THE IMPOSSIBLE WORD
John Meredith walked meditatively through the clear crispness of a
winter night in Rainbow Valley. The hills beyond glistened with the
chill splendid lustre of moonlight on snow. Every little fir tree in
the long valley sang its own wild song to the harp of wind and frost.
His children and the Blythe lads and lasses were coasting down the
eastern slope and whizzing over the glassy pond. They were having a
glorious time and their gay voices and gayer laughter echoed up and
down the valley, dying away in elfin cadences among the trees. On the
right the lights of Ingleside gleamed through the maple grove with the
genial lure and invitation which seems always to glow in the beacons of
a home where we know there is love and good-cheer and a welcome for all
kin, whether of flesh or spirit. Mr. Meredith liked very well on
occasion to spend an evening arguing with the doctor by the drift wood
fire, where the famous china dogs of Ingleside kept ceaseless watch and
ward, as became deities of the hearth, but to-night he did not look
that way. Far on the western hill gleamed a paler but more alluring
star. Mr. Meredith was on his way to see Rosemary West, and he meant to
tell her something which had been slowly blossoming in his heart since
their first meeting and had sprung into full flower on the evening when
Faith had so warmly voiced her admiration for Rosemary.
He had come to realize that he had learned to care for Rosemary. Not as
he had cared for Cecilia, of course. _That_ was entirely different.
That love of romance and dream and glamour could never, he thought,
return. But Rosemary was beautiful and sweet and dear—very dear. She
was the best of companions. He was happier in her company than he had
ever expected to be again. She would be an ideal mistress for his home,
a good mother to his children.
During the years of his widowhood Mr. Meredith had received innumerable
hints from brother members of Presbytery and from many parishioners who
could not be suspected of any ulterior motive, as well as from some who
could, that he ought to marry again: But these hints never made any
impression on him. It was commonly thought he was never aware of them.
But he was quite acutely aware of them. And in his own occasional
visitations of common sense he knew that the common sensible thing for
him to do was to marry. But common sense was not the strong point of
John Meredith, and to choose out, deliberately and cold-bloodedly, some
“suitable” woman, as one might choose a housekeeper or a business
partner, was something he was quite incapable of doing. How he hated
that word “suitable.” It reminded him so strongly of James Perry. “A
_suit_ able woman of _suit_ able age,” that unctuous brother of the
cloth had said, in his far from subtle hint. For the moment John
Meredith had had a perfectly unbelievable desire to rush madly away and
propose marriage to the youngest, most unsuitable woman it was possible
to discover.
Mrs. Marshall Elliott was his good friend and he liked her. But when
she had bluntly told him he should marry again he felt as if she had
torn away the veil that hung before some sacred shrine of his innermost
life, and he had been more or less afraid of her ever since. He knew
there were women in his congregation “of suitable age” who would marry
him quite readily. That fact had seeped through all his abstraction
very early in his ministry in Glen St. Mary. They were good,
substantial, uninteresting women, one or two fairly comely, the others
not exactly so and John Meredith would as soon have thought of marrying
any one of them as of hanging himself. He had some ideals to which no
seeming necessity could make him false. He could ask no woman to fill
Cecilia’s place in his home unless he could offer her at least some of
the affection and homage he had given to his girlish bride. And where,
in his limited feminine acquaintance, was such a woman to be found?
Rosemary West had come into his life on that autumn evening bringing
with her an atmosphere in which his spirit recognized native air.
Across the gulf of strangerhood they clasped hands of friendship. He
knew her better in that ten minutes by the hidden spring than he knew
Emmeline Drew or Elizabeth Kirk or Amy Annetta Douglas in a year, or
could know them, in a century. He had fled to her for comfort when Mrs.
Alec Davis had outraged his mind and soul and had found it. Since then
he had gone often to the house on the hill, slipping through the
shadowy paths of night in Rainbow Valley so astutely that Glen gossip
could never be absolutely certain that he _did_ go to see Rosemary
West. Once or twice he had been caught in the West living room by other
visitors; that was all the Ladies’ Aid had to go by. But when Elizabeth
Kirk heard it she put away a secret hope she had allowed herself to
cherish, without a change of expression on her kind plain face, and
Emmeline Drew resolved that the next time she saw a certain old
bachelor of Lowbridge she would not snub him as she had done at a
previous meeting. Of course, if Rosemary West was out to catch the
minister she would catch him; she looked younger than she was and _men_
thought her pretty; besides, the West girls had money!
“It is to be hoped that he won’t be so absent-minded as to propose to
Ellen by mistake,” was the only malicious thing she allowed herself to
say to a sympathetic sister Drew. Emmeline bore no further grudge
towards Rosemary. When all was said and done, an unencumbered bachelor
was far better than a widower with four children. It had been only the
glamour of the manse that had temporarily blinded Emmeline’s eyes to
the better part.
A sled with three shrieking occupants sped past Mr. Meredith to the
pond. Faith’s long curls streamed in the wind and her laughter rang
above that of the others. John Meredith looked after them kindly and
longingly. He was glad that his children had such chums as the
Blythes—glad that they had so wise and gay and tender a friend as Mrs.
