The raw wind of an early May evening was puffing in and out the
curtains of the room where Naomi Holland lay dying. The air was
moist and chill, but the sick woman would not have the window
closed.
"I can't get my breath if you shut everything up so tight," she
said. "Whatever comes, I ain't going to be smothered to death,
Car'line Holland."
Outside of the window grew a cherry tree, powdered with moist
buds with the promise of blossoms she would not live to see.
Between its boughs she saw a crystal cup of sky over hills that
were growing dim and purple. The outside air was full of sweet,
wholesome springtime sounds that drifted in fitfully. There were
voices and whistles in the barnyard, and now and then faint
laughter. A bird alighted for a moment on a cherry bough, and
twittered restlessly. Naomi knew that white mists were hovering
in the silent hollows, that the maple at the gate wore a misty
blossom red, and that violet stars were shining bluely on the
brooklands.
The room was a small, plain one. The floor was bare, save for a
couple of braided rugs, the plaster discolored, the walls dingy
and glaring. There had never been much beauty in Naomi Holland's
environment, and, now that she was dying, there was even less.
At the open window a boy of about ten years was leaning out over
the sill and whistling. He was tall for his age, and
beautiful--the hair a rich auburn with a glistening curl in it,
skin very white and warm-tinted, eyes small and of a greenish
blue, with dilated pupils and long lashes. He had a weak chin,
and a full, sullen mouth.
The bed was in the corner farthest from the window; on it the
sick woman, in spite of the pain that was her portion
continually, was lying as quiet and motionless as she had done
ever since she had lain down upon it for the last time. Naomi
Holland never complained; when the agony was at its worst, she
shut her teeth more firmly over her bloodless lip, and her great
black eyes glared at the blank wall before in a way that gave her
attendants what they called "the creeps," but no word or moan
escaped her.
Between the paroxysms she kept up her keen interest in the life
that went on about her. Nothing escaped her sharp, alert eyes
and ears. This evening she lay spent on the crumpled pillows;
she had had a bad spell in the afternoon and it had left her very
weak. In the dim light her extremely long face looked
corpse-like already. Her black hair lay in a heavy braid over
the pillow and down the counterpane. It was all that was left of
her beauty, and she took a fierce joy in it. Those long,
glistening, sinuous tresses must be combed and braided every day,
no matter what came.
A girl of fourteen was curled up on a chair at the head of the
bed, with her head resting on the pillow. The boy at the window
was her half-brother; but, between Christopher Holland and Eunice
Carr, not the slightest resemblance existed.
Presently the sibilant silence was broken by a low,
half-strangled sob. The sick woman, who had been watching a
white evening star through the cherry boughs, turned impatiently
at the sound.
"I wish you'd get over that, Eunice," she said sharply. "I don't
want any one crying over me until I'm dead; and then you'll have
plenty else to do, most likely. If it wasn't for Christopher I
wouldn't be anyways unwilling to die. When one has had such a
life as I've had, there isn't much in death to be afraid of.
Only, a body would like to go right off, and not die by inches,
like this. 'Tain't fair!"
She snapped out the last sentence as if addressing some unseen,
tyrannical presence; her voice, at least, had not weakened, but
was as clear and incisive as ever. The boy at the window stopped
whistling, and the girl silently wiped her eyes on her faded
gingham apron.
Naomi drew her own hair over her lips, and kissed it.
"You'll never have hair like that, Eunice," she said. "It does
seem most too pretty to bury, doesn't it? Mind you see that it
is fixed nice when I'm laid out. Comb it right up on my head and
braid it there."
A sound, such as might be wrung from a suffering animal, came
from the girl, but at the same moment the door opened and a woman
entered.
"Chris," she said sharply, "you get right off for the cows, you
lazy little scamp! You knew right well you had to go for them,
and here you've been idling, and me looking high and low for you.
Make haste now; it's ridiculous late."
The boy pulled in his head and scowled at his aunt, but he dared
not disobey, and went out slowly with a sulky mutter.
His aunt subdued a movement, that might have developed into a
sound box on his ears, with a rather frightened glance at the
bed. Naomi Holland was spent and dying, but her temper was still
a thing to hold in dread, and her sister-in-law did not choose to
rouse it by slapping Christopher. To her and her co-nurse the
spasms of rage, which the sick woman sometimes had, seemed to
partake of the nature of devil possession. The last one, only
three days before, had been provoked by Christopher's complaint
of some real or fancied ill-treatment from his aunt, and the
latter had no mind to bring on another. She went over to the
bed, and straightened the clothes.
"Sarah and I are going out to milk, Naomi, Eunice will stay with
you. She can run for us if you feel another spell coming on."
