Produced by Leslee Suttie, Mary Mark Ockerbloom, and Ben Crowder
THE STORY GIRL
By L. M. Montgomery
Author of “Anne of Green Gables,” “Anne of Avonlea,” “Kilmeny of the
Orchard,” etc.
With frontispiece and cover in colour by George Gibbs
This book has been put on-line as part of the BUILD-A-BOOK Initiative
at the Celebration of Women Writers through the combined work of Leslee
Suttie and Mary Mark Ockerbloom.
http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/
Reformatted by Ben Crowder
“She was a form of life and light
That seen, became a part of sight,
And rose, where’er I turn’d mine eye,
The morning-star of Memory!” --Byron.
TO MY COUSIN
Frederica E. Campbell
IN REMEMBRANCE OF OLD DAYS, OLD DREAMS, AND OLD LAUGHTER
CONTENTS
I. The Home of Our Fathers
II. A Queen of Hearts
III. Legends of the Old Orchard
IV. The Wedding Veil of the Proud Princess
V. Peter Goes to Church
VI. The Mystery of Golden Milestone
VII. How Betty Sherman Won a Husband
VIII. A Tragedy of Childhood
IX. Magic Seed
X. A Daughter of Eve
XI. The Story Girl Does Penance
XII. The Blue Chest of Rachel Ward
XIII. An Old Proverb With a New Meaning
XIV. Forbidden Fruit
XV. A Disobedient Brother
XVI. The Ghostly Bell
XVII. The Proof of the Pudding
XVIII. How Kissing Was Discovered
XIX. A Dread Prophecy
XX. The Judgment Sunday
XXI. Dreamers of Dreams
XXII. The Dream Books
XXIII. Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On
XXIV. The Bewitchment of Pat
XXV. A Cup of Failure
XXVI. Peter Makes an Impression
XXVII. The Ordeal of Bitter Apples
XXVIII. The Tale of the Rainbow Bridge
XXIX. The Shadow Feared of Man
XXX. A Compound Letter
XXXI. On the Edge of Light and Dark
XXXII. The Opening of the Blue Chest
THE STORY GIRL
CHAPTER I. THE HOME OF OUR FATHERS
“I do like a road, because you can be always wondering what is at the
end of it.”
The Story Girl said that once upon a time. Felix and I, on the May
morning when we left Toronto for Prince Edward Island, had not then
heard her say it, and, indeed, were but barely aware of the existence of
such a person as the Story Girl. We did not know her at all under that
name. We knew only that a cousin, Sara Stanley, whose mother, our Aunt
Felicity, was dead, was living down on the Island with Uncle Roger
and Aunt Olivia King, on a farm adjoining the old King homestead in
Carlisle. We supposed we should get acquainted with her when we reached
there, and we had an idea, from Aunt Olivia’s letters to father, that
she would be quite a jolly creature. Further than that we did not think
about her. We were more interested in Felicity and Cecily and Dan,
who lived on the homestead and would therefore be our roofmates for a
season.
But the spirit of the Story Girl’s yet unuttered remark was thrilling
in our hearts that morning, as the train pulled out of Toronto. We were
faring forth on a long road; and, though we had some idea what would be
at the end of it, there was enough glamour of the unknown about it to
lend a wonderful charm to our speculations concerning it.
We were delighted at the thought of seeing father’s old home, and living
among the haunts of his boyhood. He had talked so much to us about it,
and described its scenes so often and so minutely, that he had inspired
us with some of his own deep-seated affection for it--an affection that
had never waned in all his years of exile. We had a vague feeling that
we, somehow, belonged there, in that cradle of our family, though we had
never seen it. We had always looked forward eagerly to the promised day
when father would take us “down home,” to the old house with the spruces
behind it and the famous “King orchard” before it--when we might ramble
in “Uncle Stephen’s Walk,” drink from the deep well with the Chinese
roof over it, stand on “the Pulpit Stone,” and eat apples from our
“birthday trees.”
The time had come sooner than we had dared to hope; but father could
not take us after all. His firm asked him to go to Rio de Janeiro that
spring to take charge of their new branch there. It was too good a
chance to lose, for father was a poor man and it meant promotion and
increase of salary; but it also meant the temporary breaking up of our
home. Our mother had died before either of us was old enough to remember
her; father could not take us to Rio de Janeiro. In the end he decided
to send us to Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet down on the homestead; and our
housekeeper, who belonged to the Island and was now returning to it,
took charge of us on the journey. I fear she had an anxious trip of it,
poor woman! She was constantly in a quite justifiable terror lest we
should be lost or killed; she must have felt great relief when she
reached Charlottetown and handed us over to the keeping of Uncle Alec.
