GREAT EXPECTATIONS
For the remainder of the winter, Elizabeth lived under the shadow of
Mrs. Jarvis's expected visit. And though she was supposed to be the
one who should benefit chiefly from it, a shadow it indeed proved. Did
she tear her pinafore, burst through the toes of her boots, run, leap,
scream, or do any one of the many ungenteel things she was so prone to
do, the stern question faced her: What did she suppose Mrs. Jarvis
would think of a big girl, going on twelve, who could conduct herself
in such a shocking manner? Elizabeth mourned over her shortcomings,
and longed to be proper and genteel. At the same time, while she
condemned herself for the traitorous thought, she had almost come to
look upon the expected visit as a not altogether unmixed blessing. For
the Mrs. Jarvis of reality was not the glorious creature of Elizabeth's
dreams. Her queens were one by one abdicating their thrones. The
beautiful teacher was steadily growing less worshipful, in spite of
much incense burned before her, and now even the fairy god-mother was
proving but mortal. She had laid aside her golden scepter at that
moment when, with perfect faith, her namesake had looked up to her as
to a goddess and asked for a blessing upon Eppie. But as yet
Elizabeth's soul refused to acknowledge the loss of either idol; and
she lived in a state of excitement and worry over the impending visit.
At school she escaped from the thraldom of being the lady's namesake,
for Miss Hillary of course made no allusion to the fatal name of
Jarvis, and the Red Cutter averted nearly all other troubles. So, in
the reaction from home restrictions, Elizabeth gave herself up almost
entirely to drawing pictures and weaving romances. For Joan of Arc
never disappointed one. She was always great and glorious, being
composed entirely of such stuff as dreams are made of, and Elizabeth
turned to her from fallible mortals with much joy and comfort.
But Mary's reports of school-life always showed the dreamer at the foot
of her class, and Miss Gordon grew apprehensive. Mrs. Jarvis might
arrive any day, ready to repeat the glorious offer she had already made
to that improvident child. But if she found her dull and far behind
her classmates, how could she be expected to offer anything in the way
of higher education?
"Elizabeth," her aunt said one evening as the family were gathered
about the dining-room table, all absorbed in their lessons, except the
troublesome one, "I do wish you had some of Jean's ambition. Now,
don't you wish you could pass the entrance next summer with John and
Charles Stuart?"
Elizabeth glanced across the table at those two working decimals, with
their heads close together. Mr. MacAllister had come over to get
advice on the Long Way, and had brought his son with him.
"Oh, my, but wouldn't I love to!" she gasped.
"Then why don't you make an effort to overtake them? I am sure you
could if you applied yourself."
"But I'm only in the Junior Fourth yet, aunt, and besides I haven't got
a--something Jean told me about. What is it I haven't got, Jean?"
Jean, in company with Malcolm, was absorbed in a problem in geometry.
"I don't think you've got any common sense, Lizzie Gordon, or you
wouldn't interrupt," she said sharply.
"I mean," persisted Elizabeth, who never quite understood her smart
sister, "I mean what is it I haven't got that makes me always get the
wrong answer to sums?"
"Oh! A mathematical head, I suppose. There, Malc, I've got it. See;
the angle A.B.C. equals the angle B.C.D."
"Yes, that's what's the matter," said Elizabeth mournfully. "I haven't
a mathematical head. Miss Hillary says so, too."
"But you might make up for it in other things," said Annie, who was
knitting near. "It would be lovely to pass the entrance before you are
quite twelve, Lizzie. Jean is the only one, so far, that passed at
eleven. You really ought to try."
After this Elizabeth did try, spasmodically, for nearly a week, but
gradually fell back into her old idle habits of compiling landscapes
and dreaming dreams.
