MRS. ALEC DAVIS MAKES A CALL
John Meredith walked slowly home. At first he thought a little about
Rosemary, but by the time he reached Rainbow Valley he had forgotten
all about her and was meditating on a point regarding German theology
which Ellen had raised. He passed through Rainbow Valley and knew it
not. The charm of Rainbow Valley had no potency against German
theology. When he reached the manse he went to his study and took down
a bulky volume in order to see which had been right, he or Ellen. He
remained immersed in its mazes until dawn, struck a new trail of
speculation and pursued it like a sleuth hound for the next week,
utterly lost to the world, his parish and his family. He read day and
night; he forgot to go to his meals when Una was not there to drag him
to them; he never thought about Rosemary or Ellen again. Old Mrs.
Marshall, over-harbour, was very ill and sent for him, but the message
lay unheeded on his desk and gathered dust. Mrs. Marshall recovered but
never forgave him. A young couple came to the manse to be married and
Mr. Meredith, with unbrushed hair, in carpet slippers and faded
dressing gown, married them. To be sure, he began by reading the
funeral service to them and got along as far as “ashes to ashes and
dust to dust” before he vaguely suspected that something was wrong.
“Dear me,” he said absently, “that is strange—very strange.”
The bride, who was very nervous, began to cry. The bridegroom, who was
not in the least nervous, giggled.
“Please, sir, I think you’re burying us instead of marrying us,” he
said.
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Meredith, as it it did not matter much. He turned
up the marriage service and got through with it, but the bride never
felt quite properly married for the rest of her life.
He forgot his prayer-meeting again—but that did not matter, for it was
a wet night and nobody came. He might even have forgotten his Sunday
service if it had not been for Mrs. Alec Davis. Aunt Martha came in on
Saturday afternoon and told him that Mrs. Davis was in the parlour and
wanted to see him. Mr. Meredith sighed. Mrs. Davis was the only woman
in Glen St. Mary church whom he positively detested. Unfortunately, she
was also the richest, and his board of managers had warned Mr. Meredith
against offending her. Mr. Meredith seldom thought of such a worldly
matter as his stipend; but the managers were more practical. Also, they
were astute. Without mentioning money, they contrived to instil into
Mr. Meredith’s mind a conviction that he should not offend Mrs. Davis.
Otherwise, he would likely have forgotten all about her as soon as Aunt
Martha had gone out. As it was, he turned down his Ewald with a feeling
of annoyance and went across the hall to the parlour.
Mrs. Davis was sitting on the sofa, looking about her with an air of
scornful disapproval.
What a scandalous room! There were no curtains on the window. Mrs.
Davis did not know that Faith and Una had taken them down the day
before to use as court trains in one of their plays and had forgotten
to put them up again, but she could not have accused those windows more
fiercely if she had known. The blinds were cracked and torn. The
pictures on the walls were crooked; the rugs were awry; the vases were
full of faded flowers; the dust lay in heaps—literally in heaps.
“What are we coming to?” Mrs. Davis asked herself, and then primmed up
her unbeautiful mouth.
Jerry and Carl had been whooping and sliding down the banisters as she
came through the hall. They did not see her and continued whooping and
sliding, and Mrs. Davis was convinced they did it on purpose. Faith’s
pet rooster ambled through the hall, stood in the parlour doorway and
looked at her. Not liking her looks, he did not venture in. Mrs. Davis
gave a scornful sniff. A pretty manse, indeed, where roosters paraded
the halls and stared people out of countenance.
“Shoo, there,” commanded Mrs. Davis, poking her flounced,
changeable-silk parasol at him.
Adam shooed. He was a wise rooster and Mrs. Davis had wrung the necks
of so many roosters with her own fair hands in the course of her fifty
years that an air of the executioner seemed to hang around her. Adam
scuttled through the hall as the minister came in.
Mr. Meredith still wore slippers and dressing gown, and his dark hair
still fell in uncared-for locks over his high brow. But he looked the
gentleman he was; and Mrs. Alec Davis, in her silk dress and beplumed
bonnet, and kid gloves and gold chain looked the vulgar, coarse-souled
woman she was. Each felt the antagonism of the other’s personality. Mr.
Meredith shrank, but Mrs. Davis girded up her loins for the fray. She
had come to the manse to propose a certain thing to the minister and
she meant to lose no time in proposing it. She was going to do him a
favour—a great favour—and the sooner he was made aware of it the
better. She had been thinking about it all summer and had come to a
decision at last. This was all that mattered, Mrs. Davis thought. When
she decided a thing it _was_ decided. Nobody else had any say in the
matter. That had always been her attitude. When she had made her mind
up to marry Alec Davis she had married him and that was the end to it.
Alec had never known how it happened, but what odds? So in this
case—Mrs. Davis had arranged everything to her own satisfaction. Now it
only remained to inform Mr. Meredith.
“Will you please shut that door?” said Mrs. Davis, unprimming her mouth
slightly to say it, but speaking with asperity. “I have something
important to say, and I can’t say it with that racket in the hall.”
