A BUDDING ACTRESS
During those golden autumn months, the spirit of chivalry had been
manifesting itself in other parts of Forest Glen beside the schoolroom.
That in which the grown-up part of the community shared centered round
Sandy McLachlan's little clearing.
The lawyers had made a bad mess of poor Sandy's affairs, the country
declared. He had virtually lost his farm, as far as the law went, and
all because of some technicality regarding the lack of a fence on all
sides, one which the rural mind considered highly absurd. And not only
that, but the place had been sold to Jake Martin, who had given Sandy
notice to leave early in October.
But the old man was hard to move. Sure of his rights, and convinced of
the injustice of all legal proceedings, he clung tenaciously to his
little property. It was not a place anyone need grieve over losing, an
observer might say--a few acres of stumpy, cleared land, an indefinite
piece of forest, and an old log cabin. But it was Sandy's home--the
only one he had known since he left his father's fisher-hut on the
wind-swept shore of Islay. And every stone and tree on the rough
little place, and the very birds that sang in the evening from the dark
circle of forest were very dear to the old man's heart. From the
doorway he could see down the leafy lane to the church and beyond it
into the grassy graveyard with its leaning headstones. There was one
there, an old moss-grown, wooden slab, once painted white. It marked
two graves, those of Sandy's wife and his daughter, their only child,
who had been Eppie's mother.
Yes, it was hard to think of leaving it all, and he was fiercely
determined to stay.
His friends did their best to help him. Mr. Coulson took the liberty
of writing to Mrs. Jarvis, the owner of the property, begging her to
notice Sandy's claim. But there came no answer, and Mr. Huntley, the
lawyer, laughed at him, saying by the time he had done business with
that lady as long as he had he'd know better. Mr. MacAllister offered
Sandy work in the mill, with pay commuted the long way. Noah Clegg
invited both him and Eppie to share his home until such time as he
could look about him for a new place. For, though the two
Sunday-school superintendents were wont to sit up all night arguing
fiercely on points of doctrine, in the day of affliction all
differences were forgotten. Jake Martin even loudly declared himself
powerful sorry, but then business was business, and he supposed there
would always be shiftless folk like Sandy in the world who could never
get on.
Wully Johnstone came next. He strolled over through the woods one
afternoon and casually remarked that that old house of his by the
spring was just fair totterin' for lack of care, and he wished to peace
some obleegin' body would move intil it an' save him all the worry.
But Sandy would accept no man's hospitality, however delicately
offered. He was proud, even for a Highlander, and not Noah Clegg
himself, who was his closest friend, might extend to him charity.
Besides, as time went on, it would appear that he stood in little need
of it. When the Jarvis property had been put up for sale, Mr. Martin
had looked with a longing eye upon the Teeter farm, where The Dale
stood. But Tom's claim had been safely established, and great was his
wrath when he heard of his neighbor's machinations. Oro's Orator was a
fighter in other beside forensic fields. He had a true Irish
resentment against the law, and understood that somehow Jake Martin, in
league with the lawyers, had outraged justice; therefore, he, Mr.
Teeter, would ignore the lawyers and settle Jake, see if he wouldn't.
Mr. Martin had voted Tory at the last election anyhow, and was badly in
need of being settled.
So there broke out a war in Forest Glen which raged all autumn. When
Jake Martin finally appeared at Sandy's door to formally assert his
ownership, Mr. Teeter met him. He carried an ancient piece of firearms
that had not been loaded since the day, some thirty years before, when
the last bruin of Forest Glen had come ambling up out of Wully
Johnstone's swamp.
Mr. Martin, not knowing how harmful the weapon might be, but being only
too well aware that the man behind the gun was always to be feared,
retired precipitately, and the whole countryside laughed long and loud
over the victory.
He returned to the farm many times, but Tom seemed always to be on
hand. Finally Mr. Martin declared, after they had come to blows the
second time, that he would have the law. Mr. Teeter joyfully invited
him to have all he could get of it; but the enemy hesitated. He knew
his case was not looked upon with favor by his neighbors, and he
dreaded to fly in the face of public opinion. For a lawsuit, as
everyone in the countryside knew, was held as a disgrace, no matter how
righteous one's case might be. And besides, the lawyers were apt to
take so much money that a thrifty man like Jake naturally hesitated
before approaching them.
