AT THE EDGE OF THE DAWN
There were many Sabbaths indelibly impressed upon Elizabeth's memory,
but none that burned its way in as did that afternoon's experience with
Trip. The misery of sitting through the long church service, with the
awful guilt upon her soul, and the thoughts of approaching retribution,
almost made her physically ill. As yet there was very little fortitude
in Elizabeth's soul. She was the only coward in the Gordon family,
John was wont to say, and, though she dreamed of valorous deeds as the
successor of Joan of Arc, in real life she had never yet been able to
vindicate herself.
She sat through the sermon, making vows, Jacob-like, that if she ever
came through this time of tribulation alive she would go softly all the
rest of her days. She would live a life of complete
renunciation--selfish pleasures, worldly ambitions centering round Mrs.
Jarvis, even dreams of Joan of Arc she would put away forever. She
would not finish that enthralling story she was surreptitiously reading
in the Cheemaun _Chronicle_, the story of Lady Evelina De Lacy and the
false Lord Algernon. She would never even wish she had curls like
Rosie, but would be glad her hair was straight and plain; and when Mrs.
Jarvis came, offering her a fortune and a velvet dress and a gold
crown, she would turn away, declaring firmly that for her there could
be no pleasure in such worldly joys.
The sermon had never seemed so long. Mr. Murray, a good old man, whose
discourses had steadily lengthened with his years, preached on and on.
Forest Glen nodded and woke up and nodded again, and finally roused
itself to stand up for the closing psalm. As the people slowly and
silently filed out of church, still only half-awake, Elizabeth followed
her aunt with the feelings of a criminal going to the gallows. She
knew that her secret was safe with John and Charles Stuart. The boys
might fill her days with tribulation by teasing, but they would never
stoop to tell tales. Nevertheless, Elizabeth did not for a moment
consider this as an avenue of escape. The integrity of her soul
demanded that she go straight to Mr. MacAllister and confess. And then
everyone would know she had disgraced the name of Gordon forever, and
what Aunt Margaret would say was a thought to make one shudder.
As she went blindly down the aisle, she found herself shoved against
Mr. Coulson. He was looking straight ahead of him, very sternly, as
though to let her know he realized how wicked and ungenteel she was.
But Elizabeth had in memory many blessed occasions upon which her
teacher had exonerated her in the face of damaging evidence. She had
learned to put unbounded confidence in him. He was a person who
understood, and there were so very few people in the world who did
understand. He possessed some wonderful divining power, which
Elizabeth felt would make it possible for him even to conceive of a
person who could carry a dog into Sunday school and yet not be quite a
social outcast.
So she slipped up close to him, so close that she forced him to look
down at her. He saw the misery in the little girl's deep eyes, and
forgot that she was Miss Gordon's niece. "Are you sick, Lizzie?" he
asked. Elizabeth shook her head, speechless. She caught his coat and
drew him aside as they came outside the door. He was so big and so
strong, his very presence thrilled her with hope.
"Oh, Mr. Coulson," she whispered. "I--I--what'll I do? It was me took
Trip into Sunday school!"
"Trip?" Mr. Coulson had already forgotten the little incident in his
own troubles. "What about it, you poor little mite?"
"Will they put me out of Sunday school? Will Mother MacAllister be
angry? Susie Martin's Brag was going to bite him, and I was afraid."
Mr. Coulson laughed. It struck Elizabeth as almost miraculous that
anyone who had witnessed that awful scene in Sunday school could ever
laugh again. He glanced around and saw that Miss Gordon had already
driven off in the little basket phaeton.
"Come along," he said, and taking Elizabeth's hand he led her up to
where the MacAllisters were climbing into their buggy. He leaned over
and talked in a low tone to Mr. MacAllister and they both laughed, and
the latter called, "Hey, hey, Lizzie, come awa', bairn, and jump in!"
And Mother MacAllister said, as her arms went around her, "Hoots,
toots, and did the lamb do it to save the little dog?" And Charles
Stuart looked at her with undisguised admiration in his eyes, and said,
"Aw, you goose, what did you go and tell for?" And Elizabeth's soul
went straight from the depths right to the highest pinnacle of joy and
thankfulness.
