THE DREAM OF LIFE
"Miss Gordon is wanted in the Principal's room at once."
The Science Master of Cheemaun High School put his head in at the door
of the room where the "Moderns" teacher was instructing his class in
French grammar. There was a flutter among the pupils as a tall young
lady in a neat dark-blue dress arose. The flutter had something of
apprehension in it. Miss Gordon was a prime favorite--and this was not
the first time she had been summoned to what was known amongst her
schoolmates as The Judgment Hall.
"Oh, Beth!" giggled the fair, plump young lady who shared her seat.
"He's found you out certain!"
"You're in for it, Beth!" whispered another. "Old Primmy's seen your
picture!"
Miss Gordon's deep gray eyes took on a look of mock terror. She went
out with bent head and a comical air of abject humility that left the
room in a titter. The "Moderns" teacher frowned. Miss Gordon was
irrepressible.
Nevertheless, when she found herself passing down the wide echoing hall
alone, the young lady was seized with misgivings. For which of her
misdemeanors was she to be arraigned this time? There was that
dreadful caricature she had drawn of the Principal--the one with the
shining expanse of bald head towards which swarms of flies and
mosquitoes, bearing skates and toboggans and hockey-sticks, were
hurrying gayly, while upon poor old Dr. Primrose's one tuft of hair
shone the conspicuous sign, "This way to the Great Slide."
Now, what on earth had she done with that picture? Oh, yes, Horace
Oliver had borrowed it to show to Parker Raymond. Perhaps Park had
lost it--he was such a careless fellow--and Dr. Primrose had found it!
And there was that poem, too, the one on little Mr. Kelly, the Science
Master. It was a long, lugubrious effusion, telling of the search by a
heart-broken chemistry class for a beloved teacher, who had
unaccountably disappeared. It described them as wandering about
weeping pitifully, looking into desks and ink-bottles, and under books;
until at last they discovered to their horror that a careless girl had
dropped her pen-wiper upon him and smothered him! That poem had
circulated through the class, causing much merriment. And where was it
now? The poetess could not remember. Suppose someone had dropped it
and Mr. Kelly had found it? He was so small, and so sensitive about
his size. No wonder Miss Gordon went very slowly to the Principal's
room.
Usually her days were all unalloyed joy. High School, except for
occasional skirmishes with troublesome teachers, was a delight. For
Elizabeth Gordon had arrived at a place in life where one could have a
good time without hurting anyone; there was so much fun in the world,
laughter was so easy--and nobody seemed ever to be in trouble any more.
Even as she tapped at the door beyond which probable retribution lay,
she smiled at the nodding lilac bush with its bunch of amethyst
blossoms that waved a greeting to her from the open window. Miss
Gordon's mind was prone to wander thus from the subject in hand to such
sights, her teachers often found. The song of a yellow warbler in the
school maples, the whirl of scarlet leaves across the window pane, or
the gleam of snow on the far-off hilltops, would drive away every item
of knowledge concerning the value of (a+b)2 or the characteristics of a
parallelogram.
The door swung suddenly open and the Principal's bald head shot into
view. His eyes were stern. Evidently he had come in war and not in
peace.
"Ah, Miss Gordon!" he said, briskly. "Yes, Miss Gordon! Just step
this way a minute!"
He held open the door and Miss Gordon stepped in, leaving all her
courage on the other side. She slipped sideways into a chair and
looked up at him with scared attention. Evidently it was the picture.
"Miss Gordon," said the Principal, seating himself in his revolving
chair, which creaked in a way that reminded Miss Gordon horribly of
stories of the guillotine, "I am making out the list of those whom I
consider competent to write on the final examinations, and I feel it my
duty to notify you that I cannot see my way clear to include your name."
Elizabeth fairly crumpled up in her chair. This was awful--the thing
she had most feared had come upon her at last. She sat speechless.
