I wakened shortly after sunrise. The pale May sunshine was showering
through the spruces, and a chill, inspiring wind was tossing the boughs
about.
“Felix, wake up,” I whispered, shaking him.
“What’s the matter?” he murmured reluctantly.
“It’s morning. Let’s get up and go down and out. I can’t wait another
minute to see the places father has told us of.”
We slipped out of bed and dressed, without arousing Dan, who was still
slumbering soundly, his mouth wide open, and his bed-clothes kicked off
on the floor. I had hard work to keep Felix from trying to see if he
could “shy” a marble into that tempting open mouth. I told him it would
waken Dan, who would then likely insist on getting up and accompanying
us, and it would be so much nicer to go by ourselves for the first time.
Everything was very still as we crept downstairs. Out in the kitchen we
heard some one, presumably Uncle Alec, lighting the fire; but the heart
of house had not yet begun to beat for the day.
We paused a moment in the hall to look at the big “Grandfather” clock.
It was not going, but it seemed like an old, familiar acquaintance to
us, with the gilt balls on its three peaks; the little dial and pointer
which would indicate the changes of the moon, and the very dent in its
wooden door which father had made when he was a boy, by kicking it in a
fit of naughtiness.
Then we opened the front door and stepped out, rapture swelling in our
bosoms. There was a rare breeze from the south blowing to meet us; the
shadows of the spruces were long and clear-cut; the exquisite skies of
early morning, blue and wind-winnowed, were over us; away to the west,
beyond the brook field, was a long valley and a hill purple with firs
and laced with still leafless beeches and maples.
Behind the house was a grove of fir and spruce, a dim, cool place where
the winds were fond of purring and where there was always a resinous,
woodsy odour. On the further side of it was a thick plantation of
slender silver birches and whispering poplars; and beyond it was Uncle
Roger’s house.
Right before us, girt about with its trim spruce hedge, was the
famous King orchard, the history of which was woven into our earliest
recollections. We knew all about it, from father’s descriptions, and in
fancy we had roamed in it many a time and oft.
It was now nearly sixty years since it had had its beginning, when
Grandfather King brought his bride home. Before the wedding he had
fenced off the big south meadow that sloped to the sun; it was the
finest, most fertile field on the farm, and the neighbours told young
Abraham King that he would raise many a fine crop of wheat in that
meadow. Abraham King smiled and, being a man of few words, said nothing;
but in his mind he had a vision of the years to be, and in that vision
he saw, not rippling acres of harvest gold, but great, leafy avenues of
wide-spreading trees laden with fruit to gladden the eyes of children
and grandchildren yet unborn.
It was a vision to develop slowly into fulfilment. Grandfather King was
in no hurry. He did not set his whole orchard out at once, for he wished
it to grow with his life and history, and be bound up with all of good
and joy that should come to his household. So the morning after he had
brought his young wife home they went together to the south meadow and
planted their bridal trees. These trees were no longer living; but they
had been when father was a boy, and every spring bedecked themselves in
blossom as delicately tinted as Elizabeth King’s face when she walked
through the old south meadow in the morn of her life and love.
When a son was born to Abraham and Elizabeth a tree was planted in the
orchard for him. They had fourteen children in all, and each child
had its “birth tree.” Every family festival was commemorated in like
fashion, and every beloved visitor who spent a night under their roof
was expected to plant a tree in the orchard. So it came to pass that
every tree in it was a fair green monument to some love or delight of
the vanished years. And each grandchild had its tree, there, also, set
out by grandfather when the tidings of its birth reached him; not always
an apple tree--perhaps it was a plum, or cherry or pear. But it was
always known by the name of the person for whom, or by whom, it was
planted; and Felix and I knew as much about “Aunt Felicity’s pears,” and
“Aunt Julia’s cherries,” and “Uncle Alec’s apples,” and the “Rev. Mr.
Scott’s plums,” as if we had been born and bred among them.
And now we had come to the orchard; it was before us; we had only
to open that little whitewashed gate in the hedge and we might find
ourselves in its storied domain. But before we reached the gate we
glanced to our left, along the grassy, spruce-bordered lane which led
over to Uncle Roger’s; and at the entrance of that lane we saw a girl
standing, with a gray cat at her feet. She lifted her hand and beckoned
blithely to us; and, the orchard forgotten, we followed her summons. For
we knew that this must be the Story Girl; and in that gay and graceful
gesture was an allurement not to be gainsaid or denied.