Then Mother MacAllister said, "Come away, Mr. Coulson, come home and
have supper with father now, come away." Mr. Coulson sprang into the
seat opposite, and he was no sooner in his place than Mother
MacAllister cried out "Why, father, where are the girls? Come away,
children. Come, Annie girl,--come, Sarah Emily! Come away, we're
waitin' on you!"
Sarah Emily came forward, and with one leap landed herself upon the
front seat with Mr. MacAllister and Charles Stuart; Jean climbed in
beside Mr. Coulson, but Annie held back. The young man arose hastily.
"Perhaps it's too crowded," he said hurriedly; "I'd better not go this
time." Now this was a very absurd statement. For it had never been
known that a MacAllister vehicle had ever been filled, much less
crowded, and its owner turned upon the young man in wrathful amazement.
"Hoots, man! Ye're haverin'. Sit ye doon there! Annie bairn, jump
in. What are ye gawkin' there aboot? Are ye scared o' the master?"
There was no other course but obedience. Mr. Coulson helped the young
lady into the buggy and away they rattled up the hill. And Elizabeth,
thrilled with joy over her escape, little realized that in saving
herself she had done a good deed that day for two people very dear to
herself--a deed the results of which lasted through a lifetime.
It all turned out so beautifully. Mother MacAllister, who never in her
life was known to do such a wicked thing as go visiting on Sunday, left
her guest with Charles Stuart and his father, and went all the way over
to The Dale to explain Elizabeth's case to Miss Gordon. And Annie was
so radiant, and John was so admiring, that Elizabeth fairly glowed in
the family felicity, and the sun went down behind the Long Hill in
perfect peace and happiness.
After the excitement of that Sabbath, the days sped somewhat evenly.
May budded into June, June blossomed into July, and still the
long-looked-for Mrs. Jarvis did not come. Her non-appearance filled
Miss Gordon with a sense of keen disappointment, but Elizabeth soon
forgot all about her. She had more important things to take her
attention.
The 1st of July had come, the first day of the holidays, and Elizabeth
went to bed the night before unable to sleep from excitement. Mr.
Coulson had bidden them farewell that afternoon. He had resigned and
was going to Cheemaun to finish his law studies. Elizabeth and Rosie
had cried themselves sick over the good-bys. But it was not grief that
was keeping Elizabeth awake. It was the machinations of John and
Charles Stuart. On the way home from school she had been made aware by
certain nods and winks and significant signs between her two tormentors
that some wonderful scheme was on their programme for the morrow.
Elizabeth knew as well as though they had shouted it from the treetops
that they were going fishing. They always ran away from her when they
went fishing. She firmly determined that, come what might, she would
go fishing, too.
Just why the sight of those two disappearing down the lane with rods
over their shoulders always filled Elizabeth with such unbearable
anguish was a question even she could not have answered. Such
expeditions with the boys were sources of tears and tribulations.
Elizabeth was always meeting with disaster. She was not satisfied
unless she was manipulating a rod and line, and she did not know which
filled her with the greatest heartrending compunction, the sight of the
poor worm writhing on the hook or the poor fish. Then she was always
being thrown into a panic of terror by the sight of a snake or a frog
or a mud-turtle, and when real dangers did not menace, the boys
supplied imaginary ones more terrible.
But, for all this, when John and Charles Stuart went abroad Elizabeth
must accompany them, and, though her aunt felt that every such
expedition removed her niece farther from the genteel ideal, she
generally allowed her to go. For there were quieter times at home when
the noisy one was away.
Elizabeth knew by experience that the two would be likely to arise at
dawn and steal away, and she went to bed that night in the bare
white-washed little room, which she and Mary shared, with the
determination that she would lie awake until morning and be ready. By
persistent pinching of her arms and tossing about, much to poor Mary's
discomfort, she managed to keep herself awake for about an hour, but
sleep overcame her at last, the dead, dreamless sleep of childhood, and
all Elizabeth's joys and sorrows were as naught until morning.
But her restless spirit asserted itself early. When she awoke it was
scarcely light. The old clock in the study downstairs had just struck
three. The room was quite dark, but a faint light from the window, and
a strange hum of life from the outdoor world, told her that morning was
approaching.