"Your papers on mathematics are quite hopeless," he continued, growing
more querulous because his pity was aroused. "It's out of the question
that you should write. I've done my best to show you that you should
give less time to English subjects and devote more to Algebra and your
Euclid." He arose and blustered up and down the room.
"You haven't a mathematical head," he was saying for the third time
when a sharp rap upon the door interrupted. Dr. Primrose, looking very
much relieved, opened it. Miss Gordon turned away to the window to
hide the rising tears.
There was a short, hurried conversation at the door, and the teacher
turned to his victim. He had a big, warm heart that was vastly
relieved at the prospect of escape from a most unpleasant duty.
"Ah, Miss Gordon," he said briskly. "Here are two gentlemen to see
you. You have permission to go home early this afternoon, by special
request. Kindly bear in mind what I have told you."
He stepped quickly aside, and ushered in two tall, young men, at the
same time closing the door behind him.
At the same instant all Miss Gordon's troubles were shut out with him,
and her face lit up with rapturous delight. She skipped across the
room with a joyful scream.
"Oh, John, John Gordon, you dear old sneak; why didn't you tell me you
were coming to-day?"
She flung her arms about his neck and gave him a sounding kiss. John
Gordon had been a whole year in college, but he had not yet become
sufficiently grown-up to accept a salute from his sister. He drew back
rather embarrassed, but his blue eyes shone in his dark face. He was
tremendously glad to see Lizzie again, and could not quite hide the
fact.
The other young man seemed equally pleased. "I say, Lizzie!" he
exclaimed, as she joyously shook both his hands. "You're grown about a
yard. And her neck's longer than ever, isn't it, John?"
"You mean old Pretender," she said with a pout; nevertheless, she did
not look offended. Miss Gordon had quite changed her views regarding
the possession of a long neck. Estella Raymond, her dearest chum, who
was short and plump, had declared many times that she would give ten
thousand dollars--not specifying how she was to come by such a sum--if
she could have a neck one-half as long and slim and graceful as Beth
Gordon's.
"Never mind, she's getting better looking, I do declare," the Pretender
added. "How's everybody?"
"Oh, just splendid--that is, they were when I was home last. I don't
go every Friday, you know. When did you come? Am I to go home with
you?"
"We just got here on the noon train," her brother explained, "and we
swarmed up to Annie's and she gave us the dinner of our lives."
"Say, it didn't taste much like boarding-house hash, did it?" cried Mr.
MacAllister fervently.
"And John Coulson's going to stand a treat for the whole family, and
drive us all out to The Dale--the Kid and all. And you're to come
along. Scoot and get your hat."
Elizabeth danced away down the hall to the cloakroom dizzy with joy.
Examinations, mathematics, principals of High Schools, all unkind and
troublesome things had vanished in a rosy mist. The old delight of
getting "off with the boys," was as strong at seventeen as at ten. The
boys themselves seemed to have changed their minds in the intervening
years as to the advisability of allowing Lizzie to "tag after them."
John's deep blue eyes, looking after her dancing figure, showed the
love and pride in his sister which he was always so careful to hide,
and his companion looked with somewhat the same expression and withal a
little puzzled--as one who had seen something unexpected which had
dazzled him.
It was but the work of a moment for Elizabeth to put on her hat and
gloves. She did not linger over the correct adjustment of the former
as she so often did. Miss Gordon was prone to look much in the mirror
these days. It was always the fixing of a bow or a frill of lace or
some other ornament that took her attention. She scarcely looked, as
yet, at the shining wealth of nut-brown hair, with the golden strand
through it, nor at the deep gray eyes, nor the straight line of teeth
that gleamed when she laughed. Miss Gordon was not interested in
these, but she could become absorbed in the arrangement of ribbon at
such length that her sister, Mrs. John Coulson, sometimes worried for
fear Lizzie was growing vain.
As she hurried to the main entrance where the boys stood waiting, a
group of young ladies came straying out of the classroom for the
afternoon recess.
