I could never understand why Felix took Peter’s success in the Ordeal
of Bitter Apples so much to heart. He had not felt very keenly over the
matter of the sermons, and certainly the mere fact that Peter could
eat sour apples without making faces did not cast any reflection on
the honour or ability of the other competitors. But to Felix everything
suddenly became flat, stale, and unprofitable, because Peter continued
to hold the championship of bitter apples. It haunted his waking hours
and obsessed his nights. I heard him talking in his sleep about it. If
anything could have made him thin the way he worried over this matter
would have done it.
For myself, I cared not a groat. I had wished to be successful in the
sermon contest, and felt sore whenever I thought of my failure. But I
had no burning desire to eat sour apples without grimacing, and I did
not sympathize over and above with my brother. When, however, he took
to praying about it, I realized how deeply he felt on the subject, and
hoped he would be successful.
Felix prayed earnestly that he might be enabled to eat a bitter apple
without making a face. And when he had prayed three nights after this
manner, he contrived to eat a bitter apple without a grimace until he
came to the last bite, which proved too much for him. But Felix was
vastly encouraged.
“Another prayer or two, and I’ll be able to eat a whole one,” he said
jubilantly.
But this devoutly desired consummation did not come to pass. In spite
of prayers and heroic attempts, Felix could never get beyond that last
bite. Not even faith and works in combination could avail. For a time
he could not understand this. But he thought the mystery was solved when
Cecily came to him one day and told him that Peter was praying against
him.
“He’s praying that you’ll never be able to eat a bitter apple without
making a face,” she said. “He told Felicity and Felicity told me. She
said she thought it was real cute of him. I think that is a dreadful way
to talk about praying and I told her so. She wanted me to promise not to
tell you, but I wouldn’t promise, because I think it’s fair for you to
know what is going on.”
Felix was very indignant--and aggrieved as well.
“I don’t see why God should answer Peter’s prayers instead of mine,” he
said bitterly. “I’ve gone to church and Sunday School all my life, and
Peter never went till this summer. It isn’t fair.”
“Oh, Felix, don’t talk like that,” said Cecily, shocked. “God MUST be
fair. I’ll tell you what I believe is the reason. Peter prays three
times a day regular--in the morning and at dinner time and at night--and
besides that, any time through the day when he happens to think of it,
he just prays, standing up. Did you ever hear of such goings-on?”
“Well, he’s got to stop praying against me, anyhow,” said Felix
resolutely. “I won’t put up with it, and I’ll go and tell him so right
off.”
Felix marched over to Uncle Roger’s, and we trailed after, scenting
a scene. We found Peter shelling beans in the granary, and whistling
cheerily, as with a conscience void of offence towards all men.
“Look here, Peter,” said Felix ominously, “they tell me that you’ve
been praying right along that I couldn’t eat a bitter apple. Now, I tell
you--”
“I never did!” exclaimed Peter indignantly. “I never mentioned your
name. I never prayed that you couldn’t eat a bitter apple. I just prayed
that I’d be the only one that could.”
“Well, that’s the same thing,” cried Felix. “You’ve just been praying
for the opposite to me out of spite. And you’ve got to stop it, Peter
Craig.”
“Well, I just guess I won’t,” said Peter angrily. “I’ve just as good
a right to pray for what I want as you, Felix King, even if you was
brought up in Toronto. I s’pose you think a hired boy hasn’t any
business to pray for particular things, but I’ll show you. I’ll just
pray for what I please, and I’d like to see you try and stop me.”
“You’ll have to fight me, if you keep on praying against me,” said
Felix.
The girls gasped; but Dan and I were jubilant, snuffing battle afar off.
“All right. I can fight as well as pray.”
“Oh, don’t fight,” implored Cecily. “I think it would be dreadful.
Surely you can arrange it some other way. Let’s all give up the Ordeal,
anyway. There isn’t much fun in it. And then neither of you need pray
about it.”
“I don’t want to give up the Ordeal,” said Felix, “and I won’t.”
“Oh, well, surely you can settle it some way without fighting,”
persisted Cecily.
“I’m not wanting to fight,” said Peter. “It’s Felix. If he don’t
interfere with my prayers there’s no need of fighting. But if he does
there’s no other way to settle it.”
“But how will that settle it?” asked Cecily.
“Oh, whoever’s licked will have to give in about the praying,” said
Peter. “That’s fair enough. If I’m licked I won’t pray for that
particular thing any more.”