Blythe. But they needed something more, and that something would be
supplied when he brought Rosemary West as a bride to the old manse.
There was in her a quality essentially maternal.
It was Saturday night and he did not often go calling on Saturday
night, which was supposed to be dedicated to a thoughtful revision of
Sunday’s sermon. But he had chosen this night because he had learned
that Ellen West was going to be away and Rosemary would be alone. Often
as he had spent pleasant evenings in the house on the hill he had
never, since that first meeting at the spring, seen Rosemary alone.
Ellen had always been there.
He did not precisely object to Ellen being there. He liked Ellen West
very much and they were the best of friends. Ellen had an almost
masculine understanding and a sense of humour which his own shy, hidden
appreciation of fun found very agreeable. He liked her interest in
politics and world events. There was no man in the Glen, not even
excepting Dr. Blythe, who had a better grasp of such things.
“I think it is just as well to be interested in things as long as you
live,” she had said. “If you’re not, it doesn’t seem to me that there’s
much difference between the quick and the dead.”
He liked her pleasant, deep, rumbly voice; he liked the hearty laugh
with which she always ended up some jolly and well-told story. She
never gave him digs about his children as other Glen women did; she
never bored him with local gossip; she had no malice and no pettiness.
She was always splendidly sincere. Mr. Meredith, who had picked up Miss
Cornelia’s way of classifying people, considered that Ellen belonged to
the race of Joseph. Altogether, an admirable woman for a sister-in-law.
Nevertheless, a man did not want even the most admirable of women
around when he was proposing to another woman. And Ellen was always
around. She did not insist on talking to Mr. Meredith herself all the
time. She let Rosemary have a fair share of him. Many evenings, indeed,
Ellen effaced herself almost totally, sitting back in the corner with
St. George in her lap, and letting Mr. Meredith and Rosemary talk and
sing and read books together. Sometimes they quite forgot her presence.
But if their conversation or choice of duets ever betrayed the least
tendency to what Ellen considered philandering, Ellen promptly nipped
that tendency in the bud and blotted Rosemary out for the rest of the
evening. But not even the grimmest of amiable dragons can altogether
prevent a certain subtle language of eye and smile and eloquent
silence; and so the minister’s courtship progressed after a fashion.
But if it was ever to reach a climax that climax must come when Ellen
was away. And Ellen was so seldom away, especially in winter. She found
her own fireside the pleasantest place in the world, she vowed. Gadding
had no attraction for her. She was fond of company but she wanted it at
home. Mr. Meredith had almost been driven to the conclusion that he
must write to Rosemary what he wanted to say, when Ellen casually
announced one evening that she was going to a silver wedding next
Saturday night. She had been bridesmaid when the principals were
married. Only old guests were invited, so Rosemary was not included.
Mr. Meredith pricked up his ears a trifle and a gleam flashed into his
dreamy dark eyes. Both Ellen and Rosemary saw it; and both Ellen and
Rosemary felt, with a tingling shock, that Mr. Meredith would certainly
come up the hill next Saturday night.
“Might as well have it over with, St. George,” Ellen sternly told the
black cat, after Mr. Meredith had gone home and Rosemary had silently
gone upstairs. “He means to ask her, St. George—I’m perfectly sure of
that. So he might as well have his chance to do it and find out he
can’t get her, George. She’d rather like to take him, Saint. I know
that—but she promised, and she’s got to keep her promise. I’m rather
sorry in some ways, St. George. I don’t know of a man I’d sooner have
for a brother-in-law if a brother-in-law was convenient. I haven’t a
thing against him, Saint—not a thing except that he won’t see and can’t
be made to see that the Kaiser is a menace to the peace of Europe.
That’s _his_ blind spot. But he’s good company and I like him. A woman
can say anything she likes to a man with a mouth like John Meredith’s
and be sure of not being misunderstood. Such a man is more precious
than rubies, Saint—and much rarer, George. But he can’t have
Rosemary—and I suppose when he finds out he can’t have her he’ll drop
us both. And we’ll miss him, Saint—we’ll miss him something scandalous,
George. But she promised, and I’ll see that she keeps her promise!”
Ellen’s face looked almost ugly in its lowering resolution. Upstairs
Rosemary was crying into her pillow.
So Mr. Meredith found his lady alone and looking very beautiful.
Rosemary had not made any special toilet for the occasion; she wanted
to, but she thought it would be absurd to dress up for a man you meant
to refuse. So she wore her plain dark afternoon dress and looked like a
queen in it. Her suppressed excitement coloured her face to brilliancy,
her great blue eyes were pools of light less placid than usual.
She wished the interview were over. She had looked forward to it all
day with dread. She felt quite sure that John Meredith cared a great
deal for her after a fashion—and she felt just as sure that he did not
care for her as he had cared for his first love. She felt that her
refusal would disappoint him considerably, but she did not think it
would altogether overwhelm him. Yet she hated to make it; hated for his
sake and—Rosemary was quite honest with herself—for her own. She knew
she could have loved John Meredith if—if it had been permissible. She
knew that life would be a blank thing if, rejected as lover, he refused
longer to be a friend. She knew that she could be very happy with him
and that she could make him happy. But between her and happiness stood
the prison gate of the promise she had made to Ellen years ago.