Naomi Holland looked up at her sister-in-law with something like
malicious enjoyment.
"I ain't going to have any more spells, Car'line Anne. I'm going
to die to-night. But you needn't hurry milking for that, at all.
I'll take my time."
She liked to see the alarm that came over the other woman's face.
It was richly worth while to scare Caroline Holland like that.
"Are you feeling worse, Naomi?" asked the latter shakily. "If
you are I'll send for Charles to go for the doctor."
"No, you won't. What good can the doctor do me? I don't want
either his or Charles' permission to die. You can go and milk at
your ease. I won't die till you're done--I won't deprive you of
the pleasure of seeing me."
Mrs. Holland shut her lips and went out of the room with a
martyr-like expression. In some ways Naomi Holland was not an
exacting patient, but she took her satisfaction out in the
biting, malicious speeches she never failed to make. Even on her
death-bed her hostility to her sister-in-law had to find vent.
Outside, at the steps, Sarah Spencer was waiting, with the milk
pails over her arm. Sarah Spencer had no fixed abiding place,
but was always to be found where there was illness. Her
experience, and an utter lack of nerves, made her a good nurse.
She was a tall, homely woman with iron gray hair and a lined
face. Beside her, the trim little Caroline Anne, with her light
step and round, apple-red face, looked almost girlish.
The two women walked to the barnyard, discussing Naomi in
undertones as they went. The house they had left behind grew
very still.
In Naomi Holland's room the shadows were gathering. Eunice
timidly bent over her mother.
"Ma, do you want the light lit?"
"No, I'm watching that star just below the big cherry bough.
I'll see it set behind the hill. I've seen it there, off and on,
for twelve years, and now I'm taking a good-by look at it. I
want you to keep still, too. I've got a few things to think
over, and I don't want to be disturbed."
The girl lifted herself about noiselessly and locked her hands
over the bed-post. Then she laid her face down on them, biting
at them silently until the marks of her teeth showed white
against their red roughness.
Naomi Holland did not notice her. She was looking steadfastly at
the great, pearl-like sparkle in the faint-hued sky. When it
finally disappeared from her vision she struck her long, thin
hands together twice, and a terrible expression came over her
face for a moment. But, when she spoke, her voice was quite
calm.
"You can light the candle now, Eunice. Put it up on the shelf
here, where it won't shine in my eyes. And then sit down on the
foot of the bed where I can see you. I've got something to say
to you."
Eunice obeyed her noiselessly. As the pallid light shot up, it
revealed the child plainly. She was thin and ill-formed--one
shoulder being slightly higher than the other. She was dark,
like her mother, but her features were irregular, and her hair
fell in straggling, dim locks about her face. Her eyes were a
dark brown, and over one was the slanting red scar of a birth
mark.
Naomi Holland looked at her with the contempt she had never made
any pretense of concealing. The girl was bone of her bone and
flesh of her flesh, but she had never loved her; all the mother
love in her had been lavished on her son.
When Eunice had placed the candle on the shelf and drawn down the
ugly blue paper blinds, shutting out the strips of violet sky
where a score of glimmering points were now visible, she sat down
on the foot of the bed, facing her mother.
"The door is shut, is it, Eunice?"
Eunice nodded.
"Because I don't want Car'line or any one else peeking and
harking to what I've got to say. She's out milking now, and I
must make the most of the chance. Eunice, I'm going to die,
and..."
"Ma!"
"There now, no taking on! You knew it had to come sometime soon.
I haven't the strength to talk much, so I want you just to be
quiet and listen. I ain't feeling any pain now, so I can think
and talk pretty clear. Are you listening, Eunice?"
"Yes, ma."
"Mind you are. It's about Christopher. It hasn't been out of my
mind since I laid down here. I've fought for a year to live, on
his account, and it ain't any use. I must just die and leave
him, and I don't know what he'll do. It's dreadful to think of."
She paused, and struck her shrunken hand sharply against the
table.
"If he was bigger and could look out for himself it wouldn't be
so bad. But he is only a little fellow, and Car'line hates him.
You'll both have to live with her until you're grown up. She'll
put on him and abuse him. He's like his father in some ways;
he's got a temper and he is stubborn. He'll never get on with
Car'line. Now, Eunice, I'm going to get you to promise to take
my place with Christopher when I'm dead, as far as you can.
You've got to; it's your duty. But I want you to promise."
"I will, ma," whispered the girl solemnly.
"You haven't much force--you never had. If you was smart, you
could do a lot for him. But you'll have to do your best. I want
you to promise me faithfully that you'll stand by him and protect
him--that you won't let people impose on him; that you'll never
desert him as long as he needs you, no matter what comes.
Eunice, promise me this!"