We looked at her as we drew near with such interest that we forgot to
feel shy. No, she was not pretty. She was tall for her fourteen years,
slim and straight; around her long, white face--rather too long and too
white--fell sleek, dark-brown curls, tied above either ear with rosettes
of scarlet ribbon. Her large, curving mouth was as red as a poppy, and
she had brilliant, almond-shaped, hazel eyes; but we did not think her
pretty.
Then she spoke; she said,
“Good morning.”
Never had we heard a voice like hers. Never, in all my life since, have
I heard such a voice. I cannot describe it. I might say it was clear; I
might say it was sweet; I might say it was vibrant and far-reaching and
bell-like; all this would be true, but it would give you no real idea of
the peculiar quality which made the Story Girl’s voice what it was.
If voices had colour, hers would have been like a rainbow. It made words
LIVE. Whatever she said became a breathing entity, not a mere verbal
statement or utterance. Felix and I were too young to understand or
analyze the impression it made upon us; but we instantly felt at her
greeting that it WAS a good morning--a surpassingly good morning--the
very best morning that had ever happened in this most excellent of
worlds.
“You are Felix and Beverley,” she went on, shaking our hands with an air
of frank comradeship, which was very different from the shy, feminine
advances of Felicity and Cecily. From that moment we were as good
friends as if we had known each other for a hundred years. “I am glad to
see you. I was so disappointed I couldn’t go over last night. I got up
early this morning, though, for I felt sure you would be up early, too,
and that you’d like to have me tell you about things. I can tell things
so much better than Felicity or Cecily. Do you think Felicity is VERY
pretty?”
“She’s the prettiest girl I ever saw,” I said enthusiastically,
remembering that Felicity had called me handsome.
“The boys all think so,” said the Story Girl, not, I fancied, quite well
pleased. “And I suppose she is. She is a splendid cook, too, though she
is only twelve. I can’t cook. I am trying to learn, but I don’t make
much progress. Aunt Olivia says I haven’t enough natural gumption ever
to be a cook; but I’d love to be able to make as good cakes and pies as
Felicity can make. But then, Felicity is stupid. It’s not ill-natured
of me to say that. It’s just the truth, and you’d soon find it out for
yourselves. I like Felicity very well, but she IS stupid. Cecily is ever
so much cleverer. Cecily’s a dear. So is Uncle Alec; and Aunt Janet is
pretty nice, too.”
“What is Aunt Olivia like?” asked Felix.
“Aunt Olivia is very pretty. She is just like a pansy--all velvety and
purply and goldy.”
Felix and I SAW, somewhere inside of our heads, a velvet and purple and
gold pansy-woman, just as the Story Girl spoke.
“But is she NICE?” I asked. That was the main question about grown-ups.
Their looks mattered little to us.
“She is lovely. But she is twenty-nine, you know. That’s pretty old. She
doesn’t bother me much. Aunt Janet says that I’d have no bringing up at
all, if it wasn’t for her. Aunt Olivia says children should just be let
COME up--that everything else is settled for them long before they are
born. I don’t understand that. Do you?”
No, we did not. But it was our experience that grown-ups had a habit of
saying things hard to understand.
“What is Uncle Roger like?” was our next question.
“Well, I like Uncle Roger,” said the Story Girl meditatively. “He is big
and jolly. But he teases people too much. You ask him a serious question
and you get a ridiculous answer. He hardly ever scolds or gets cross,
though, and THAT is something. He is an old bachelor.”
“Doesn’t he ever mean to get married?” asked Felix.
“I don’t know. Aunt Olivia wishes he would, because she’s tired keeping
house for him, and she wants to go to Aunt Julia in California. But she
says he’ll never get married, because he is looking for perfection, and
when he finds her she won’t have HIM.”
By this time we were all sitting down on the gnarled roots of the
spruces, and the big gray cat came over and made friends with us. He was
a lordly animal, with a silver-gray coat beautifully marked with darker
stripes. With such colouring most cats would have had white or silver
feet; but he had four black paws and a black nose. Such points gave him
an air of distinction, and marked him out as quite different from the
common or garden variety of cats. He seemed to be a cat with a tolerably
good opinion of himself, and his response to our advances was slightly
tinged with condescension.