Miss Gordon questioned Miss Hillary next in regard to the difficult
case. There was an afternoon quilting-bee at Mrs. Wully Johnstone's,
to which some young people had been invited for the evening, and there
she met the young schoolmistress. As a rule, the lady of The Dale
mingled very little in these social gatherings. The country folk were
kind and neighborly, no doubt; and, living amongst them, one must
unbend a little, but she felt entirely out of her social element at a
tea-party of farmers' wives--she who had drunk tea in Edinburgh with
Lady Gordon. But Auntie Jinit McKerracher had asked her on this
occasion, and even Lady Gordon herself might have hesitated to offend
that important personage, particularly as there had so lately been
danger of a breach between the families. So, suppressing her pride,
Miss Gordon went, and sat in stately grandeur at the head of the quilt,
saying little until the young schoolmistress appeared. She, at least,
did not murder Her Majesty's English when she spoke, though her manners
were not by any means quite genteel.
Miss Gordon opened the conversation by inquiring after the attainments
of her family in matters scholastic.
They were all doing very well indeed, Miss Hillary reported. She spoke
a little vaguely, to be sure. The Red Cutter appeared with such
pleasant frequency these days that she was not quite sure what her
pupils were doing. But she remembered that the Gordons were generally
at the head of their classes, and said so, adding the usual reservation
which closed any praise of the family, "except Elizabeth."
Miss Gordon sighed despairingly. "Elizabeth does not seem as bright as
the rest," she mourned. "I cannot understand it at all. Her father
was extremely clever in his college days; indeed, his course was
exceptional, his professors all said. All our family were of a
literary turn, you know, Miss Hillary. Sir William Gordon's
father--Sir William is the cousin for whom my brother was named--wrote
exceedingly profound articles, and my dear father's essays were spoken
of far and wide. No; I do not at all understand Elizabeth. I am
afraid she must be entirely a MacDuff."
It did not seem so much lack of ability, Miss Hillary said, as lack of
application. Lizzie always seemed employed at something besides her
lessons. But perhaps it was because she hadn't a mathematical head.
Then she changed the subject, feeling she was on uncertain ground. She
was secretly wondering whether it was Rosie Carrick or Lizzie Gordon
who never got a mark in spelling.
Elizabeth was made aware, by her aunt's remarks that evening, as they
sat around the table for the usual study hour, that she had been
transgressing again; but just how, she failed to understand. Miss
Gordon talked in the grieved, vague way that always put Elizabeth's
nerves on the rack. To be talked at this way in public was far worse
even than being scolded outright in private. For one never knew what
was one's specific sin, and there was always the horrible danger of
breaking down before the boys.
Before retiring she sought an explanation from Mary. Yes, Mary knew;
she had overheard aunt telling Annie that Miss Hillary had complained
about Lizzie not doing her sums. This was a blow to Elizabeth. It was
not so dreadful that anyone should complain of her to Aunt Margaret;
that was quite natural; but that Miss Hillary should do the
complaining! Her teacher persistently refused to sit upon the throne
which Elizabeth raised again and again for her in her heart. Miss
Hillary did not understand--did not even care whether she understood or
not, while her pupil's worshiping nature still made pitiful attempts to
put her where a true teacher could have ruled so easily and with such
far-reaching results.
But the unmathematical head was not long troubled over even this
disaster. It was soon again filled with such glorious visions as drove
out all dark shadows of unspellable words and unsolvable problems.
Elizabeth's ambition reached out far beyond the schoolroom. There was
no romance or glory about getting ninety-nine per cent. in an
arithmetic examination, as Rosie so often did, after all, and Elizabeth
could not imagine Joan of Arc worrying over the spelling of Orleans.
So she solaced herself with classic landscapes, with rhymes written
concerning the lords and ladies that peopled them, and with dreams of
future glory.
And so the days of anxious waiting for the great visit sped past; and
in the interval Elizabeth might have fallen hopelessly into idle habits
had it not been for the one person who, quietly and unnoticed,
exercised the strongest influence over her life. To the little girl's
surprise, Mother MacAllister was the one person who held out no hopes
concerning Mrs. Jarvis. It seemed strange; for Mother MacAllister was
the most sympathetic person in the whole wide world, and, besides, the
only person who could always be depended upon to understand. But she
did not seem to care how rich or great or glorious that great lady was,
and took no interest whatever in the hopes of her coming visit. But
she did take a vital interest in her little girl's progress at school,
and one day she managed to find the key to those intellectual faculties
which Elizabeth had kept so long locked away.