So all autumn he went on making ineffectual efforts to remove the
obstructions from his property, and times were very lively indeed; so
lively that Auntie Jinit McKerracher, who led public opinion, declared
it was clean scand'lus to have such goin's on in a Christian land; and
Granny Teeter wrung her hands and said "Wirra wurra" many times a day
over the Orator's waywardness.
At last, to save his reputation, Mr. Martin compromised. He would
graciously allow Sandy to remain on his lawful property, he announced,
till springtime. But, just as soon as the snow was gone, Tom Teeter
had better watch out. For it was a penitentiary job he'd been at, and
if there was any law in Canada, Mr. Martin was going to have the
benefit of it.
So the countryside settled down for the winter, and as Christmas
approached the Martin-Teeter conflict ceased to occupy the public mind.
Even in the schoolroom it was soon forgotten, and this was a great
relief to Elizabeth. For, of course, Eppie's trouble could not but
directly affect her. Elizabeth and Rosie had both stood loyally by
Eppie, declaring it was a dreadful shame the way Jake Martin and the
lawyers acted. But this loyalty entailed an estrangement from poor,
hard-working Susie; and Elizabeth's tender heart was torn between her
two friends. She realized that Susie was right in taking her father's
side. For, of course, one must stand by a father, no matter how bad he
was, she argued. Elizabeth's position was a difficult one, and she was
vastly relieved when the matter was dropped, and she and Rosie, with
Eppie and Susie as their opponents, played puzzle during school hours
and tag during recess, as of yore.
But all outside affairs of whatever moment would soon have been
forgotten in any case. Every other interest was speedily swallowed up
in the excitement over the Christmas concert Forest Glen was to have at
the closing of school.
It was Jean Gordon and Wully Johnstone's Bella who imported this newest
fad, bringing it all the way from Cheemaun High School. They generally
kept Forest Glen posted as to what was the latest school fashion; and
about the beginning of winter it appeared that concerts in which one
took part were necessary to one's intellectual existence. Forest Glen
at once decided it must have one, and Lottie Price, seeing a chance to
distinguish herself as a reciter, once more took at the flood the tide
that would sweep her on to glory, and boldly proffered a request for
public closing exercises.
Miss Hillary graciously consented. Indeed, Miss Hillary was in a
gracious mood almost all the time now. For, since sleighing had come,
a smart, red cutter, the successor of the top-buggy, came out from
Cheemaun with such regularity and frequency that the schoolroom was a
place of peace and idleness.
As soon as preparations for the concert were set on foot, Elizabeth and
Rosie became completely absorbed in them. The former became so busy
she had scarcely time to draw pictures. They were both in a dialogue,
and Rosie was to sing a solo besides. So how could one find time to
worry over vulgar fractions?
The Dale contingent were all honored by being each given a special part
in the performance. Archie, of course, was too young to participate;
but Mary was to sing "Little drops of water, little grains of sand," in
company with Wully Johnstone's Betty. John was to give a reading, and
Charles Stuart and Teenie Johnstone were in Elizabeth's dialogue.
The Martins alone were not amongst the artists, and Elizabeth's heart
ached for Susie. As soon as the dismissal bell rang, and everyone else
ran to his or her allotted corner to be "trained," the poor Martins
sadly made their way to the pegs where hung coats and dinner-pails, and
hurried away home to work. No wonder they did not succeed at school.
Mr. Coulson had always said the no-play rule of Jake Martin was making
dullards of his children, just when he was over-anxious that they
should be made very sharp and so be great money-makers.
There had been Christmas concerts in Forest Glen before, but never one
like this. Other times one had to get up one's own programme, but now
the teacher drilled and trained the performers until they became
overwhelmed with the thought of their own importance. Besides, several
young ladies of the place, Martha Ellen Robertson amongst them, came
down to the school every afternoon and helped, and Elizabeth found an
especial joy in being "trained" by her Sunday-school teacher and noting
her daily change of finery.
Sometimes, as the date of the concert approached, groups would meet in
the evenings for practice, and one night the half-dozen who were in
Elizabeth's dialogue assembled at The Dale.