In her excitement the sick woman raised herself up in the bed,
and clutched the girl's thin arm. Her eyes were blazing and two
scarlet spots glowed in her thin cheeks.
Eunice's face was white and tense. She clasped her hands as one
in prayer.
"Mother, I promise it!"
Naomi relaxed her grip on the girl's arm and sank back exhausted
on the pillow. A death-like look came over her face as the
excitement faded.
"My mind is easier now. But if I could only have lived another
year or two! And I hate Car'line--hate her! Eunice, don't you
ever let her abuse my boy! If she did, or if you neglected him,
I'd come back from my grave to you! As for the property, things
will be pretty straight. I've seen to that. There'll be no
squabbling and doing Christopher out of his rights. He's to have
the farm as soon as he's old enough to work it, and he's to
provide for you. And, Eunice, remember what you've promised!"
Outside, in the thickly gathering dusk, Caroline Holland and
Sarah Spencer were at the dairy, straining the milk into
creamers, for which Christopher was sullenly pumping water. The
house was far from the road, up to which a long red lane led;
across the field was the old Holland homestead where Caroline
lived; her unmarried sister-in-law, Electa Holland, kept house
for her while she waited on Naomi.
It was her night to go home and sleep, but Naomi's words haunted
her, although she believed they were born of pure
"cantankerousness."
"You'd better go in and look at her, Sarah," she said, as she
rinsed out the pails. "If you think I'd better stay here
to-night, I will. If the woman was like anybody else a body
would know what to do; but, if she thought she could scare us by
saying she was going to die, she'd say it."
When Sarah went in, the sick room was very quiet. In her
opinion, Naomi was no worse than usual, and she told Caroline so;
but the latter felt vaguely uneasy and concluded to stay.
Naomi was as cool and defiant as customary. She made them bring
Christopher in to say good-night and had him lifted up on the bed
to kiss her. Then she held him back and looked at him
admiringly--at the bright curls and rosy cheeks and round, firm
limbs. The boy was uncomfortable under her gaze and squirmed
hastily down. Her eyes followed him greedily, as he went out.
When the door closed behind him, she groaned. Sarah Spencer was
startled. She had never heard Naomi Holland groan since she had
come to wait on her.
"Are you feeling any worse, Naomi? Is the pain coming back?"
"No. Go and tell Car'line to give Christopher some of that grape
jelly on his bread before he goes to bed. She'll find it in the
cupboard under the stairs."
Presently the house grew very still. Caroline had dropped asleep
on the sitting-room lounge, across the hall. Sarah Spencer
nodded over her knitting by the table in the sick room. She had
told Eunice to go to bed, but the child refused. She still sat
huddled up on the foot of the bed, watching her mother's face
intently. Naomi appeared to sleep. The candle burned long, and
the wick was crowned by a little cap of fiery red that seemed to
watch Eunice like some impish goblin. The wavering light cast
grotesque shadows of Sarah Spencer's head on the wall. The thin
curtains at the window wavered to and fro, as if shaken by
ghostly hands.
At midnight Naomi Holland opened her eyes. The child she had
never loved was the only one to go with her to the brink of the
Unseen.
"Eunice--remember!"
It was the faintest whisper. The soul, passing over the
threshold of another life, strained back to its only earthly tie.
A quiver passed over the long, pallid face.
A horrible scream rang through the silent house. Sarah Spencer
sprang out of her doze in consternation, and gazed blankly at the
shrieking child. Caroline came hurrying in with distended eyes.
On the bed Naomi Holland lay dead.
In the room where she had died Naomi Holland lay in her coffin.
It was dim and hushed; but, in the rest of the house, the
preparations for the funeral were being hurried on. Through it
all Eunice moved, calm and silent. Since her one wild spasm of
screaming by her mother's death-bed she had shed no tear, given
no sign of grief. Perhaps, as her mother had said, she had no
time. There was Christopher to be looked after. The boy's grief
was stormy and uncontrolled. He had cried until he was utterly
exhausted. It was Eunice who soothed him, coaxed him to eat,
kept him constantly by her. At night she took him to her own
room and watched over him while he slept.
When the funeral was over the household furniture was packed away
or sold. The house was locked up and the farm rented. There was
nowhere for the children to go, save to their uncle's. Caroline
Holland did not want them, but, having to take them, she grimly
made up her mind to do what she considered her duty by them. She
had five children of her own and between them and Christopher a
standing feud had existed from the time he could walk.
She had never liked Naomi. Few people did. Benjamin Holland had
not married until late in life, and his wife had declared war on
his family at sight. She was a stranger in Avonlea,--a widow,
with a three year-old child. She made few friends, as some
people always asserted that she was not in her right mind.