She slipped stealthily from her bed and, trembling with excitement, ran
silently down the long, bare hall to her brothers' room. It was a big
chamber above the dining-room. Its only furniture was two beds; a big
old four-poster, where John and Malcolm slept on a lumpy straw
mattress, and a low "bunk" or box-like structure on casters, where the
little boys, Archie and Jamie, lay tossed about in a tangle of bare
limbs and blankets. Elizabeth brushed back her hair from her sleepy
eyes, and peered into the dim room. The green paper blinds were partly
raised, and she could discern through the gloom John's black head on
the bolster beside Malcolm's fair one. The black head was hanging half
out of bed and its mouth was wide open. Elizabeth giggled softly. She
longed to stuff something into that yawning cavity; but she knew that
dire consequences followed upon tampering with John. She tiptoed back
to her room. The excitement was lulled and she was beginning to feel
sleepy. But she suddenly bethought herself that it would be wise to
look out and see if Charles Stuart were coming. She remembered with
hot indignation how once John had tied a string to his toe, which he
let hang out of the window, and how Charles Stuart had come in the gray
dawn and pulled the string, and the two had fled away in the dusk,
while she slept all unawares. If they had any such plan on foot this
time, she would be even with them. She would sit at the window and
watch for Charles Stuart. She tiptoed gleefully across the room, and,
slipping between the green paper blind and the sash, shoved her head
and shoulders out of the open window.
And then her mischievous mood fell from her like a garment, and there
stole over her a feeling of awe. Elizabeth had often beheld the
sunrise, and, being a passionate lover of nature, her soul had arisen
with the day, radiant and full of joy. But never before had she
witnessed the first mysterious birth of the dawn, and the wonder of it
held her still. It was so strange and unreal. It was surely night,
for the stars still hung above the black treetops, and yet it must be
day, for above, below, on every side one great unbroken voice of song
was pouring forth from the darkness. Or was it dark? It certainly
wasn't light. The swamp, away behind old Wully Johnstone's fields, lay
in blackness, and there was even a hint of moonlight sifted faintly
through the gray veil of the sky. But the white line of birches by the
stream stood out a soft, cloudy white, the fields were dimly
distinguishable, and here and there a tree had taken form from its dark
background.
But the wonder of it was the great chant the whole dark earth was
raising to heaven. As June had waned Elizabeth and John had missed
many of their bird companions, who were too busy raising their families
to sing much. But now it seemed as though every blade of grass and
every leaf on the tree was giving forth a voice. At first no separate
note could be distinguished. It was one great voice, all-penetrating,
all-pervading. But gradually the ear discerned the several parts of
the wondrous anthem. The foundation of it seemed to come from behind
the line of birches that hedged the stream, and here and there in the
darkness of tree or bush an individual song arose to melt again into
the grand chorus.
Elizabeth knelt by the open window, lost to everything except the
mystery of music and light being woven before her. It was creation's
morn again, at which the child's wondering eyes were gazing. Again the
divine Fiat had gone forth, "Let there be light." And, moving in
stately march to the grand processional, slowly, majestically the light
was coming. Softly, almost imperceptibly, the phantom world took
shape, and grew clearer as the stars grew paler. Here a bush detached
itself from its gray background, yonder a tree grew up tall and
stately, there the curve of a hillock swelled up from a dark valley.
And as each growing maple or cedar or alder-bush took shape, from its
depths there awoke a sleepy little murmur, swelling into a rapturous
song and melting away again into the great anthem. Away down the dim
lane, near the edge of the pond, stood a noble elm, its topmost branch
towering into the gray heavens, its lower limbs sweeping the earth. As
it gradually detached itself from the grayness and came forth beautiful
and stately, there arose from its heart the musical accompaniment to
its birth--not a sleepy little murmur, such as befitted a sumach or a
bramble, but a loud, clarion note, one wild shout of joy--and out
poured the ecstasy of a robin's song. There was a storm of music on
all sides now, a splendid fortissimo, keeping pace with the growing
light. Elizabeth, suddenly mindful of former sunrises, leaned far out
to look towards the east, holding her breath. Over there might be
glories that were not lawful for men to look upon, much less utter.
