The warm June sunshine was coming down through the trees, white
with the virginal bloom of apple-blossoms, and through the
shining panes, making a tremulous mosaic upon Mrs. Eben Andrews'
spotless kitchen floor. Through the open door, a wind, fragrant
from long wanderings over orchards and clover meadows, drifted
in, and, from the window, Mrs. Eben and her guest could look down
over a long, misty valley sloping to a sparkling sea.
Mrs. Jonas Andrews was spending the afternoon with her
sister-in-law. She was a big, sonsy woman, with full-blown peony
cheeks and large, dreamy, brown eyes. When she had been a slim,
pink-and-white girl those eyes had been very romantic. Now they
were so out of keeping with the rest of her appearance as to be
ludicrous.
Mrs. Eben, sitting at the other end of the small tea-table that
was drawn up against the window, was a thin little woman, with a
very sharp nose and light, faded blue eyes. She looked like a
woman whose opinions were always very decided and warranted to
wear.
"How does Sara like teaching at Newbridge?" asked Mrs. Jonas,
helping herself a second time to Mrs. Eben's matchless black
fruit cake, and thereby bestowing a subtle compliment which Mrs.
Eben did not fail to appreciate.
"Well, I guess she likes it pretty well--better than down at
White Sands, anyway," answered Mrs. Eben. "Yes, I may say it
suits her. Of course it's a long walk there and back. I think
it would have been wiser for her to keep on boarding at
Morrison's, as she did all winter, but Sara is bound to be home
all she can. And I must say the walk seems to agree with her."
"I was down to see Jonas' aunt at Newbridge last night," said
Mrs. Jonas, "and she said she'd heard that Sara had made up her
mind to take Lige Baxter at last, and that they were to be
married in the fall. She asked me if it was true. I said I
didn't know, but I hoped to mercy it was. Now, is it, Louisa?"
"Not a word of it," said Mrs. Eben sorrowfully. "Sara hasn't any
more notion of taking Lige than ever she had. I'm sure it's not
MY fault. I've talked and argued till I'm tired. I declare to
you, Amelia, I am terribly disappointed. I'd set my heart on
Sara's marrying Lige--and now to think she won't!"
"She is a very foolish girl," said Mrs. Jonas, judicially. "If
Lige Baxter isn't good enough for her, who is?"
"And he's so well off," said Mrs. Eben, "and does such a good
business, and is well spoken of by every one. And that lovely
new house of his at Newbridge, with bay windows and hardwood
floors! I've dreamed and dreamed of seeing Sara there as
mistress."
"Maybe you'll see her there yet," said Mrs. Jonas, who always
took a hopeful view of everything, even of Sara's contrariness.
But she felt discouraged, too. Well, she had done her best.
If Lige Baxter's broth was spoiled it was not for lack of cooks.
Every Andrews in Avonlea had been trying for two years to bring
about a match between him and Sara, and Mrs. Jonas had borne her
part valiantly.
Mrs. Eben's despondent reply was cut short by the appearance of
Sara herself. The girl stood for a moment in the doorway and
looked with a faintly amused air at her aunts. She knew quite
well that they had been discussing her, for Mrs. Jonas, who
carried her conscience in her face, looked guilty, and Mrs. Eben
had not been able wholly to banish her aggrieved expression.
Sara put away her books, kissed Mrs. Jonas' rosy cheek, and sat
down at the table. Mrs. Eben brought her some fresh tea, some
hot rolls, and a little jelly-pot of the apricot preserves Sara
liked, and she cut some more fruit cake for her in moist plummy
slices. She might be out of patience with Sara's "contrariness,"
but she spoiled and petted her for all that, for the girl was the
very core of her childless heart.
Sara Andrews was not, strictly speaking, pretty; but there was
that about her which made people look at her twice. She was very
dark, with a rich, dusky sort of darkness, her deep eyes were
velvety brown, and her lips and cheeks were crimson.
She ate her rolls and preserves with a healthy appetite,
sharpened by her long walk from Newbridge, and told amusing
little stories of her day's work that made the two older women
shake with laughter, and exchange shy glances of pride over her
cleverness.