"Beth Gordon!" cried the fair, plump one, making a dive at her friend.
"Are you expelled or are you off for a holiday, you mean thing? Who's
out there?" She craned her short neck. "Goodness, what swells! Are
they waiting for you?"
"It's only our John and Stuart MacAllister, they've just got in from
Toronto, and I'm going home with them."
"MacAllister and Gordon! Goodness gracious! I'm going to ask them if
they've ever met Ted Burns at 'Varsity. Ted's just crazy to get me to
correspond with him."
She tore down the hall and was soon in hilarious conversation with her
two old schoolmates, while Elizabeth remained behind to explain her
sudden departure.
"Just look at Estella!" cried a tall sallow girl, regarding that
vivacious young lady with disgust.
"How is it she always has so much attention from boys?" asked Elizabeth
Gordon, half-wistfully.
"My goodness, you're so innocent, Beth! Can't you see she runs after
them and demands attention. I wouldn't stoop to the means she employs
not if a boy never spoke to me again, would you?"
Elizabeth was silent. Somehow she could not help thinking it would be
most enjoyable to have two or three swains always dancing attendance on
one, the way they did on Estella Raymond, even though one did have to
encourage them. Of course Estella did resort to means that were not
quite genteel--but then boys seemed to always come about her, anyway,
as bees did about a flower; while Madeline Oliver never had a beau.
Elizabeth had to confess that she hadn't one herself--except Horace,
who, of course, didn't count. She sighed. It really would be nice to
be like Stella, even though one hadn't Madeline's dignity.
"Good-by, girls!" she called gayly. "I'll bring you some
lady's-slippers if they're out," and she ran out to the group on the
steps.
It took some time for the two young men to tear themselves away from
Miss Raymond's gentle hands. They were further delayed by her
following Elizabeth to the gate, her arm about her waist, while she
implored her darling Beth to come back soon, and kissed her twice
before she let her go. They got away at last, and the three went down
the leafy street.
They were a very different looking trio from the one that used to stray
over field and through woods about The Dale, fishing, berry-picking,
nutting, or merely seeking adventure. They had not been separated very
long. During the boys' first year in the High School, Elizabeth had
worked madly, and when she managed to graduate from Forest Glen, Mother
MacAllister had insisted that Charles Stuart take the buck-board and
the sorrel mare and that the three inseparables drive to and from the
town to school.
For though Mrs. Jarvis had really appeared in the flesh at The Dale for
that one visit, she had never repeated it nor her munificent offer to
discuss Elizabeth's future. Her talk had all been of Annie, and what a
good match young Mr. Coulson would make. And Miss Gordon had to be
content, never guessing that the astute young man whose cause the lady
championed, and not her own influence had brought Mrs. Jarvis to The
Dale.
So Elizabeth's fortune had not been made after all, but she had managed
to get on quite well without a fortune, it would seem. Her High School
days had been days of perfect joy. Even when the boys had graduated
and gone to Toronto, she had managed to be happy. For Annie lived in
Cheemaun by this time, lived in a fine brick house too in the best part
of the town, and Elizabeth had spent this last year with her. And now
nearly five years had passed, and not Mrs. Jarvis, but Mr. Coulson had
become the family's hope.
Miss Gordon had long ago become reconciled to the tavern-keeping
ancestor. It would appear that social lines could not be strictly
drawn in this new country, and when one lived in Canada apparently one
must marry as Canadians married. For it would appear also that here
Jack was not only as good as his master, but might be in the master's
place the next day. And certainly John Coulson was a model husband,
and a rising lawyer besides. On the whole, Miss Gordon was perfectly
satisfied with the match she now firmly believed she had made for her
niece. Each year she grew more absorbed in her ambition for William's
family. They were all responding so splendidly to her efforts. She
would raise them to social eminence, she declared to herself, in spite
of William's neglect and Mrs. Jarvis's indifference. With John
Coulson's help Malcolm had secured a position in the bank of a
neighboring town. Jean was teaching school in Toronto, and because
Jean must needs do the work of two people, she was reading up the
course Charles Stuart was taking in the University and attending such
lectures as she could. Even Elizabeth, through Annie's goodness, was
getting such learning as she was capable of taking. And John was at
college learning to be a doctor. That was the hardest task of all, the
sending of John to college. And only Miss Gordon knew how it had been
accomplished. She had managed it somehow for the first year, and John
was to earn money during his first summer vacation for his next year.