It was a Saturday afternoon, and the two comrades--the tall, stooped
woman with the white hair and the beautiful wrinkled face, and the
little girl with the blue-checked pinafore, the long, heavy braid, and
the big inquiring eyes--were washing up the supper dishes. They were
alone, for Charles Stuart and his father and Long Pete Fowler, the
hired man, were away at the barn attending to the milking and the
chores. The long bars of golden light from the setting sun came
slanting down through the purple pines of the Long Hill. The snowy
fields were gleaming with their radiance--rose pink and pure gold with
deep blue shadows along the fences and in the hollows. The old
kitchen, spotlessly clean, was flooded with the evening light--the
yellow painted floor, the shining kettle sputtering comfortably on the
stove, and the tin milk-pans ranged along the walls all gave back the
sunset glow. This was the hour Elizabeth enjoyed most--the hour when
she and Mother MacAllister were safe from the teasing and tormenting of
Charles Stuart.
She was wiping the cups and saucers with great pride and care. They
were the half-dozen blue willow-pattern cups and saucers which Mother
MacAllister had saved from the wreck of her once complete set. They
were used only on rare occasions, but to-night Elizabeth had been
permitted to set them out. She never tired of hearing their romantic
story, and Mother MacAllister told it again, as they washed and wiped
and put them away on the top shelf of the cupboard.
They had been Mother MacAllister's finest wedding present, given just
before she left the Old Country, years and years ago, when she and
Father MacAllister were young, and there was no Charles Stuart. They
had packed the precious blue dishes in a barrel with hay, and had
brought them safely over all the long way. The stormy sea voyage of
two months in a sailing vessel, the oft-interrupted train and boat
journey from Quebec to Toronto, the weary jolting of the wagon-trail to
the Holland Landing, and the storms of Lake Simcoe--the blue dishes,
safe in their hay nest, had weathered them all. But the great disaster
came when they were near home, just coming along the rough wagon track
cut through the bush from Cheemaun--Champlain's Road, they called it
even then. And such a road as it was, little Lizzie never saw--all
stumps and roots, and great mud-holes where the wagon wheels sunk to
the axle. There were two wagons tied together and drawn by a team of
oxen, and the barrel of precious dishes was in the first one. And just
as they were coming bumping and rattling down Arrow Hill, the hind
wagon came untied and went crashing into the front one. And the tongue
went straight through the barrel of blue dishes--from end to
end--smashing everything except these few cups and saucers that had
laid along the sides.
Elizabeth wiped one of the cracked cups very carefully and a lump arose
in her throat. She always felt the pathos of the story, though Mother
MacAllister expressed no regrets. But somehow, as the woman held one
of the treasured dishes in her hard, worn hands, the tenderness in her
eyes and voice conveyed to the child something of what their loss
typified. They seemed to stand for all the beauty and hope and light
of the young bride's life, that had been ruthlessly destroyed by the
hardness and drudgery of the rough new land.
"They are to be yours when you grow up, you mind, little Lizzie,"
Mother MacAllister said, as she always did when the story of the blue
cups and saucers was finished. Elizabeth sighed rapturously. "Oh, I'd
just love them!" she cried, "but I couldn't bear to take them away from
here. The cupboard would look so lonesome without them. I suppose I
wouldn't need to, though, if I married Charles Stuart, would I?" she
added practically.
Mother MacAllister turned her back for a few minutes. When she looked
at Elizabeth again there was only a twinkle in her deep eyes.
"You would be thinking of that?" she asked quite seriously.
