Book: Rainbow Valley

L >> Lucy Maud Montgomery >> Rainbow Valley




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.

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