Down the long leafy street Elizabeth was moving now between the two
tall figures. There was so much to tell, so many questions to ask, and
she talked all the time. To the boys' disgust they could extract from
her very little information respecting any person except the one
supreme personage who now ruled her days--Annie's baby. She was
overcome with indignation that Annie had not already displayed him.
What if he was asleep! It was a shame to make anybody wait five
minutes for a sight of such a vision. Why, he was the most angelic and
divinely exquisite, sweetest, dearest, darlingest pet that ever
gladdened the earth. He was a vision, that's what he was! Just a
vision all cream satin and rose-leaf and gold. Elizabeth described him
at such length that the boys in self-defense uttered their old, old
threat. They would climb a fence and run away--and Elizabeth, whose
long skirts now precluded the possibility of her old defiant
counter-threat to follow them, desisted and bade them "just wait."
They were climbing the heights that formed the part of the town called
Sunset Hill. It was a beautiful spot, with streets embowered in maple
trees and bordered by lawns and gardens. At the end of each leafy
avenue gleamed Cheemaun Lake with its white sails. Sunset Hill was not
only the prettiest residential part of the town, it was the region of
social eminence; and it were better to dwell in a cot on those heights
and have your card tray filled with important names, than exist in
luxury down by the lake shore and not be known by Society. The houses
on Sunset Hill were all of red brick with wide verandas supported by
white pillars--the wider the veranda, and the thicker the pillars, the
greater the owner's social distinction. For some years this form of
architecture was the only one accepted by people of fashion, until Mr.
Oliver, who was a wealthy lumberman, inadvertently put an end to it.
He too built his new house on Sunset Hill, and Mrs. Oliver, just to
outpillar the other pillars of society, had her veranda supported by
groups of columns, three in a group. Thereafter builders lost courage,
seeming to feel that the limit had been reached. Shortly after, a
daring young contractor put up a gray stone house with slim black
veranda posts, and no one raised a protest. And fashion, having been
chased in this manner from pillar to post, so to speak, Society turned
its attention to other than architectural fields. But the dull red
bricks of Sunset Hill with their white ornamentations mellowing in the
keen Canadian winters, stood thereafter as a title clear to
unquestionable social standing.
It had always been a source of great satisfaction to Elizabeth that
John Coulson had taken Annie to a white-pillared home on Sunset Hill;
for Madeline and Horace lived in the finest home there, and Estella,
though on the wrong side of Elm Crescent, the street that, curving
round Sunset Hill, divided it from the vulgar world, dwelt in a very
fine residence indeed. Elizabeth had learned many things besides
French and Chemistry in Cheemaun High School.
They found a big carriage drawn up before the door of Annie's house,
and Annie already in it holding the Vision, now merely a bundle of lace
and shawls. Elizabeth grasped the bundle from her sister's arms and
proceeded to display its many charms. "Oh, John, just look at him!
Look, Stuart, see him's dear dear itty nose, an' him's grea' big
peepers! Isn't he the darlingest pet----"
The boys attempted to be sufficiently admiring, but just as they were
lamely trying to say something adequate to the great occasion, to
Elizabeth's dismay, the Vision opened its mouth and yelled lustily.
"Betsey, you're a nuisance!" said John Coulson, with that indulgent
look he always bent upon the young sister-in-law, who had been such a
help to him in those days when he sorely needed help. "Come, tumble
in, everybody. All aboard for The Dale,--Champlain and Cheemaun R.