"Oh, I suppose so," said Elizabeth with a deep sigh, as of one who was
determined to shoulder bravely life's heaviest burdens. "Of course
aunt thinks Mrs. Jarvis may take me away and make a lady of me, but I
don't really see how she could; do you, Mother MacAllister?"
"I would not be thinking about that, hinny. Mother MacAllister would
be sad, sad to see her little girl carried away by the cares o' the
world and the deceitfulness of riches."
"I hope I won't ever be," said Elizabeth piously. "Sometimes I think
I'd like to be a missionary, cause girls can't be like Joan of Arc now.
But it says in the g'ogerphy that there's awful long snakes in heathen
lands. I don't believe I'd mind the idols, or the black people without
much clothes on, though of course it wouldn't be genteel. But Martha
Ellen says we shouldn't mind those things for the sake of the gospel.
But, oh, Mother MacAllister! Think of a snake as long as this room!
Malcolm heard a missionary in Cheemaun tell about one. I think I'd be
too scared to preach if they were round. And I couldn't take your
lovely dishes away amongst people like that anyway; so sometimes I
think I'll just marry Charles Stuart when I get big."
Mother MacAllister busied herself arranging the dishes on the top shelf
of the cupboard. Her twinkling eyes showed not the slightest
resentment that her son should be chosen only as an alternative to
savages and boa constrictors.
"Well, well," she said at last, very gently, "you and Charles Stuart
would be too young to be thinking of such things for a wee while,
lovey. But, indeed, it's Mother MacAllister prays every day that you
may both be led to serve the dear Master no matter where He places you.
Eh, eh, yes indeed, my lassie."
Elizabeth swung her dish-towel slowly, standing with eyes fixed on the
pink and gold stretch of snow that led up to the glory of the skies
above the Long Hill.
"I'm going to try when I grow big," she whispered.
"But you don't need to be waiting for that, little Lizzie," said Mother
MacAllister, and seeing this was an opportunity for a lesson, added,
"Come and we will be sitting down for a rest now, until the boys come
in."
The dishes were all away, the oil-cloth covered table was wiped
spotlessly clean and the shining milkpans were laid out upon it. There
was nothing more to be done until Charles Stuart and Long Pete Fowler
came in with the milk. So Mother MacAllister sat down in the old
rocker by the sun-flooded window with her knitting, and Elizabeth sat
on an old milking-stool at her feet. And there in the midst of the
golden glow reflected from the skies, while one pale star far above in
the delicate green kept watch over the dying day, there the little girl
was given a new vision of One who, though He was rich, yet for
Elizabeth's sake became poor, who, though He stretched out those
shining heavens as a curtain, and made the glowing earth His footstool,
had lived amongst men and for thirty-three beautiful years had
performed their humblest tasks.
"Run and bring the Book, Lizzie," Mother MacAllister said at last, "and
we'll jist be readin' a word or two about Him."
Elizabeth had not far to run. The old Bible, with the edges of its
leaves all brown and ragged--and most brown and ragged where the
well-read psalms lay--was always on the farthest window-sill with
Father MacAllister's glasses beside it. She brought it, and, sitting
again at Mother MacAllister's feet, heard story after story of those
acts of love and gracious kindness that had made His life the wonder
and the worship of the ages.
And didn't little Lizzie want to do something for Him? Mother
MacAllister asked, and Elizabeth nodded, unable to speak for the great
lump in her throat. And then the wise woman showed her how He was
pleased with even a tidy desk at school, or a sum with the right answer
or all the words correct in a spelling lesson.
The memory of that golden afternoon never left Elizabeth, never ceased
to illuminate her after-life. Always a shining sunset recalled that
winter evening; the view from the broad, low window of the glorious
staircase of earth leading up to the more glorious heavens, the
reflection from it all flooding the old kitchen, lighting up the sacred
pages, and the beautiful face and white hair bent above her. And, best
of all, the memory of the lesson she had learned that evening at Mother
MacAllister's knee never lost its influence over her life. It was part
of the glory and the most radiant part, that vision of the One who is
the center of all beauty and joy and life.
