. Now, we all understand, don’t
we? This is a Good-Conduct Club, for the purpose
of bringing ourselves up. We agree to punish
ourselves for bad conduct, and always to stop
before we do anything, no matter what, and
ask ourselves if it is likely to hurt dad
in any way, and any one who shirks is to be
cast out of the club and never allowed to
play with the rest of us in Rainbow Valley
again. Jem Blythe to be umpire in case of
disputes. No more taking bugs to Sunday School,
Carl, and no more chewing gum in public, if
you please, Miss Faith.”
“No more making fun of elders praying or
going to the Methodist prayer meeting,”
retorted Faith.
“Why, it isn’t any harm to go to the Methodist
prayer meeting,” protested Jerry in amazement.
“Mrs. Elliott says it is, She says manse
children have no business to go anywhere but
to Presbyterian things.”
“Darn it, I won’t give up going to the
Methodist prayer meeting,” cried Jerry.
“It’s ten times more fun than ours is.”
“You said a naughty word,” cried Faith.
“NOW, you’ve got to punish yourself.”
“Not till it’s all down in black and white.
We’re only talking the club over. It isn’t
really formed until we’ve written it out
and signed it. There’s got to be a constitution
and by-laws. And you KNOW there’s nothing
wrong in going to a prayer meeting.”
“But it’s not only the wrong things we’re
to punish ourselves for, but anything that
might hurt father.”
“It won’t hurt anybody. You know Mrs.
Elliott is cracked on the subject of Methodists.
Nobody else makes any fuss about my going.
I always behave myself. You ask Jem or Mrs.
Blythe and see what they say. I’ll abide
by their opinion. I’m going for the paper
now and I’ll bring out the lantern and we’ll
all sign.”
Fifteen minutes later the document was solemnly
signed on Hezekiah Pollock’s tombstone,
on the centre of which stood the smoky manse
lantern, while the children knelt around it.
Mrs. Elder Clow was going past at the moment
and next day all the Glen heard that the manse
children had been having another praying competition
and had wound it up by chasing each other
all over the graves with a lantern. This piece
of embroidery was probably suggested by the
fact that, after the signing and sealing was
completed, Carl had taken the lantern and
had walked circumspectly to the little hollow
to examine his ant-hill. The others had gone
quietly into the manse and to bed.
“Do you think it is true that father is
going to marry Miss West?” Una had tremulously
asked of Faith, after their prayers had been
said.
“I don’t know, but I’d like it,” said
Faith.
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” said Una, chokingly.
“She is nice the way she is. But Mary Vance
says it changes people ALTOGETHER to be made
stepmothers. They get horrid cross and mean
and hateful then, and turn your father against
you. She says they’re sure to do that. She
never knew it to fail in a single case.”
“I don’t believe Miss West would EVER
try to do that,” cried Faith.
“Mary says ANYBODY would. She knows ALL
about stepmothers, Faith—she says she’s
seen hundreds of them—and you’ve never
seen one. Oh, Mary has told me blood-curdling
things about them. She says she knew of one
who whipped her husband’s little girls on
their bare shoulders till they bled, and then
shut them up in a cold, dark coal cellar all
night. She says they’re ALL aching to do
things like that.”
“I don’t believe Miss West would. You
don’t know her as well as I do, Una. Just
think of that sweet little bird she sent me.
I love it far more even than Adam.”
“It’s just being a stepmother changes
them. Mary says they can’t help it. I wouldn’t
mind the whippings so much as having father
hate us.”
“You know nothing could make father hate
us. Don’t be silly, Una. I dare say there’s
nothing to worry over. Likely if we run our
club right and bring ourselves up properly
father won’t think of marrying any one.
And if he does, I KNOW Miss West will be lovely
to us.”
But Una had no such conviction and she cried
herself to sleep.
CHAPTER XXIV. A CHARITABLE IMPULSE
For a fortnight things ran smoothly in the
Good-Conduct Club. It seemed to work admirably.
Not once was Jem Blythe called in as umpire.
Not once did any of the manse children set
the Glen gossips by the ears. As for their
minor peccadilloes at home, they kept sharp
tabs on each other and gamely underwent their
self-imposed punishment—generally a voluntary
absence from some gay Friday night frolic
in Rainbow Valley, or a sojourn in bed on
some spring evening when all young bones ached
to be out and away. Faith, for whispering
in Sunday School, condemned herself to pass
a whole day without speaking a single word,
unless it was absolutely necessary, and accomplished
it. It was rather unfortunate that Mr. Baker
from over-harbour should have chosen that
evening for calling at the manse, and that
Faith should have happened to go to the door.
Not one word did she reply to his genial greeting,
but went silently away to call her father
briefly. Mr. Baker was slightly offended and
told his wife when he went home that that
the biggest Meredith girl seemed a very shy,
sulky little thing, without manners enough
to speak when she was spoken to. But nothing
worse came of it, and generally their penances
did no harm to themselves or anybody else.
All of them were beginning to feel quite cocksure
that after all, it was a very easy matter
to bring yourself up.
“I guess people will soon see that we can
behave ourselves properly as well as anybody,”
said Faith jubilantly. “It isn’t hard
when we put our minds to it.”
She and Una were sitting on the Pollock tombstone.
It had been a cold, raw, wet day of spring
storm and Rainbow Valley was out of the question
for girls, though the manse and the Ingleside
boys were down there fishing. The rain had
held up, but the east wind blew mercilessly
in from the sea, cutting to bone and marrow.
Spring was late in spite of its early promise,
and there was even yet a hard drift of old
snow and ice in the northern corner of the
graveyard. Lida Marsh, who had come up to
bring the manse a mess of herring, slipped
in through the gate shivering. She belonged
to the fishing village at the harbour mouth
and her father had, for thirty years, made
a practice of sending a mess from his first
spring catch to the manse. He never darkened
a church door; he was a hard drinker and a
reckless man, but as long as he sent those
herring up to the manse every spring, as his
father had done before him, he felt comfortably
sure that his account with the Powers That
Govern was squared for the year. He would
not have expected a good mackerel catch if
he had not so sent the first fruits of the
season.
Lida was a mite of ten and looked younger,
because she was such a small, wizened little
creature. To-night, as she sidled boldly enough
up to the manse girls, she looked as if she
had never been warm since she was born. Her
face was purple and her pale-blue, bold little
eyes were red and watery. She wore a tattered
print dress and a ragged woollen comforter,
tied across her thin shoulders and under her
arms. She had walked the three miles from
the harbour mouth barefooted, over a road
where there was still snow and slush and mud.
Her feet and legs were as purple as her face.
But Lida did not mind this much. She was used
to being cold, and she had been going barefooted
for a month already, like all the other swarming
young fry of the fishing village. There was
no self-pity in her heart as she sat down
on the tombstone and grinned cheerfully at
Faith and Una. Faith and Una grinned cheerfully
back. They knew Lida slightly, having met
her once or twice the preceding summer when
they had gone down the harbour with the Blythes.
“Hello!” said Lida, “ain’t this a
fierce kind of a night? ‘T’ain’t fit
for a dog to be out, is it?”
“Then why are you out?” asked Faith.
“Pa made me bring you up some herring,”
returned Lida. She shivered, coughed, and
stuck out her bare feet. Lida was not thinking
about herself or her feet, and was making
no bid for sympathy. She held her feet out
instinctively to keep them from the wet grass
around the tombstone. But Faith and Una were
instantly swamped with a wave of pity for
her. She looked so cold—so miserable.
“Oh, why are you barefooted on such a cold
night?” cried Faith. “Your feet must be
almost frozen.”
“Pretty near,” said Lida proudly. “I
tell you it was fierce walking up that harbour
road.”
“Why didn’t you put on your shoes and
stockings?” asked Una.
“Hain’t none to put on. All I had was
wore out by the time winter was over,” said
Lida indifferently.
For a moment Faith stated in horror. This
was terrible. Here was a little girl, almost
a neighbour, half frozen because she had no
shoes or stockings in this cruel spring weather.
Impulsive Faith thought of nothing but the
dreadfulness of it. In a moment she was pulling
off her own shoes and stockings.
“Here, take these and put them right on,”
she said, forcing them into the hands of the
astonished Lida. “Quick now. You’ll catch
your death of cold. I’ve got others. Put
them right on.”
Lida, recovering her wits, snatched at the
offered gift, with a sparkle in her dull eyes.
Sure she would put them on, and that mighty
quick, before any one appeared with authority
to recall them. In a minute she had pulled
the stockings over her scrawny little legs
and slipped Faith’s shoes over her thick
little ankles.
“I’m obliged to you,” she said, “but
won’t your folks be cross?”
“No—and I don’t care if they are,”
said Faith. “Do you think I could see any
one freezing to death without helping them
if I could? It wouldn’t be right, especially
when my father’s a minister.”
“Will you want them back? It’s awful cold
down at the harbour mouth—long after it’s
warm up here,” said Lida slyly.
“No, you’re to keep them, of course. That
is what I meant when I gave them. I have another
pair of shoes and plenty of stockings.”
Lida had meant to stay awhile and talk to
the girls about many things. But now she thought
she had better get away before somebody came
and made her yield up her booty. So she shuffled
off through the bitter twilight, in the noiseless,
shadowy way she had slipped in. As soon as
she was out of sight of the manse she sat
down, took off the shoes and stockings, and
put them in her herring basket. She had no
intention of keeping them on down that dirty
harbour road. They were to be kept good for
gala occasions. Not another little girl down
at the harbour mouth had such fine black cashmere
stockings and such smart, almost new shoes.
Lida was furnished forth for the summer. She
had no qualms in the matter. In her eyes the
manse people were quite fabulously rich, and
no doubt those girls had slathers of shoes
and stockings. Then Lida ran down to the Glen
village and played for an hour with the boys
before Mr. Flagg’s store, splashing about
in a pool of slush with the maddest of them,
until Mrs. Elliott came along and bade her
begone home.
“I don’t think, Faith, that you should
have done that,” said Una, a little reproachfully,
after Lida had gone. “You’ll have to wear
your good boots every day now and they’ll
soon scuff out.”
“I don’t care,” cried Faith, still in
the fine glow of having done a kindness to
a fellow creature. “It isn’t fair that
I should have two pairs of shoes and poor
little Lida Marsh not have any. NOW we both
have a pair. You know perfectly well, Una,
that father said in his sermon last Sunday
that there was no real happiness in getting
or having—only in giving. And it’s true.
I feel FAR happier now than I ever did in
my whole life before. Just think of Lida walking
home this very minute with her poor little
feet all nice and warm and comfy.”
“You know you haven’t another pair of
black cashmere stockings,” said Una. “Your
other pair were so full of holes that Aunt
Martha said she couldn’t darn them any more
and she cut the legs up for stove dusters.
You’ve nothing but those two pairs of striped
stockings you hate so.”
All the glow and uplift went out of Faith.
Her gladness collapsed like a pricked balloon.
She sat for a few dismal minutes in silence,
facing the consequences of her rash act.
“Oh, Una, I never thought of that,” she
said dolefully. “I didn’t stop to think
at all.”
The striped stockings were thick, heavy, coarse,
ribbed stockings of blue and red which Aunt
Martha had knit for Faith in the winter. They
were undoubtedly hideous. Faith loathed them
as she had never loathed anything before.
Wear them she certainly would not. They were
still unworn in her bureau drawer.
“You’ll have to wear the striped stockings
after this,” said Una. “Just think how
the boys in school will laugh at you. You
know how they laugh at Mamie Warren for her
striped stockings and call her barber pole
and yours are far worse.”
“I won’t wear them,” said Faith. “I’ll
go barefooted first, cold as it is.”
“You can’t go barefooted to church to-morrow.
Think what people would say.”
“Then I’ll stay home.”
“You can’t. You know very well Aunt Martha
will make you go.”
Faith did know this. The one thing on which
Aunt Martha troubled herself to insist was
that they must all go to church, rain or shine.
How they were dressed, or if they were dressed
at all, never concerned her. But go they must.
That was how Aunt Martha had been brought
up seventy years ago, and that was how she
meant to bring them up.
“Haven’t you got a pair you can lend me,
Una?” said poor Faith piteously.
Una shook her head. “No, you know I only
have the one black pair. And they’re so
tight I can hardly get them on. They wouldn’t
go on you. Neither would my gray ones. Besides,
the legs of THEM are all darned AND darned.”
“I won’t wear those striped stockings,”
said Faith stubbornly. “The feel of them
is even worse than the looks. They make me
feel as if my legs were as big as barrels
and they’re so SCRATCHY.”
“Well, I don’t know what you’re going
to do.”
“If father was home I’d go and ask him
to get me a new pair before the store closes.
But he won’t be home till too late. I’ll
ask him Monday—and I won’t go to church
tomorrow. I’ll pretend I’m sick and Aunt
Martha’ll HAVE to let me stay home.”
“That would be acting a lie, Faith,” cried
Una. “You CAN’T do that. You know it would
be dreadful. What would father say if he knew?
Don’t you remember how he talked to us after
mother died and told us we must always be
TRUE, no matter what else we failed in. He
said we must never tell or act a lie—he
said he’d TRUST us not to. You CAN’T do
it, Faith. Just wear the striped stockings.
It’ll only be for once. Nobody will notice
them in church. It isn’t like school. And
your new brown dress is so long they won’t
show much. Wasn’t it lucky Aunt Martha made
it big, so you’d have room to grow in it,
for all you hated it so when she finished
it?”
“I won’t wear those stockings,” repeated
Faith. She uncoiled her bare, white legs from
the tombstone and deliberately walked through
the wet, cold grass to the bank of snow. Setting
her teeth, she stepped upon it and stood there.