Indeed, she said as much.
“The fat one isn’t so bad. He isn’t so quick to move and get out of your
sight while you’re winking as the thin one. But the only safe way to
travel with those young ones would be to have ‘em both tied to you with
a short rope--a MIGHTY short rope.”
“The fat one” was Felix, who was very sensitive about his plumpness.
He was always taking exercises to make him thin, with the dismal result
that he became fatter all the time. He vowed that he didn’t care; but he
DID care terribly, and he glowered at Mrs. MacLaren in a most undutiful
fashion. He had never liked her since the day she had told him he would
soon be as broad as he was long.
For my own part, I was rather sorry to see her going; and she cried over
us and wished us well; but we had forgotten all about her by the time
we reached the open country, driving along, one on either side of Uncle
Alec, whom we loved from the moment we saw him. He was a small man, with
thin, delicate features, close-clipped gray beard, and large, tired,
blue eyes--father’s eyes over again. We knew that Uncle Alec was fond
of children and was heart-glad to welcome “Alan’s boys.” We felt at home
with him, and were not afraid to ask him questions on any subject that
came uppermost in our minds. We became very good friends with him on
that twenty-four mile drive.
Much to our disappointment it was dark when we reached Carlisle--too
dark to see anything very distinctly, as we drove up the lane of the
old King homestead on the hill. Behind us a young moon was hanging over
southwestern meadows of spring-time peace, but all about us were the
soft, moist shadows of a May night. We peered eagerly through the gloom.
“There’s the big willow, Bev,” whispered Felix excitedly, as we turned
in at the gate.
There it was, in truth--the tree Grandfather King had planted when he
returned one evening from ploughing in the brook field and stuck the
willow switch he had used all day in the soft soil by the gate.
It had taken root and grown; our father and our uncles and aunts had
played in its shadow; and now it was a massive thing, with a huge girth
of trunk and great spreading boughs, each of them as large as a tree in
itself.
“I’m going to climb it to-morrow,” I said joyfully.
Off to the right was a dim, branching place which we knew was the
orchard; and on our left, among sibilant spruces and firs, was the old,
whitewashed house--from which presently a light gleamed through an open
door, and Aunt Janet, a big, bustling, sonsy woman, with full-blown
peony cheeks, came to welcome us.
Soon after we were at supper in the kitchen, with its low, dark,
raftered ceiling from which substantial hams and flitches of bacon were
hanging. Everything was just as father had described it. We felt that we
had come home, leaving exile behind us.
Felicity, Cecily, and Dan were sitting opposite us, staring at us when
they thought we would be too busy eating to see them. We tried to stare
at them when THEY were eating; and as a result we were always catching
each other at it and feeling cheap and embarrassed.
Dan was the oldest; he was my age--thirteen. He was a lean, freckled
fellow with rather long, lank, brown hair and the shapely King nose. We
recognized it at once. His mouth was his own, however, for it was like
to no mouth on either the King or the Ward side; and nobody would have
been anxious to claim it, for it was an undeniably ugly one--long and
narrow and twisted. But it could grin in friendly fashion, and both
Felix and I felt that we were going to like Dan.
Felicity was twelve. She had been called after Aunt Felicity, who was
the twin sister of Uncle Felix. Aunt Felicity and Uncle Felix, as father
had often told us, had died on the same day, far apart, and were buried
side by side in the old Carlisle graveyard.
We had known from Aunt Olivia’s letters, that Felicity was the beauty of
the connection, and we had been curious to see her on that account. She
fully justified our expectations. She was plump and dimpled, with big,
dark-blue, heavy-lidded eyes, soft, feathery, golden curls, and a pink
and white skin--“the King complexion.” The Kings were noted for their
noses and complexion. Felicity had also delightful hands and wrists. At
every turn of them a dimple showed itself. It was a pleasure to wonder
what her elbows must be like.
She was very nicely dressed in a pink print and a frilled muslin apron;
and we understood, from something Dan said, that she had “dressed up”
in honour of our coming. This made us feel quite important. So far as we
knew, no feminine creatures had ever gone to the pains of dressing up on
our account before.
Cecily, who was eleven, was pretty also--or would have been had Felicity
not been there. Felicity rather took the colour from other girls. Cecily
looked pale and thin beside her; but she had dainty little features,
smooth brown hair of satin sheen, and mild brown eyes, with just a hint
of demureness in them now and again. We remembered that Aunt Olivia
had written to father that Cecily was a true Ward--she had no sense
of humour. We did not know what this meant, but we thought it was not
exactly complimentary.