Sometimes in later years the brightness of the vision waned, often it
almost faded from view; but there always remained a gleam towards which
Elizabeth's soul ever looked. And one day the vision began to
brighten, slowly and imperceptibly, like the coming of the dawn, but as
surely and steadily, until at last its glory filled her whole life and
made it beautiful and noble, meet for the use of Him who is the Father
of Lights.
Meantime, without any warning or apparent reason, Elizabeth suddenly
began to learn her lessons. No one but Mother MacAllister understood
why, but everybody saw the results. The connection between Elizabeth's
heart and brain had been made, and that done she even began to develop
a mathematical head. It was no easy task getting over her idle habits;
and it was so easy when a complex fraction proved stubborn to turn
one's slate into an easel. But the Saturday afternoon talks always
turned upon the subject of the vital connection between fractions and
the glories of the infinite, and every Monday Elizabeth went back to
her tasks with renewed vim. And soon she began to taste something of
the joy of achievement. It was fairly dazzling to feel oneself slowly
creeping up from the foot of the class, and she found a strange
exhilaration in setting herself against a rival and striving to
outspell her in a match. Here was glory right ready to hand. She was
Joan of Arc herself, riding through the arithmetic and slaying every
complex fraction that lay in her path.
Miss Gordon witnessed the transformation in Elizabeth with amazement,
and with devout thankfulness that by the judicious use of Mrs. Jarvis's
name she had at last succeeded in arousing her niece's ambition. Rosie
saw and was both proud and puzzled. It seemed so queer to see Lizzie
working in school. Mary gave up all hopes of ever catching up to her,
and John and Charles Stuart were sometimes seized with spasms of alarm
lest by some unexpected leap she might land some morning in their class.
Elizabeth's days were not too full of work to preclude other interests,
and just as the winter was vanishing in sunshiny days and little rivers
of melting snow, two very great events occurred. Just the last day
before the Easter vacation, Miss Hillary bade Forest Glen farewell and
rode away for the last time in the red cutter. Elizabeth and Rosie
left their decimals and the Complete Speller to take care of themselves
for fully an hour, while with their heads on the desk they wept
bitterly. For, after all, Miss Hillary was a teacher, and parting with
even the poorest kind of teacher, especially one who was so pretty, was
heart-breaking.
That was bad enough, but on the very same day old Sandy McLachlan came
to the school and took Eppie away. Fortunately, her two friends did
not know until the evening that Eppie, too, was gone forever; but when
they did discover it, Elizabeth's grief was not to be assuaged.
The next morning Eppie and her grandfather drove away from Forest Glen.
Jake Martin had not resorted to the law as he had threatened, neither
had Tom Teeter relaxed his vigilance. The old man's Highland pride had
at the last driven him forth. The hardest part of it all had been that
the thrust that had given him his final hurt had come from his closest
friend. Noah Clegg was the warmest-hearted man in Forest Glen and
would have given over his whole farm to Sandy if he would have accepted
it. But, as Tom Teeter declared hotly, Noah had no tact and was a
blazing idiot beside, and a well-intentioned remark of his sent old
Sandy out of the community. Noah was not a man of war and was so
anxious that his old friend should give up his untenable position
peaceably that he had very kindly and generously explained to Sandy
that it would be far better for him to come and live on a neighbor that
wanted him than on a man like Jake Martin, who didn't.
That very day, proud, angry, and cut to the heart, Sandy packed his
household goods and left the place. There was much talk over the
affair and everyone expressed deep regret--even Jake Martin. But he
wisely refrained from saying much, for Tom Teeter excelled all his
former oratorical nights in his hot denunciation of such a heartless
crocodile, who could dance on his neighbor's grave and at the same time
weep like a whited sepulchre. Long after the countryside had given up
talking of poor Sandy's flitting, they discussed Tom's wonderful speech.
Elizabeth and Rosie had one letter from Eppie. They were living in
Cheemaun, she said, and grandaddy was working in a big garden nearby
and she was going to a great school where there were six teachers.