Mr. Meredith shut the door meekly. Then he sat down before Mrs. Davis.
He was not wholly aware of her yet. His mind was still wrestling with
Ewald’s arguments. Mrs. Davis sensed this detachment and it annoyed
her.
“I have come to tell you, Mr. Meredith,” she said aggressively, “that I
have decided to adopt Una.”
“To—adopt—Una!” Mr. Meredith gazed at her blankly, not understanding in
the least.
“Yes. I’ve been thinking it over for some time. I have often thought of
adopting a child, since my husband’s death. But it seemed so hard to
get a suitable one. It is very few children I would want to take into
_my_ home. I wouldn’t think of taking a home child—some outcast of the
slums in all probability. And there is hardly ever any other child to
be got. One of the fishermen down at the harbour died last fall and
left six youngsters. They tried to get me to take one, but I soon gave
them to understand that I had no idea of adopting trash like that.
Their grandfather stole a horse. Besides, they were all boys and I
wanted a girl—a quiet, obedient girl that I could train up to be a
lady. Una will suit me exactly. She would be a nice little thing if she
was properly looked after—so different from Faith. I would never dream
of adopting Faith. But I’ll take Una and I’ll give her a good home, and
up-bringing, Mr. Meredith, and if she behaves herself I’ll leave her
all my money when I die. Not one of my own relatives shall have a cent
of it in any case, I’m determined on that. It was the idea of
aggravating them that set me to thinking of adopting a child as much as
anything in the first place. Una shall be well dressed and educated and
trained, Mr. Meredith, and I shall give her music and painting lessons
and treat her as if she was my own.”
Mr. Meredith was wide enough awake by this time. There was a faint
flush in his pale cheek and a dangerous light in his fine dark eyes.
Was this woman, whose vulgarity and consciousness of money oozed out of
her at every pore, actually asking him to give her Una—his dear little
wistful Una with Cecilia’s own dark-blue eyes—the child whom the dying
mother had clasped to her heart after the other children had been led
weeping from the room. Cecilia had clung to her baby until the gates of
death had shut between them. She had looked over the little dark head
to her husband.
“Take good care of her, John,” she had entreated. “She is so small—and
sensitive. The others can fight their way—but the world will hurt
_her_. Oh, John, I don’t know what you and she are going to do. You
both need me so much. But keep her close to you—keep her close to you.”
These had been almost her last words except a few unforgettable ones
for him alone. And it was this child whom Mrs. Davis had coolly
announced her intention of taking from him. He sat up straight and
looked at Mrs. Davis. In spite of the worn dressing gown and the frayed
slippers there was something about him that made Mrs. Davis feel a
little of the old reverence for “the cloth” in which she had been
brought up. After all, there _was_ a certain divinity hedging a
minister, even a poor, unworldly, abstracted one.
“I thank you for your kind intentions, Mrs. Davis,” said Mr. Meredith
with a gentle, final, quite awful courtesy, “but I cannot give you my
child.”
Mrs. Davis looked blank. She had never dreamed of his refusing.
“Why, Mr. Meredith,” she said in astonishment. “You must be cr—you
can’t mean it. You must think it over—think of all the advantages I can
give her.”
“There is no need to think it over, Mrs. Davis. It is entirely out of
the question. All the worldly advantages it is in your power to bestow
on her could not compensate for the loss of a father’s love and care. I
thank you again—but it is not to be thought of.”
Disappointment angered Mrs. Davis beyond the power of old habit to
control. Her broad red face turned purple and her voice trembled.
“I thought you’d be only too glad to let me have her,” she sneered.
“Why did you think that?” asked Mr. Meredith quietly.
“Because nobody ever supposed you cared anything about any of your
children,” retorted Mrs. Davis contemptuously. “You neglect them
scandalously. It is the talk of the place. They aren’t fed and dressed
properly, and they’re not trained at all. They have no more manners
than a pack of wild Indians. You never think of doing your duty as a
father. You let a stray child come here among them for a fortnight and
never took any notice of her—a child that swore like a trooper I’m
told. _You_ wouldn’t have cared if they’d caught small-pox from her.
And Faith made an exhibition of herself getting up in preaching and
making that speech! And she rid a pig down the street—under your very
eyes I understand. The way they act is past belief and you never lift a
finger to stop them or try to teach them anything. And now when I offer
one of them a good home and good prospects you refuse it and insult me.
A pretty father you, to talk of loving and caring for your children!”
“That will do, woman!” said Mr. Meredith. He stood up and looked at
Mrs. Davis with eyes that made her quail. “That will do,” he repeated.
“I desire to hear no more, Mrs. Davis. You have said too much. It may
be that I have been remiss in some respects in my duty as a parent, but
it is not for you to remind me of it in such terms as you have used.
Let us say good afternoon.”