“What are you doing?” cried Una aghast.
“You’ll catch your death of cold, Faith
Meredith.”
“I’m trying to,” answered Faith. “I
hope I’ll catch a fearful cold and be AWFUL
sick to-morrow. Then I won’t be acting a
lie. I’m going to stand here as long as
I can bear it.”
“But, Faith, you might really die. You might
get pneumonia. Please, Faith don’t. Let’s
go into the house and get SOMETHING for your
feet. Oh, here’s Jerry. I’m so thankful.
Jerry, MAKE Faith get off that snow. Look
at her feet.”
“Holy cats! Faith, what ARE you doing?”
demanded Jerry. “Are you crazy?”
“No. Go away!” snapped Faith.
“Then are you punishing yourself for something?
It isn’t right, if you are. You’ll be
sick.”
“I want to be sick. I’m not punishing
myself. Go away.”
“Where’s her shoes and stockings?” asked
Jerry of Una.
“She gave them to Lida Marsh.”
“Lida Marsh? What for?”
“Because Lida had none—and her feet were
so cold. And now she wants to be sick so that
she won’t have to go to church to-morrow
and wear her striped stockings. But, Jerry,
she may die.”
“Faith,” said Jerry, “get off that ice-bank
or I’ll pull you off.”
“Pull away,” dared Faith.
Jerry sprang at her and caught her arms. He
pulled one way and Faith pulled another. Una
ran behind Faith and pushed. Faith stormed
at Jerry to leave her alone. Jerry stormed
back at her not to be a dizzy idiot; and Una
cried. They made no end of noise and they
were close to the road fence of the graveyard.
Henry Warren and his wife drove by and heard
and saw them. Very soon the Glen heard that
the manse children had been having an awful
fight in the graveyard and using most improper
language. Meanwhile, Faith had allowed herself
to be pulled off the ice because her feet
were aching so sharply that she was ready
to get off any way. They all went in amiably
and went to bed. Faith slept like a cherub
and woke in the morning without a trace of
a cold. She felt that she couldn’t feign
sickness and act a lie, after remembering
that long-ago talk with her father. But she
was still as fully determined as ever that
she would not wear those abominable stockings
to church.
CHAPTER XXV. ANOTHER SCANDAL AND ANOTHER “EXPLANATION”
Faith went early to Sunday School and was
seated in the corner of her class pew before
any one came. Therefore, the dreadful truth
did not burst upon any one until Faith left
the class pew near the door to walk up to
the manse pew after Sunday School. The church
was already half filled and all who were sitting
near the aisle saw that the minister’s daughter
had boots on but no stockings!
Faith’s new brown dress, which Aunt Martha
had made from an ancient pattern, was absurdly
long for her, but even so it did not meet
her boot-tops. Two good inches of bare white
leg showed plainly.
Faith and Carl sat alone in the manse pew.
Jerry had gone into the gallery to sit with
a chum and the Blythe girls had taken Una
with them. The Meredith children were given
to “sitting all over the church” in this
fashion and a great many people thought it
very improper. The gallery especially, where
irresponsible lads congregated and were known
to whisper and suspected of chewing tobacco
during service, was no place, for a son of
the manse. But Jerry hated the manse pew at
the very top of the church, under the eyes
of Elder Clow and his family. He escaped from
it whenever he could.
Carl, absorbed in watching a spider spinning
its web at the window, did not notice Faith’s
legs. She walked home with her father after
church and he never noticed them. She got
on the hated striped stockings before Jerry
and Una arrived, so that for the time being
none of the occupants of the manse knew what
she had done. But nobody else in Glen St.
Mary was ignorant of it. The few who had not
seen soon heard. Nothing else was talked of
on the way home from church. Mrs. Alec Davis
said it was only what she expected, and the
next thing you would see some of those young
ones coming to church with no clothes on at
all. The president of the Ladies’ Aid decided
that she would bring the matter up at the
next Aid meeting, and suggest that they wait
in a body on the minister and protest. Miss
Cornelia said that she, for her part, gave
up. There was no use worrying over the manse
fry any longer. Even Mrs. Dr. Blythe felt
a little shocked, though she attributed the
occurrence solely to Faith’s forgetfulness.
Susan could not immediately begin knitting
stockings for Faith because it was Sunday,
but she had one set up before any one else
was out of bed at Ingleside the next morning.
“You need not tell me anything but that
it was old Martha’s fault, Mrs. Dr. dear.”
she told Anne. “I suppose that poor little
child had no decent stockings to wear. I suppose
every stocking she had was in holes, as you
know very well they generally are. And I think,
Mrs. Dr. dear, that the Ladies’ Aid would
be better employed in knitting some for them
than in fighting over the new carpet for the
pulpit platform. I am not a Ladies’ Aider,
but I shall knit Faith two pairs of stockings,
out of this nice black yarn, as fast as my
fingers can move and that you may tie to.
Never shall I forget my sensations, Mrs. Dr.
dear, when I saw a minister’s child walking
up the aisle of our church with no stockings
on. I really did not know what way to look.”
“And the church was just full of Methodists
yesterday, too,” groaned Miss Cornelia,
who had come up to the Glen to do some shopping
and run into Ingleside to talk the affair
over. “I don’t know how it is, but just
as sure as those manse children do something
especially awful the church is sure to be
crowded with Methodists. I thought Mrs. Deacon
Hazard’s eyes would drop out of her head.
When she came out of church she said, ‘Well,
that exhibition was no more than decent. I
do pity the Presbyterians.’ And we just
had to TAKE it. There was nothing one could
say.”
“There was something I could have said,
Mrs. Dr. dear, if I had heard her,” said
Susan grimly. “I would have said, for one
thing, that in my opinion clean bare legs
were quite as decent as holes. And I would
have said, for another, that the Presbyterians
did not feel greatly in need of pity seeing
that they had a minister who could PREACH
and the Methodists had NOT. I could have squelched
Mrs. Deacon Hazard, Mrs. Dr dear, and that
you may tie to.”
“I wish Mr. Meredith didn’t preach quite
so well and looked after his family a little
better,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “He could
at least glance over his children before they
went to church and see that they were quite
properly clothed. I’m tired making excuses
for him, believe ME.”
Meanwhile, Faith’s soul was being harrowed
up in Rainbow Valley. Mary Vance was there
and, as usual, in a lecturing mood. She gave
Faith to understand that she had disgraced
herself and her father beyond redemption and
that she, Mary Vance, was done with her. “Everybody”
was talking, and “everybody” said the
same thing.
“I simply feel that I can’t associate
with you any longer,” she concluded.
“WE are going to associate with her then,”
cried Nan Blythe. Nan secretly thought Faith
HAD done a awful thing, but she wasn’t going
to let Mary Vance run matters in this high-handed
fashion. “And if YOU are not you needn’t
come any more to Rainbow Valley, MISS Vance.”
Nan and Di both put their arms around Faith
and glared defiance at Mary. The latter suddenly
crumpled up, sat down on a stump and began
to cry.
“It ain’t that I don’t want to,” she
wailed. “But if I keep in with Faith people’ll
be saying I put her up to doing things. Some
are saying it now, true’s you live. I can’t
afford to have such things said of me, now
that I’m in a respectable place and trying
to be a lady. And I never went bare-legged
in church in my toughest days. I’d never
have thought of doing such a thing. But that
hateful old Kitty Alec says Faith has never
been the same girl since that time I stayed
in the manse. She says Cornelia Elliott will
live to rue the day she took me in. It hurts
my feelings, I tell you. But it’s Mr. Meredith
I’m really worried over.”
“I think you needn’t worry about him,”
said Di scornfully. “It isn’t likely necessary.
Now, Faith darling, stop crying and tell us
why you did it.”
Faith explained tearfully. The Blythe girls
sympathized with her, and even Mary Vance
agreed that it was a hard position to be in.
But Jerry, on whom the thing came like a thunderbolt,
refused to be placated. So THIS was what some
mysterious hints he had got in school that
day meant! He marched Faith and Una home without
ceremony, and the Good-Conduct Club held an
immediate session in the graveyard to sit
in judgment on Faith’s case.
“I don’t see that it was any harm,”
said Faith defiantly. “Not MUCH of my legs
showed. It wasn’t WRONG and it didn’t
hurt anybody.”
“It will hurt Dad. You KNOW it will. You
know people blame him whenever we do anything
queer.”
“I didn’t think of that,” muttered Faith.
“That’s just the trouble. You didn’t
think and you SHOULD have thought. That’s
what our Club is for—to bring us up and
MAKE us think. We promised we’d always stop
and think before doing things. You didn’t
and you’ve got to be punished, Faith—and
real hard, too. You’ll wear those striped
stockings to school for a week for punishment.”
“Oh, Jerry, won’t a day do—two days?
Not a whole week!”
“Yes, a whole week,” said inexorable Jerry.
“It is fair—ask Jem Blythe if it isn’t.”
Faith felt she would rather submit then ask
Jem Blythe about such a matter. She was beginning
to realize that her offence was a quite shameful
one.
“I’ll do it, then,” she muttered, a
little sulkily.
“You’re getting off easy,” said, Jerry
severely. “And no matter how we punish you
it won’t help father. People will always
think you just did it for mischief, and they’ll
blame father for not stopping it. We can never
explain it to everybody.”
This aspect of the case weighed on Faith’s
mind. Her own condemnation she could bear,
but it tortured her that her father should
be blamed. If people knew the true facts of
the case they would not blame him. But how
could she make them known to all the world?
Getting up in church, as she had once done,
and explaining the matter was out of the question.
Faith had heard from Mary Vance how the congregation
had looked upon that performance and realized
that she must not repeat it. Faith worried
over the problem for half a week. Then she
had an inspiration and promptly acted upon
it. She spent that evening in the garret,
with a lamp and an exercise book, writing
busily, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes.
It was the very thing! How clever she was
to have thought of it! It would put everything
right and explain everything and yet cause
no scandal. It was eleven o’clock when she
had finished to her satisfaction and crept
down to bed, dreadfully tired, but perfectly
happy.
In a few days the little weekly published
in the Glen under the name of The Journal
came out as usual, and the Glen had another
sensation. A letter signed “Faith Meredith”
occupied a prominent place on the front page
and ran as follows:—
“TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
“I want to explain to everybody how it was
I came to go to church without stockings on,
so that everybody will know that father was
not to blame one bit for it, and the old gossips
need not say he is, because it is not true.
I gave my only pair of black stockings to
Lida Marsh, because she hadn’t any and her
poor little feet were awful cold and I was
so sorry for her. No child ought to have to
go without shoes and stockings in a Christian
community before the snow is all gone, and
I think the W. F. M. S. ought to have given
her stockings. Of course, I know they are
sending things to the little heathen children,
and that is all right and a kind thing to
do. But the little heathen children have lots
more warm weather than we have, and I think
the women of our church ought to look after
Lida and not leave it all to me. When I gave
her my stockings I forgot they were the only
black pair I had without holes, but I am glad
I did give them to her, because my conscience
would have been uncomfortable if I hadn’t.
When she had gone away, looking so proud and
happy, the poor little thing, I remembered
that all I had to wear were the horrid red
and blue things Aunt Martha knit last winter
for me out of some yarn that Mrs. Joseph Burr
of Upper Glen sent us. It was dreadfully coarse
yarn and all knots, and I never saw any of
Mrs. Burr’s own children wearing things
made of such yarn. But Mary Vance says Mrs.
Burr gives the minister stuff that she can’t
use or eat herself, and thinks it ought to
go as part of the salary her husband signed
to pay, but never does.
“I just couldn’t bear to wear those hateful
stockings. They were so ugly and rough and
felt so scratchy. Everybody would have made
fun of me. I thought at first I’d pretend
to be sick and not go to church next day,
but I decided I couldn’t do that, because
it would be acting a lie, and father told
us after mother died that was something we
must never, never do. It is just as bad to
act a lie as to tell one, though I know some
people, right here in the Glen, who act them,
and never seem to feel a bit bad about it.
I will not mention any names, but I know who
they are and so does father.
“Then I tried my best to catch cold and
really be sick by standing on the snowbank
in the Methodist graveyard with my bare feet
until Jerry pulled me off. But it didn’t
hurt me a bit and so I couldn’t get out
of going to church. So I just decided I would
put my boots on and go that way. I can’t
see why it was so wrong and I was so careful
to wash my legs just as clean as my face,
but, anyway, father wasn’t to blame for
it. He was in the study thinking of his sermon
and other heavenly things, and I kept out
of his way before I went to Sunday School.
Father does not look at people’s legs in
church, so of course he did not notice mine,
but all the gossips did and talked about it,
and that is why I am writing this letter to
the Journal to explain. I suppose I did very
wrong, since everybody says so, and I am sorry
and I am wearing those awful stockings to
punish myself, although father bought me two
nice new black pairs as soon as Mr. Flagg’s
store opened on Monday morning. But it was
all my fault, and if people blame father for
it after they read this they are not Christians
and so I do not mind what they say.
“There is another thing I want to explain
about before I stop. Mary Vance told me that
Mr. Evan Boyd is blaming the Lew Baxters for
stealing potatoes out of his field last fall.
They did not touch his potatoes. They are
very poor, but they are honest. It was us
did it—Jerry and Carl and I. Una was not
with us at the time. We never thought it was
stealing. We just wanted a few potatoes to
cook over a fire in Rainbow Valley one evening
to eat with our fried trout. Mr. Boyd’s
field was the nearest, just between the valley
and the village, so we climbed over his fence
and pulled up some stalks. The potatoes were
awful small, because Mr. Boyd did not put
enough fertilizer on them and we had to pull
up a lot of stalks before we got enough, and
then they were not much bigger than marbles.