And, yes, there was a great wonder there, no sun's rays as yet, no
daylight even, but behind the black trees of Arrow Hill there shone a
luminous crystal glow, a light more heart-moving than if the sun had
risen in all his pomp of purple and gold. There was an awe, a mystery
about this transparent clearness, a great promise of unspeakable
glories to come. Elizabeth drew a long breath. She was but a child,
perfectly unconscious and unthinking in all that she said and did, but
she had a heart capable of being strongly moved by any hint of the
Infinite. She did not guess why, did not even imagine the reason, but
the tears came to her eyes with a smarting sting, and with them that
feeling of overwhelming joy that was half-pain, the feeling that rushed
over her so often when her father read some sublime passage from the
Scriptures.
One came to her now from the psalm of the night before:
"Who coverest Thyself with light as with a garment; who stretches out
the heavens like a curtain."
God Himself must be just behind that mysterious glow, little Elizabeth
said to herself reverently. That shining crystal was the garment in
which He had wrapped Himself, so that people might not see Him. But
she saw Him. Yes, He was there, she knew, and in the uplift of the
moment there came to her child's heart a vision that never faded, a
vision that many years later bore her up on the wings of poesy to fame.
But Elizabeth was woefully earthbound, tied down by the cares and
worries that fall to humanity. As she still hung over the window-sill,
gazing enraptured at the heavens, she was brought sharply down to
earth. Up near the willows at the gate she dimly descried a dark
figure hastening along Champlain's Road. It paused at the gate.
Instantly Elizabeth was transformed. From the rapt priestess of the
dawn she descended sharply to the keen-eyed spy. That was Charles
Stuart just as sure as sure! And John would be up and off in another
five minutes. She jerked herself back into the room so suddenly that
her head came in crashing contact with the window-frame. Elizabeth was
naturally keenly sensitive to pain, but she scarcely noticed the blow.
There was no time to even complain. Though her head was spinning, she
began to fling on her clothes in mad haste, feverishly watching Mary
lest the noise of the crash had awakened her. But Mary slept on
soundly; and, reassured, Elizabeth made a frantic toilet. She wrenched
herself into her clothes, pulling on garments upside down, inside out,
any way that was most expeditious. Buttons would not go into
button-holes, strings refused to tie, pins would not hold. But somehow
she managed to get herself dressed, after a fashion. There was no time
to think of washing, or combing her hair. She crushed her sunbonnet
down over her untidy head, snatched up her shoes and stockings, slipped
silently into the hall, and took her place behind a huge wardrobe at
the head of the stairs, from which hiding-place she could command a
view of John's bedroom door. By this time she was bursting with
mischievous glee. Wouldn't John and Charles Stuart be good and mad
when they found her following them? She knew exactly how to do it.
The only way was to dog their footsteps, keeping safely out of sight
until they were too far from home to send her back alone. Of course
she would have to endure innuendoes all day regarding "Copy cats," but
that was nothing to the anguish of being left at home.
As she stood breathless and full of mirth, she was rewarded by the
sound of a door creaking, and a stealthy footstep approaching the
stair. She crushed back into her hiding-place. She could not help
wondering even in the midst of her excitement how John could ever move
so quietly. She held her breath as the owner of the soft footfall came
into view. And then it returned in a little gasp of astonishment. For
it was not John at all, but Annie! Annie at this hour of the morning!
Could she be going fishing, too? Elizabeth could not think of any
other justifiable reason for getting up so early; Annie certainly
looked as if she were on a very important mission. She went down the
stairs hurriedly and silently, as though she were being pursued.
Elizabeth had for an instant an impulse to call softly after her; but
that wiser, older self within her arose and forbade. This ancient
Elizabeth respected a secret, and said that here was one into which
there must be no intrusion. She felt ashamed of herself, as though she
had done something dishonorable like listening at a keyhole, as Sarah
Emily had once done.