“It’s dreadful to fight about anything so religious as praying,” sighed
poor Cecily.
“Why, they were always fighting about religion in old times,” said
Felix. “The more religious anything was the more fighting there was
about it.”
“A fellow’s got a right to pray as he pleases,” said Peter, “and if
anybody tries to stop him he’s bound to fight. That’s my way of looking
at it.”
“What would Miss Marwood say if she knew you were going to fight?” asked
Felicity.
Miss Marwood was Felix’ Sunday School teacher and he was very fond of
her. But by this time Felix was quite reckless.
“I don’t care what she would say,” he retorted.
Felicity tried another tack.
“You’ll be sure to get whipped if you fight with Peter,” she said.
“You’re too fat to fight.”
After that, no moral force on earth could have prevented Felix from
fighting. He would have faced an army with banners.
“You might settle it by drawing lots,” said Cecily desperately.
“Drawing lots is wickeder that fighting,” said Dan. “It’s a kind of
gambling.”
“What would Aunt Jane say if she knew you were going to fight?” Cecily
demanded of Peter.
“Don’t you drag my Aunt Jane into this affair,” said Peter darkly.
“You said you were going to be a Presbyterian,” persisted Cecily. “Good
Presbyterians don’t fight.”
“Oh, don’t they! I heard your Uncle Roger say that Presbyterians were
the best for fighting in the world--or the worst, I forget which he
said, but it means the same thing.”
Cecily had but one more shot in her locker.
“I thought you said in your sermon, Master Peter, that people shouldn’t
fight.”
“I said they oughtn’t to fight for fun, or for bad temper,” retorted
Peter. “This is different. I know what I’m fighting for but I can’t
think of the word.”
“I guess you mean principle,” I suggested.
“Yes, that’s it,” agreed Peter. “It’s all right to fight for principle.
It’s kind of praying with your fists.”
“Oh, can’t you do something to prevent them from fighting, Sara?”
pleaded Cecily, turning to the Story Girl, who was sitting on a bin,
swinging her shapely bare feet to and fro.
“It doesn’t do to meddle in an affair of this kind between boys,” said
the Story Girl sagely.
I may be mistaken, but I do not believe the Story Girl wanted that fight
stopped. And I am far from being sure that Felicity did either.
It was ultimately arranged that the combat should take place in the fir
wood behind Uncle Roger’s granary. It was a nice, remote, bosky place
where no prowling grown-up would be likely to intrude. And thither we
all resorted at sunset.
“I hope Felix will beat,” said the Story Girl to me, “not only for the
family honour, but because that was a mean, mean prayer of Peter’s. Do
you think he will?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed dubiously. “Felix is too fat. He’ll get out
of breath in no time. And Peter is such a cool customer, and he’s a year
older than Felix. But then Felix has had some practice. He has fought
boys in Toronto. And this is Peter’s first fight.”
“Did you ever fight?” asked the Story Girl.
“Once,” I said briefly, dreading the next question, which promptly came.
“Who beat?”
It is sometimes a bitter thing to tell the truth, especially to a
young lady for whom you have a great admiration. I had a struggle with
temptation in which I frankly confess I might have been worsted had it
not been for a saving and timely remembrance of a certain resolution
made on the day preceding Judgment Sunday.
“The other fellow,” I said with reluctant honesty.
“Well,” said the Story Girl, “I think it doesn’t matter whether you get
whipped or not so long as you fight a good, square fight.”
Her potent voice made me feel that I was quite a hero after all, and the
sting went out of my recollection of that old fight.
When we arrived behind the granary the others were all there. Cecily was
very pale, and Felix and Peter were taking off their coats. There was
a pure yellow sunset that evening, and the aisles of the fir wood were
flooded with its radiance. A cool, autumnal wind was whistling among the
dark boughs and scattering blood red leaves from the maple at the end of
the granary.
“Now,” said Dan, “I’ll count, and when I say three you pitch in, and
hammer each other until one of you has had enough. Cecily, keep quiet.
Now, one--two--three!”
Peter and Felix “pitched in,” with more zeal than discretion on both
sides. As a result, Peter got what later developed into a black eye,
and Felix’s nose began to bleed. Cecily gave a shriek and ran out of the
wood. We thought she had fled because she could not endure the sight of
blood, and we were not sorry, for her manifest disapproval and anxiety
were damping the excitement of the occasion.