Within a year of her second marriage Christopher was born, and
from the hour of his birth his mother had worshiped him blindly.
He was her only solace. For him she toiled and pinched and
saved. Benjamin Holland had not been "fore-handed" when she
married him; but, when he died, six years after his marriage, he
was a well-to-do man.
Naomi made no pretense of mourning for him. It was an open
secret that they had quarreled like the proverbial cat and dog.
Charles Holland and his wife had naturally sided with Benjamin,
and Naomi fought her battles single-handed. After her husband's
death, she managed to farm alone, and made it pay. When the
mysterious malady which was to end her life first seized on her
she fought against it with all the strength and stubbornness of
her strong and stubborn nature. Her will won for her an added
year of life, and then she had to yield. She tasted all the
bitterness of death the day on which she lay down on her bed, and
saw her enemy come in to rule her house.
But Caroline Holland was not a bad or unkind woman. True, she
did not love Naomi or her children; but the woman was dying and
must be looked after for the sake of common humanity. Caroline
thought she had done well by her sister-in-law.
When the red clay was heaped over Naomi's grave in the Avonlea
burying ground, Caroline took Eunice and Christopher home with
her. Christopher did not want to go; it was Eunice who
reconciled him. He clung to her with an exacting affection born
of loneliness and grief.
In the days that followed Caroline Holland was obliged to confess
to herself that there would have been no doing anything with
Christopher had it not been for Eunice. The boy was sullen and
obstinate, but his sister had an unfailing influence over him.
In Charles Holland's household no one was allowed to eat the
bread of idleness. His own children were all girls, and
Christopher came in handy as a chore boy. He was made to
work--perhaps too hard. But Eunice helped him, and did half his
work for him when nobody knew. When he quarreled with his
cousins, she took his part; whenever possible she took on herself
the blame and punishment of his misdeeds.
Electa Holland was Charles' unmarried sister. She had kept house
for Benjamin until he married; then Naomi had bundled her out.
Electa had never forgiven her for it. Her hatred passed on to
Naomi's children. In a hundred petty ways she revenged herself
on them. For herself, Eunice bore it patiently; but it was a
different matter when it touched Christopher.
Once Electa boxed Christopher's ears. Eunice, who was knitting
by the table, stood up. A resemblance to her mother, never
before visible, came out in her face like a brand. She lifted
her hand and slapped Electa's cheek deliberately twice, leaving a
dull red mark where she struck.
"If you ever strike my brother again," she said, slowly and
vindictively, "I will slap your face every time you do. You have
no right to touch him."
"My patience, what a fury!" said Electa. "Naomi Holland'll never
be dead as long as you're alive!"
She told Charles of the affair and Eunice was severely punished.
But Electa never interfered with Christopher again.
All the discordant elements in the Holland household could not
prevent the children from growing up. It was a consummation
which the harrassed Caroline devoutly wished. When Christopher
Holland was seventeen he was a man grown--a big, strapping
fellow. His childish beauty had coarsened, but he was thought
handsome by many.
He took charge of his mother's farm then, and the brother and
sister began their new life together in the long-unoccupied
house. There were few regrets on either side when they left
Charles Holland's roof. In her secret heart Eunice felt an
unspeakable relief.
Christopher had been "hard to manage," as his uncle said, in the
last year. He was getting into the habit of keeping late hours
and doubtful company. This always provoked an explosion of wrath
from Charles Holland, and the conflicts between him and his
nephew were frequent and bitter.
For four years after their return home Eunice had a hard and
anxious life. Christopher was idle and dissipated. Most people
regarded him as a worthless fellow, and his uncle washed his
hands of him utterly. Only Eunice never failed him; she never
reproached or railed; she worked like a slave to keep things
together. Eventually her patience prevailed. Christopher, to a
great extent, reformed and worked harder. He was never unkind to
Eunice, even in his rages. It was not in him to appreciate or
return her devotion; but his tolerant acceptance of it was her
solace.
When Eunice was twenty-eight, Edward Bell wanted to marry her.
He was a plain, middle-aged widower with four children; but, as
Caroline did not fail to remind her, Eunice herself was not for
every market, and the former did her best to make the match. She
might have succeeded had it not been for Christopher. When he,
in spite of Caroline's skillful management, got an inkling of
what was going on, he flew into a true Holland rage. If Eunice
married and left him--he would sell the farm and go to the Devil
by way of the Klondike. He could not, and would not, do without
her. No arrangement suggested by Caroline availed to pacify him,
and, in the end, Eunice refused to marry Edward Bell. She could
not leave Christopher, she said simply, and in this she stood
rock-firm. Caroline could not budge her an inch.
