Outside of the orchard the grass was only beginning to grow green; but
here, sheltered by the spruce hedges from uncertain winds and sloping to
southern suns, it was already like a wonderful velvet carpet; the leaves
on the trees were beginning to come out in woolly, grayish clusters;
and there were purple-pencilled white violets at the base of the Pulpit
Stone.
“It’s all just as father described it,” said Felix with a blissful sigh,
“and there’s the well with the Chinese roof.”
We hurried over to it, treading on the spears of mint that were
beginning to shoot up about it. It was a very deep well, and the curb
was of rough, undressed stones. Over it, the queer, pagoda-like roof,
built by Uncle Stephen on his return from a voyage to China, was covered
with yet leafless vines.
“It’s so pretty, when the vines leaf out and hang down in long
festoons,” said the Story Girl. “The birds build their nests in it. A
pair of wild canaries come here every summer. And ferns grow out between
the stones of the well as far down as you can see. The water is lovely.
Uncle Edward preached his finest sermon about the Bethlehem well
where David’s soldiers went to get him water, and he illustrated it by
describing his old well at the homestead--this very well--and how in
foreign lands he had longed for its sparkling water. So you see it is
quite famous.”
“There’s a cup just like the one that used to be here in father’s time,”
exclaimed Felix, pointing to an old-fashioned shallow cup of clouded
blue ware on a little shelf inside the curb.
“It is the very same cup,” said the Story Girl impressively. “Isn’t it
an amazing thing? That cup has been here for forty years, and hundreds
of people have drunk from it, and it has never been broken. Aunt Julia
dropped it down the well once, but they fished it up, not hurt a bit
except for that little nick in the rim. I think it is bound up with the
fortunes of the King family, like the Luck of Edenhall in Longfellow’s
poem. It is the last cup of Grandmother King’s second best set. Her best
set is still complete. Aunt Olivia has it. You must get her to show it
to you. It’s so pretty, with red berries all over it, and the funniest
little pot-bellied cream jug. Aunt Olivia never uses it except on a
family anniversary.”
We took a drink from the blue cup and then went to find our birthday
trees. We were rather disappointed to find them quite large, sturdy
ones. It seemed to us that they should still be in the sapling stage
corresponding to our boyhood.
“Your apples are lovely to eat,” the Story Girl said to me, “but Felix’s
are only good for pies. Those two big trees behind them are the twins’
trees--my mother and Uncle Felix, you know. The apples are so dead sweet
that nobody but us children and the French boys can eat them. And that
tall, slender tree over there, with the branches all growing straight
up, is a seedling that came up of itself, and NOBODY can eat its apples,
they are so sour and bitter. Even the pigs won’t eat them. Aunt Janet
tried to make pies of them once, because she said she hated to see them
going to waste. But she never tried again. She said it was better to
waste apples alone than apples and sugar too. And then she tried giving
them away to the French hired men, but they wouldn’t even carry them
home.”
The Story Girl’s words fell on the morning air like pearls and diamonds.
Even her prepositions and conjunctions had untold charm, hinting at
mystery and laughter and magic bound up in everything she mentioned.
Apple pies and sour seedlings and pigs became straightway invested with
a glamour of romance.
“I like to hear you talk,” said Felix in his grave, stodgy way.
“Everybody does,” said the Story Girl coolly. “I’m glad you like the way
I talk. But I want you to like ME, too--AS WELL as you like Felicity and
Cecily. Not BETTER. I wanted that once but I’ve got over it. I found
out in Sunday School, the day the minister taught our class, that it was
selfish. But I want you to like me AS WELL.”
“Well, I will, for one,” said Felix emphatically. I think he was
remembering that Felicity had called him fat.
Cecily now joined us. It appeared that it was Felicity’s morning to help
prepare breakfast, therefore she could not come. We all went to Uncle
Stephen’s Walk.
This was a double row of apple trees, running down the western side of
the orchard. Uncle Stephen was the first born of Abraham and Elizabeth
King. He had none of grandfather’s abiding love for woods and meadows
and the kindly ways of the warm red earth. Grandmother King had been a
Ward, and in Uncle Stephen the blood of the seafaring race claimed its
own. To sea he must go, despite the pleadings and tears of a reluctant
mother; and it was from the sea he came to set out his avenue in the
orchard with trees brought from a foreign land.
