Book: Rainbow Valley

L >> Lucy Maud Montgomery >> Rainbow Valley




"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.

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