When tea was over she poured the remaining contents of the cream
jug into a saucer.
"I must feed my pussy," she said as she left the room.
"That girl beats me," said Mrs. Eben with a sigh of perplexity.
"You know that black cat we've had for two years? Eben and I
have always made a lot of him, but Sara seemed to have a dislike
to him. Never a peaceful nap under the stove could he have when
Sara was home--out he must go. Well, a little spell ago he got
his leg broke accidentally and we thought he'd have to be killed.
But Sara wouldn't hear of it. She got splints and set his leg
just as knacky, and bandaged it up, and she has tended him like a
sick baby ever since. He's just about well now, and he lives in
clover, that cat does. It's just her way. There's them sick
chickens she's been doctoring for a week, giving them pills and
things!
"And she thinks more of that wretched-looking calf that got
poisoned with paris green than of all the other stock on the
place."
As the summer wore away, Mrs. Eben tried to reconcile herself to
the destruction of her air castles. But she scolded Sara
considerably.
"Sara, why don't you like Lige? I'm sure he is a model young
man."
"I don't like model young men," answered Sara impatiently. "And
I really think I hate Lige Baxter. He has always been held up to
me as such a paragon. I'm tired of hearing about all his
perfections. I know them all off by heart. He doesn't drink, he
doesn't smoke, he doesn't steal, he doesn't tell fibs, he never
loses his temper, he doesn't swear, and he goes to church
regularly. Such a faultless creature as that would certainly get
on my nerves. No, no, you'll have to pick out another mistress
for your new house at the Bridge, Aunt Louisa."
When the apple trees, that had been pink and white in June, were
russet and bronze in October, Mrs. Eben had a quilting. The
quilt was of the "Rising Star" pattern, which was considered in
Avonlea to be very handsome. Mrs. Eben had intended it for part
of Sara's "setting out," and, while she sewed the red-and-white
diamonds together, she had regaled her fancy by imagining she saw
it spread out on the spare-room bed of the house at Newbridge,
with herself laying her bonnet and shawl on it when she went to
see Sara. Those bright visions had faded with the apple
blossoms, and Mrs. Eben hardly had the heart to finish the quilt
at all.
The quilting came off on Saturday afternoon, when Sara could be
home from school. All Mrs. Eben's particular friends were ranged
around the quilt, and tongues and fingers flew. Sara flitted
about, helping her aunt with the supper preparations. She was in
the room, getting the custard dishes out of the cupboard, when
Mrs. George Pye arrived.
Mrs. George had a genius for being late. She was later than
usual to-day, and she looked excited. Every woman around the
"Rising Star" felt that Mrs. George had some news worth listening
to, and there was an expectant silence while she pulled out her
chair and settled herself at the quilt.
She was a tall, thin woman with a long pale face and liquid green
eyes. As she looked around the circle she had the air of a cat
daintily licking its chops over some titbit.
"I suppose," she said, "that you have heard the news?"
She knew perfectly well that they had not. Every other woman at
the frame stopped quilting. Mrs. Eben came to the door with a
pan of puffy, smoking-hot soda biscuits in her hand. Sara
stopped counting the custard dishes, and turned her
ripely-colored face over her shoulder. Even the black cat, at
her feet, ceased preening his fur. Mrs. George felt that the
undivided attention of her audience was hers.
"Baxter Brothers have failed," she said, her green eyes shooting
out flashes of light. "Failed DISGRACEFULLY!"
She paused for a moment; but, since her hearers were as yet
speechless from surprise, she went on.
"George came home from Newbridge, just before I left, with the
news. You could have knocked me down with a feather. I should
have thought that firm was as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar!
But they're ruined--absolutely ruined. Louisa, dear, can you
find me a good needle?"
"Louisa, dear," had set her biscuits down with a sharp thud,
reckless of results. A sharp, metallic tinkle sounded at the
closet where Sara had struck the edge of her tray against a
shelf. The sound seemed to loosen the paralyzed tongues, and
everybody began talking and exclaiming at once. Clear and shrill
above the confusion rose Mrs. George Pye's voice.