Miss Gordon would never have consented to such an irregularity as late
hours for her family, but that the occasion served to heal a slight
breach between them and the Wully Johnstones.
Since the first snowfall, her neighbors had been driving their two High
School pupils into Cheemaun, and, of course, had taken Malcolm and Jean
with them. The Wully Johnstones had not heretofore shown any leanings
towards education, but, since Miss Gordon had set the pace by sending
her nephew and niece to the High School, learning became highly
fashionable about The Dale. Wully Johnstone declared his boys and
girls were as smart as any Gordons living and they would show the truth
of the same.
Such sturdy young Canadians as these High School pupils were, thought
little of a few miles' walk morning and evening. But the girls were
developing into lengthening skirts, and Miss Gordon thankfully accepted
the ride through the deep snow for Jean. Nevertheless, she was
troubled over receiving constant favors from even such good neighbors
as the Johnstones, for she had not yet learned that in the
Scottish-Canadian countryside a horse and vehicle on the highway is
practically common property.
So one evening, when Miss Gordon took tea at Mrs. Johnstone's, she had
politely hinted that she and her brother would like to offer some
remuneration for the kindness shown the children. Mrs. Johnstone's
hospitable feelings were very badly hurt indeed, but she said nothing,
being a peaceable body. But her sister-in-law, Mrs. Janet McKerracher,
known all over the neighborhood as "Auntie Jinit," was the real head of
the Johnstone household. And, being a lady of no little spirit, she
declared, when Miss Gordon had gone, that the mistress of The Dale was
an uppish bit buddie, and it was jist fair scand'lus to treat a neebor
yon fashion.
Miss Gordon was very much grieved when she discovered her lack of tact,
and, seeing a chance to make amends, she relaxed her rigid laws for one
evening and permitted the gathering at The Dale. And a few evenings
earlier she sent Malcolm with a graciously worded note, asking Mr. and
Mrs. Johnstone and Mrs. McKerracher to accompany the young people.
The invitation was as graciously accepted. The elder folk came and sat
around the fire and watched the young folk fill the house with noise
and merriment, and the breach was healed. The MacAllisters were there;
and Miss Hillary and all those from Forest Glen who were taking part
were driven up in the Robertsons' sleigh.
It was like a magic evening out of a fairy tale to Elizabeth. There
was a roaring fire in both the parlor and dining-room; all doors
between the rooms were opened, giving a spacious effect, and every lamp
and candle in the place was alight. The big, bare house seemed like
some great festive palace to Elizabeth, and, as she sat on the stairs
watching their guests file in, she felt sure she could realize exactly
how Lady Evelina felt when she stood in her father's banqueting hall
and received a glittering array of lords and dukes and earls. But
surely no Lady Evelina of song or story ever experienced the rapture
felt by Elizabeth when Rosie came dancing up the steps.
To Miss Gordon the evening proved highly satisfactory. The atmosphere
of festivity made her feel young again, and the reconciliation with the
Johnstones, common folk though they undoubtedly were, was very grateful
to her warm heart, and above all she was vouchsafed a surprising
revelation. Elizabeth proved to be the vision revealed. There was
hope that Elizabeth was not stupid after all.
The dialogue in which she figured was one Martha Ellen Robertson had
chosen from the "Complete Temperance Reciter," and was intended to
inculcate a lesson of a highly moral character, namely, the folly of
marrying a drunkard. Martha Ellen had indulgently chosen her pet pupil
as heroine. Elizabeth was a haughty belle who persisted in the face of
all opposition in marrying Charles Stuart, who staggered through the
whole three acts with a big, green catsup bottle in each pocket. Rosie
Carrick and Teenie Johnstone did their best to dissuade the mistaken
one from her strange infatuation, even setting the good example of
choosing Willie Carrick and Johnny Johnstone, exemplary young men, as
their sweethearts, but all in vain. The haughty belle would listen to
no one, and at the end of act three, now a weeping drudge, she trailed
off the stage, with the maudlin owner of the catsup bottles staggering
ahead. Then Rosie and Teenie, holding the hands of their two virtuous
youths, recited in unison a little verse bearing upon the unwisdom of
being a haughty belle and marrying the victim of a catsup bottle.