Mrs. Davis did not say anything half so amiable as good afternoon, but
she took her departure. As she swept past the minister a large, plump
toad, which Carl had secreted under the lounge, hopped out almost under
her feet. Mrs. Davis gave a shriek and in trying to avoid treading on
the awful thing, lost her balance and her parasol. She did not exactly
fall, but she staggered and reeled across the room in a very
undignified fashion and brought up against the door with a thud that
jarred her from head to foot. Mr. Meredith, who had not seen the toad,
wondered if she had been attacked with some kind of apoplectic or
paralytic seizure, and ran in alarm to her assistance. But Mrs. Davis,
recovering her feet, waved him back furiously.
“Don’t you dare to touch me,” she almost shouted. “This is some more of
your children’s doings, I suppose. This is no fit place for a decent
woman. Give me my umbrella and let me go. I’ll never darken the doors
of your manse or your church again.”
Mr. Meredith picked up the gorgeous parasol meekly enough and gave it
to her. Mrs. Davis seized it and marched out. Jerry and Carl had given
up banister sliding and were sitting on the edge of the veranda with
Faith. Unfortunately, all three were singing at the tops of their
healthy young voices “There’ll be a hot time in the old town to-night.”
Mrs. Davis believed the song was meant for her and her only. She
stopped and shook her parasol at them.
“Your father is a fool,” she said, “and you are three young varmints
that ought to be whipped within an inch of your lives.”
“He isn’t,” cried Faith. “We’re not,” cried the boys. But Mrs. Davis
was gone.
“Goodness, isn’t she mad!” said Jerry. “And what is a ‘varmint’
anyhow?”
John Meredith paced up and down the parlour for a few minutes; then he
went back to his study and sat down. But he did not return to his
German theology. He was too grievously disturbed for that. Mrs. Davis
had wakened him up with a vengeance. _Was_ he such a remiss, careless
father as she had accused him of being? _Had_ he so scandalously
neglected the bodily and spiritual welfare of the four little
motherless creatures dependent on him? _Were_ his people talking of it
as harshly as Mrs. Davis had declared? It must be so, since Mrs. Davis
had come to ask for Una in the full and confident belief that he would
hand the child over to her as unconcernedly and gladly as one might
hand over a strayed, unwelcome kitten. And, if so, what then?
John Meredith groaned and resumed his pacing up and down the dusty,
disordered room. What could he do? He loved his children as deeply as
any father could and he knew, past the power of Mrs. Davis or any of
her ilk, to disturb his conviction, that they loved him devotedly. But
_was_ he fit to have charge of them? He knew—none better—his weaknesses
and limitations. What was needed was a good woman’s presence and
influence and common sense. But how could that be arranged? Even were
he able to get such a housekeeper it would cut Aunt Martha to the
quick. She believed she could still do all that was meet and necessary.
He could not so hurt and insult the poor old woman who had been so kind
to him and his. How devoted she had been to Cecilia! And Cecilia had
asked him to be very considerate of Aunt Martha. To be sure, he
suddenly remembered that Aunt Martha had once hinted that he ought to
marry again. He felt she would not resent a wife as she would a
housekeeper. But that was out of the question. He did not wish to
marry—he did not and could not care for anyone. Then what could he do?
It suddenly occurred to him that he would go over to Ingleside and talk
over his difficulties with Mrs. Blythe. Mrs. Blythe was one of the few
women he never felt shy or tongue-tied with. She was always so
sympathetic and refreshing. It might be that she could suggest some
solution of his problems. And even if she could not Mr. Meredith felt
that he needed a little decent human companionship after his dose of
Mrs. Davis—something to take the taste of her out of his soul.
He dressed hurriedly and ate his supper less abstractedly than usual.
It occurred to him that it was a poor meal. He looked at his children;
they were rosy and healthy looking enough—except Una, and she had never
been very strong even when her mother was alive. They were all laughing
and talking—certainly they seemed happy. Carl was especially happy
because he had two most beautiful spiders crawling around his supper
plate. Their voices were pleasant, their manners did not seem bad, they
were considerate of and gentle to one another. Yet Mrs. Davis had said
their behaviour was the talk of the congregation.
As Mr. Meredith went through his gate Dr. Blythe and Mrs. Blythe drove
past on the road that led to Lowbridge. The minister’s face fell. Mrs.
Blythe was going away—there was no use in going to Ingleside. And he
craved a little companionship more than ever. As he gazed rather
hopelessly over the landscape the sunset light struck on a window of
the old West homestead on the hill. It flared out rosily like a beacon
of good hope. He suddenly remembered Rosemary and Ellen West. He
thought that he would relish some of Ellen’s pungent conversation. He
thought it would be pleasant to see Rosemary’s slow, sweet smile and
calm, heavenly blue eyes again. What did that old poem of Sir Philip
Sidney’s say?—“continual comfort in a face”—that just suited her. And
he needed comfort. Why not go and call? He remembered that Ellen had
asked him to drop in sometimes and there was Rosemary’s book to take
back—he ought to take it back before he forgot. He had an uneasy
suspicion that there were a great many books in his library which he
had borrowed at sundry times and in divers places and had forgotten to
take back. It was surely his duty to guard against that in this case.
He went back into his study, got the book, and plunged downward into
Rainbow Valley.