"Yes, indeed, you may well say so. It IS disgraceful. And to
think how everybody trusted them! George will lose considerable
by the crash, and so will a good many folks. Everything will
have to go--Peter Baxter's farm and Lige's grand new house. Mrs.
Peter won't carry her head so high after this, I'll be bound.
George saw Lige at the Bridge, and he said he looked dreadful cut
up and ashamed."
"Who, or what's to blame for the failure?" asked Mrs. Rachel
Lynde sharply. She did not like Mrs. George Pye.
"There are a dozen different stories on the go," was the reply.
"As far as George could make out, Peter Baxter has been
speculating with other folks' money, and this is the result.
Everybody always suspected that Peter was crooked; but you'd have
thought that Lige would have kept him straight. HE had always
such a reputation for saintliness."
"I don't suppose Lige knew anything about it," said Mrs. Rachel
indignantly.
"Well, he'd ought to, then. If he isn't a knave he's a fool,"
said Mrs. Harmon Andrews, who had formerly been among his
warmest partisans. "He should have kept watch on Peter and found
out how the business was being run. Well, Sara, you were the
level-headest of us all--I'll admit that now. A nice mess it
would be if you were married or engaged to Lige, and him left
without a cent--even if he can clear his character!"
"There is a good deal of talk about Peter, and swindling, and a
lawsuit," said Mrs. George Pye, quilting industriously. "Most of
the Newbridge folks think it's all Peter's fault, and that Lige
isn't to blame. But you can't tell. I dare say Lige is as deep
in the mire as Peter. He was always a little too good to be
wholesome, _I_ thought."
There was a clink of glass at the cupboard, as Sara set the tray
down. She came forward and stood behind Mrs. Rachel Lynde's
chair, resting her shapely hands on that lady's broad shoulders.
Her face was very pale, but her flashing eyes sought and faced
defiantly Mrs. George Pye's cat-like orbs. Her voice quivered
with passion and contempt.
"You'll all have a fling at Lige Baxter, now that he's down. You
couldn't say enough in his praise, once. I'll not stand by and
hear it hinted that Lige Baxter is a swindler. You all know
perfectly well that Lige is as honest as the day, if he IS so
unfortunate as to have an unprincipled brother. You, Mrs. Pye,
know it better than any one, yet you come here and run him down
the minute he's in trouble. If there's another word said here
against Lige Baxter I'll leave the room and the house till you're
gone, every one of you."
She flashed a glance around the quilt that cowed the gossips.
Even Mrs. George Pye's eyes flickered and waned and quailed.
Nothing more was said until Sara had picked up her glasses and
marched from the room. Even then they dared not speak above a
whisper. Mrs. Pye, alone, smarting from the snub, ventured to
ejaculate, "Pity save us!" as Sara slammed the door.
For the next fortnight gossip and rumor held high carnival in
Avonlea and Newbridge, and Mrs. Eben grew to dread the sight of a
visitor.
"They're bound to talk about the Baxter failure and criticize
Lige," she deplored to Mrs. Jonas. "And it riles Sara up so
terrible. She used to declare that she hated Lige, and now she
won't listen to a word against him. Not that I say any, myself.
I'm sorry for him, and I believe he's done his best. But I can't
stop other people from talking."
One evening Harmon Andrews came in with a fresh budget of news.
"The Baxter business is pretty near wound up at last," he said,
as he lighted his pipe. "Peter has got his lawsuits settled and
has hushed up the talk about swindling, somehow. Trust him for
slipping out of a scrape clean and clever. He don't seem to worry
any, but Lige looks like a walking skeleton. Some folks pity
him, but I say he should have kept the run of things better and
not have trusted everything to Peter. I hear he's going out West
in the Spring, to take up land in Alberta and try his hand at
farming. Best thing he can do, I guess. Folks hereabouts have
had enough of the Baxter breed. Newbridge will be well rid of
them."