Though the little scene was well-meant, and held within its simple
story a deep truth, the incongruities of it, chiefly those contributed
by the childish actors, might have made the dialogue extremely
laughable had it not been for the acting of the leading lady.
Elizabeth proved a star from the moment she set foot upon the stage.
She was radiantly happy there. All unconsciously she had found a
method of complete self-expression that was not forbidden, and the joy
and relief of it lifted her to brilliant success. She was playing at
something in a legitimate fashion at last; pretending, when it was the
right and proper thing to pretend, with one's father and aunt and
teacher looking on with approval. It was next best thing to being Joan
of Arc. From the day of her power, when she haughtily turned away the
virtuous William and the exemplary John, who severally came seeking her
hand, to that of her humiliation, when she knelt before Charles Stuart
and besought him with tears to give up catsup bottles, her whole course
was one of complete triumph. Teenie Johnstone forgot her lines three
times in watching her, and Charles Stuart said he wished she wouldn't
go at it quite so hard, she made him feel queer all over. And at the
end of one stormy scene, Rosie ran to her and said: "Oh, Lizzie, it was
awful! I thought you must be really, truly crying!" And Elizabeth did
not confess that she had been really and truly crying, and was now
rather ashamed and quite amazed at herself.
Mrs. Wully Johnstone was quite overcome, and Auntie Jinit declared it
jist garred her greet to look at the bairn, she did it jist too well.
And Miss Hillary turned to Miss Gordon and said, "She will make a great
actress some day, perhaps," and Miss Gordon held up her shapely hands
in horror and answered: "An actress! I'd rather see her in her grave."
Elizabeth noticed that Mother MacAllister was the only one who did not
praise her; she who was always so ready with commendation whenever it
could be truthfully expressed. So she slipped up to her and whispered,
"Do you like it?" and Mother MacAllister looked rather wistfully at the
crimson cheeks and shining eyes. She stroked the little girl's hair
gently. "It would be a very pretty little piece, hinny," she said
softly. "But you must not be letting yourself get too much excited
over it, little Lizzie. It'll make you forget your sums."
But otherwise Elizabeth's triumph was complete. She noticed her aunt's
approving looks, and overheard her saying to Martha Ellen Robertson
that the child really had talent.
But such a condition of affairs could not last long with Elizabeth. An
atmosphere of approval was not for her to dwell in long. Her downfall
came speedily.
When the practice was over, they all sat around the room and Miss
Gordon bade Sarah Emily and the two older girls pass the grape cordial
and the Johnny-cake, which were all in readiness. It was at this
moment that Miss Hillary turned to Mr. Gordon.
"You must be chairman at the concert," she said engagingly. "It will
be so fitting, as you are secretary-treasurer."
Mr. Gordon, who had been sitting at a table with Mr. MacAllister,
intent on reducing the Long Way, looked up, ran his fingers through his
long hair, and laughed.
"What, what?" he said. "Me for chairman! Never, never. I'd forget
what night it was on. Thank you very much for the honor, Miss Hillary,
but you can do better than that. Here's Mr. Johnstone, now, he's just
the man."
Mr. Johnstone spat at great length into the stove damper, to cover his
embarrassment.
"Hut tut, sic like havers!" was all he said, and motioned with his
thumb over his shoulder towards his next-door neighbor.
Mr. MacAllister, just emerged from the depths of the Long Way, looked
at her in a dazed fashion.
"For peety's sake," he said, "can ye no dae better than ask all the
auld buddies in the countryside; an' the place jist swarmin' wi' young
callants. There's Tom Teeter, now, he'd jump at the chance, only ye'd
hae to gag him atween pieces."
"It's too great a risk to run," laughed Miss Hillary. She knit her
pretty brows in perplexity. "Perhaps Mr. Clegg will take pity on me."
"There's yon gay chiel that comes oot frae toon," resumed Mr.
MacAllister slyly. "Mebby ye'd hae mair influence ower him."
The young schoolmistress blushed and tried not to smile; Sarah Emily
ducked her head into her apron and giggled, and a titter went round the
room. And then Elizabeth, quite unconscious of any joke, spoke up
eagerly.