Then he sailed away again--and the ship was never heard of more. The
gray first came in grandmother’s brown hair in those months of waiting.
The, for the first time, the orchard heard the sound of weeping and was
consecrated by a sorrow.
“When the blossoms come out it’s wonderful to walk here,” said the
Story Girl. “It’s like a dream of fairyland--as if you were walking in
a king’s palace. The apples are delicious, and in winter it’s a splendid
place for coasting.”
From the Walk we went to the Pulpit Stone--a huge gray boulder, as high
as a man’s head, in the southeastern corner. It was straight and smooth
in front, but sloped down in natural steps behind, with a ledge midway
on which one could stand. It had played an important part in the games
of our uncles and aunts, being fortified castle, Indian ambush, throne,
pulpit, or concert platform, as occasion required. Uncle Edward had
preached his first sermon at the age of eight from that old gray
boulder; and Aunt Julia, whose voice was to delight thousands, sang her
earliest madrigals there.
The Story Girl mounted to the ledge, sat on the rim, and looked at us.
Pat sat gravely at its base and daintily washed his face with his black
paws.
“Now for your stories about the orchard,” said I.
“There are two important ones,” said the Story Girl. “The story of the
Poet Who Was Kissed, and the Tale of the Family Ghost. Which one shall I
tell?”
“Tell them both,” said Felix greedily, “but tell the ghost one first.”
“I don’t know.” The Story Girl looked dubious. “That sort of story ought
to be told in the twilight among the shadows. Then it would frighten the
souls out of your bodies.”
We thought it might be more agreeable not to have the souls frightened
out of our bodies, and we voted for the Family Ghost.
“Ghost stories are more comfortable in daytime,” said Felix.
The Story Girl began it and we listened avidly. Cecily, who had heard it
many times before, listened just as eagerly as we did. She declared to
me afterwards that no matter how often the Story Girl told a story it
always seemed as new and exciting as if you had just heard it for the
first time.
“Long, long ago,” began the Story Girl, her voice giving us an
impression of remote antiquity, “even before Grandfather King was born,
an orphan cousin of his lived here with his parents. Her name was Emily
King. She was very small and very sweet. She had soft brown eyes that
were too timid to look straight at anybody--like Cecily’s there--and
long, sleek, brown curls--like mine; and she had a tiny birthmark like a
pink butterfly on one cheek--right here.
“Of course, there was no orchard here then. It was just a field;
but there was a clump of white birches in it, right where that big,
spreading tree of Uncle Alec’s is now, and Emily liked to sit among the
ferns under the birches and read or sew. She had a lover. His name was
Malcolm Ward and he was as handsome as a prince. She loved him with all
her heart and he loved her the same; but they had never spoken about
it. They used to meet under the birches and talk about everything except
love. One day he told her he was coming the next day to ask A VERY
IMPORTANT QUESTION, and he wanted to find her under the birches when he
came. Emily promised to meet him there. I am sure she stayed awake that
night, thinking about it, and wondering what the important question
would be, although she knew perfectly well. I would have. And the next
day she dressed herself beautifully in her best pale blue muslin and
sleeked her curls and went smiling to the birches. And while she was
waiting there, thinking such lovely thoughts, a neighbour’s boy came
running up--a boy who didn’t know about her romance--and cried out that
Malcolm Ward had been killed by his gun going off accidentally. Emily
just put her hands to her heart--so--and fell, all white and broken
among the ferns. And when she came back to life she never cried or
lamented. She was CHANGED. She was never, never like herself again; and
she was never contented unless she was dressed in her blue muslin and
waiting under the birches. She got paler and paler every day, but the
pink butterfly grew redder, until it looked just like a stain of blood
on her white cheek. When the winter came she died. But next spring”--the
Story Girl dropped her voice to a whisper that was as audible and
thrilling as her louder tones--“people began to tell that Emily was
sometimes seen waiting under the birches still. Nobody knew just who
told it first. But more than one person saw her. Grandfather saw her
when he was a little boy. And my mother saw her once.”