Walter and Di Blythe helped us eat them, but
they did not come along until we had them
cooked and did not know where we got them,
so they were not to blame at all, only us.
We didn’t mean any harm, but if it was stealing
we are very sorry and we will pay Mr. Boyd
for them if he will wait until we grow up.
We never have any money now because we are
not big enough to earn any, and Aunt Martha
says it takes every cent of poor father’s
salary, even when it is paid up regularly—and
it isn’t often—to run this house. But
Mr. Boyd must not blame the Lew Baxters any
more, when they were quite innocent, and give
them a bad name.
“Yours respectfully,
“FAITH MEREDITH.”
CHAPTER XXVI. MISS CORNELIA GETS A NEW POINT
OF VIEW
“Susan, after I’m dead I’m going to
come back to earth every time when the daffodils
blow in this garden,” said Anne rapturously.
“Nobody may see me, but I’ll be here.
If anybody is in the garden at the time—I
THINK I’ll come on an evening just like
this, but it MIGHT be just at dawn—a lovely,
pale-pinky spring dawn—they’ll just see
the daffodils nodding wildly as if an extra
gust of wind had blown past them, but it will
be I.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Dr. dear, you will not be
thinking of flaunting worldly things like
daffies after you are dead,” said Susan.
“And I do NOT believe in ghosts, seen or
unseen.”
“Oh, Susan, I shall not be a ghost! That
has such a horrible sound. I shall just be
ME. And I shall run around in the twilight,
whether it is morn or eve, and see all the
spots I love. Do you remember how badly I
felt when I left our little House of Dreams,
Susan? I thought I could never love Ingleside
so well. But I do. I love every inch of the
ground and every stick and stone on it.”
“I am rather fond of the place myself,”
said Susan, who would have died if she had
been removed from it, “but we must not set
our affections too much on earthly things,
Mrs. Dr. dear. There are such things as fires
and earthquakes. We should always be prepared.
The Tom MacAllisters over-harbour were burned
out three nights ago. Some say Tom MacAllister
set the house on fire himself to get the insurance.
That may or may not be. But I advise the doctor
to have our chimneys seen to at once. An ounce
of prevention is worth a pound of cure. But
I see Mrs. Marshall Elliott coming in at the
gate, looking as if she had been sent for
and couldn’t go.”
“Anne dearie, have you seen the Journal
to-day?”
Miss Cornelia’s voice was trembling, partly
from emotion, partly from the fact that she
had hurried up from the store too fast and
lost her breath.
Anne bent over the daffodils to hide a smile.
She and Gilbert had laughed heartily and heartlessly
over the front page of the Journal that day,
but she knew that to dear Miss Cornelia it
was almost a tragedy, and she must not wound
her feelings by any display of levity.
“Isn’t it dreadful? What IS to be done?”
asked Miss Cornelia despairingly. Miss Cornelia
had vowed that she was done with worrying
over the pranks of the manse children, but
she went on worrying just the same.
Anne led the way to the veranda, where Susan
was knitting, with Shirley and Rilla conning
their primers on either side. Susan was already
on her second pair of stockings for Faith.
Susan never worried over poor humanity. She
did what in her lay for its betterment and
serenely left the rest to the Higher Powers.
“Cornelia Elliott thinks she was born to
run this world, Mrs. Dr. dear,” she had
once said to Anne, “and so she is always
in a stew over something. I have never thought
I was, and so I go calmly along. Not but what
it has sometimes occurred to me that things
might be run a little better than they are.
But it is not for us poor worms to nourish
such thoughts. They only make us uncomfortable
and do not get us anywhere.”
“I don’t see that anything can be done—now—”
said Anne, pulling out a nice, cushiony chair
for Miss Cornelia. “But how in the world
did Mr. Vickers allow that letter to be printed?
Surely he should have known better.”
“Why, he’s away, Anne dearie—he’s
been away to New Brunswick for a week. And
that young scalawag of a Joe Vickers is editing
the Journal in his absence. Of course, Mr.
Vickers would never have put it in, even if
he is a Methodist, but Joe would just think
it a good joke. As you say, I don’t suppose
there is anything to be done now, only live
it down. But if I ever get Joe Vickers cornered
somewhere I’ll give him a talking to he
won’t forget in a hurry. I wanted Marshall
to stop our subscription to the Journal instantly,
but he only laughed and said that to-day’s
issue was the only one that had had anything
readable in it for a year. Marshall never
will take anything seriously—just like a
man. Fortunately, Evan Boyd is like that,
too. He takes it as a joke and is laughing
all over the place about it. And he’s another
Methodist! As for Mrs. Burr of Upper Glen,
of course she will be furious and they will
leave the church. Not that it will be a great
loss from any point of view. The Methodists
are quite welcome to THEM.”
“It serves Mrs. Burr right,” said Susan,
who had an old feud with the lady in question
and had been hugely tickled over the reference
to her in Faith’s letter. “She will find
that she will not be able to cheat the Methodist
parson out of HIS salary with bad yarn.”
“The worst of it is, there’s not much
hope of things getting any better,” said
Miss Cornelia gloomily. “As long as Mr.
Meredith was going to see Rosemary West I
did hope the manse would soon have a proper
mistress. But that is all off. I suppose she
wouldn’t have him on account of the children—at
least, everybody seems to think so.”
“I do not believe that he ever asked her,”
said Susan, who could not conceive of any
one refusing a minister.
“Well, nobody knows anything about THAT.
But one thing is certain, he doesn’t go
there any longer. And Rosemary didn’t look
well all the spring. I hope her visit to Kingsport
will do her good. She’s been gone for a
month and will stay another month, I understand.
I can’t remember when Rosemary was away
from home before. She and Ellen could never
bear to be parted. But I understand Ellen
insisted on her going this time. And meanwhile
Ellen and Norman Douglas are warming up the
old soup.”
“Is that really so?” asked Anne, laughing.
“I heard a rumour of it, but I hardly believed
it.”
“Believe it! You may believe it all right,
Anne, dearie. Nobody is in ignorance of it.
Norman Douglas never left anybody in doubt
as to his intentions in regard to anything.
He always did his courting before the public.
He told Marshall that he hadn’t thought
about Ellen for years, but the first time
he went to church last fall he saw her and
fell in love with her all over again. He said
he’d clean forgot how handsome she was.
He hadn’t seen her for twenty years, if
you can believe it. Of course he never went
to church, and Ellen never went anywhere else
round here. Oh, we all know what Norman means,
but what Ellen means is a different matter.
I shan’t take it upon me to predict whether
it will be a match or not.”
“He jilted her once—but it seems that
does not count with some people, Mrs. Dr.
dear,” Susan remarked rather acidly.
“He jilted her in a fit of temper and repented
it all his life,” said Miss Cornelia. “That
is different from a cold-blooded jilting.
For my part, I never detested Norman as some
folks do. He could never over-crow ME. I DO
wonder what started him coming to church.
I have never been able to believe Mrs. Wilsons’s
story that Faith Meredith went there and bullied
him into it. I’ve always intended to ask
Faith herself, but I’ve never happened to
think of it just when I saw her. What influence
could SHE have over Norman Douglas? He was
in the store when I left, bellowing with laughter
over that scandalous letter. You could have
heard him at Four Winds Point. ‘The greatest
girl in the world,’ he was shouting. ‘She’s
that full of spunk she’s bursting with it.
And all the old grannies want to tame her,
darn them. But they’ll never be able to
do it—never! They might as well try to drown
a fish. Boyd, see that you put more fertilizer
on your potatoes next year. Ho, ho, ho!’
And then he laughed till the roof shook.”
“Mr. Douglas pays well to the salary, at
least,” remarked Susan.
“Oh, Norman isn’t mean in some ways. He’d
give a thousand without blinking a lash, and
roar like a Bull of Bashan if he had to pay
five cents too much for anything. Besides,
he likes Mr. Meredith’s sermons, and Norman
Douglas was always willing to shell out if
he got his brains tickled up. There is no
more Christianity about him than there is
about a black, naked heathen in Africa and
never will be. But he’s clever and well
read and he judges sermons as he would lectures.
Anyhow, it’s well he backs up Mr. Meredith
and the children as he does, for they’ll
need friends more than ever after this. I
am tired of making excuses for them, believe
ME.”
“Do you know, dear Miss Cornelia,” said
Anne seriously, “I think we have all been
making too many excuses. It is very foolish
and we ought to stop it. I am going to tell
you what I’d LIKE to do. I shan’t do it,
of course”—Anne had noted a glint of alarm
in Susan’s eye—“it would be too unconventional,
and we must be conventional or die, after
we reach what is supposed to be a dignified
age. But I’d LIKE to do it. I’d like to
call a meeting of the Ladies Aid and W.M.S.
and the Girls Sewing Society, and include
in the audience all and any Methodists who
have been criticizing the Merediths—although
I do think if we Presbyterians stopped criticizing
and excusing we would find that other denominations
would trouble themselves very little about
our manse folks. I would say to them, ‘Dear
Christian friends’—with marked emphasis
on ‘Christian’—I have something to say
to you and I want to say it good and hard,
that you may take it home and repeat it to
your families. You Methodists need not pity
us, and we Presbyterians need not pity ourselves.
We are not going to do it any more. And we
are going to say, boldly and truthfully, to
all critics and sympathizers, ‘We are PROUD
of our minister and his family. Mr. Meredith
is the best preacher Glen St. Mary church
ever had. Moreover, he is a sincere, earnest
teacher of truth and Christian charity. He
is a faithful friend, a judicious pastor in
all essentials, and a refined, scholarly,
well-bred man. His family are worthy of him.
Gerald Meredith is the cleverest pupil in
the Glen school, and Mr. Hazard says that
he is destined to a brilliant career. He is
a manly, honourable, truthful little fellow.
Faith Meredith is a beauty, and as inspiring
and original as she is beautiful. There is
nothing commonplace about her. All the other
girls in the Glen put together haven’t the
vim, and wit, and joyousness and ‘spunk’
she has. She has not an enemy in the world.
Every one who knows her loves her. Of how
many, children or grown-ups, can that be said?
Una Meredith is sweetness personified. She
will make a most lovable woman. Carl Meredith,
with his love for ants and frogs and spiders,
will some day be a naturalist whom all Canada—nay,
all the world, will delight to honour. Do
you know of any other family in the Glen,
or out of it, of whom all these things can
be said? Away with shamefaced excuses and
apologies. We REJOICE in our minister and
his splendid boys and girls!”
Anne stopped, partly because she was out of
breath after her vehement speech and partly
because she could not trust herself to speak
further in view of Miss Cornelia’s face.
That good lady was staring helplessly at Anne,
apparently engulfed in billows of new ideas.
But she came up with a gasp and struck out
for shore gallantly.
“Anne Blythe, I wish you WOULD call that
meeting and say just that! You’ve made me
ashamed of myself, for one, and far be it
from me to refuse to admit it. OF COURSE,
that is how we should have talked—especially
to the Methodists. And it’s every word of
it true—every word. We’ve just been shutting
our eyes to the big worth-while things and
squinting them on the little things that don’t
really matter a pin’s worth. Oh, Anne dearie,
I can see a thing when it’s hammered into
my head. No more apologizing for Cornelia
Marshall! I shall hold MY head up after this,
believe ME—though I MAY talk things over
with you as usual just to relieve my feelings
if the Merediths do any more startling stunts.
Even that letter I felt so bad about—why,
it’s only a good joke after all, as Norman
says. Not many girls would have been cute
enough to think of writing it—and all punctuated
so nicely and not one word misspelled. Just
let me hear any Methodist say one word about
it—though all the same I’ll never forgive
Joe Vickers—believe ME! Where are the rest
of your small fry to-night?”
“Walter and the twins are in Rainbow Valley.
Jem is studying in the garret.”
“They are all crazy about Rainbow Valley.
Mary Vance thinks it’s the only place in
the world. She’d be off up here every evening
if I’d let her. But I don’t encourage
her in gadding. Besides, I miss the creature
when she isn’t around, Anne dearie. I never
thought I’d get so fond of her. Not but
what I see her faults and try to correct them.
But she has never said one saucy word to me
since she came to my house and she is a GREAT
help—for when all is said and done, Anne
dearie, I am not so young as I once was, and
there is no sense denying it. I was fifty-nine
my last birthday. I don’t FEEL it, but there
is no gainsaying the Family Bible.”
CHAPTER XXVII. A SACRED CONCERT
In spite of Miss Cornelia’s new point of
view she could not help feeling a little disturbed
over the next performance of the manse children.
In public she carried off the situation splendidly,
saying to all the gossips the substance of
what Anne had said in daffodil time, and saying
it so pointedly and forcibly that her hearers
found themselves feeling rather foolish and
began to think that, after all, they were
making too much of a childish prank. But in
private Miss Cornelia allowed herself the
relief of bemoaning it to Anne.
“Anne dearie, they had a CONCERT IN THE
GRAVEYARD last Thursday evening, while the
Methodist prayer meeting was going on. There
they sat, on Hezekiah Pollock’s tombstone,
and sang for a solid hour. Of course, I understand
it was mostly hymns they sang, and it wouldn’t
have been quite so bad if they’d done nothing
else. But I’m told they finished up with
Polly Wolly Doodle at full length—and that
just when Deacon Baxter was praying.”
“I was there that night,” said Susan,
“and, although I did not say anything about
it to you, Mrs. Dr. dear, I could not help
thinking that it was a great pity they picked
that particular evening. It was truly blood-curdling
to hear them sitting there in that abode of
the dead, shouting that frivolous song at
the tops of their lungs.”