She heard the old door leading on to the side-porch creak stealthily,
then pause, and creak again. Perhaps Annie was ill, and she ought to
follow her. She softly tiptoed back to her room and peeped from her
window. Her sister was stealing down through the orchard, her light
summer dress plainly visible against its dim greenness. She stopped at
the bars that led into the pasture field, and as she did, Charles
Stuart came vaulting over the fence from the lane and strode towards
her. And surely everybody must have been touched with a magic wand,
and turned into somebody else; because it wasn't Charles Stuart at all,
but Mr. Coulson, to whom Elizabeth had bidden such an agonized farewell
only yesterday! He came straight towards Annie, holding out both his
hands, and when he reached the bars he leaned over them and kissed her!
And then, though Elizabeth was not quite eleven, she knew that she was
looking upon something sacred and beautiful, something that should not
be exposed to the eyes of another, and she turned swiftly and, running
to the bed, hid her face in the clothes beside Mary.
She knelt there, motionless, wondering, and in a few minutes she heard
the stealthy foot upon the stair again and the soft rustle of Annie's
skirts. She crept into bed and pulled the clothes over her sunbonneted
head. She felt she would be doing her sister an irreparable injury if
she let her know anyone had witnessed that parting scene.
She lay there, trembling with excitement, until all was still again.
She forgot all about the fishing expedition in this new discovery, and
lay wideawake wondering why in the world Annie should kiss Mr. Coulson
good-by when she had not even gone to school to him, until worn out
with wonder and excitement she fell sound asleep. And outside the dawn
still marched majestically onward towards the day, in time to its
glorious accompaniment of song.
When Elizabeth awoke again it was broad daylight. Sarah Emily was
already downstairs, setting the breakfast table, stirring the oatmeal
porridge, and singing loudly about the many glittering but false young
men who had sought her hand, but had been defeated in their
machinations by the finest old lady that ever was seen, who lived on
yonder little green.
Fortunately Elizabeth escaped inquiry by slipping from the bed and
arranging her clothes in a more respectable manner before Mary was
stirring. Mary was delicate, and the only one allowed to lie abed in
the morning, or to refuse porridge if she did not want it, so
Elizabeth's early morning adventure was not discovered. To her relief
also she found John downstairs apparently not going fishing. At
breakfast Annie was quieter than usual, but it was characteristic of
Elizabeth that she did not by word or sign let her elder sister see
that she had the smallest knowledge of the morning's farewell. John
was right when he conceded to Lizzie the power of not only keeping
secrets,--deathly secrets like a pet toad under the bed or rabbits in
the barn,--but at the same time looking as if she had nothing to hide.
It was Elizabeth's turn to help Sarah Emily with the dishes, and after
breakfast she wearily dragged her feet towards the kitchen. Tom Teeter
had come over and was talking to her father as the latter hoed in the
vegetable garden, and Tom always had candies in his pockets. Then
Malcolm and John were building a new hen-house in the barnyard, and
every stroke of the hammer shouted to Elizabeth to come. She took up
the dish-towel drearily and stood looking wistfully down the sunny path
that led into the orchard. She realized now that she was utterly worn
out with the excitement of her morning adventure. Mary and the little
boys were playing in the old wagon that stood in the barnyard. She
could hear them laughing and shouting. The old pig was grunting over
his trough, the hens were cackling. She really ought to go and gather
the eggs. She felt just then that drying dishes was an insupportable
burden. It was always so with Elizabeth. She could toil strenuously
all day, building a playhouse, or engineering a new game, running,
leaping, toiling all unwearied. But when household duties were laid
upon her, except when she worked for Mother MacAllister, she was
actually overcome with physical weariness. She leaned against the
table and yawned aloud.
"Oh, Sarah Emily, don't you hate dishes?" she groaned. "We've got such
stacks of them."
But Sarah Emily did not hear. Tom Teeter was standing down there
between the rows of cabbages, talking to Mr. Gordon upon the
"Conscienceless greed and onmitigated rapacity" of certain emissaries
of the opposing political party. To all of which his neighbor was
responding with: "Well, well. Deary me, now, Tom."