Elizabeth's sorrow changed to admiration and envy; and soon the
excitement of having a new teacher drove Eppie from her mind.
And still the winter slowly vanished and spring advanced, and still
Mrs. Jarvis did not come. Vigilance at The Dale was never relaxed
through the delay, however. Everything was kept in a state of
preparation, and Miss Gordon ordered her household as soldiers awaiting
an onset of the enemy. Sarah Emily had a clean apron every morning,
and the house was kept in speckless order from the stone step of the
front porch to the rain-barrel by the back door of the woodshed. Even
the barnyard was swept every morning before the younger Gordons left
for school, and every day their Sabbath clothes were laid out in
readiness to slip on at the sight of a carriage turning in off
Champlain's Road.
But the days passed and no carriage appeared, neither did a line come
from the expected lady explaining her tardiness. Hope deferred made
Miss Gordon's nerves unsteady and her heart hard towards the cause of
her daily disappointment. By some process of unreason which often
develops in the aggrieved feminine mind, she conceived of Elizabeth as
that cause, and the unfortunate child found herself, all
uncomprehending as usual, fallen from the heights of approbation to
which her progress at school had raised her, to the old sad level of
constant wrong-doing.
And so the days passed until once more May came down Arrow Hill with
her arms full of blossoms, and turned the valley into a garden.
Dandelions starred the green carpet by the roadside, violets and
marigolds draped the banks of the creek with a tapestry of purple and
gold. The wild cherry-trees fringed Champlain's Road with a white
lacey hedge, heavy with perfume and droning with bees. The clover
fields flushed a soft lilac tint, the orchards were a mass of pink and
white blossoms, and the whole valley rang with the music of birds from
the robin's first dawn note to the whip-poor-will's evensong.
Elizabeth tried not to be wildly happy, in view of her shortcomings,
but found it impossible. May was here and she, too, must be riotously
joyful. The boys were wont to be off on fishing expeditions once more,
and over hill and dale she followed them in spite of all opposition.
One radiant afternoon John and Charles Stuart went, as usual, far
afield on their homeward journey from school. They crossed the creek
far below the mill and, making a wide circuit round the face of Arrow
Hill, came home by way of Tom Teeter's pasture-field. They had chosen
this route on purpose to rid themselves of Elizabeth, but she had
dogged their footsteps; and now arrived home with them, weary but
triumphant. As they approached the old stone house, she remembered
that she bore dismaying signs of her tumultuous journey. She had met
with many accidents by the way, among others a slip into a mud-hole as
they crossed the creek. So, when they reached the low bars that led
from Tom's property into The Dale field, she allowed the boys to go on
alone, while she sat upon the grass and strove to repair damages.
As she was scraping the mud from her wet stockings and struggling to
re-braid her hair, she heard voices coming from Tom Teeter's barnyard.
Glancing through the tangle of alder and raspberry bushes she was
overjoyed to see Annie standing by the strawstack talking to Granny
Teeter. Annie was the old woman's especial pet, and often went over to
keep her company when Tom was in town or on an oratorical tour.
Elizabeth sighed happily. She would wait and go home with Annie. One
was almost always safe in her company.
So she sat down on the end of a rail, teetering contentedly. The
rattle of a wagon could be heard on Champlain's Road. Tom was driving
in at the gate, coming from town. He would be sure to have some
sweeties, and would probably send them home with Annie. Granny was
hobbling about the barnyard, a red and black checked shawl round her
head and shoulders, a stick in her hand, which she used as much to rap
the unruly pigs and calves as for a support. She was complaining in
her high querulous voice about her turkeys, the _contrary_ little
bastes, that would nivir stay to home at all, at all, no matter if ye
give them the whole farm to ate up. Tom rode up and stood talking with
them, and Elizabeth, watching him through the raspberry bushes for
signs of a package of candy, saw him take a letter from his pocket.