R.!" The Vision was quieted, the travelers sprang in, the whip
cracked, the wheels rattled, the horses pranced, and away they spun
down the leafy streets--down, down, to the long level stretch of
Champlain's Road that ran straight out into the country.
There was much to be told of college pranks and college work, and the
telling of it lasted until the horses climbed Arrow Hill and the old
familiar valley lay stretched before them.
"Yook, yook, Dackie!" chattered Aunt Elizabeth, clutching the Vision,
whose big blue eyes were gazing wonderingly from the depths of his
wrappings. "Yook at de pitty pitty wobin! A teenty weenty itty wobin
wed best!"
There was a groan from the front seat.
"Do you often get it as bad as that, Lizzie?" asked John anxiously.
"Remember The Rowdy, Lizzie?" asked Charles Stuart, "the fellow that
used to sing in the hawthorn bush?"
"I should think I do--and Granny Teeter. Listen, there is The Rowdy's
lineal descendant, for sure!"
It seemed to be The Rowdy's very reincarnation, singing and shouting
from an elm bough by the roadside.
"That's a gay bachelor all right," said John Coulson, who, because he
was so supremely happy in his married life, had to make allusion to his
condition as often as possible, even if only by way of contrast.
"He sounds more like a widower," said Elizabeth gloomily; "one that had
been bereaved about a year."
"Hush, hush, Betsey!" cried her brother-in-law. "Remember whose land
he's on."
"That's just what I am remembering."
"You don't mean that Jake's beginning to 'take notice,' surely?" asked
John Gordon, in wicked delight. For only the spring before poor
worn-out Mrs. Martin had suddenly ceased her baking, churning, and
hoeing, and had gone to her long rest in the Forest Glen churchyard,
and already rumor said that Jake was on the lookout for another baker,
churner, and hoer.
"I'm afraid he is," said John Coulson. "There he is now prowling round
his asparagus beds. He's probably got his eye on Betsey."
Elizabeth was not prepared to answer this sally. She was looking out
eagerly for some glimpse of Susie. All the elder Martins had left home
just as soon as they were old enough to assert their independence. But
Susie's strength had given way before the hard work, and she lay all
day in bed, or dragged her weary limbs about the house, a hopeless
invalid, and her father's chief grievance in life. Elizabeth's warm
heart was always filled with a passionate pity for Susie, and she
rarely visited home without running across the fields to brighten a
half-hour for the sick girl.
Just at this moment there arose from the fields opposite the Martin
farm a rollicking song--loud, clear, compelling attention, and poured
forth in a rich baritone.
"_O, and it's whippity-whoppity too,
And how I'd love to sing to you,
I'd laugh and sing
With joy and glee,
If Mistress McQuarry would marry me,
If Mistress McQuarry would marry me!_"
The last line was fairly shouted in a way that showed the singer was
anxious to be heard.
"Tom's trying to outsing the robins," cried John Coulson, pulling up
his horses. Mr. Teeter was coming across a rich brown field behind his
harrow. John Coulson waved his hat.
"Hello, Tom, I tell you they lost a fine singer when they made an
orator out of you! Give us a shake!"
Tom was over the fence in a twinkling, and shaking the newcomers' hands.
"Sure it's awful college swells ye're gettin' to be, wid your high
collars. Have ye made up yer mind to be a preacher yet?" He looked at
Charles Stuart.
"No, I haven't," said Charles Stuart hastily.
"Well ye ought to be ashamed o' yerself, wid the mother ye've got. So
ye heard me singin' now?" His eyes gleamed with mischievous delight.
"I was shoutin' for a purpose." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder
in the direction of the man working in the Martin fields. "Look at
that say-sarpent wigglin' over there. It makes him so mad he could set
fire to me." He laughed so explosively that the horses started. "He's
coortin'. Yes, siree, but he don't like to have it advertised."
"Who's the poor woman?" asked Mrs. Annie in distress.