"You're a fool, Eunice," she said, when she was obliged to give
up in despair. "It's not likely you'll ever have another chance.
As for Chris, in a year or two he'll be marrying himself, and
where will you be then? You'll find your nose nicely out of
joint when he brings a wife in here."
The shaft went home. Eunice's lips turned white. But she said,
faintly, "The house is big enough for us both, if he does."
Caroline sniffed.
"Maybe so. You'll find out. However, there's no use talking.
You're as set as your mother was, and nothing would ever budge
her an inch. I only hope you won't be sorry for it."
When three more years had passed Christopher began to court
Victoria Pye. The affair went on for some time before either
Eunice or the Hollands go wind of it. When they did there was an
explosion. Between the Hollands and the Pyes, root and branch,
existed a feud that dated back for three generations. That the
original cause of the quarrel was totally forgotten did not
matter; it was matter of family pride that a Holland should have
no dealings with a Pye.
When Christopher flew so openly in the face of this cherished
hatred, there could be nothing less than consternation. Charles
Holland broke through his determination to have nothing to do
with Christopher, to remonstrate. Caroline went to Eunice in as
much of a splutter as if Christopher had been her own brother.
Eunice did not care a row of pins for the Holland-Pye feud.
Victoria was to her what any other girl, upon whom Christopher
cast eyes of love, would have been--a supplanter. For the first
time in her life she was torn with passionate jealousy; existence
became a nightmare to her. Urged on by Caroline, and her own
pain, she ventured to remonstrate with Christopher, also. She
had expected a burst of rage, but he was surprisingly
good-natured. He seemed even amused.
"What have you got against Victoria?" he asked, tolerantly.
Eunice had no answer ready. It was true that nothing could be
said against the girl. She felt helpless and baffled.
Christopher laughed at her silence.
"I guess you're a little jealous," he said. "You must have
expected I would get married some time. This house is big enough
for us all. You'd better look at the matter sensibly, Eunice.
Don't let Charles and Caroline put nonsense into your head. A
man must marry to please himself."
Christopher was out late that night. Eunice waited up for him,
as she always did. It was a chilly spring evening, reminding her
of the night her mother had died. The kitchen was in spotless
order, and she sat down on a stiff-backed chair by the window to
wait for her brother.
She did not want a light. The moonlight fell in with faint
illumination. Outside, the wind was blowing over a bed of
new-sprung mint in the garden, and was suggestively fragrant. It
was a very old-fashioned garden, full of perennials Naomi Holland
had planted long ago. Eunice always kept it primly neat. She
had been working in it that day, and felt tired.
She was all alone in the house and the loneliness filled her with
a faint dread. She had tried all that day to reconcile herself
to Christopher's marriage, and had partially succeeded. She told
herself that she could still watch over him and care for his
comfort. She would even try to love Victoria; after all, it
might be pleasant to have another woman in the house. So,
sitting there, she fed her hungry soul with these husks of
comfort.
When she heard Christopher's step she moved about quickly to get
a light. He frowned when he saw her; he had always resented her
sitting up for him. He sat down by the stove and took off his
boots, while Eunice got a lunch for him. After he had eaten it
in silence he made no move to go to bed. A chill, premonitory
fear crept over Eunice. It did not surprise her at all when
Christopher finally said, abruptly, "Eunice, I've a notion to get
married this spring."
Eunice clasped her hands together under the table. It was what
she had been expecting. She said so, in a monotonous voice.
"We must make some arrangement for--for you, Eunice," Christopher
went on, in a hurried, hesitant way, keeping his eyes riveted
doggedly on his plate. "Victoria doesn't exactly like--well, she
thinks it's better for young married folks to begin life by
themselves, and I guess she's about right. You wouldn't find it
comfortable, anyhow, having to step back to second place after
being mistress here so long."
Eunice tried to speak, but only an indistinct murmur came from
her bloodless lips. The sound made Christopher look up.
Something in her face irritated him. He pushed back his chair
impatiently.
"Now, Eunice, don't go taking on. It won't be any use. Look at
this business in a sensible way. I'm fond of you, and all that,
but a man is bound to consider his wife first. I'll provide for
you comfortably."
"Do you mean to say that your wife is going to turn me out?"
Eunice gasped, rather than spoke, the words.
Christopher drew his reddish brows together.
"I just mean that Victoria says she won't marry me if she has to
live with you. She's afraid of you. I told her you wouldn't
interfere with her, but she wasn't satisfied. It's your own
fault, Eunice. You've always been so queer and close that people
think you're an awful crank. Victoria's young and lively, and
you and she wouldn't get on at all. There isn't any question of
turning you out. I'll build a little house for you somewhere,
and you'll be a great deal better off there than you would be
here. So don't make a fuss."