“I don’t know what YOU were doing in a
Methodist prayer meeting,” said Miss Cornelia
acidly.
“I have never found that Methodism was catching,”
retorted Susan stiffly. “And, as I was going
to say when I was interrupted, badly as I
felt, I did NOT give in to the Methodists.
When Mrs. Deacon Baxter said, as we came out,
‘What a disgraceful exhibition!’ I said,
looking her fairly in the eye, ‘They are
all beautiful singers, and none of YOUR choir,
Mrs. Baxter, ever bother themselves coming
out to your prayer meeting, it seems. Their
voices appear to be in tune only on Sundays!’
She was quite meek and I felt that I had snubbed
her properly. But I could have done it much
more thoroughly, Mrs. Dr. dear, if only they
had left out Polly Wolly Doodle. It is truly
terrible to think of that being sung in a
graveyard.”
“Some of those dead folks sang Polly Wolly
Doodle when they were living, Susan. Perhaps
they like to hear it yet,” suggested Gilbert.
Miss Cornelia looked at him reproachfully
and made up her mind that, on some future
occasion, she would hint to Anne that the
doctor should be admonished not to say such
things. They might injure his practice. People
might get it into their heads that he wasn’t
orthodox. To be sure, Marshall said even worse
things habitually, but then HE was not a public
man.
“I understand that their father was in his
study all the time, with his windows open,
but never noticed them at all. Of course,
he was lost in a book as usual. But I spoke
to him about it yesterday, when he called.”
“How could you dare, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?”
asked Susan rebukingly.
“Dare! It’s time somebody dared something.
Why, they say he knows nothing about that
letter of Faith’s to the JOURNAL because
nobody liked to mention it to him. He never
looks at a JOURNAL of course. But I thought
he ought to know of this to prevent any such
performances in future. He said he would ‘discuss
it with them.’ But of course he’d never
think of it again after he got out of our
gate. That man has no sense of humour, Anne,
believe ME. He preached last Sunday on ‘How
to Bring up Children.’ A beautiful sermon
it was, too—and everybody in church thinking
‘what a pity you can’t practise what you
preach.’”
Miss Cornelia did Mr. Meredith an injustice
in thinking he would soon forget what she
had told him. He went home much disturbed
and when the children came from Rainbow Valley
that night, at a much later hour than they
should have been prowling in it, he called
them into his study.
They went in, somewhat awed. It was such an
unusual thing for their father to do. What
could he be going to say to them? They racked
their memories for any recent transgression
of sufficient importance, but could not recall
any. Carl had spilled a saucerful of jam on
Mrs. Peter Flagg’s silk dress two evenings
before, when, at Aunt Martha’s invitation,
she had stayed to supper. But Mr. Meredith
had not noticed it, and Mrs. Flagg, who was
a kindly soul, had made no fuss. Besides,
Carl had been punished by having to wear Una’s
dress all the rest of the evening.
Una suddenly thought that perhaps her father
meant to tell them that he was going to marry
Miss West. Her heart began to beat violently
and her legs trembled. Then she saw that Mr.
Meredith looked very stern and sorrowful.
No, it could not be that.
“Children,” said Mr. Meredith, “I have
heard something that has pained me very much.
Is it true that you sat out in the graveyard
all last Thursday evening and sang ribald
songs while a prayer meeting was being held
in the Methodist church?”
“Great Caesar, Dad, we forgot all about
it being their prayer meeting night,” exclaimed
Jerry in dismay.
“Then it is true—you did do this thing?”
“Why, Dad, I don’t know what you mean
by ribald songs. We sang hymns—it was a
sacred concert, you know. What harm was that?
I tell you we never thought about it’s being
Methodist prayer meeting night. They used
to have their meeting Tuesday nights and since
they’ve changed to Thursdays it’s hard
to remember.”
“Did you sing nothing but hymns?”
“Why,” said Jerry, turning red, “we
DID sing Polly Wolly Doodle at the last. Faith
said, ‘Let’s have something cheerful to
wind up with.’ But we didn’t mean any
harm, Father—truly we didn’t.”
“The concert was my idea, Father,” said
Faith, afraid that Mr. Meredith might blame
Jerry too much. “You know the Methodists
themselves had a sacred concert in their church
three Sunday nights ago. I thought it would
be good fun to get one up in imitation of
it. Only they had prayers at theirs, and we
left that part out, because we heard that
people thought it awful for us to pray in
a graveyard. YOU were sitting in here all
the time,” she added, “and never said
a word to us.”
“I did not notice what you were doing. That
is no excuse for me, of course. I am more
to blame than you—I realize that. But why
did you sing that foolish song at the end?”
“We didn’t think,” muttered Jerry, feeling
that it was a very lame excuse, seeing that
he had lectured Faith so strongly in the Good-Conduct
Club sessions for her lack of thought. “We’re
sorry, Father—truly, we are. Pitch into
us hard—we deserve a regular combing down.”
But Mr. Meredith did no combing down or pitching
into. He sat down and gathered his small culprits
close to him and talked a little to them,
tenderly and wisely. They were overcome with
remorse and shame, and felt that they could
never be so silly and thoughtless again.
“We’ve just got to punish ourselves good
and hard for this,” whispered Jerry as they
crept upstairs. “We’ll have a session
of the Club first thing tomorrow and decide
how we’ll do it. I never saw father so cut
up. But I wish to goodness the Methodists
would stick to one night for their prayer
meeting and not wander all over the week.”
“Anyhow, I’m glad it wasn’t what I was
afraid it was,” murmured Una to herself.
Behind them, in the study, Mr. Meredith had
sat down at his desk and buried his face in
his arms.
“God help me!” he said. “I’m a poor
sort of father. Oh, Rosemary! If you had only
cared!”
CHAPTER XXVIII. A FAST DAY
The Good-Conduct Club had a special session
the next morning before school. After various
suggestions, it was decided that a fast day
would be an appropriate punishment.
“We won’t eat a single thing for a whole
day,” said Jerry. “I’m kind of curious
to see what fasting is like, anyhow. This
will be a good chance to find out.”
“What day will we choose for it?” asked
Una, who thought it would be quite an easy
punishment and rather wondered that Jerry
and Faith had not devised something harder.
“Let’s pick Monday,” said Faith. “We
mostly have a pretty FILLING dinner on Sundays,
and Mondays meals never amount to much anyhow.”
“But that’s just the point,” exclaimed
Jerry. “We mustn’t take the easiest day
to fast, but the hardest—and that’s Sunday,
because, as you say, we mostly have roast
beef that day instead of cold ditto. It wouldn’t
be much punishment to fast from ditto. Let’s
take next Sunday. It will be a good day, for
father is going to exchange for the morning
service with the Upper Lowbridge minister.
Father will be away till evening. If Aunt
Martha wonders what’s got into us, we’ll
tell her right up that we’re fasting for
the good of our souls, and it is in the Bible
and she is not to interfere, and I guess she
won’t.”
Aunt Martha did not. She merely said in her
fretful mumbling way, “What foolishness
are you young rips up to now?” and thought
no more about it. Mr. Meredith had gone away
early in the morning before any one was up.
He went without his breakfast, too, but that
was, of course, of common occurrence. Half
of the time he forgot it and there was no
one to remind him of it. Breakfast—Aunt
Martha’s breakfast—was not a hard meal
to miss. Even the hungry “young rips”
did not feel it any great deprivation to abstain
from the “lumpy porridge and blue milk”
which had aroused the scorn of Mary Vance.
But it was different at dinner time. They
were furiously hungry then, and the odor of
roast beef which pervaded the manse, and which
was wholly delightful in spite of the fact
that the roast beef was badly underdone, was
almost more than they could stand. In desperation
they rushed to the graveyard where they couldn’t
smell it. But Una could not keep her eyes
from the dining room window, through which
the Upper Lowbridge minister could be seen,
placidly eating.
“If I could only have just a weeny, teeny
piece,” she sighed.
“Now, you stop that,” commanded Jerry.
“Of course it’s hard—but that’s the
punishment of it. I could eat a graven image
this very minute, but am I complaining? Let’s
think of something else. We’ve just got
to rise above our stomachs.”
At supper time they did not feel the pangs
of hunger which they had suffered earlier
in the day.
“I suppose we’re getting used to it,”
said Faith. “I feel an awfully queer all-gone
sort of feeling, but I can’t say I’m hungry.”
“My head is funny,” said Una. “It goes
round and round sometimes.”
But she went gamely to church with the others.
If Mr. Meredith had not been so wholly wrapped
up in and carried away with his subject he
might have noticed the pale little face and
hollow eyes in the manse pew beneath. But
he noticed nothing and his sermon was something
longer than usual. Then, just before he gave
out the final hymn, Una Meredith tumbled off
the seat of the manse pew and lay in a dead
faint on the floor.
Mrs. Elder Clow was the first to reach her.
She caught the thin little body from the arms
of white-faced, terrified Faith and carried
it into the vestry. Mr. Meredith forgot the
hymn and everything else and rushed madly
after her. The congregation dismissed itself
as best it could.
“Oh, Mrs. Clow,” gasped Faith, “is Una
dead? Have we killed her?”
“What is the matter with my child?” demanded
the pale father.
“She has just fainted, I think,” said
Mrs. Clow. “Oh, here’s the doctor, thank
goodness.”
Gilbert did not find it a very easy thing
to bring Una back to consciousness. He worked
over her for a long time before her eyes opened.
Then he carried her over to the manse, followed
by Faith, sobbing hysterically in her relief.
“She is just hungry, you know—she didn’t
eat a thing to-day—none of us did—we were
all fasting.”
“Fasting!” said Mr. Meredith, and “Fasting?”
said the doctor.
“Yes—to punish ourselves for singing Polly
Wolly in the graveyard,” said Faith.
“My child, I don’t want you to punish
yourselves for that,” said Mr. Meredith
in distress. “I gave you your little scolding—and
you were all penitent—and I forgave you.”
“Yes, but we had to be punished,” explained
Faith. “It’s our rule—in our Good-Conduct
Club, you know—if we do anything wrong,
or anything that is likely to hurt father
in the congregation, we HAVE to punish ourselves.
We are bringing ourselves up, you know, because
there is nobody to do it.”
Mr. Meredith groaned, but the doctor got up
from Una’s side with an air of relief.
“Then this child simply fainted from lack
of food and all she needs is a good square
meal,” he said. “Mrs. Clow, will you be
kind enough to see she gets it? And I think
from Faith’s story that they all would be
the better for something to eat, or we shall
have more faintings.”
“I suppose we shouldn’t have made Una
fast,” said Faith remorsefully. “When
I think of it, only Jerry and I should have
been punished. WE got up the concert and we
were the oldest.”
“I sang Polly Wolly just the same as the
rest of you,” said Una’s weak little voice,
“so I had to be punished, too.”
Mrs. Clow came with a glass of milk, Faith
and Jerry and Carl sneaked off to the pantry,
and John Meredith went into his study, where
he sat in the darkness for a long time, alone
with his bitter thoughts. So his children
were bringing themselves up because there
was “nobody to do it”—struggling along
amid their little perplexities without a hand
to guide or a voice to counsel. Faith’s
innocently uttered phrase rankled in her father’s
mind like a barbed shaft. There was “nobody”
to look after them—to comfort their little
souls and care for their little bodies. How
frail Una had looked, lying there on the vestry
sofa in that long faint! How thin were her
tiny hands, how pallid her little face! She
looked as if she might slip away from him
in a breath—sweet little Una, of whom Cecilia
had begged him to take such special care.
Since his wife’s death he had not felt such
an agony of dread as when he had hung over
his little girl in her unconsciousness. He
must do something—but what? Should he ask
Elizabeth Kirk to marry him? She was a good
woman—she would be kind to his children.
He might bring himself to do it if it were
not for his love for Rosemary West. But until
he had crushed that out he could not seek
another woman in marriage. And he could not
crush it out—he had tried and he could not.
Rosemary had been in church that evening,
for the first time since her return from Kingsport.
He had caught a glimpse of her face in the
back of the crowded church, just as he had
finished his sermon. His heart had given a
fierce throb. He sat while the choir sang
the “collection piece,” with his bent
head and tingling pulses. He had not seen
her since the evening upon which he had asked
her to marry him. When he had risen to give
out the hymn his hands were trembling and
his pale face was flushed. Then Una’s fainting
spell had banished everything from his mind
for a time. Now, in the darkness and solitude
of the study it rushed back. Rosemary was
the only woman in the world for him. It was
of no use for him to think of marrying any
other. He could not commit such a sacrilege
even for his children’s sake. He must take
up his burden alone—he must try to be a
better, a more watchful father—he must tell
his children not to be afraid to come to him
with all their little problems. Then he lighted
his lamp and took up a bulky new book which
was setting the theological world by the ears.
He would read just one chapter to compose
his mind. Five minutes later he was lost to
the world and the troubles of the world.
CHAPTER XXIX. A WEIRD TALE
On an early June evening Rainbow Valley was
an entirely delightful place and the children
felt it to be so, as they sat in the open
glade where the bells rang elfishly on the
Tree Lovers, and the White Lady shook her
green tresses. The wind was laughing and whistling
about them like a leal, glad-hearted comrade.
The young ferns were spicy in the hollow.
The wild cherry trees scattered over the valley,
among the dark firs, were mistily white. The
robins were whistling over in the maples behind
Ingleside. Beyond, on the slopes of the Glen,
were blossoming orchards, sweet and mystic
and wonderful, veiled in dusk. It was spring,
and young things MUST be glad in spring. Everybody
was glad in Rainbow Valley that evening—until
Mary Vance froze their blood with the story
of Henry Warren’s ghost.