Rosemary could not remember her father. He had died when she was only
three years old. Ellen, who had been thirteen, remembered him, but with
no special tenderness. He had been a stern, reserved man many years
older than his fair, pretty wife. Five years later their brother of
twelve died also; since his death the two girls had always lived alone
with their mother. They had never mingled very freely in the social
life of the Glen or Lowbridge, though where they went the wit and
spirit of Ellen and the sweetness and beauty of Rosemary made them
welcome guests. Both had what was called “a disappointment” in their
girlhood. The sea had not given up Rosemary’s lover; and Norman
Douglas, then a handsome, red-haired young giant, noted for wild
driving and noisy though harmless escapades, had quarrelled with Ellen
and left her in a fit of pique.
There were not lacking candidates for both Martin’s and Norman’s
places, but none seemed to find favour in the eyes of the West girls,
who drifted slowly out of youth and bellehood without any seeming
regret. They were devoted to their mother, who was a chronic invalid.
The three had a little circle of home interests—books and pets and
flowers—which made them happy and contented.
Mrs. West’s death, which occurred on Rosemary’s twenty-fifth birthday,
was a bitter grief to them. At first they were intolerably lonely.
Ellen, especially, continued to grieve and brood, her long, moody
musings broken only by fits of stormy, passionate weeping. The old
Lowbridge doctor told Rosemary that he feared permanent melancholy or
worse.
Once, when Ellen had sat all day, refusing either to speak or eat,
Rosemary had flung herself on her knees by her sister’s side.
“Oh, Ellen, you have me yet,” she said imploringly. “Am I nothing to
you? We have always loved each other so.”
“I won’t have you always,” Ellen had said, breaking her silence with
harsh intensity. “You will marry and leave me. I shall be left all
alone. I cannot bear the thought—I _cannot_. I would rather die.”
“I will never marry,” said Rosemary, “never, Ellen.”
Ellen bent forward and looked searchingly into Rosemary’s eyes.
“Will you promise me that solemnly?” she said. “Promise it on mother’s
Bible.”
Rosemary assented at once, quite willing to humour Ellen. What did it
matter? She knew quite well she would never want to marry any one. Her
love had gone down with Martin Crawford to the deeps of the sea; and
without love she could not marry any one. So she promised readily,
though Ellen made rather a fearsome rite of it. They clasped hands over
the Bible, in their mother’s vacant room, and both vowed to each other
that they would never marry and would always live together.
Ellen’s condition improved from that hour. She soon regained her normal
cheery poise. For ten years she and Rosemary lived in the old house
happily, undisturbed by any thought of marrying or giving in marriage.
Their promise sat very lightly on them. Ellen never failed to remind
her sister of it whenever any eligible male creature crossed their
paths, but she had never been really alarmed until John Meredith came
home that night with Rosemary. As for Rosemary, Ellen’s obsession
regarding that promise had always been a little matter of mirth to
her—until lately. Now, it was a merciless fetter, self-imposed but
never to be shaken off. Because of it to-night she must turn her face
from happiness.
It was true that the shy, sweet, rosebud love she had given to her
boy-lover she could never give to another. But she knew now that she
could give to John Meredith a love richer and more womanly. She knew
that he touched deeps in her nature that Martin had never touched—that
had not, perhaps, been in the girl of seventeen to touch. And she must
send him away to-night—send him back to his lonely hearth and his empty
life and his heart-breaking problems, because she had promised Ellen,
ten years before, on their mother’s Bible, that she would never marry.
John Meredith did not immediately grasp his opportunity. On the
contrary, he talked for two good hours on the least lover-like of
subjects. He even tried politics, though politics always bored
Rosemary. The latter began to think that she had been altogether
mistaken, and her fears and expectations suddenly seemed to her
grotesque. She felt flat and foolish. The glow went out of her face and
the lustre out of her eyes. John Meredith had not the slightest
intention of asking her to marry him.
And then, quite suddenly, he rose, came across the room, and standing
by her chair, he asked it. The room had grown terribly still. Even St.
George ceased to purr. Rosemary heard her own heart beating and was
sure John Meredith must hear it too.
Now was the time for her to say no, gently but firmly. She had been
ready for days with her stilted, regretful little formula. And now the
words of it had completely vanished from her mind. She had to say
no—and she suddenly found she could not say it. It was the impossible
word. She knew now that it was not that she _could_ have loved John
Meredith, but that she _did_ love him. The thought of putting him from
her life was agony.
She must say _something;_ she lifted her bowed golden head and asked
him stammeringly to give her a few days for—for consideration.
John Meredith was a little surprised. He was not vainer than any man
has a right to be, but he had expected that Rosemary West would say
yes. He had been tolerably sure she cared for him. Then why this
doubt—this hesitation? She was not a school girl to be uncertain as to
her own mind. He felt an ugly shock of disappointment and dismay. But
he assented to her request with his unfailing gentle courtesy and went
away at once.
“I will tell you in a few days,” said Rosemary, with downcast eyes and
burning face.
When the door shut behind him she went back into the room and wrung her
hands.