“Did YOU ever see her?” asked Felix skeptically.
“No, but I shall some day, if I keep on believing in her,” said the
Story Girl confidently.
“I wouldn’t like to see her. I’d be afraid,” said Cecily with a shiver.
“There wouldn’t be anything to be afraid of,” said the Story Girl
reassuringly. “It’s not as if it were a strange ghost. It’s our own
family ghost, so of course it wouldn’t hurt us.”
We were not so sure of this. Ghosts were unchancy folk, even if they
were our family ghosts. The Story Girl had made the tale very real to
us. We were glad we had not heard it in the evening. How could we ever
have got back to the house through the shadows and swaying branches of a
darkening orchard? As it was, we were almost afraid to look up it, lest
we should see the waiting, blue-clad Emily under Uncle Alec’s tree.
But all we saw was Felicity, tearing over the green sward, her curls
streaming behind her in a golden cloud.
“Felicity’s afraid she’s missed something,” remarked the Story Girl in
a tone of quiet amusement. “Is your breakfast ready, Felicity, or have I
time to tell the boys the Story of the Poet Who Was Kissed?”
“Breakfast is ready, but we can’t have it till father is through
attending to the sick cow, so you will likely have time,” answered
Felicity.
Felix and I couldn’t keep our eyes off her. Crimson-cheeked,
shining-eyed from her haste, her face was like a rose of youth. But when
the Story Girl spoke, we forgot to look at Felicity.
“About ten years after Grandfather and Grandmother King were married, a
young man came to visit them. He was a distant relative of grandmother’s
and he was a Poet. He was just beginning to be famous. He was VERY
famous afterward. He came into the orchard to write a poem, and he fell
asleep with his head on a bench that used to be under grandfather’s
tree. Then Great-Aunt Edith came into the orchard. She was not a
Great-Aunt then, of course. She was only eighteen, with red lips and
black, black hair and eyes. They say she was always full of mischief.
She had been away and had just come home, and she didn’t know about the
Poet. But when she saw him, sleeping there, she thought he was a cousin
they had been expecting from Scotland. And she tiptoed up--so--and bent
over--so--and kissed his cheek. Then he opened his big blue eyes and
looked up into Edith’s face. She blushed as red as a rose, for she
knew she had done a dreadful thing. This could not be her cousin from
Scotland. She knew, for he had written so to her, that he had eyes as
black as her own. Edith ran away and hid; and of course she felt still
worse when she found out that he was a famous poet. But he wrote one of
his most beautiful poems on it afterwards and sent it to her--and it was
published in one of his books.”
We had SEEN it all--the sleeping genius--the roguish, red-lipped
girl--the kiss dropped as lightly as a rose-petal on the sunburned
cheek.
“They should have got married,” said Felix.
“Well, in a book they would have, but you see this was in real life,”
said the Story Girl. “We sometimes act the story out. I like it when
Peter plays the poet. I don’t like it when Dan is the poet because he
is so freckled and screws his eyes up so tight. But you can hardly ever
coax Peter to be the poet--except when Felicity is Edith--and Dan is so
obliging that way.”
“What is Peter like?” I asked.
“Peter is splendid. His mother lives on the Markdale road and washes
for a living. Peter’s father ran away and left them when Peter was only
three years old. He has never come back, and they don’t know whether he
is alive or dead. Isn’t that a nice way to behave to your family? Peter
has worked for his board ever since he was six. Uncle Roger sends him
to school, and pays him wages in summer. We all like Peter, except
Felicity.”
“I like Peter well enough in his place,” said Felicity primly, “but you
make far too much of him, mother says. He is only a hired boy, and he
hasn’t been well brought up, and hasn’t much education. I don’t think
you should make such an equal of him as you do.”
Laughter rippled over the Story Girl’s face as shadow waves go over ripe
wheat before a wind.
“Peter is a real gentleman, and he is more interesting than YOU could
ever be, if you were brought up and educated for a hundred years,” she
said.