Felix and Peter drew apart after that first onset, and circled about one
another warily. Then, just as they had come to grips again, Uncle Alec
walked around the corner of the granary, with Cecily behind him.
He was not angry. There was a quizzical look in his eyes. But he took
the combatants by their shirt collars and dragged them apart.
“This stops right here, boys,” he said. “You know I don’t allow
fighting.”
“Oh, but Uncle Alec, it was this way,” began Felix eagerly. “Peter--”
“No, I don’t want to hear about it,” said Uncle Alec sternly. “I don’t
care what you were fighting about, but you must settle your quarrels
in a different fashion. Remember my commands, Felix. Peter, Roger is
looking for you to wash his buggy. Be off.”
Peter went off rather sullenly, and Felix, also sullenly, sat down and
began to nurse his nose. He turned his back on Cecily.
Cecily “caught it” after Uncle Alec had gone. Dan called her a tell-tale
and a baby, and sneered at her until Cecily began to cry.
“I couldn’t stand by and watch Felix and Peter pound each other all to
pieces,” she sobbed. “They’ve been such friends, and it was dreadful to
see them fighting.”
“Uncle Roger would have let them fight it out,” said the Story Girl
discontentedly. “Uncle Roger believes in boys fighting. He says it’s as
harmless a way as any of working off their original sin. Peter and Felix
wouldn’t have been any worse friends after it. They’d have been better
friends because the praying question would have been settled. And now
it can’t be--unless Felicity can coax Peter to give up praying against
Felix.”
For once in her life the Story Girl was not as tactful as her wont.
Or--is it possible that she said it out of malice prepense? At all
events, Felicity resented the imputation that she had more influence
with Peter than any one else.
“I don’t meddle with hired boys’ prayers,” she said haughtily.
“It was all nonsense fighting about such prayers, anyhow,” said Dan, who
probably thought that since all chance of a fight was over, he might as
well avow his real sentiments as to its folly. “Just as much nonsense as
praying about the bitter apples in the first place.”
“Oh, Dan, don’t you believe there is some good in praying?” said Cecily
reproachfully.
“Yes, I believe there’s some good in some kinds of praying, but not
in that kind,” said Dan sturdily. “I don’t believe God cares whether
anybody can eat an apple without making a face or not.”
“I don’t believe it’s right to talk of God as if you were well
acquainted with Him,” said Felicity, who felt that it was a good chance
to snub Dan.
“There’s something wrong somewhere,” said Cecily perplexedly. “We ought
to pray for what we want, of that I’m sure--and Peter wanted to be the
only one who could pass the Ordeal. It seems as if he must be right--and
yet it doesn’t seem so. I wish I could understand it.”
“Peter’s prayer was wrong because it was a selfish prayer, I guess,”
said the Story Girl thoughtfully. “Felix’s prayer was all right, because
it wouldn’t have hurt any one else; but it was selfish of Peter to want
to be the only one. We mustn’t pray selfish prayers.”
“Oh, I see through it now,” said Cecily joyfully.
“Yes, but,” said Dan triumphantly, “if you believe God answers prayers
about particular things, it was Peter’s prayer He answered. What do you
make of that?”
“Oh!” the Story Girl shook her head impatiently. “There’s no use trying
to make such things out. We only get more mixed up all the time. Let’s
leave it alone and I’ll tell you a story. Aunt Olivia had a letter today
from a friend in Nova Scotia, who lives in Shubenacadie. When I said I
thought it a funny name, she told me to go and look in her scrap book,
and I would find a story about the origin of the name. And I did. Don’t
you want to hear it?”
Of course we did. We all sat down at the roots of the firs. Felix,
having finally squared matters with his nose, turned around and listened
also. He would not look at Cecily, but every one else had forgiven her.
The Story Girl leaned that brown head of hers against the fir trunk
behind her, and looked up at the apple-green sky through the dark boughs
above us. She wore, I remember, a dress of warm crimson, and she had
wound around her head a string of waxberries, that looked like a fillet
of pearls. Her cheeks were still flushed with the excitement of the
evening. In the dim light she was beautiful, with a wild, mystic
loveliness, a compelling charm that would not be denied.
“Many, many moons ago, an Indian tribe lived on the banks of a river
in Nova Scotia. One of the young braves was named Accadee. He was the
tallest and bravest and handsomest young man in the tribe--”
“Why is it they’re always so handsome in stories?” asked Dan. “Why are
there never no stories about ugly people?”
