Book: Rainbow Valley

L >> Lucy Maud Montgomery >> Rainbow Valley




"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.

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