Jem was not there. Jem spent his evenings
now studying for his entrance examination
in the Ingleside garret. Jerry was down near
the pond, trouting. Walter had been reading
Longfellow’s sea poems to the others and
they were steeped in the beauty and mystery
of the ships. Then they talked of what they
would do when they were grown up—where they
would travel—the far, fair shores they would
see. Nan and Di meant to go to Europe. Walter
longed for the Nile moaning past its Egyptian
sands, and a glimpse of the sphinx. Faith
opined rather dismally that she supposed she
would have to be a missionary—old Mrs. Taylor
told her she ought to be—and then she would
at least see India or China, those mysterious
lands of the Orient. Carl’s heart was set
on African jungles. Una said nothing. She
thought she would just like to stay at home.
It was prettier here than anywhere else. It
would be dreadful when they were all grown
up and had to scatter over the world. The
very idea made Una feel lonesome and homesick.
But the others dreamed on delightedly until
Mary Vance arrived and vanished poesy and
dreams at one fell swoop.
“Laws, but I’m out of puff,” she exclaimed.
“I’ve run down that hill like sixty. I
got an awful scare up there at the old Bailey
place.”
“What frightened you?” asked Di.
“I dunno. I was poking about under them
lilacs in the old garden, trying to see if
there was any lilies-of-the-valley out yet.
It was dark as a pocket there—and all at
once I seen something stirring and rustling
round at the other side of the garden, in
those cherry bushes. It was WHITE. I tell
you I didn’t stop for a second look. I flew
over the dyke quicker than quick. I was sure
it was Henry Warren’s ghost.”
“Who was Henry Warren?” asked Di.
“And why should he have a ghost?” asked
Nan.
“Laws, did you never hear the story? And
you brought up in the Glen. Well, wait a minute
till I get by breath all back and I’ll tell
you.”
Walter shivered delightsomely. He loved ghost
stories. Their mystery, their dramatic climaxes,
their eeriness gave him a fearful, exquisite
pleasure. Longfellow instantly grew tame and
commonplace. He threw the book aside and stretched
himself out, propped upon his elbows to listen
whole-heartedly, fixing his great luminous
eyes on Mary’s face. Mary wished he wouldn’t
look at her so. She felt she could make a
better job of the ghost story if Walter were
not looking at her. She could put on several
frills and invent a few artistic details to
enhance the horror. As it was, she had to
stick to the bare truth—or what had been
told her for the truth.
“Well,” she began, “you know old Tom
Bailey and his wife used to live in that house
up there thirty years ago. He was an awful
old rip, they say, and his wife wasn’t much
better. They’d no children of their own,
but a sister of old Tom’s died and left
a little boy—this Henry Warren—and they
took him. He was about twelve when he came
to them, and kind of undersized and delicate.
They say Tom and his wife used him awful from
the start—whipped him and starved him. Folks
said they wanted him to die so’s they could
get the little bit of money his mother had
left for him. Henry didn’t die right off,
but he begun having fits—epileps, they called
‘em—and he grew up kind of simple, till
he was about eighteen. His uncle used to thrash
him in that garden up there ‘cause it was
back of the house where no one could see him.
But folks could hear, and they say it was
awful sometimes hearing poor Henry plead with
his uncle not to kill him. But nobody dared
interfere ‘cause old Tom was such a reprobate
he’d have been sure to get square with ‘em
some way. He burned the barns of a man at
Harbour Head who offended him. At last Henry
died and his uncle and aunt give out he died
in one of his fits and that was all anybody
ever knowed, but everybody said Tom had just
up and killed him for keeps at last. And it
wasn’t long till it got around that Henry
WALKED. That old garden was HA’NTED. He
was heard there at nights, moaning and crying.
Old Tom and his wife got out—went out West
and never came back. The place got such a
bad name nobody’d buy or rent it. That’s
why it’s all gone to ruin. That was thirty
years ago, but Henry Warren’s ghost ha’nts
it yet.”
“Do you believe that?” asked Nan scornfully.
“I don’t.”
“Well, GOOD people have seen him—and heard
him.” retorted Mary. “They say he appears
and grovels on the ground and holds you by
the legs and gibbers and moans like he did
when he was alive. I thought of that as soon
as I seen that white thing in the bushes and
thought if it caught me like that and moaned
I’d drop down dead on the spot. So I cut
and run. It MIGHTN’T have been his ghost,
but I wasn’t going to take any chances with
a ha’nt.”
“It was likely old Mrs. Stimson’s white
calf,” laughed Di. “It pastures in that
garden—I’ve seen it.”
“Maybe so. But I’M not going home through
the Bailey garden any more. Here’s Jerry
with a big string of trout and it’s my turn
to cook them. Jem and Jerry both say I’m
the best cook in the Glen. And Cornelia told
me I could bring up this batch of cookies.
I all but dropped them when I saw Henry’s
ghost.”
Jerry hooted when he heard the ghost story—which
Mary repeated as she fried the fish, touching
it up a trifle or so, since Walter had gone
to help Faith to set the table. It made no
impression on Jerry, but Faith and Una and
Carl had been secretly much frightened, though
they would never have given in to it. It was
all right as long as the others were with
them in the valley: but when the feast was
over and the shadows fell they quaked with
remembrance. Jerry went up to Ingleside with
the Blythes to see Jem about something, and
Mary Vance went around that way home. So Faith
and Una and Carl had to go back to the manse
alone. They walked very close together and
gave the old Bailey garden a wide berth. They
did not believe that it was haunted, of course,
but they would not go near it for all that.
CHAPTER XXX. THE GHOST ON THE DYKE
Somehow, Faith and Carl and Una could not
shake off the hold which the story of Henry
Warren’s ghost had taken upon their imaginations.
They had never believed in ghosts. Ghost tales
they had heard a-plenty—Mary Vance had told
some far more blood-curdling than this; but
those tales were all of places and people
and spooks far away and unknown. After the
first half-awful, half-pleasant thrill of
awe and terror they thought of them no more.
But this story came home to them. The old
Bailey garden was almost at their very door—almost
in their beloved Rainbow Valley. They had
passed and repassed it constantly; they had
hunted for flowers in it; they had made short
cuts through it when they wished to go straight
from the village to the valley. But never
again! After the night when Mary Vance told
them its gruesome tale they would not have
gone through or near it on pain of death.
Death! What was death compared to the unearthly
possibility of falling into the clutches of
Henry Warren’s grovelling ghost?
One warm July evening the three of them were
sitting under the Tree Lovers, feeling a little
lonely. Nobody else had come near the valley
that evening. Jem Blythe was away in Charlottetown,
writing on his entrance examinations. Jerry
and Walter Blythe were off for a sail on the
harbour with old Captain Crawford. Nan and
Di and Rilla and Shirley had gone down the
harbour road to visit Kenneth and Persis Ford,
who had come with their parents for a flying
visit to the little old House of Dreams. Nan
had asked Faith to go with them, but Faith
had declined. She would never have admitted
it, but she felt a little secret jealousy
of Persis Ford, concerning whose wonderful
beauty and city glamour she had heard a great
deal. No, she wasn’t going to go down there
and play second fiddle to anybody. She and
Una took their story books to Rainbow Valley
and read, while Carl investigated bugs along
the banks of the brook, and all three were
happy until they suddenly realized that it
was twilight and that the old Bailey garden
was uncomfortably near by. Carl came and sat
down close to the girls. They all wished they
had gone home a little sooner, but nobody
said anything.
Great, velvety, purple clouds heaped up in
the west and spread over the valley. There
was no wind and everything was suddenly, strangely,
dreadfully still. The marsh was full of thousands
of fire-flies. Surely some fairy parliament
was being convened that night. Altogether,
Rainbow Valley was not a canny place just
then.
Faith looked fearfully up the valley to the
old Bailey garden. Then, if anybody’s blood
ever did freeze, Faith Meredith’s certainly
froze at that moment. The eyes of Carl and
Una followed her entranced gaze and chills
began gallopading up and down their spines
also. For there, under the big tamarack tree
on the tumble-down, grass-grown dyke of the
Bailey garden, was something white—shapelessly
white in the gathering gloom. The three Merediths
sat and gazed as if turned to stone.
“It’s—it’s the—calf,” whispered
Una at last.
“It’s—too—big—for the calf,” whispered
Faith. Her mouth and lips were so dry she
could hardly articulate the words.
Suddenly Carl gasped,
“It’s coming here.”
The girls gave one last agonized glance. Yes,
it was creeping down over the dyke, as no
calf ever did or could creep. Reason fled
before sudden, over-mastering panic. For the
moment every one of the trio was firmly convinced
that what they saw was Henry Warren’s ghost.
Carl sprang to his feet and bolted blindly.
With a simultaneous shriek the girls followed
him. Like mad creatures they tore up the hill,
across the road and into the manse. They had
left Aunt Martha sewing in the kitchen. She
was not there. They rushed to the study. It
was dark and tenantless. As with one impulse,
they swung around and made for Ingleside—but
not across Rainbow Valley. Down the hill and
through the Glen street they flew on the wings
of their wild terror, Carl in the lead, Una
bringing up the rear. Nobody tried to stop
them, though everybody who saw them wondered
what fresh devilment those manse youngsters
were up to now. But at the gate of Ingleside
they ran into Rosemary West, who had just
been in for a moment to return some borrowed
books.
She saw their ghastly faces and staring eyes.
She realized that their poor little souls
were wrung with some awful and real fear,
whatever its cause. She caught Carl with one
arm and Faith with the other. Una stumbled
against her and held on desperately.
“Children, dear, what has happened?” she
said. “What has frightened you?”
“Henry Warren’s ghost,” answered Carl,
through his chattering teeth.
“Henry—Warren’s—ghost!” said amazed
Rosemary, who had never heard the story.
“Yes,” sobbed Faith hysterically. “It’s
there—on the Bailey dyke—we saw it—and
it started to—chase us.”
Rosemary herded the three distracted creatures
to the Ingleside veranda. Gilbert and Anne
were both away, having also gone to the House
of Dreams, but Susan appeared in the doorway,
gaunt and practical and unghostlike.
“What is all this rumpus about?” she inquired.
Again the children gasped out their awful
tale, while Rosemary held them close to her
and soothed them with wordless comfort.
“Likely it was an owl,” said Susan, unstirred.
An owl! The Meredith children never had any
opinion of Susan’s intelligence after that!
“It was bigger than a million owls,” said
Carl, sobbing—oh, how ashamed Carl was of
that sobbing in after days—“and it—it
GROVELLED just as Mary said—and it was crawling
down over the dyke to get at us. Do owls CRAWL?”
Rosemary looked at Susan.
“They must have seen something to frighten
them so,” she said.
“I will go and see,” said Susan coolly.
“Now, children, calm yourselves. Whatever
you have seen, it was not a ghost. As for
poor Henry Warren, I feel sure he would be
only too glad to rest quietly in his peaceful
grave once he got there. No fear of HIM venturing
back, and that you may tie to. If you can
make them see reason, Miss West, I will find
out the truth of the matter.”
Susan departed for Rainbow Valley, valiantly
grasping a pitchfork which she found leaning
against the back fence where the doctor had
been working in his little hay-field. A pitchfork
might not be of much use against “ha’nts,”
but it was a comforting sort of weapon. There
was nothing to be seen in Rainbow Valley when
Susan reached it. No white visitants appeared
to be lurking in the shadowy, tangled old
Bailey garden. Susan marched boldly through
it and beyond it, and rapped with her pitchfork
on the door of the little cottage on the other
side, where Mrs. Stimson lived with her two
daughters.
Back at Ingleside Rosemary had succeeded in
calming the children. They still sobbed a
little from shock, but they were beginning
to feel a lurking and salutary suspicion that
they had made dreadful geese of themselves.
This suspicion became a certainty when Susan
finally returned.
“I have found out what your ghost was,”
she said, with a grim smile, sitting down
on a rocker and fanning herself. “Old Mrs.
Stimson has had a pair of factory cotton sheets
bleaching in the Bailey garden for a week.
She spread them on the dyke under the tamarack
tree because the grass was clean and short
there. This evening she went out to take them
in. She had her knitting in her hands so she
hung the sheets over her shoulders by way
of carrying them. And then she must have dropped
one of her needles and find it she could not
and has not yet. But she went down on her
knees and crept about to hunt for it, and
she was at that when she heard awful yells
down in the valley and saw the three children
tearing up the hill past her. She thought
they had been bit by something and it gave
her poor old heart such a turn that she could
not move or speak, but just crouched there
till they disappeared. Then she staggered
back home and they have been applying stimulants
to her ever since, and her heart is in a terrible
condition and she says she will not get over
this fright all summer.”
The Merediths sat, crimson with a shame that
even Rosemary’s understanding sympathy could
not remove. They sneaked off home, met Jerry
at the manse gate and made remorseful confession.
A session of the Good-Conduct Club was arranged
for next morning.
“Wasn’t Miss West sweet to us to-night?”
whispered Faith in bed.
“Yes,” admitted Una. “It is such a pity
it changes people so much to be made stepmothers.”
“I don’t believe it does,” said Faith
loyally.
CHAPTER XXXI. CARL DOES PENANCE
“I don’t see why we should be punished
at all,” said Faith, rather sulkily. “We
didn’t do anything wrong. We couldn’t
help being frightened. And it won’t do father
any harm. It was just an accident.”
“You were cowards,” said Jerry with judicial
scorn, “and you gave way to your cowardice.
That is why you should be punished. Everybody
will laugh at you about this, and that is
a disgrace to the family.”