“This isn’t Topsy, is it?” I asked. I knew at once that the question was
a foolish one. Topsy, the cat of which father had talked, had flourished
thirty years before, and all her nine lives could scarcely have lasted
so long.
“No, but it is Topsy’s great-great-great-great-grandson,” said the Story
Girl gravely. “His name is Paddy and he is my own particular cat. We
have barn cats, but Paddy never associates with them. I am very good
friends with all cats. They are so sleek and comfortable and dignified.
And it is so easy to make them happy. Oh, I’m so glad you boys have come
to live here. Nothing ever happens here, except days, so we have to make
our own good times. We were short of boys before--only Dan and Peter to
four girls.”
“FOUR girls? Oh, yes, Sara Ray. Felicity mentioned her. What is she
like? Where does she live?”
“Just down the hill. You can’t see the house for the spruce bush. Sara
is a nice girl. She’s only eleven, and her mother is dreadfully strict.
She never allows Sara to read a single story. JUST you fancy! Sara’s
conscience is always troubling her for doing things she’s sure her
mother won’t approve, but it never prevents her from doing them. It
only spoils her fun. Uncle Roger says that a mother who won’t let you do
anything, and a conscience that won’t let you enjoy anything is an awful
combination, and he doesn’t wonder Sara is pale and thin and nervous.
But, between you and me, I believe the real reason is that her mother
doesn’t give her half enough to eat. Not that she’s mean, you know--but
she thinks it isn’t healthy for children to eat much, or anything but
certain things. Isn’t it fortunate we weren’t born into that sort of a
family?”
“I think it’s awfully lucky we were all born into the same family,”
Felix remarked.
“Isn’t it? I’ve often thought so. And I’ve often thought what a dreadful
thing it would have been if Grandfather and Grandmother King had never
got married to each other. I don’t suppose there would have been a
single one of us children here at all; or if we were, we would be part
somebody else and that would be almost as bad. When I think it all over
I can’t feel too thankful that Grandfather and Grandmother King happened
to marry each other, when there were so many other people they might
have married.”
Felix and I shivered. We felt suddenly that we had escaped a dreadful
danger--the danger of having been born somebody else. But it took
the Story Girl to make us realize just how dreadful it was and what a
terrible risk we had run years before we, or our parents either, had
existed.
“Who lives over there?” I asked, pointing to a house across the fields.
“Oh, that belongs to the Awkward Man. His name is Jasper Dale, but
everybody calls him the Awkward Man. And they do say he writes poetry.
He calls his place Golden Milestone. I know why, because I’ve read
Longfellow’s poems. He never goes into society because he is so awkward.
The girls laugh at him and he doesn’t like it. I know a story about him
and I’ll tell it to you sometime.”
“And who lives in that other house?” asked Felix, looking over the
westering valley where a little gray roof was visible among the trees.
“Old Peg Bowen. She’s very queer. She lives there with a lot of pet
animals in winter, and in summer she roams over the country and begs her
meals. They say she is crazy. People have always tried to frighten us
children into good behaviour by telling us that Peg Bowen would catch us
if we didn’t behave. I’m not so frightened of her as I once was, but
I don’t think I would like to be caught by her. Sara Ray is dreadfully
scared of her. Peter Craig says she is a witch and that he bets she’s at
the bottom of it when the butter won’t come. But I don’t believe THAT.
Witches are so scarce nowadays. There may be some somewhere in the
world, but it’s not likely there are any here right in Prince Edward
Island. They used to be very plenty long ago. I know some splendid witch
stories I’ll tell you some day. They’ll just make your blood freeze in
your veins.”
We hadn’t a doubt of it. If anybody could freeze the blood in our veins
this girl with the wonderful voice could. But it was a May morning, and
our young blood was running blithely in our veins. We suggested a visit
to the orchard would be more agreeable.
“All right. I know stories about it, too,” she said, as we walked across
the yard, followed by Paddy of the waving tail. “Oh, aren’t you glad it
is spring? The beauty of winter is that it makes you appreciate spring.”
The latch of the gate clicked under the Story Girl’s hand, and the next
moment we were in the King orchard.