But Sarah Emily was firmly convinced that Tom was there for other
reasons than to talk politics with her master. Sarah Emily was neither
fair of face nor graceful of form, neither had a suitor ever been seen
to approach the Gordon kitchen; nevertheless, she lived in the pleasant
delusion that all the young men of the countryside were dying for love
of her. Tom Teeter's condition she believed to be the most hopeless;
and, like all other proud belles sure of their power, she flouted him;
and the innocent young man, when he thought about her at all, wondered
why Sarah Emily disliked him so, and took considerable pleasure in
teasing her.
So Sarah Emily made frequent excursions to and from the well as he
stood in the garden. She sang loudly and pretended she saw no one.
"_The 'first that came courting was young farmer Green,
As fine a young gent as ever was seen._"
"Oh, Sarah Emily, I'm awfully tired," said Elizabeth, when the young
woman had at last settled to washing the dishes. "Don't you 'spose you
could do them yourself this time. I really ought to go and help Malc
and John with the hen-house."
"No, I don't, you lazy trollop," responded Sarah Emily promptly. "You
don't seem to think I ever get tired, an' me with that pinny of yours
to iron for Sunday, too!"
Elizabeth was immediately seized with compunction. She caught up the
towel and went at her task with feverish haste. But her eyes would
stray down the orchard path that led to the barn.
It was only this very morning she had witnessed that strange little
scene there in the dewy, music-thrilled twilight. It seemed so unreal
now that Elizabeth could almost believe she had dreamed it all. She
almost wished she had. For Mr. Coulson was perfection, and Annie was a
little better, and it was rather hard to think of her two paragons
doing anything that people might laugh at. In the Gordon family life
there was something improper attached to any display of affection, and
kissing was positively disgraceful. Elizabeth dared not even kiss
Jamie, much as she enjoyed it, except when the older boys were at a
safe distance. She herself disliked being kissed by grown-up people.
Babies and little people were different. She could remember being
kissed by her aunt once, on her first arrival, but never since. She
and Rosie had sobbed for an hour with their heads on the desk when Mr.
Coulson made his good-by speech, but they would never have dreamed of
doing what Annie did. And surely they loved him far more.
She was recalled to present affairs by Sarah Emily's snatching the
plate out of her hand and demanding if she intended to rub it clean off
the face of the earth?
Elizabeth took another rather sullenly. But such a mood never lasted
longer than half a minute with her, and she was suddenly struck with
the notion that Sarah Emily might furnish some valuable information on
the subject that was worrying her. Sarah Emily had such a vast
experience with young men.
"Sarah Emily," she said, rather hesitatingly, "did anybody--I mean any
young man ever--kiss you?"
Sarah Emily gave an hysterical shriek. She doubled up over the table,
almost dipping her face into the dish-pan, and went off into a
hurricane of giggles.
"Oh, oh, you awful, awful bad girl, Lizzie Gordon!" she screamed,
whereupon Elizabeth knew she had not been bad at all, but had said
something that had mightily pleased Sarah Emily.
"But did they though?" she insisted, showing her even white teeth in a
sympathetic laugh. "Eh, Sarah Emily?"
The young woman straightened herself and suddenly became dignified.
She darted a withering glance at Elizabeth. "Not much, they didn't!"
she cried righteously. "Jist let me ketch any o' them--yes, jist any
one o' the whole gang up to any such penoeuvres. I'd soon fix 'em!"
There was so much scorn in her demeanor that Elizabeth was disconcerted.
"Why?" she asked anxiously. "Ain't it nice, Sarah Emily?"
"No, it ain't!" snapped Sarah Emily emphatically.
Elizabeth was much taken aback. It was surely not possible that Annie
could do anything impolite or ungenteel--Annie, the only one in the
family whom Aunt Margaret never scolded. She was puzzled and troubled.
There was no one to whom she could take the matter for advice.
Elizabeth had no close confidant. John was the nearest, but there were
so few things John understood. Then one never dared tell Mary
anything. Mary did not mean to be a tell-tale, but somehow everything
she knew always oozed out sooner or later. Yes, this was a puzzle
Elizabeth must work out alone.