"Oh, Miss Hillary, won't you ask that lovely gentleman that comes to
see you to bring Mr. Coulson out and let him be chairman!"
Miss Hillary blushed harder than ever and laughed; so did Annie Gordon
and Martha Ellen Robertson. Mr. MacAllister laughed, too, and slapped
his knee, and said yon was a fine idea, and all the younger folk
exclaimed in delight. And so it was promptly settled there and then,
and Elizabeth understood when Annie passed her the Johnny-cake again.
But she did not understand why she was sternly ordered to bed by her
aunt just the moment the company was gone; and wondered drearily why it
was that this one day of triumph should end in tears.
The next morning she found matters no better, for the day had scarcely
begun before Aunt Margaret singled her out to be talked to solemnly on
the sin of being bold and forward, and speaking up when older people
were present. Elizabeth partially brought the rebuke upon herself.
Remembering only the joys of the night before, she arose early and in
the exuberance of her spirits pulled Mary out of bed and tickled her
until she was seized with a fit of coughing; and Mary's cough was a
serious affair. Next she visited the boys' room and started a
pillow-fight with John.
The noise brought Miss Gordon from her room. It was a chill winter
morning, and the lady's temper was not any too sweet. Elizabeth fled
to her room and began dressing madly. Her aunt slowly entered, seated
herself on the little bench by the window, and, while her niece dressed
and combed her hair, she gave her a long and aggrieved dissertation
upon genteel conduct for little girls.
"And now," she concluded, as Elizabeth gave way to tears and showed
signs of collapsing upon the bed, "I want you to learn two extra verses
of your psalm before you come down to breakfast. And I do hope and
trust it may lead you to be a better girl." She arose with a sigh,
which said her hopes were but feeble and, bidding Mary follow her,
descended the stairs.
When they were gone, Elizabeth got out her Bible, and sat by the frosty
window, looking out drearily at the red morning sunshine. She wished
with all her might that she had never been born. Likely she would die
of grief soon anyway, she reflected, and never act in the dialogue
after all. Yes, she would get sick and go to bed and be in a raging
fever. And, just like the little girl in her latest Sunday-school
book, who had been so badly used, she would cry out in her ravings that
Aunt Margaret was killing her because she wasn't genteel.
Somewhat solaced by these gloomy reflections, she took the hairpin
Annie had loaned her to pin up a lock of her heavy hair, and began
tracing out pictures on the window-pane. There was already a magic
tapestry there, woven by the frost-fairies; ferns, and sea-weed and
tropical flowers of fantastic shapes, and wonderful palm branches all
exquisitely intertwined. To these Elizabeth added the product of her
imagination. Lords and ladies rode through the sea-weed, and Joan of
Arc stood surrounded by palms. She had almost forgotten her woes in
their icy beauty, and had quite forgotten the task her aunt had set,
when Annie came flitting into the room. Annie's step was lighter than
ever and her eyes were radiant. "Come down to breakfast, Lizzie," she
whispered. "We're nearly through, and I've saved some toast for you.
Aunt said if you said the verses before school-time it would do."
Elizabeth sprang up joyously, and hand-in-hand the two ran downstairs.
"Annie," said her little sister, gazing up at the glowing countenance,
"you make me think of a girl in a story book. You look like Lady
Evelina."
Annie laughed. "Why?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't know. But I guess it's because your eyes are so shiny.
It says in that story in the _Chronicle_ that Lady Evelina's lover rode
past, and she looked out of her something or other, casement, I think,
but I guess it was just a window, and it says her face flushed like a
wild rose and her eyes shined like twin stars. Say, what are twin
stars, Annie?"
"Oh, Lizzie," whispered her sister, her face flushing deeper than a
wild rose, "for pity's sake don't let aunt hear you saying things like
that. You know she doesn't like you to read that continued story."
With which wise counsel, and an appreciative pat of her little sister's
arm, Annie led the way to breakfast.
The night before the concert Elizabeth and Mary could scarcely go to
sleep. There was another source of insomnia beside the prospect ahead.