“If you knew how awful the whole thing was,”
said Faith with a shiver, “you would think
we had been punished enough already. I wouldn’t
go through it again for anything in the whole
world.”
“I believe you’d have run yourself if
you’d been there,” muttered Carl.
“From an old woman in a cotton sheet,”
mocked Jerry. “Ho, ho, ho!”
“It didn’t look a bit like an old woman,”
cried Faith. “It was just a great, big,
white thing crawling about in the grass just
as Mary Vance said Henry Warren did. It’s
all very fine for you to laugh, Jerry Meredith,
but you’d have laughed on the other side
of your mouth if you’d been there. And how
are we to be punished? I don’t think it’s
fair, but let’s know what we have to do,
Judge Meredith!”
“The way I look at it,” said Jerry, frowning,
“is that Carl was the most to blame. He
bolted first, as I understand it. Besides,
he was a boy, so he should have stood his
ground to protect you girls, whatever the
danger was. You know that, Carl, don’t you?”
“I s’pose so,” growled Carl shamefacedly.
“Very well. This is to be your punishment.
To-night you’ll sit on Mr. Hezekiah Pollock’s
tombstone in the graveyard alone, until twelve
o’clock.”
Carl gave a little shudder. The graveyard
was not so very far from the old Bailey garden.
It would be a trying ordeal, but Carl was
anxious to wipe out his disgrace and prove
that he was not a coward after all.
“All right,” he said sturdily. “But
how’ll I know when it is twelve?”
“The study windows are open and you’ll
hear the clock striking. And mind you that
you are not to budge out of that graveyard
until the last stroke. As for you girls, you’ve
got to go without jam at supper for a week.”
Faith and Una looked rather blank. They were
inclined to think that even Carl’s comparatively
short though sharp agony was lighter punishment
than this long drawn-out ordeal. A whole week
of soggy bread without the saving grace of
jam! But no shirking was permitted in the
club. The girls accepted their lot with such
philosophy as they could summon up.
That night they all went to bed at nine, except
Carl, who was already keeping vigil on the
tombstone. Una slipped in to bid him good
night. Her tender heart was wrung with sympathy.
“Oh, Carl, are you much scared?” she whispered.
“Not a bit,” said Carl airily.
“I won’t sleep a wink till after twelve,”
said Una. “If you get lonesome just look
up at our window and remember that I’m inside,
awake, and thinking about you. That will be
a little company, won’t it?”
“I’ll be all right. Don’t you worry
about me,” said Carl.
But in spite of his dauntless words Carl was
a pretty lonely boy when the lights went out
in the manse. He had hoped his father would
be in the study as he so often was. He would
not feel alone then. But that night Mr. Meredith
had been summoned to the fishing village at
the harbour mouth to see a dying man. He would
not likely be back until after midnight. Carl
must dree his weird alone.
A Glen man went past carrying a lantern. The
mysterious shadows caused by the lantern-light
went hurtling madly over the graveyard like
a dance of demons or witches. Then they passed
and darkness fell again. One by one the lights
in the Glen went out. It was a very dark night,
with a cloudy sky, and a raw east wind that
was cold in spite of the calendar. Far away
on the horizon was the low dim lustre of the
Charlottetown lights. The wind wailed and
sighed in the old fir-trees. Mr. Alec Davis’
tall monument gleamed whitely through the
gloom. The willow beside it tossed long, writhing
arms spectrally. At times, the gyrations of
its boughs made it seem as if the monument
were moving, too.
Carl curled himself up on the tombstone with
his legs tucked under him. It wasn’t precisely
pleasant to hang them over the edge of the
stone. Just suppose—just suppose—bony
hands should reach up out of Mr. Pollock’s
grave under it and clutch him by the ankles.
That had been one of Mary Vance’s cheerful
speculations one time when they had all been
sitting there. It returned to haunt Carl now.
He didn’t believe those things; he didn’t
even really believe in Henry Warren’s ghost.
As for Mr. Pollock, he had been dead sixty
years, so it wasn’t likely he cared who
sat on his tombstone now. But there is something
very strange and terrible in being awake when
all the rest of the world is asleep. You are
alone then with nothing but your own feeble
personality to pit against the mighty principalities
and powers of darkness. Carl was only ten
and the dead were all around him—and he
wished, oh, he wished that the clock would
strike twelve. Would it NEVER strike twelve?
Surely Aunt Martha must have forgotten to
wind it.
And then it struck eleven—only eleven! He
must stay yet another hour in that grim place.
If only there were a few friendly stars to
be seen! The darkness was so thick it seemed
to press against his face. There was a sound
as of stealthy passing footsteps all over
the graveyard. Carl shivered, partly with
prickling terror, partly with real cold.
Then it began to rain—a chill, penetrating
drizzle. Carl’s thin little cotton blouse
and shirt were soon wet through. He felt chilled
to the bone. He forgot mental terrors in his
physical discomfort. But he must stay there
till twelve—he was punishing himself and
he was on his honour. Nothing had been said
about rain—but it did not make any difference.
When the study clock finally struck twelve
a drenched little figure crept stiffly down
off Mr. Pollock’s tombstone, made its way
into the manse and upstairs to bed. Carl’s
teeth were chattering. He thought he would
never get warm again.
He was warm enough when morning came. Jerry
gave one startled look at his crimson face
and then rushed to call his father. Mr. Meredith
came hurriedly, his own face ivory white from
the pallor of his long night vigil by a death
bed. He had not got home until daylight. He
bent over his little lad anxiously.
“Carl, are you sick?” he said.
“That—tombstone—over here,” said Carl,
“it’s—moving—about—it’s coming—at—me—keep
it—away—please.”
Mr. Meredith rushed to the telephone. In ten
minutes Dr. Blythe was at the manse. Half
an hour later a wire was sent to town for
a trained nurse, and all the Glen knew that
Carl Meredith was very ill with pneumonia
and that Dr. Blythe had been seen to shake
his head.
Gilbert shook his head more than once in the
fortnight that followed. Carl developed double
pneumonia. There was one night when Mr. Meredith
paced his study floor, and Faith and Una huddled
in their bedroom and cried, and Jerry, wild
with remorse, refused to budge from the floor
of the hall outside Carl’s door. Dr. Blythe
and the nurse never left the bedside. They
fought death gallantly until the red dawn
and they won the victory. Carl rallied and
passed the crisis in safety. The news was
phoned about the waiting Glen and people found
out how much they really loved their minister
and his children.
“I haven’t had one decent night’s sleep
since I heard the child was sick,” Miss
Cornelia told Anne, “and Mary Vance has
cried until those queer eyes of hers looked
like burnt holes in a blanket. Is it true
that Carl got pneumonia from straying out
in the graveyard that wet night for a dare?”
“No. He was staying there to punish himself
for cowardice in that affair of the Warren
ghost. It seems they have a club for bringing
themselves up, and they punish themselves
when they do wrong. Jerry told Mr. Meredith
all about it.”
“The poor little souls,” said Miss Cornelia.
Carl got better rapidly, for the congregation
took enough nourishing things to the manse
to furnish forth a hospital. Norman Douglas
drove up every evening with a dozen fresh
eggs and a jar of Jersey cream. Sometimes
he stayed an hour and bellowed arguments on
predestination with Mr. Meredith in the study;
oftener he drove on up to the hill that overlooked
the Glen.
When Carl was able to go again to Rainbow
Valley they had a special feast in his honour
and the doctor came down and helped them with
the fireworks. Mary Vance was there, too,
but she did not tell any ghost stories. Miss
Cornelia had given her a talking on that subject
which Mary would not forget in a hurry.
CHAPTER XXXII. TWO STUBBORN PEOPLE
Rosemary West, on her way home from a music
lesson at Ingleside, turned aside to the hidden
spring in Rainbow Valley. She had not been
there all summer; the beautiful little spot
had no longer any allurement for her. The
spirit of her young lover never came to the
tryst now; and the memories connected with
John Meredith were too painful and poignant.
But she had happened to glance backward up
the valley and had seen Norman Douglas vaulting
as airily as a stripling over the old stone
dyke of the Bailey garden and thought he was
on his way up the hill. If he overtook her
she would have to walk home with him and she
was not going to do that. So she slipped at
once behind the maples of the spring, hoping
he had not seen her and would pass on.
But Norman had seen her and, what was more,
was in pursuit of her. He had been wanting
for some time to have talk with Rosemary,
but she had always, so it seemed, avoided
him. Rosemary had never, at any time, liked
Norman Douglas very well. His bluster, his
temper, his noisy hilarity, had always antagonized
her. Long ago she had often wondered how Ellen
could possibly be attracted to him. Norman
Douglas was perfectly aware of her dislike
and he chuckled over it. It never worried
Norman if people did not like him. It did
not even make him dislike them in return,
for he took it as a kind of extorted compliment.
He thought Rosemary a fine girl, and he meant
to be an excellent, generous brother-in-law
to her. But before he could be her brother-in-law
he had to have a talk with her, so, having
seen her leaving Ingleside as he stood in
the doorway of a Glen store, he had straightway
plunged into the valley to overtake her.
Rosemary was sitting pensively on the maple
seat where John Meredith had been sitting
on that evening nearly a year ago. The tiny
spring shimmered and dimpled under its fringe
of ferns. Ruby-red gleams of sunset fell through
the arching boughs. A tall clump of perfect
asters grew at her side. The little spot was
as dreamy and witching and evasive as any
retreat of fairies and dryads in ancient forests.
Into it Norman Douglas bounced, scattering
and annihilating its charm in a moment. His
personality seemed to swallow the place up.
There was simply nothing there but Norman
Douglas, big, red-bearded, complacent.
“Good evening,” said Rosemary coldly,
standing up.
“‘Evening, girl. Sit down again—sit
down again. I want to have a talk with you.
Bless the girl, what’s she looking at me
like that for? I don’t want to eat you—I’ve
had my supper. Sit down and be civil.”
“I can hear what you have to say quite as
well here,” said Rosemary.
“So you can, girl, if you use your ears.
I only wanted you to be comfortable. You look
so durned uncomfortable, standing there. Well,
I’LL sit anyway.”
Norman accordingly sat down in the very place
John Meredith had once sat. The contrast was
so ludicrous that Rosemary was afraid she
would go off into a peal of hysterical laughter
over it. Norman cast his hat aside, placed
his huge, red hands on his knees, and looked
up at her with his eyes a-twinkle.
“Come, girl, don’t be so stiff,” he
said, ingratiatingly. When he liked he could
be very ingratiating. “Let’s have a reasonable,
sensible, friendly chat. There’s something
I want to ask you. Ellen says she won’t,
so it’s up to me to do it.”
Rosemary looked down at the spring, which
seemed to have shrunk to the size of a dewdrop.
Norman gazed at her in despair.
“Durn it all, you might help a fellow out
a bit,” he burst forth.
“What is it you want me to help you say?”
asked Rosemary scornfully.
“You know as well as I do, girl. Don’t
be putting on your tragedy airs. No wonder
Ellen was scared to ask you. Look here, girl,
Ellen and I want to marry each other. That’s
plain English, isn’t it? Got that? And Ellen
says she can’t unless you give her back
some tom-fool promise she made. Come now,
will you do it? Will you do it?”
“Yes,” said Rosemary.
Norman bounced up and seized her reluctant
hand.
“Good! I knew you would—I told Ellen you
would. I knew it would only take a minute.
Now, girl, you go home and tell Ellen, and
we’ll have a wedding in a fortnight and
you’ll come and live with us. We shan’t
leave you to roost on that hill-top like a
lonely crow—don’t you worry. I know you
hate me, but, Lord, it’ll be great fun living
with some one that hates me. Life’ll have
some spice in it after this. Ellen will roast
me and you’ll freeze me. I won’t have
a dull moment.”
Rosemary did not condescend to tell him that
nothing would ever induce her to live in his
house. She let him go striding back to the
Glen, oozing delight and complacency, and
she walked slowly up the hill home. She had
known this was coming ever since she had returned
from Kingsport, and found Norman Douglas established
as a frequent evening caller. His name was
never mentioned between her and Ellen, but
the very avoidance of it was significant.
It was not in Rosemary’s nature to feel
bitter, or she would have felt very bitter.
She was coldly civil to Norman, and she made
no difference in any way with Ellen. But Ellen
had not found much comfort in her second courtship.
She was in the garden, attended by St. George,
when Rosemary came home. The two sisters met
in the dahlia walk. St. George sat down on
the gravel walk between them and folded his
glossy black tail gracefully around his white
paws, with all the indifference of a well-fed,
well-bred, well-groomed cat.
“Did you ever see such dahlias?” demanded
Ellen proudly. “They are just the finest
we’ve ever had.”
Rosemary had never cared for dahlias. Their
presence in the garden was her concession
to Ellen’s taste. She noticed one huge mottled
one of crimson and yellow that lorded it over
all the others.
“That dahlia,” she said, pointing to it,
“is exactly like Norman Douglas. It might
easily be his twin brother.”
Ellen’s dark-browed face flushed. She admired
the dahlia in question, but she knew Rosemary
did not, and that no compliment was intended.
But she dared not resent Rosemary’s speech—poor
Ellen dared not resent anything just then.
And it was the first time Rosemary had ever
mentioned Norman’s name to her. She felt
that this portended something.
“I met Norman Douglas in the valley,”
said Rosemary, looking straight at her sister,
“and he told me you and he wanted to be
married—if I would give you permission.”
“Yes? What did you say?” asked Ellen,
trying to speak naturally and off-handedly,
and failing completely. She could not meet
Rosemary’s eyes. She looked down at St.
George’s sleek back and felt horribly afraid.