“He can hardly write,” said Felicity.
“William the Conqueror couldn’t write at all,” said the Story Girl
crushingly.
“He never goes to church, and he never says his prayers,” retorted
Felicity, uncrushed.
“I do, too,” said Peter himself, suddenly appearing through a little gap
in the hedge. “I say my prayers sometimes.”
This Peter was a slim, shapely fellow, with laughing black eyes and
thick black curls. Early in the season as it was, he was barefooted. His
attire consisted of a faded, gingham shirt and a scanty pair of corduroy
knickerbockers; but he wore it with such an unconscious air of purple
and fine linen that he seemed to be much better dressed than he really
was.
“You don’t pray very often,” insisted Felicity.
“Well, God will be all the more likely to listen to me if I don’t pester
Him all the time,” argued Peter.
This was rank heresy to Felicity, but the Story Girl looked as if she
thought there might be something in it.
“You NEVER go to church, anyhow,” continued Felicity, determined not to
be argued down.
“Well, I ain’t going to church till I’ve made up my mind whether I’m
going to be a Methodist or a Presbyterian. Aunt Jane was a Methodist.
My mother ain’t much of anything but I mean to be something. It’s more
respectable to be a Methodist or a Presbyterian, or SOMETHING, than not
to be anything. When I’ve settled what I’m to be I’m going to church
same as you.”
“That’s not the same as being BORN something,” said Felicity loftily.
“I think it’s a good deal better to pick your own religion than have to
take it just because it was what your folks had,” retorted Peter.
“Now, never mind quarrelling,” said Cecily. “You leave Peter alone,
Felicity. Peter, this is Beverley King, and this is Felix. And we’re all
going to be good friends and have a lovely summer together. Think of the
games we can have! But if you go squabbling you’ll spoil it all. Peter,
what are you going to do to-day?”
“Harrow the wood field and dig your Aunt Olivia’s flower beds.”
“Aunt Olivia and I planted sweet peas yesterday,” said the Story Girl,
“and I planted a little bed of my own. I am NOT going to dig them up
this year to see if they have sprouted. It is bad for them. I shall try
to cultivate patience, no matter how long they are coming up.”
“I am going to help mother plant the vegetable garden to-day,” said
Felicity.
“Oh, I never like the vegetable garden,” said the Story Girl. “Except
when I am hungry. Then I DO like to go and look at the nice little rows
of onions and beets. But I love a flower garden. I think I could be
always good if I lived in a garden all the time.”
“Adam and Eve lived in a garden all the time,” said Felicity, “and THEY
were far from being always good.”
“They mightn’t have kept good as long as they did if they hadn’t lived
in a garden,” said the Story Girl.
We were now summoned to breakfast. Peter and the Story Girl slipped away
through the gap, followed by Paddy, and the rest of us walked up the
orchard to the house.
“Well, what do you think of the Story Girl?” asked Felicity.
“She’s just fine,” said Felix, enthusiastically. “I never heard anything
like her to tell stories.”
“She can’t cook,” said Felicity, “and she hasn’t a good complexion. Mind
you, she says she’s going to be an actress when she grows up. Isn’t that
dreadful?”
We didn’t exactly see why.
“Oh, because actresses are always wicked people,” said Felicity in a
shocked tone. “But I daresay the Story Girl will go and be one just as
soon as she can. Her father will back her up in it. He is an artist, you
know.”
Evidently Felicity thought artists and actresses and all such poor trash
were members one of another.
“Aunt Olivia says the Story Girl is fascinating,” said Cecily.
The very adjective! Felix and I recognized its beautiful fitness at
once. Yes, the Story Girl WAS fascinating and that was the final word to
be said on the subject.
Dan did not come down until breakfast was half over, and Aunt Janet
talked to him after a fashion which made us realize that it would be
well to keep, as the piquant country phrase went, from the rough side
of her tongue. But all things considered, we liked the prospect of our
summer very much. Felicity to look at--the Story Girl to tell us tales
of wonder--Cecily to admire us--Dan and Peter to play with--what more
could reasonable fellows want?