"Well," she said at last, determined to uphold Annie at all costs,
"it's all right in stories, anyhow. I mean when people are going to
get married some day. I read about it in that story about Lady Evelina
in the _Chronicle_. Now, if you were going to get married to Tom
Teeter, Sarah Emily----"
Sarah Emily exploded in another spasm of shrieks and giggles. She
leaned against the wall, overcome with laughter, wiping her eyes, and
declaring that if Lizzie didn't hold still she'd be the death of her.
Elizabeth became impatient. Her older self rose up, protesting that
Sarah Emily was very silly, indeed.
"Oh, bother you, Sarah Emily," she cried, "you're a big goose!"
Sarah Emily made a leap towards her. "You jist say that again, Lizzie
Gordon, and I'll give you a clout over the head that'll make you jump."
Elizabeth dodged round to the other side of the table, and promptly
said it again--said it many times, dancing derisively upon her toes and
waving her towel; sang it, too, in the most insulting manner to the
tune of "My Grandmother Lives, etc."
Then ensued a mad chase around the table, attended with uproar and
disaster. A plate fell crashing to the floor, the dish-pan was upset,
the water splashed in all directions, and the small figure with shrieks
of laughter dodged this way and that, followed by the big clumsy one
shouting vengeance.
And then there suddenly fell a great silence as from the heavens. The
door had opened, and Miss Gordon was standing in it. Elizabeth stood
rigid in a pool of dish-water, and instinctively felt to find how many
buttons of her pinafore were undone. Sarah Emily promptly turned away
and went vigorously to work, presenting a solid wall of indifference to
her mistress, in the form of a broad pink calico back with a row of
black buttons down the middle.
Elizabeth was not so incased in armor. One swift glance of shame and
contrition she gave towards her aunt, and then hung her head, waiting
for the blow to fall. Miss Gordon had never seemed so remote and so
chillingly genteel.
"Elizabeth," she said in a despairing tone, "how is it that I can never
trust you for even a few minutes out of my sight? You grow more
rebellious and unmanageable every day. I have given up my home, and
slaved and worked for you all, and you alone show me no gratitude. I
can never make a lady of you, I see. How any child belonging to a
Gordon could be so entirely ungenteel----"
On and on Miss Gordon's quiet, well-bred voice continued, every word
falling like a whip upon Elizabeth's sensitive heart. She writhed in
agony under a sense of her own sinfulness, coupled with a keen sense of
injustice. She had been bad--oh, frightfully wicked--but Aunt Margaret
never arraigned a culprit for any particular crime without gathering up
all her past iniquities and heaping them upon her in one load of
despair.
She listened until she could bear no more, and then, darting past her
aunt, she tore madly upstairs in a passion of rage and grief. Miss
Gordon's genteel voice went steadily on, adding the sin of an evil and
uncontrollable temper to Elizabeth's black catalogue. But Elizabeth
was out of hearing by this time. She had shut herself, with a sounding
bang, into the little bedroom where she and Mary slept, and flung
herself upon the mat before the bed. Even in her headlong despair she
had refrained from pitching herself upon the bed, which Annie and Jean
had arranged so neatly under its faded patch-work quilt. Instead she
lay prone upon the floor and wept bitterly. Anger and a sense of
injustice came first, and then bitter repentance. She loved her aunt,
and Sarah Emily, and she had injured both. She was always doing wrong,
always causing trouble. Aunt Margaret could not understand her being a
Gordon at all. Probably she wasn't one. Yes, that was the solution of
the whole matter. She was an adopted child, and not like the rest.
She was sure of it now. Hadn't Aunt Margaret hinted it again and again?
Elizabeth always went through this mental process during her many
tempests of anguish. But always, through it all, the older self sat
waiting, sometimes quite out of sight, but always there. And in the
end she brought up a picture of Elizabeth's mother--the bright little
mother whom she never forgot and who used to say, "Little Lizzie is
more like me than any of my children." That assurance always came to
Elizabeth. No, her whole family might forsake her, but her mother was
always her very own. Her mother could never, never have been so cruel
as merely to adopt her. Next, as always, came contrition, and deep
self-abasement. She stopped crying and lay still, wondering why it was
she could never be good like Annie, or even Jean. Then there was
Constance Holworth, the lonely girl in the Sunday-school library book.