Eunice did not look as if she were going to make a fuss. She sat
as if turned to stone, her hands lying palm upward in her lap.
Christopher got up, hugely relieved that the dreaded explanation
was over.
"Guess I'll go to bed. You'd better have gone long ago. It's
all nonsense, this waiting up for me."
When he had gone Eunice drew a long, sobbing breath and looked
about her like a dazed soul. All the sorrow of her life was as
nothing to the desolation that assailed her now.
She rose and, with uncertain footsteps, passed out through the
hall and into the room where her mother died. She had always
kept it locked and undisturbed; it was arranged just as Naomi
Holland had left it. Eunice tottered to the bed and sat down on
it.
She recalled the promise she had made to her mother in that very
room. Was the power to keep it to be wrested from her? Was she
to be driven from her home and parted from the only creature she
had on earth to love? And would Christopher allow it, after all
her sacrifices for him? Aye, that he would! He cared more for
that black-eyed, waxen-faced girl at the old Pye place than for
his own kin. Eunice put her hands over her dry, burning eyes and
groaned aloud.
Caroline Holland had her hour of triumph over Eunice when she
heard it all. To one of her nature there was no pleasure so
sweet as that of saying, "I told you so." Having said it,
however, she offered Eunice a home. Electa Holland was dead, and
Eunice might fill her place very acceptably, if she would.
"You can't go off and live by yourself," Caroline told her.
"It's all nonsense to talk of such a thing. We will give you a
home, if Christopher is going to turn you out. You were always a
fool, Eunice, to pet and pamper him as you've done. This is the
thanks you get for it--turned out like a dog for his fine wife's
whim! I only wish your mother was alive!"
It was probably the first time Caroline had ever wished this.
She had flown at Christopher like a fury about the matter, and
had been rudely insulted for her pains. Christopher had told her
to mind her own business.
When Caroline cooled down she made some arrangements with him, to
all of which Eunice listlessly assented. She did not care what
became of her. When Christopher Holland brought Victoria as
mistress to the house where his mother had toiled, and suffered,
and ruled with her rod of iron, Eunice was gone. In Charles
Holland's household she took Electa's place--an unpaid upper
servant.
Charles and Caroline were kind enough to her, and there was
plenty to do. For five years her dull, colorless life went on,
during which time she never crossed the threshold of the house
where Victoria Holland ruled with a sway as absolute as Naomi's
had been. Caroline's curiosity led her, after her first anger
had cooled, to make occasional calls, the observations of which
she faithfully reported to Eunice. The latter never betrayed any
interest in them, save once. This was when Caroline came home
full of the news that Victoria had had the room where Naomi died
opened up, and showily furnished as a parlor. Then Eunice's
sallow face crimsoned, and her eyes flashed, over the
desecration. But no word of comment or complaint ever crossed
her lips.
She knew, as every one else knew, that the glamor soon went from
Christopher Holland's married life. The marriage proved an
unhappy one. Not unnaturally, although unjustly, Eunice blamed
Victoria for this, and hated her more than ever for it.
Christopher seldom came to Charles' house. Possibly he felt
ashamed. He had grown into a morose, silent man, at home and
abroad. It was said he had gone back to his old drinking habits.
One fall Victoria Holland went to town to visit her married
sister. She took their only child with her. In her absence
Christopher kept house for himself.
It was a fall long remembered in Avonlea. With the dropping of
the leaves, and the shortening of the dreary days, the shadow of
a fear fell over the land. Charles Holland brought the fateful
news home one night.
"There's smallpox in Charlottetown--five or six cases. Came in
one of the vessels. There was a concert, and a sailor from one
of the ships was there, and took sick the next day."
This was alarming enough. Charlottetown was not so very far away
and considerable traffic went on between it and the north shore
districts.
When Caroline recounted the concert story to Christopher the next
morning his ruddy face turned quite pale. He opened his lips as
if to speak, then closed them again. They were sitting in the
kitchen; Caroline had run over to return some tea she had
borrowed, and, incidentally, to see what she could of Victoria's
housekeeping in her absence. Her eyes had been busy while her
tongue ran on, so she did not notice the man's pallor and
silence.
"How long does it take for smallpox to develop after one has been
exposed to it?" he asked abruptly, when Caroline rose to go.
"Ten to fourteen days, I calc'late," was her answer. "I must see
about having the girls vaccinated right off. It'll likely
spread. When do you expect Victoria home?"
"When she's ready to come, whenever that will be," was the gruff
response.