“Perhaps ugly people never have stories happen to them,” suggested
Felicity.
“I think they’re just as interesting as the handsome people,” retorted
Dan.
“Well, maybe they are in real life,” said Cecily, “but in stories it’s
just as easy to make them handsome as not. I like them best that way. I
just love to read a story where the heroine is beautiful as a dream.”
“Pretty people are always conceited,” said Felix, who was getting tired
of holding his tongue.
“The heroes in stories are always nice,” said Felicity, with apparent
irrelevance. “They’re always so tall and slender. Wouldn’t it be awful
funny if any one wrote a story about a fat hero--or about one with too
big a mouth?”
“It doesn’t matter what a man LOOKS like,” I said, feeling that Felix
and Dan were catching it rather too hotly. “He must be a good sort of
chap and DO heaps of things. That’s all that’s necessary.”
“Do any of you happen to want to hear the rest of my story?” asked the
Story Girl in an ominously polite voice that recalled us to a sense of
our bad manners. We apologized and promised to behave better; she went
on, appeased:
“Accadee was all these things that I have mentioned, and he was the
best hunter in the tribe besides. Never an arrow of his that did not go
straight to the mark. Many and many a snow white moose he shot, and gave
the beautiful skin to his sweetheart. Her name was Shuben and she was
as lovely as the moon when it rises from the sea, and as pleasant as a
summer twilight. Her eyes were dark and soft, her foot was as light as
a breeze, and her voice sounded like a brook in the woods, or the wind
that comes over the hills at night. She and Accadee were very much in
love with each other, and often they hunted together, for Shuben was
almost as skilful with her bow and arrow as Accadee himself. They had
loved each other ever since they were small pappooses, and they had
vowed to love each other as long as the river ran.
“One twilight, when Accadee was out hunting in the woods, he shot a snow
white moose; and he took off its skin and wrapped it around him. Then
he went on through the woods in the starlight; and he felt so happy and
light of heart that he sometimes frisked and capered about just as a
real moose would do. And he was doing this when Shuben, who was also out
hunting, saw him from afar and thought he was a real moose. She stole
cautiously through the woods until she came to the brink of a little
valley. Below her stood the snow white moose. She drew her arrow to her
eye--alas, she knew the art only too well!--and took careful aim. The
next moment Accadee fell dead with her arrow in his heart.”
The Story Girl paused--a dramatic pause. It was quite dark in the fir
wood. We could see her face and eyes but dimly through the gloom. A
silvery moon was looking down on us over the granary. The stars twinkled
through the softly waving boughs. Beyond the wood we caught a glimpse of
a moonlit world lying in the sharp frost of the October evening. The sky
above it was chill and ethereal and mystical.
But all about us were shadows; and the weird little tale, told in a
voice fraught with mystery and pathos, had peopled them for us with
furtive folk in belt and wampum, and dark-tressed Indian maidens.
“What did Shuben do when she found out she had killed Accadee?” asked
Felicity.
“She died of a broken heart before the spring, and she and Accadee were
buried side by side on the bank of the river which has ever since borne
their names--the river Shubenacadie,” said the Story Girl.
The sharp wind blew around the granary and Cecily shivered. We heard
Aunt Janet’s voice calling “Children, children.” Shaking off the spell
of firs and moonlight and romantic tale, we scrambled to our feet and
went homeward.
“I kind of wish I’d been born an Injun,” said Dan. “It must have been a
jolly life--nothing to do but hunt and fight.”
“It wouldn’t be so nice if they caught you and tortured you at the
stake,” said Felicity.
“No,” said Dan reluctantly. “I suppose there’d be some drawback to
everything, even being an Injun.”
“Isn’t it cold?” said Cecily, shivering again. “It will soon be winter.
I wish summer could last forever. Felicity likes the winter, and so does
the Story Girl, but I don’t. It always seems so long till spring.”
“Never mind, we’ve had a splendid summer,” I said, slipping my arm
about her to comfort some childish sorrow that breathed in her plaintive
voice.
Truly, we had had a delectable summer; and, having had it, it was ours
forever. “The gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.” They may rob
us of our future and embitter our present, but our past they may not
touch. With all its laughter and delight and glamour it is our eternal
possession.
Nevertheless, we all felt a little of the sadness of the waning year.
There was a distinct weight on our spirits until Felicity took us into
the pantry and stayed us with apple tarts and comforted us with cream.
Then we brightened up. It was really a very decent world after all.