Sara, who had been sitting in the dark corner by the stove,
suddenly stood up, letting the black cat slip from her lap to the
floor. Mrs. Eben glanced at her apprehensively, for she was
afraid the girl was going to break out in a tirade against the
complacent Harmon.
But Sara only walked fiercely out of the kitchen, with a sound as
if she were struggling for breath. In the hall she snatched a
scarf from the wall, flung open the front door, and rushed down
the lane in the chill, pure air of the autumn twilight. Her
heart was throbbing with the pity she always felt for bruised and
baited creatures.
On and on she went heedlessly, intent only on walking away her
pain, over gray, brooding fields and winding slopes, and along
the skirts of ruinous, dusky pine woods, curtained with fine spun
purple gloom. Her dress brushed against the brittle grasses and
sere ferns, and the moist night wind, loosed from wild places far
away, blew her hair about her face.
At last she came to a little rustic gate, leading into a shadowy
wood-lane. The gate was bound with willow withes, and, as Sara
fumbled vainly at them with her chilled hands, a man's firm step
came up behind her, and Lige Baxter's hand closed over her's.
"Oh, Lige!" she said, with something like a sob.
He opened the gate and drew her through. She left her hand in
his, as they walked through the lane where lissome boughs of
young saplings flicked against their heads, and the air was
wildly sweet with the woodsy odors.
"It's a long while since I've seen you, Lige," Sara said at last.
Lige looked wistfully down at her through the gloom.
"Yes, it seems very long to me, Sara. But I didn't think you'd
care to see me, after what you said last spring. And you know
things have been going against me. People have said hard things.
I've been unfortunate, Sara, and may be too easy-going, but I've
been honest. Don't believe folks if they tell you I wasn't."
"Indeed, I never did--not for a minute!" fired Sara.
"I'm glad of that. I'm going away, later on. I felt bad enough
when you refused to marry me, Sara; but it's well that you
didn't. I'm man enough to be thankful my troubles don't fall on
you."
Sara stopped and turned to him. Beyond them the lane opened into
a field and a clear lake of crocus sky cast a dim light into the
shadow where they stood. Above it was a new moon, like a
gleaming silver scimitar. Sara saw it was over her left
shoulder, and she saw Lige's face above her, tender and troubled.
"Lige," she said softly, "do you love me still?"
"You know I do," said Lige sadly.
That was all Sara wanted. With a quick movement she nestled into
his arms, and laid her warm, tear-wet cheek against his cold one.
When the amazing rumor that Sara was going to marry Lige Baxter,
and go out West with him, circulated through the Andrews clan,
hands were lifted and heads were shaken. Mrs. Jonas puffed and
panted up the hill to learn if it were true. She found Mrs. Eben
stitching for dear life on an "Irish Chain" quilt, while Sara was
sewing the diamonds on another "Rising Star" with a martyr-like
expression on her face. Sara hated patchwork above everything
else, but Mrs. Eben was mistress up to a certain point.
"You'll have to make that quilt, Sara Andrews. If you're going
to live out on those prairies, you'll need piles of quilts, and
you shall have them if I sew my fingers to the bone. But you'll
have to help make them."
And Sara had to.
When Mrs. Jonas came, Mrs. Eben sent Sara off to the post-office
to get her out of the way.
"I suppose it's true, this time?" said Mrs. Jonas.
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Eben briskly. "Sara is set on it. There
is no use trying to move her--you know that--so I've just
concluded to make the best of it. I'm no turn-coat. Lige Baxter
is Lige Baxter still, neither more nor less. I've always said
he's a fine young man, and I say so still. After all, he and
Sara won't be any poorer than Eben and I were when we started
out."
Mrs. Jonas heaved a sigh of relief.
"I'm real glad you take that view of it, Louisa. I'm not
displeased, either, although Mrs. Harmon would take my head off
if she heard me say so. I always liked Lige. But I must say I'm
amazed, too, after the way Sara used to rail at him."
"Well, we might have expected it," said Mrs. Eben sagely. "It
was always Sara's way. When any creature got sick or unfortunate
she seemed to take it right into her heart. So you may say Lige
Baxter's failure was a success after all."