Then he pointed to the straying turkeys going "peep, peep" over the
hillside, and, as Granny turned to look at them, he slipped the letter
into Annie's hand. Elizabeth remembered having seen Tom do this once
or twice before, when he came over of an evening. She wondered what
this could be about, and decided to ask Annie as soon as she came.
Suppose it should be a letter from Mrs. Jarvis, saying she had started!
Her sister was a long time in coming, and when she did appear at last,
walking along the path, she came very slowly. She was reading the
letter and smiling very tenderly and happily over it.
"Hello, Annie!" shouted Elizabeth, scrambling up on the fence top. The
letter disappeared like a flash into the folds of Annie's skirt; and at
once Elizabeth's older self told her she must not ask questions about
that letter, must not even allude to it. Some faint recollection of
that early dawn when she had seen the farewell in their orchard drifted
through her mind.
"Why, Lizzie," said her older sister, "how did you come here?" She
caught sight of the books. John carried the dinner-pail on condition
that Elizabeth bore the school-bag. "Haven't you got home yet?"
"No. The boys went 'way round, miles below the mill to hunt moles, and
I got into the creek. And just look at my stockings, Annie!"
"Oh, Lizzie!" cried her sister in distress, "what will aunt say?" then
added that which always attached itself to Elizabeth's misdemeanors,
"What would Mrs. Jarvis think if she were to come to-day?"
"Oh, bother! I don't believe she'll ever come for years and years,"
said Elizabeth recklessly. "Do you, Ann; now, really?"
"Ye-s, I think she might soon be here now." Something in her big
sister's voice made Elizabeth look up quickly. Dimples were showing in
Annie's cheeks. Her eyes were radiant.
"Oh, _do_ you think so? Well, Horace promised to come anyway, but what
makes you think she'll come soon?"
Annie shook her head, still smiling. "Aw, do tell me," coaxed
Elizabeth. "Did aunt get a letter?"
"No," the dimples were growing deeper, the eyes brighter, "but if she's
coming at all she's coming this week, because--because the year's
nearly up." She added the last words in a whisper and looked startled
as soon as she had uttered them.
"Because what?" cried Elizabeth, bristling with curiosity.
"Nothing, nothing," said Annie hastily. "It's," she was whispering
again, "it's got something to do with our secret, Lizzie, and you
mustn't ask me like a good little girl. And you won't tell what I
said, will you?"
Elizabeth was quite grown-up now. "Oh, no, I won't ever, ever tell.
But you're not quite sure she's coming, are you? 'Cause I never
finished working the motto she sent me."
"No, I'm not quite sure. But I think she will."
Elizabeth nodded. She understood perfectly, she told herself. That
letter was from Mrs. Jarvis, but having something to do with Annie's
secret--which meant Mr. Coulson--its contents must not be disclosed.
She went to work at her lessons that evening and forgot all about the
letter and Mrs. Jarvis, too. Decimals were not so alluring since the
May flowers had blossomed. A thousand voices of the coming summer
called her away from her books. But Elizabeth was determined to finish
a certain exercise that week, for Mother MacAllister was looking for
it. Malcolm and Jean were sitting down on the old pump platform doing
a Latin exercise. Elizabeth could not understand anyone studying
there, with the orioles building their nest above and the
vesper-sparrows calling from the lane. So she took her books up to her
room, pulled down the green paper blind to shut out all sights and
sounds, lit the lamp, and there in the hot, airless little place knelt
by a chair and crammed her slate again and again with figures.
Miss Gordon had been darning on the side porch, but had left her work a
moment and gone out to the kitchen to request Sarah Emily to
sing--provided it were necessary to sing at all--a little less
boisterously. Tom Teeter was in the study with Mr. Gordon, and, to
show her indifference, Sarah Emily was calling forth loud and clear the
chronicles of all those "finest young gents that ever were seen," who
had come a-courting all in vain.