Rosemary had either said she would or she
wouldn’t. If she would Ellen would feel
so ashamed and remorseful that she would be
a very uncomfortable bride-elect; and if she
wouldn’t—well, Ellen had once learned
to live without Norman Douglas, but she had
forgotten the lesson and felt that she could
never learn it again.
“I said that as far as I was concerned you
were at full liberty to marry each other as
soon as you liked,” said Rosemary.
“Thank you,” said Ellen, still looking
at St. George.
Rosemary’s face softened.
“I hope you’ll be happy, Ellen,” she
said gently.
“Oh, Rosemary,” Ellen looked up in distress,
“I’m so ashamed—I don’t deserve it—after
all I said to you—”
“We won’t speak about that,” said Rosemary
hurriedly and decidedly.
“But—but,” persisted Ellen, “you are
free now, too—and it’s not too late—John
Meredith—”
“Ellen West!” Rosemary had a little spark
of temper under all her sweetness and it flashed
forth now in her blue eyes. “Have you quite
lost your senses in EVERY respect? Do you
suppose for an instant that I am going to
go to John Meredith and say meekly, ‘Please,
sir, I’ve changed my mind and please, sir,
I hope you haven’t changed yours.’ Is
that what you want me to do?”
“No—no—but a little—encouragement—he
would come back—”
“Never. He despises me—and rightly. No
more of this, Ellen. I bear you no grudge—marry
whom you like. But no meddling in my affairs.”
“Then you must come and live with me,”
said Ellen. “I shall not leave you here
alone.”
“Do you really think that I would go and
live in Norman Douglas’s house?”
“Why not?” cried Ellen, half angrily,
despite her humiliation.
Rosemary began to laugh.
“Ellen, I thought you had a sense of humour.
Can you see me doing it?”
“I don’t see why you wouldn’t. His house
is big enough—you’d have your share of
it to yourself—he wouldn’t interfere.”
“Ellen, the thing is not to be thought of.
Don’t bring this up again.”
“Then,” said Ellen coldly, and determinedly,
“I shall not marry him. I shall not leave
you here alone. That is all there is to be
said about it.”
“Nonsense, Ellen.”
“It is not nonsense. It is my firm decision.
It would be absurd for you to think of living
here by yourself—a mile from any other house.
If you won’t come with me I’ll stay with
you. Now, we won’t argue the matter, so
don’t try.”
“I shall leave Norman to do the arguing,”
said Rosemary.
“I’LL deal with Norman. I can manage HIM.
I would never have asked you to give me back
my promise—never—but I had to tell Norman
why I couldn’t marry him and he said HE
would ask you. I couldn’t prevent him. You
need not suppose you are the only person in
the world who possesses self-respect. I never
dreamed of marrying and leaving you here alone.
And you’ll find I can be as determined as
yourself.”
Rosemary turned away and went into the house,
with a shrug of her shoulders. Ellen looked
down at St. George, who had never blinked
an eyelash or stirred a whisker during the
whole interview.
“St. George, this world would be a dull
place without the men, I’ll admit, but I’m
almost tempted to wish there wasn’t one
of ‘em in it. Look at the trouble and bother
they’ve made right here, George—torn our
happy old life completely up by the roots,
Saint. John Meredith began it and Norman Douglas
has finished it. And now both of them have
to go into limbo. Norman is the only man I
ever met who agrees with me that the Kaiser
of Germany is the most dangerous creature
alive on this earth—and I can’t marry
this sensible person because my sister is
stubborn and I’m stubborner. Mark my words,
St. George, the minister would come back if
she raised her little finger. But she won’t
George—she’ll never do it—she won’t
even crook it—and I don’t dare meddle,
Saint. I won’t sulk, George; Rosemary didn’t
sulk, so I’m determined I won’t either,
Saint; Norman will tear up the turf, but the
long and short of it is, St. George, that
all of us old fools must just stop thinking
of marrying. Well, well, ‘despair is a free
man, hope is a slave,’ Saint. So now come
into the house, George, and I’ll solace
you with a saucerful of cream. Then there
will be one happy and contented creature on
this hill at least.”
CHAPTER XXXIII. CARL IS—NOT—WHIPPED
“There is something I think I ought to tell
you,” said Mary Vance mysteriously.
She and Faith and Una were walking arm in
arm through the village, having foregathered
at Mr. Flagg’s store. Una and Faith exchanged
looks which said, “NOW something disagreeable
is coming.” When Mary Vance thought she
ought to tell them things there was seldom
much pleasure in the hearing. They often wondered
why they kept on liking Mary Vance—for like
her they did, in spite of everything. To be
sure, she was generally a stimulating and
agreeable companion. If only she would not
have those convictions that it was her duty
to tell them things!
“Do you know that Rosemary West won’t
marry your pa because she thinks you are such
a wild lot? She’s afraid she couldn’t
bring you up right and so she turned him down.”
Una’s heart thrilled with secret exultation.
She was very glad to hear that Miss West would
not marry her father. But Faith was rather
disappointed.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Oh, everybody’s saying it. I heard Mrs.
Elliott talking it over with Mrs. Doctor.
They thought I was too far away to hear, but
I’ve got ears like a cat’s. Mrs. Elliott
said she hadn’t a doubt that Rosemary was
afraid to try stepmothering you because you’d
got such a reputation. Your pa never goes
up the hill now. Neither does Norman Douglas.
Folks say Ellen has jilted him just to get
square with him for jilting her ages ago.
But Norman is going about declaring he’ll
get her yet. And I think you ought to know
you’ve spoiled your pa’s match and I think
it’s a pity, for he’s bound to marry somebody
before long, and Rosemary West would have
been the best wife I know of for him.”
“You told me all stepmothers were cruel
and wicked,” said Una.
“Oh—well,” said Mary rather confusedly,
“they’re mostly awful cranky, I know.
But Rosemary West couldn’t be very mean
to any one. I tell you if your pa turns round
and marries Emmeline Drew you’ll wish you’d
behaved yourselves better and not frightened
Rosemary out of it. It’s awful that you’ve
got such a reputation that no decent woman’ll
marry your pa on account of you. Of course,
I know that half the yarns that are told about
you ain’t true. But give a dog a bad name.
Why, some folks are saying that it was Jerry
and Carl that threw the stones through Mrs.
Stimson’s window the other night when it
was really them two Boyd boys. But I’m afraid
it was Carl that put the eel in old Mrs. Carr’s
buggy, though I said at first I wouldn’t
believe it until I’d better proof than old
Kitty Alec’s word. I told Mrs. Elliott so
right to her face.”
“What did Carl do?” cried Faith.
“Well, they say—now, mind, I’m only
telling you what people say—so there’s
no use in your blaming me for it—that Carl
and a lot of other boys were fishing eels
over the bridge one evening last week. Mrs.
Carr drove past in that old rattletrap buggy
of hers with the open back. And Carl he just
up and threw a big eel into the back. When
poor old Mrs. Carr was driving up the hill
by Ingleside that eel came squirming out between
her feet. She thought it was a snake and she
just give one awful screech and stood up and
jumped clean over the wheels. The horse bolted,
but it went home and no damage was done. But
Mrs. Carr jarred her legs most terrible, and
has had nervous spasms ever since whenever
she thinks of the eel. Say, it was a rotten
trick to play on the poor old soul. She’s
a decent body, if she is as queer as Dick’s
hat band.”
Faith and Una looked at each other again.
This was a matter for the Good-Conduct Club.
They would not talk it over with Mary.
“There goes your pa,” said Mary as Mr.
Meredith passed them, “and never seeing
us no more’n if we weren’t here. Well,
I’m getting so’s I don’t mind it. But
there are folks who do.”
Mr. Meredith had not seen them, but he was
not walking along in his usual dreamy and
abstracted fashion. He strode up the hill
in agitation and distress. Mrs. Alec Davis
had just told him the story of Carl and the
eel. She had been very indignant about it.
Old Mrs. Carr was her third cousin. Mr. Meredith
was more than indignant. He was hurt and shocked.
He had not thought Carl would do anything
like this. He was not inclined to be hard
on pranks of heedlessness or forgetfulness,
but THIS was different. THIS had a nasty tang
in it. When he reached home he found Carl
on the lawn, patiently studying the habits
and customs of a colony of wasps. Calling
him into the study Mr. Meredith confronted
him, with a sterner face than any of his children
had ever seen before, and asked him if the
story were true.
“Yes,” said Carl, flushing, but meeting
his father’s eyes bravely.
Mr. Meredith groaned. He had hoped that there
had been at least exaggeration.
“Tell me the whole matter,” he said.
“The boys were fishing for eels over the
bridge,” said Carl. “Link Drew had caught
a whopper—I mean an awful big one—the
biggest eel I ever saw. He caught it right
at the start and it had been lying in his
basket a long time, still as still. I thought
it was dead, honest I did. Then old Mrs. Carr
drove over the bridge and she called us all
young varmints and told us to go home. And
we hadn’t said a word to her, father, truly.
So when she drove back again, after going
to the store, the boys dared me to put Link’s
eel in her buggy. I thought it was so dead
it couldn’t hurt her and I threw it in.
Then the eel came to life on the hill and
we heard her scream and saw her jump out.
I was awful sorry. That’s all, father.”
It was not quite as bad as Mr. Meredith had
feared, but it was quite bad enough. “I
must punish you, Carl,” he said sorrowfully.
“Yes, I know, father.”
“I—I must whip you.”
Carl winced. He had never been whipped. Then,
seeing how badly his father felt, he said
cheerfully,
“All right, father.”
Mr. Meredith misunderstood his cheerfulness
and thought him insensible. He told Carl to
come to the study after supper, and when the
boy had gone out he flung himself into his
chair and groaned again. He dreaded the evening
sevenfold more than Carl did. The poor minister
did not even know what he should whip his
boy with. What was used to whip boys? Rods?
Canes? No, that would be too brutal. A timber
switch, then? And he, John Meredith, must
hie him to the woods and cut one. It was an
abominable thought. Then a picture presented
itself unbidden to his mind. He saw Mrs. Carr’s
wizened, nut-cracker little face at the appearance
of that reviving eel—he saw her sailing
witch-like over the buggy wheels. Before he
could prevent himself the minister laughed.
Then he was angry with himself and angrier
still with Carl. He would get that switch
at once—and it must not be too limber, after
all.
Carl was talking the matter over in the graveyard
with Faith and Una, who had just come home.
They were horrified at the idea of his being
whipped—and by father, who had never done
such a thing! But they agreed soberly that
it was just.
“You know it was a dreadful thing to do,”
sighed Faith. “And you never owned up in
the club.”
“I forgot,” said Carl. “Besides, I didn’t
think any harm came of it. I didn’t know
she jarred her legs. But I’m to be whipped
and that will make things square.”
“Will it hurt—very much?” said Una,
slipping her hand into Carl’s.
“Oh, not so much, I guess,” said Carl
gamely. “Anyhow, I’m not going to cry,
no matter how much it hurts. It would make
father feel so bad, if I did. He’s all cut
up now. I wish I could whip myself hard enough
and save him doing it.”
After supper, at which Carl had eaten little
and Mr. Meredith nothing at all, both went
silently into the study. The switch lay on
the table. Mr. Meredith had had a bad time
getting a switch to suit him. He cut one,
then felt it was too slender. Carl had done
a really indefensible thing. Then he cut another—it
was far too thick. After all, Carl had thought
the eel was dead. The third one suited him
better; but as he picked it up from the table
it seemed very thick and heavy—more like
a stick than a switch.
“Hold out your hand,” he said to Carl.
Carl threw back his head and held out his
hand unflinchingly. But he was not very old
and he could not quite keep a little fear
out of his eyes. Mr. Meredith looked down
into those eyes—why, they were Cecilia’s
eyes—her very eyes—and in them was the
selfsame expression he had once seen in Cecilia’s
eyes when she had come to him to tell him
something she had been a little afraid to
tell him. Here were her eyes in Carl’s little,
white face—and six weeks ago he had thought,
through one endless, terrible night, that
his little lad was dying.
John Meredith threw down the switch.
“Go,” he said, “I cannot whip you.”
Carl fled to the graveyard, feeling that the
look on his father’s face was worse than
any whipping.
“Is it over so soon?” asked Faith. She
and Una had been holding hands and setting
teeth on the Pollock tombstone.
“He—he didn’t whip me at all,” said
Carl with a sob, “and—I wish he had—and
he’s in there, feeling just awful.”
Una slipped away. Her heart yearned to comfort
her father. As noiselessly as a little gray
mouse she opened the study door and crept
in. The room was dark with twilight. Her father
was sitting at his desk. His back was towards
her—his head was in his hands. He was talking
to himself—broken, anguished words—but
Una heard—heard and understood, with the
sudden illumination that comes to sensitive,
unmothered children. As silently as she had
come in she slipped out and closed the door.
John Meredith went on talking out his pain
in what he deemed his undisturbed solitude.
CHAPTER XXXIV. UNA VISITS THE HILL
Una went upstairs. Carl and Faith were already
on their way through the early moonlight to
Rainbow Valley, having heard therefrom the
elfin lilt of Jerry’s jews-harp and having
guessed that the Blythes were there and fun
afoot. Una had no wish to go. She sought her
own room first where she sat down on her bed
and had a little cry. She did not want anybody
to come in her dear mother’s place. She
did not want a stepmother who would hate her
and make her father hate her. But father was
so desperately unhappy—and if she could
do any anything to make him happier she MUST
do it. There was only one thing she could
do—and she had known the moment she had
left the study that she must do it. But it
was a very hard thing to do.
After Una cried her heart out she wiped her
eyes and went to the spare room. It was dark
and rather musty, for the blind had not been
drawn up nor the window opened for a long
time. Aunt Martha was no fresh-air fiend.