She never got into a temper. And if she ever did, or even thought the
smallest wrong thought, she always went down to the drawing-room and
said sweetly, "Dear mamma, please forgive me." Even Elizabeth's
imagination could not draw a congruous picture of herself speaking thus
to Sarah Emily without some strange result. Besides, they had no
drawing-room, and evidently one needed that sort of chamber for the
proper atmosphere. Elizabeth wondered drearily what a drawing-room
could be. Most likely a room in which one sat and drew pictures all
day long. This reminded her of her own drawing materials lying in the
bottom drawer, one of her birthday presents from Mrs. Jarvis. She half
arose, with the thought that she might get out her paint-box or the old
faded doll that Mary and she shared, then sank back despairingly upon
the mat again. What was the use trying to solace a broken heart with
such trifles?
But when she grew up and became a great artist, and drew pictures as
big as the Vicar of Wakefield's family group, and all the Gordons came
to her drawing-room to wonder and admire,--Sarah Emily and Aunt
Margaret the most eager and admiring of all,--then, though she would be
very kind to them all, she would never smile. She would always wear a
look of heart-broken melancholy, and when people would ask what made
the great Miss Gordon, who was Mrs. Jarvis's adopted daughter, so very,
very sad, Mrs. Jarvis would explain that dreadful afflictions in her
childhood had blighted her whole life. And then Sarah Emily and Aunt
Margaret would go away weeping over the havoc they had wrought.
Elizabeth gained so much comfort from these reflections that she came
up from the depths of despair sufficiently to take note of her
surroundings. The window looking out upon the orchard was open, and
from the pasture-field there arose a great noise--whistling, shouting,
rattling of tin pails, and barking. She sprang up and darted to the
window. That double racket always proclaimed the approach of Charles
Stuart and Trip. Yes, there they were, the former just vaulting over
the bars, the latter wriggling through them. Charles Stuart had a big
tin pail and a small tin cup, and, just as sure as she was a living,
breathing person, he and John would be off in two minutes to pick
strawberries in Sandy McLachlan's slash!
Elizabeth went down the stairs three steps at a time. Miss Gordon was
sitting by the dining-room window, Annie at her side. Both were
sewing, and Annie's cheeks so pink and her eyes so bright that her aunt
looked at her curiously from time to time. They were interrupted by
the bursting open of the door, and like a whirlwind a disheveled little
person, wild-eyed and tear-stained, in a dirty, streaked pinafore,
flung herself into the room.
"Oh, Aunt Margaret! The boys are going pickin' berries. Can't I go,
too? Oh, do let me go?"
Elizabeth stood before her aunt twisting her pinafore into a string in
an agony of suspense.
Miss Gordon looked at the turbulent little figure in silent despair,
and Annie ventured gently:
"It would be nice to have strawberries for tea, aunt, and Lizzie could
help John."
Miss Gordon sighed. "If I could only trust you, Elizabeth," she said.
"But I wonder what new trouble you'll get into?"
"Oh, I promise I won't get into any!" gasped Elizabeth in solemn
pledge, all unconscious that it was equivalent to a promise from the
wind not to blow.
"It's no use promising," said Miss Gordon mournfully. "You know,
Elizabeth, I have warned you repeatedly against the wild streak in you,
and yet in the face of all my admonitions you still persist in acting
in an unladylike manner. Now, when I was a little girl, I never went
anywhere with my brother, your dear papa, except perhaps for a little
genteel stroll----"
Elizabeth could bear no more. The last prop of endurance gave way at
the sight of John and Charles Stuart marching calmly past the window,
rattling their tin pails.
"Oh, Aunt Margaret!" she burst out in anguished tones, "couldn't
you--would you please finish scolding me when I get back. The boys are
gone!"
Miss Gordon paused, completely baffled. This strangest child of all
this strange family of William's was quite beyond her.
"Go then," she said, with a gesture of despair. "Go. I have nothing
more to say."
Elizabeth was tearing down the garden path before she had finished. To
be cast off as hopeless was anguish, but it was nothing to the horror
of being kept at home to be made genteel. In a moment more, with
shrieks of joy, she was flying down the lane, towards two disgusted
looking boys reluctantly awaiting her at the edge of the mill-pond.