They had both cajoled Annie into putting their hair up in curl papers,
because all the girls, even to Becky Davis, were going to do something
new and wonderful with their hair. So the two victims of fashion slept
in half-wakeful discomfort, until Elizabeth's heavy locks overcame
their bounds and gave her relief and rest. But there was great
disappointment in the morning, for while Mary's short, flaxen hair
stood out round her head in a very halo of frizzly curls, Elizabeth's
hung heavy, straight, and limp, and had to be braided in the usual old
fashion.
However, she was never prone to think much of her personal appearance,
and merely gave a sigh as Mary stood before the glass looking quite
like a fairy.
"My, but your hair is so nice," said Elizabeth.
"Well," said Mary, as with a smile of satisfaction she surveyed what
was visible of her small self in the little mirror on the wall, "I
suppose I do look awful grand. But I must try and not think about it,"
she added piously; "aunt says so."
Since the night the practice had been held at The Dale, Miss Gordon,
strange to say, had displayed a growing disinclination to attend the
concert. And when the evening finally came she decided to remain at
home. It was only for children, after all, she remarked at the
tea-table, and she and Annie would just stay at home together by the
fire; adding that she didn't suppose even Malcolm and Jean would care
to go to anything so childish. But even the quiet Malcolm protested
mildly, and his sister did the same vigorously. Such an expedition as
going from home after dark was too rare to be missed. "Why, Aunt
Margaret!" she cried, for Miss Jean was an independent young lady, by
virtue of being the cleverest of the family. "Why, Aunt Margaret, I
never dreamed we'd have to stay home, and I'd just love to go--and
Annie wants to go, too; don't you, Ann?"
One glance at Annie's despairing face was enough to convince anyone
that to miss the concert would be a more bitter disappointment than it
would be even to Elizabeth, who was fidgeting about in her chair, with
scarlet cheeks and shining eyes, scarcely eating anything. Miss Gordon
glanced at her eldest niece apprehensively, and hesitated. Then her
brother spoke up.
"Well, well," he said indulgently, "you must just all go. Archie and
Jamie and I will keep house, and you'll tell us all about it when you
get home."
Miss Gordon was too genteel to oppose her brother publicly, and
accepted the situation with much chagrin. She determined, however,
that she would keep Miss Annie close to her side all evening. And
after all, she argued, probably the young man had forgotten all about
her by this time. It was a way young men had, she reflected, with a
sigh for a dream of her youth to which she never referred. She sighed
again as she looked at Annie's bright face, and wondered if she had
done wrong in separating these two. Annie never by the slightest hint
let her know her real feelings. And herein lay the great misfortune of
Miss Gordon's life. She loved the girl passionately, and would have
made any sacrifice she felt was for her good, but Annie lived by her
side day after day, and gave her not the smallest confidence. Her
aunt, in her mistaken worldly ambition, had forever shut between them
the door of true companionship.
They were all ready, in various stages of excitement, when the
MacAllister sleigh came jingling up to the door. In the winter,
sleighs generally took the sawlog road along the short-cut to Forest
Glen, and the Wully Johnstones had promised to come round that way,
too, and pick up anybody who was left.
To Elizabeth, this driving abroad after nightfall was like taking a
voyage to a new planet. It was so wonderful and mysterious, this new,
white, moon-lit world. Away in the vast blue dome the stars smiled
faintly, outshone by the glory of the big, round moon that rode high
above the black tree-tops. The billowing drifts along the road blazed
under a veil of diamonds, and the strip of ice on the pond, where
Elizabeth and John had swept away the snow for a slide, shone like
polished silver. The fields melted away gray and mysterious into the
darkness of the woods. Here and there a light twinkled from the
farm-houses of the valley. The sleigh-bells jingled merrily, and the
company joined their own joyous notes to them and sang the songs that
were to be given at the concert. The woods rang with their gay voices
as they passed old Sandy McLachlan's place. Sandy still held
possession, and was looking forward hopefully to some providential
interference in the springtime.
The old man and Eppie were plunging down the snowy lane. The horses
were pulled up and they were hauled joyously aboard; and in a few
minutes the happy sleighload dashed up to the schoolhouse, which stood
there looking twice its usual size and importance, with the light
blazing from every window.