A week later Caroline said to Eunice, "Whatever's got
Christopher? He hasn't been out anywhere for ages--just hangs
round home the whole time. It's something new for him. I s'pose
the place is so quiet, now Madam Victoria's away, that he can
find some rest for his soul. I believe I'll run over after
milking and see how he's getting on. You might as well come,
too, Eunice."
Eunice shook her head. She had all her mother's obstinacy, and
darken Victoria's door she would not. She went on patiently
darning socks, sitting at the west window, which was her favorite
position--perhaps because she could look from it across the
sloping field and past the crescent curve of maple grove to her
lost home.
After milking, Caroline threw a shawl over her head and ran
across the field. The house looked lonely and deserted. As she
fumbled at the latch of the gate the kitchen door opened, and
Christopher Holland appeared on the threshold.
"Don't come any farther," he called.
Caroline fell back in blank astonishment. Was this some more of
Victoria's work?
"I ain't an agent for the smallpox," she called back viciously.
Christopher did not heed her.
"Will you go home and ask uncle if he'll go, or send for Doctor
Spencer? He's the smallpox doctor. I'm sick."
Caroline felt a thrill of dismay and fear. She faltered a few
steps backward.
"Sick? What's the matter with you?"
"I was in Charlottetown that night, and went to the concert.
That sailor sat right beside me. I thought at the time he looked
sick. It was just twelve days ago. I've felt bad all day
yesterday and to-day. Send for the doctor. Don't come near the
house, or let any one else come near."
He went in and shut the door. Caroline stood for a few moments
in an almost ludicrous panic. Then she turned and ran, as if for
her life, across the field. Eunice saw her coming and met her at
the door.
"Mercy on us!" gasped Caroline. "Christopher's sick and he
thinks he's got the smallpox. Where's Charles?"
Eunice tottered back against the door. Her hand went up to her
side in a way that had been getting very common with her of late.
Even in the midst of her excitement Caroline noticed it.
"Eunice, what makes you do that every time anything startles
you?" she asked sharply. "Is it anything about your heart?"
"I don't--know. A little pain--it's gone now. Did you say that
Christopher has--the smallpox?"
"Well, he says so himself, and it's more than likely, considering
the circumstances. I declare, I never got such a turn in my
life. It's a dreadful thing. I must find Charles at
once--there'll be a hundred things to do."
Eunice hardly heard her. Her mind was centered upon one idea.
Christopher was ill--alone--she must go to him. It did not
matter what his disease was. When Caroline came in from her
breathless expedition to the barn, she found Eunice standing by
the table, with her hat and shawl on, tying up a parcel.
"Eunice! Where on earth are you going?"
"Over home," said Eunice. "If Christopher is going to be ill he
must be nursed, and I'm the one to do it. He ought to be seen to
right away."
"Eunice Carr! Have you gone clean out of your senses? It's the
smallpox--the smallpox! If he's got it he'll have to be taken
to the smallpox hospital in town. You shan't stir a step to go
to that house!"
"I will." Eunice faced her excited aunt quietly. The odd
resemblance to her mother, which only came out in moments of
great tension, was plainly visible. "He shan't go to the
hospital--they never get proper attention there. You needn't try
to stop me. It won't put you or your family in any danger."
Caroline fell helplessly into a chair. She felt that it would be
of no use to argue with a woman so determined. She wished
Charles was there. But Charles had already gone, post-haste, for
the doctor.
With a firm step, Eunice went across the field foot-path she had
not trodden for so long. She felt no fear--rather a sort of
elation. Christopher needed her once more; the interloper who
had come between them was not there. As she walked through the
frosty twilight she thought of the promise made to Naomi Holland,
years ago.
Christopher saw her coming and waved her back.
"Don't come any nearer, Eunice. Didn't Caroline tell you? I'm
taking smallpox."
Eunice did not pause. She went boldly through the yard and up
the porch steps. He retreated before her and held the door.
"Eunice, you're crazy, girl! Go home, before it's too late."
Eunice pushed open the door resolutely and went in.
"It's too late now. I'm here, and I mean to stay and nurse you,
if it's the smallpox you've got. Maybe it's not. Just now, when
a person has a finger-ache, he thinks it's smallpox. Anyhow,
whatever it is, you ought to be in bed and looked after. You'll
catch cold. Let me get a light and have a look at you."
Christopher had sunk into a chair. His natural selfishness
reasserted itself, and he made no further effort to dissuade
Eunice. She got a lamp and set it on the table by him, while she
scrutinized his face closely.
"You look feverish. What do you feel like? When did you take
sick?"
"Yesterday afternoon. I have chills and hot spells and pains in
my back. Eunice, do you think it's really smallpox? And will I
die?"
He caught her hands, and looked imploringly up at her, as a child
might have done. Eunice felt a wave of love and tenderness sweep
warmly over her starved heart.