Still, we were both inclined to think we would like Cecily better than
Felicity. To be sure, Felicity was a stunning beauty. But, with the
swift and unerring intuition of childhood, which feels in a moment what
it sometimes takes maturity much time to perceive, we realized that
she was rather too well aware of her good looks. In brief, we saw that
Felicity was vain.
“It’s a wonder the Story Girl isn’t over to see you,” said Uncle Alec.
“She’s been quite wild with excitement about your coming.”
“She hasn’t been very well all day,” explained Cecily, “and Aunt Olivia
wouldn’t let her come out in the night air. She made her go to bed
instead. The Story Girl was awfully disappointed.”
“Who is the Story Girl?” asked Felix.
“Oh, Sara--Sara Stanley. We call her the Story Girl partly because
she’s such a hand to tell stories--oh, I can’t begin to describe it--and
partly because Sara Ray, who lives at the foot of the hill, often comes
up to play with us, and it is awkward to have two girls of the same name
in the same crowd. Besides, Sara Stanley doesn’t like her name and she’d
rather be called the Story Girl.”
Dan speaking for the first time, rather sheepishly volunteered the
information that Peter had also been intending to come over but had to
go home to take some flour to his mother instead.
“Peter?” I questioned. I had never heard of any Peter.
“He is your Uncle Roger’s handy boy,” said Uncle Alec. “His name is
Peter Craig, and he is a real smart little chap. But he’s got his share
of mischief, that same lad.”
“He wants to be Felicity’s beau,” said Dan slyly.
“Don’t talk silly nonsense, Dan,” said Aunt Janet severely.
Felicity tossed her golden head and shot an unsisterly glance at Dan.
“I wouldn’t be very likely to have a hired boy for a beau,” she
observed.
We saw that her anger was real, not affected. Evidently Peter was not an
admirer of whom Felicity was proud.
We were very hungry boys; and when we had eaten all we could--and oh,
what suppers Aunt Janet always spread!--we discovered that we were very
tired also--too tired to go out and explore our ancestral domains, as we
would have liked to do, despite the dark.
We were quite willing to go to bed; and presently we found ourselves
tucked away upstairs in the very room, looking out eastward into the
spruce grove, which father had once occupied. Dan shared it with us,
sleeping in a bed of his own in the opposite corner. The sheets and
pillow-slips were fragrant with lavender, and one of Grandmother King’s
noted patchwork quilts was over us. The window was open and we heard the
frogs singing down in the swamp of the brook meadow. We had heard frogs
sing in Ontario, of course; but certainly Prince Edward Island frogs
were more tuneful and mellow. Or was it simply the glamour of old family
traditions and tales which was over us, lending its magic to all sights
and sounds around us? This was home--father’s home--OUR home! We
had never lived long enough in any one house to develop a feeling
of affection for it; but here, under the roof-tree built by
Great-Grandfather King ninety years ago, that feeling swept into our
boyish hearts and souls like a flood of living sweetness and tenderness.
“Just think, those are the very frogs father listened to when he was a
little boy,” whispered Felix.
“They can hardly be the SAME frogs,” I objected doubtfully, not feeling
very certain about the possible longevity of frogs. “It’s twenty years
since father left home.”
“Well, they’re the descendants of the frogs he heard,” said Felix, “and
they’re singing in the same swamp. That’s near enough.”
Our door was open and in their room across the narrow hall the girls
were preparing for bed, and talking rather more loudly than they might
have done had they realized how far their sweet, shrill voices carried.
“What do you think of the boys?” asked Cecily.
“Beverley is handsome, but Felix is too fat,” answered Felicity
promptly.
Felix twitched the quilt rather viciously and grunted. But I began to
think I would like Felicity. It might not be altogether her fault that
she was vain. How could she help it when she looked in the mirror?
“I think they’re both nice and nice looking,” said Cecily.
Dear little soul!
“I wonder what the Story Girl will think of them,” said Felicity, as if,
after all, that was the main thing.
Somehow, we, too, felt that it was. We felt that if the Story Girl did
not approve of us it made little difference who else did or did not.
“I wonder if the Story Girl is pretty,” said Felix aloud.
“No, she isn’t,” said Dan instantly, from across the room. “But you’ll
think she is while she’s talking to you. Everybody does. It’s only when
you go away from her that you find out she isn’t a bit pretty after
all.”
The girls’ door shut with a bang. Silence fell over the house. We
drifted into the land of sleep, wondering if the Story Girl would like
us.