But as nobody ever thought of shutting a door
in the manse this did not matter so much,
save when some unfortunate minister came to
stay all night and was compelled to breathe
the spare room atmosphere.
There was a closet in the spare room and far
back in the closet a gray silk dress was hanging.
Una went into the closet and shut the door,
went down on her knees and pressed her face
against the soft silken folds. It had been
her mother’s wedding-dress. It was still
full of a sweet, faint, haunting perfume,
like lingering love. Una always felt very
close to her mother there—as if she were
kneeling at her feet with head in her lap.
She went there once in a long while when life
was TOO hard.
“Mother,” she whispered to the gray silk
gown, “I will never forget you, mother,
and I’ll ALWAYS love you best. But I have
to do it, mother, because father is so very
unhappy. I know you wouldn’t want him to
be unhappy. And I will be very good to her,
mother, and try to love her, even if she is
like Mary Vance said stepmothers always were.”
Una carried some fine, spiritual strength
away from her secret shrine. She slept peacefully
that night with the tear stains still glistening
on her sweet, serious, little face.
The next afternoon she put on her best dress
and hat. They were shabby enough. Every other
little girl in the Glen had new clothes that
summer except Faith and Una. Mary Vance had
a lovely dress of white embroidered lawn,
with scarlet silk sash and shoulder bows.
But to-day Una did not mind her shabbiness.
She only wanted to be very neat. She washed
her face carefully. She brushed her black
hair until it was as smooth as satin. She
tied her shoelaces carefully, having first
sewed up two runs in her one pair of good
stockings. She would have liked to black her
shoes, but she could not find any blacking.
Finally, she slipped away from the manse,
down through Rainbow Valley, up through the
whispering woods, and out to the road that
ran past the house on the hill. It was quite
a long walk and Una was tired and warm when
she got there.
She saw Rosemary West sitting under a tree
in the garden and stole past the dahlia beds
to her. Rosemary had a book in her lap, but
she was gazing afar across the harbour and
her thoughts were sorrowful enough. Life had
not been pleasant lately in the house on the
hill. Ellen had not sulked—Ellen had been
a brick. But things can be felt that are never
said and at times the silence between the
two women was intolerably eloquent. All the
many familiar things that had once made life
sweet had a flavour of bitterness now. Norman
Douglas made periodical irruptions also, bullying
and coaxing Ellen by turns. It would end,
Rosemary believed, by his dragging Ellen off
with him some day, and Rosemary felt that
she would be almost glad when it happened.
Existence would be horribly lonely then, but
it would be no longer charged with dynamite.
She was roused from her unpleasant reverie
by a timid little touch on her shoulder. Turning,
she saw Una Meredith.
“Why, Una, dear, did you walk up here in
all this heat?”
“Yes,” said Una, “I came to—I came
to—”
But she found it very hard to say what she
had come to do. Her voice failed—her eyes
filled with tears.
“Why, Una, little girl, what is the trouble?
Don’t be afraid to tell me.”
Rosemary put her arm around the thin little
form and drew the child close to her. Her
eyes were very beautiful—her touch so tender
that Una found courage.
“I came—to ask you—to marry father,”
she gasped.
Rosemary was silent for a moment from sheer
dumbfounderment. She stared at Una blankly.
“Oh, don’t be angry, please, dear Miss
West,” said Una, pleadingly. “You see,
everybody is saying that you wouldn’t marry
father because we are so bad. He is VERY unhappy
about it. So I thought I would come and tell
you that we are never bad ON PURPOSE. And
if you will only marry father we will all
try to be good and do just what you tell us.
I’m SURE you won’t have any trouble with
us. PLEASE, Miss West.”
Rosemary had been thinking rapidly. Gossiping
surmise, she saw, had put this mistaken idea
into Una’s mind. She must be perfectly frank
and sincere with the child.
“Una, dear,” she said softly. “It isn’t
because of you poor little souls that I cannot
be your father’s wife. I never thought of
such a thing. You are not bad—I never supposed
you were. There—there was another reason
altogether, Una.”
“Don’t you like father?” asked Una,
lifting reproachful eyes. “Oh, Miss West,
you don’t know how nice he is. I’m sure
he’d make you a GOOD husband.”
Even in the midst of her perplexity and distress
Rosemary couldn’t help a twisted, little
smile.
“Oh, don’t laugh, Miss West,” Una cried
passionately. “Father feels DREADFUL about
it.”
“I think you’re mistaken, dear,” said
Rosemary.
“I’m not. I’m SURE I’m not. Oh, Miss
West, father was going to whip Carl yesterday—Carl
had been naughty—and father couldn’t do
it because you see he had no PRACTICE in whipping.
So when Carl came out and told us father felt
so bad, I slipped into the study to see if
I could help him—he LIKES me to comfort
him, Miss West—and he didn’t hear me come
in and I heard what he was saying. I’ll
tell you, Miss West, if you’ll let me whisper
it in your ear.”
Una whispered earnestly. Rosemary’s face
turned crimson. So John Meredith still cared.
HE hadn’t changed his mind. And he must
care intensely if he had said that—care
more than she had ever supposed he did. She
sat still for a moment, stroking Una’s hair.
Then she said,
“Will you take a little letter from me to
your father, Una?”
“Oh, are you going to marry him, Miss West?”
asked Una eagerly.
“Perhaps—if he really wants me to,”
said Rosemary, blushing again.
“I’m glad—I’m glad,” said Una bravely.
Then she looked up, with quivering lips. “Oh,
Miss West, you won’t turn father against
us—you won’t make him hate us, will you?”
she said beseechingly.
Rosemary stared again.
“Una Meredith! Do you think I would do such
a thing? Whatever put such an idea into your
head?”
“Mary Vance said stepmothers were all like
that—and that they all hated their stepchildren
and made their father hate them—she said
they just couldn’t help it—just being
stepmothers made them like that”—
“You poor child! And yet you came up here
and asked me to marry your father because
you wanted to make him happy? You’re a darling—a
heroine—as Ellen would say, you’re a brick.
Now listen to me, very closely, dearest. Mary
Vance is a silly little girl who doesn’t
know very much and she is dreadfully mistaken
about some things. I would never dream of
trying to turn your father against you. I
would love you all dearly. I don’t want
to take your own mother’s place—she must
always have that in your hearts. But neither
have I any intention of being a stepmother.
I want to be your friend and helper and CHUM.
Don’t you think that would be nice, Una—if
you and Faith and Carl and Jerry could just
think of me as a good jolly chum—a big older
sister?”
“Oh, it would be lovely,” cried Una, with
a transfigured face. She flung her arms impulsively
round Rosemary’s neck. She was so happy
that she felt as if she could fly on wings.
“Do the others—do Faith and the boys have
the same idea you had about stepmothers?”
“No. Faith never believed Mary Vance. I
was dreadfully foolish to believe her, either.
Faith loves you already—she has loved you
ever since poor Adam was eaten. And Jerry
and Carl will think it is jolly. Oh, Miss
West, when you come to live with us, will
you—could you—teach me to cook—a little—and
sew—and—and—and do things? I don’t
know anything. I won’t be much trouble—I’ll
try to learn fast.”
“Darling, I’ll teach you and help you
all I can. Now, you won’t say a word to
anybody about this, will you—not even to
Faith, until your father himself tells you
you may? And you’ll stay and have tea with
me?”
“Oh, thank you—but—but—I think I’d
rather go right back and take the letter to
father,” faltered Una. “You see, he’ll
be glad that much SOONER, Miss West.”
“I see,” said Rosemary. She went to the
house, wrote a note and gave it to Una. When
that small damsel had run off, a palpitating
bundle of happiness, Rosemary went to Ellen,
who was shelling peas on the back porch.
“Ellen,” she said, “Una Meredith has
just been here to ask me to marry her father.”
Ellen looked up and read her sister’s face.
“And you’re going to?” she said.
“It’s quite likely.”
Ellen went on shelling peas for a few minutes.
Then she suddenly put her hands up to her
own face. There were tears in her black-browed
eyes.
“I—I hope we’ll all be happy,” she
said between a sob and a laugh.
Down at the manse Una Meredith, warm, rosy,
triumphant, marched boldly into her father’s
study and laid a letter on the desk before
him. His pale face flushed as he saw the clear,
fine handwriting he knew so well. He opened
the letter. It was very short—but he shed
twenty years as he read it. Rosemary asked
him if he could meet her that evening at sunset
by the spring in Rainbow Valley.
CHAPTER XXXV. “LET THE PIPER COME”
“And so,” said Miss Cornelia, “the double
wedding is to be sometime about the middle
of this month.”
There was a faint chill in the air of the
early September evening, so Anne had lighted
her ever ready fire of driftwood in the big
living room, and she and Miss Cornelia basked
in its fairy flicker.
“It is so delightful—especially in regard
to Mr. Meredith and Rosemary,” said Anne.
“I’m as happy in the thought of it, as
I was when I was getting married myself. I
felt exactly like a bride again last evening
when I was up on the hill seeing Rosemary’s
trousseau.”
“They tell me her things are fine enough
for a princess,” said Susan from a shadowy
corner where she was cuddling her brown boy.
“I have been invited up to see them also
and I intend to go some evening. I understand
that Rosemary is to wear white silk and a
veil, but Ellen is to be married in navy blue.
I have no doubt, Mrs. Dr. dear, that that
is very sensible of her, but for my own part
I have always felt that if I were ever married
I would prefer the white and the veil, as
being more bride-like.”
A vision of Susan in “white and a veil”
presented itself before Anne’s inner vision
and was almost too much for her.
“As for Mr. Meredith,” said Miss Cornelia,
“even his engagement has made a different
man of him. He isn’t half so dreamy and
absent-minded, believe me. I was so relieved
when I heard that he had decided to close
the manse and let the children visit round
while he was away on his honeymoon. If he
had left them and old Aunt Martha there alone
for a month I should have expected to wake
every morning and see the place burned down.”
“Aunt Martha and Jerry are coming here,”
said Anne. “Carl is going to Elder Clow’s.
I haven’t heard where the girls are going.”
“Oh, I’m going to take them,” said Miss
Cornelia. “Of course, I was glad to, but
Mary would have given me no peace till I asked
them any way. The Ladies’ Aid is going to
clean the manse from top to bottom before
the bride and groom come back, and Norman
Douglas has arranged to fill the cellar with
vegetables. Nobody ever saw or heard anything
quite like Norman Douglas these days, believe
ME. He’s so tickled that he’s going to
marry Ellen West after wanting her all his
life. If I was Ellen—but then, I’m not,
and if she is satisfied I can very well be.
I heard her say years ago when she was a schoolgirl
that she didn’t want a tame puppy for a
husband. There’s nothing tame about Norman,
believe ME.”
The sun was setting over Rainbow Valley. The
pond was wearing a wonderful tissue of purple
and gold and green and crimson. A faint blue
haze rested on the eastern hill, over which
a great, pale, round moon was just floating
up like a silver bubble.
They were all there, squatted in the little
open glade—Faith and Una, Jerry and Carl,
Jem and Walter, Nan and Di, and Mary Vance.
They had been having a special celebration,
for it would be Jem’s last evening in Rainbow
Valley. On the morrow he would leave for Charlottetown
to attend Queen’s Academy. Their charmed
circle would be broken; and, in spite of the
jollity of their little festival, there was
a hint of sorrow in every gay young heart.
“See—there is a great golden palace over
there in the sunset,” said Walter, pointing.
“Look at the shining tower—and the crimson
banners streaming from them. Perhaps a conqueror
is riding home from battle—and they are
hanging them out to do honour to him.”
“Oh, I wish we had the old days back again,”
exclaimed Jem. “I’d love to be a soldier—a
great, triumphant general. I’d give EVERYTHING
to see a big battle.”
Well, Jem was to be a soldier and see a greater
battle than had ever been fought in the world;
but that was as yet far in the future; and
the mother, whose first-born son he was, was
wont to look on her boys and thank God that
the “brave days of old,” which Jem longed
for, were gone for ever, and that never would
it be necessary for the sons of Canada to
ride forth to battle “for the ashes of their
fathers and the temples of their gods.”
The shadow of the Great Conflict had not yet
made felt any forerunner of its chill. The
lads who were to fight, and perhaps fall,
on the fields of France and Flanders, Gallipoli
and Palestine, were still roguish schoolboys
with a fair life in prospect before them:
the girls whose hearts were to be wrung were
yet fair little maidens a-star with hopes
and dreams.
Slowly the banners of the sunset city gave
up their crimson and gold; slowly the conqueror’s
pageant faded out. Twilight crept over the
valley and the little group grew silent. Walter
had been reading again that day in his beloved
book of myths and he remembered how he had
once fancied the Pied Piper coming down the
valley on an evening just like this.
He began to speak dreamily, partly because
he wanted to thrill his companions a little,
partly because something apart from him seemed
to be speaking through his lips.
“The Piper is coming nearer,” he said,
“he is nearer than he was that evening I
saw him before. His long, shadowy cloak is
blowing around him. He pipes—he pipes—and
we must follow—Jem and Carl and Jerry and
I—round and round the world. Listen—listen—can’t
you hear his wild music?”
The girls shivered.
“You know you’re only pretending,” protested
Mary Vance, “and I wish you wouldn’t.
You make it too real. I hate that old Piper
of yours.”
But Jem sprang up with a gay laugh. He stood
up on a little hillock, tall and splendid,
with his open brow and his fearless eyes.
There were thousands like him all over the
land of the maple.
“Let the Piper come and welcome,” he cried,
waving his hand. “I’LL follow him gladly
round and round the world.”