"Don't worry. Lots of people recover from smallpox if they're
properly nursed, and you'll be that, for I'll see to it. Charles
has gone for the doctor, and we'll know when he comes. You must
go straight to bed."
She took off her hat and shawl, and hung them up. She felt as
much at home as if she had never been away. She had got back to
her kingdom, and there was none to dispute it with her. When Dr.
Spencer and old Giles Blewett, who had had smallpox in his youth,
came, two hours later, they found Eunice in serene charge. The
house was in order and reeking of disinfectants. Victoria's fine
furniture and fixings were being bundled out of the parlor.
There was no bedroom downstairs, and, if Christopher was going to
be ill, he must be installed there.
The doctor looked grave.
"I don't like it," he said, "but I'm not quite sure yet. If it
is smallpox the eruption will probably be out by morning. I must
admit he has most of the symptoms. Will you have him taken to
the hospital?"
"No," said Eunice, decisively. "I'll nurse him myself. I'm not
afraid and I'm well and strong."
"Very well. You've been vaccinated lately?"
"Yes."
"Well, nothing more can be done at present. You may as well lie
down for a while and save your strength."
But Eunice could not do that. There was too much to attend to.
She went out to the hall and threw up the window. Down below, at
a safe distance, Charles Holland was waiting. The cold wind blew
up to Eunice the odor of the disinfectants with which he had
steeped himself.
"What does the doctor say?" he shouted.
"He thinks it's the smallpox. Have you sent word to Victoria?"
"Yes, Jim Blewett drove into town and told her. She'll stay with
her sister till it is over. Of course it's the best thing for
her to do. She's terribly frightened."
Eunice's lip curled contemptuously. To her, a wife who could
desert her husband, no matter what disease he had, was an
incomprehensible creature. But it was better so; she would have
Christopher all to herself.
The night was long and wearisome, but the morning came all too
soon for the dread certainty it brought. The doctor pronounced
the case smallpox. Eunice had hoped against hope, but now,
knowing the worst, she was very calm and resolute.
By noon the fateful yellow flag was flying over the house, and
all arrangements had been made. Caroline was to do the necessary
cooking, and Charles was to bring the food and leave it in the
yard. Old Giles Blewett was to come every day and attend to the
stock, as well as help Eunice with the sick man; and the long,
hard fight with death began.
It was a hard fight, indeed. Christopher Holland, in the
clutches of the loathsome disease, was an object from which his
nearest and dearest might have been pardoned for shrinking. But
Eunice never faltered; she never left her post. Sometimes she
dozed in a chair by the bed, but she never lay down. Her
endurance was something wonderful, her patience and tenderness
almost superhuman. To and fro she went, in noiseless ministry,
as the long, dreadful days wore away, with a quiet smile on her
lips, and in her dark, sorrowful eyes the rapt look of a pictured
saint in some dim cathedral niche. For her there was no world
outside the bare room where lay the repulsive object she loved.
One day the doctor looked very grave. He had grown well-hardened
to pitiful scenes in his life-time; but he shrunk from telling
Eunice that her brother could not live. He had never seen such
devotion as hers. It seemed brutal to tell her that it had been
in vain.
But Eunice had seen it for herself. She took it very calmly, the
doctor thought. And she had her reward at last--such as it was.
She thought it amply sufficient.
One night Christopher Holland opened his swollen eyes as she bent
over him. They were alone in the old house. It was raining
outside, and the drops rattled noisily on the panes.
Christopher smiled at his sister with parched lips, and put out a
feeble hand toward her.
"Eunice," he said faintly, "you've been the best sister ever a
man had. I haven't treated you right; but you've stood by me to
the last. Tell Victoria--tell her--to be good to you--"
His voice died away into an inarticulate murmur. Eunice Carr was
alone with her dead.
They buried Christopher Holland in haste and privacy the next
day. The doctor disinfected the house, and Eunice was to stay
there alone until it might be safe to make other arrangements.
She had not shed a tear; the doctor thought she was a rather odd
person, but he had a great admiration for her. He told her she
was the best nurse he had ever seen. To Eunice, praise or blame
mattered nothing. Something in her life had snapped--some vital
interest had departed. She wondered how she could live through
the dreary, coming years.
Late that night she went into the room where her mother and
brother had died. The window was open and the cold, pure air was
grateful to her after the drug-laden atmosphere she had breathed
so long. She knelt down by the stripped bed.
"Mother," she said aloud, "I have kept my promise."
When she tried to rise, long after, she staggered and fell across
the bed, with her hand pressed on her heart. Old Giles Blewett
found her there in the morning. There was a smile on her face.