The singer being reduced to a sulky silence, the mistress of the house
passed out on a tour of inspection. She glanced approvingly at the two
eager young students in the orchard, calling softly to Jean not to
remain out after the dew began to fall. The little boys were playing
in the lane. Mary was with them, but the absence of noise showed that
Elizabeth was not. Miss Gordon moved quietly upstairs. The door of
Elizabeth's room was closed; she tapped, then opened it.
Elizabeth's face, hot and flushed, was raised from her slate. The lamp
was flaring, and the room was stifling and smelt of kerosene. But she
looked up at her aunt with some confidence. She half-expected to be
commended. She was certainly working hard and surely was not doing
anything wrong.
For a moment Miss Gordon stood staring. She was seized with a sudden
fear that perhaps Elizabeth was not quite in her right senses. Then
she noted the extravagant consuming of kerosene in the day-time.
"Elizabeth," she said despairingly, "how is it possible that you can
act so strangely? Is the daylight not good enough that you must shut
yourself up here? Take your books and go downstairs immediately, and
blow out the lamp and tell Sarah Emily to clean it again. Really, I
cannot understand you!"
Elizabeth went tumultuously down the stairs. No, her aunt didn't
understand, that was just the trouble. If she ever showed any signs of
doing so, one might occasionally explain. She flung her books upon the
kitchen table and went out to the back kitchen door and, sitting down
heavily upon a bench there, gave herself up to despair. She gazed
drearily at Malcolm and Jean and listened to the laughter from the lane
without wanting to join either group. Mr. MacAllister had come over a
few minutes earlier, bringing the Pretender as usual. John and the
latter were upstairs. Elizabeth knew they were planning to run away
from her on the Queen's Birthday, but she did not care. She told
herself she did not care about anything any more. Her heart was
broken, and if Mrs. Jarvis were to drive in at the gate that very
moment she would not take ten million dollars from her, though she
begged her on her bended knees.
Miss Gordon went back to her darning on the side porch, and worked at
it feverishly, wondering if the child were really in her right mind.
She had much to worry her these days, poor lady. Her ambition for the
family threatened to be disappointed. Mrs. Jarvis was evidently not
coming. Malcolm and Jean would probably graduate from the High School
and there their education must stop. And Annie was acting so
strangely. She could not but remember that it was just one year ago
that evening that she had bidden Annie dismiss her undesirable suitor.
And now, rumor said the young man bade fair to be highly desirable, and
no other lover had as yet appeared. Of course, Mr. Coulson had gone,
declaring his exile would last a year, and then he would return. But
Miss Gordon had little faith in young men.
Annie had not fretted, only for a day or so--that was the strange
part--but their life together had never been the same. There were no
pretty, sweet confidences from her favorite, such as used to make Miss
Gordon feel young and happy, and lately Annie had been so silent and
yet with a face that shone with an inner light. Her aunt felt lonely
and shut out of the brightness of the girl's life. Much she wondered
and speculated. But Annie's firm mouth closed tightly and the steady
eyes looked far away when the young school-teacher's name was mentioned.
Well, it was a blessing the girl did not fret, the aunt said to
herself, for there was little likelihood of his returning. He had
probably forgotten all about her since last winter--young men were like
that. She sighed as she confessed it, remembering one who had declared
he would come back--but who had remained away in forgetfulness.
As she sat there in gloomy meditation, a rumbling noise made her look
up. A carriage was coming swiftly along Champlain's Road, one of those
smart buggies that came only from the town. It stopped at the gate,
and the driver, a young man, alighted. Elizabeth saw him, too, and
suddenly forgot her despondency. She had seen Annie but ten minutes
before, walking across the pasture-field towards Granny Teeter's. She
arose with a spring and went tearing through the orchard, bringing
forth indignant remarks from her studious brother and sister as she
flashed past. Annie had just reached the gate leading from the
orchard. Elizabeth flung herself upon her.
"Oh, Annie!" she gasped, radiant and breathless. "Somebody's coming.
And you'll never, never guess, 'cause it's Mrs. Jarvis, and she's
brought Mr. Coulson!"