"Auntie Jinit McKerracher! They say she throwed the dish-water on him
the last time he went sparkin'. Hi! young shaver!" This to the
Vision, who had insisted upon sitting erect, and was now looking about
him. "Oh, he's the broth of a boy, sure enough, Lizzie. Now ye'll be
sure all o' yez to come over and see mother; don't ye dare go back
widout. I suppose yous two didn't hear anything o' poor Sandy and the
wee girl in Toronto, did ye?"
John shook his head. "We heard they were living with Eppie's father.
He kept a corner grocery store in the east end, but we couldn't find
them."
"Eh, eh," sighed Tom, "poor Sandy. A fine old fellow. Eh, I hope he's
not in want." He shook his fist towards his neighbor. "An' jist go on
robbin' widows an' tramplin' on orphans till ye perish in the
corruption o' yer own penuriousness. Yes, an' me lady Jarvis too!" he
cried, abruptly finishing his apostrophe. "She'll have to answer for
old Sandy an' the wee thing, see if she don't." The company smiled in
spite of his earnestness, all but Elizabeth. She regarded him with big
solemn eyes. "Now yous 'll be over to see mother early, mind," he
added as he swung one leg over the fence.
As they drove away they heard his song rising again loud and clear--
"_O, and it's whippity-whoppity too,
And how I'd love to sing to you._"
"Tom's a great lad," laughed John Coulson. "He'll never grow old. I
wonder why he never married," he added, returning to his favorite topic.
"Does Sarah Emily still think he's pining for her?"
"She's sure of it," said Elizabeth. "And poor old granny is so angry
that Tom won't get married. 'Aw wirra wurra, if Tom'd only git a wife
now.'" She wrung her hands and imitated old Granny Teeter's wail to
perfection. "'Sure an' he nades a wife to tind to the chickens an' the
pigs an' the turkeys--the contrary little bastes that'll niver be
stayin' at home, at all at all.'"
The young men laughed, and John Coulson looked admiringly at her. John
Coulson was too apt to encourage Lizzie in this sort of thing, Annie
felt. She smiled indulgently at her sister, but said nothing. Mrs.
John Coulson alone knew why poor unselfish Tom had never married, but
hers was a loyal friendship and she had kept his secret as faithfully
as he had once kept hers.
And now they had come prancing out from behind the screen of elm trees,
and The Dale lay spread out before them--the big gate between the old
willows, the long lane bordered by blossoming cherry-trees, and the old
stone house with its prim flower beds in front. Their homecoming was a
few days earlier than expected, and Mr. Gordon was all unconsciously
hoeing at the back of the field, but Sarah Emily spied them as they
pulled up at the gate, and came running round the house shouting in a
most ungenteel but warm-hearted fashion that the folks was come home.
Elizabeth sprang from the carriage and ran down the lane to meet Mary.
Though she came home often, the joy of reunion with her family never
palled. There was no place like The Dale for Elizabeth, no folk like
her own folk. She did not even notice in her joyous hurry that Charles
Stuart had left and was striding homeward down Champlain's Road.
Mary came running out to meet her. She was a tall girl now, taller
than Elizabeth, but her delicately beautiful face was wasted and pale,
except for two pink spots on her cheeks. Miss Gordon was just behind
her. She had not grown much older looking in the past few years, and
unconsciously had lost some of her stately rigidity. She looked
extremely handsome, her face flushed and alight with happiness. She
did not kiss the visitors, except Baby Jackie, but her eyes shone with
welcome. As she greeted John, she laid one hand for a moment on his
shoulder. She looked at him closely, noting with pride the new air of
gentility even one year at college had given the boy. But as she took
Annie's boy into her arms Miss Gordon's face grew positively sweet.
She had not the privilege of bearing the precious bundle far. Sarah
Emily, who had rushed back to the house to don a clean apron, met her
at the door, and snatching the Vision fled upstairs with him, inquiring
loudly of the blessed petums if it wasn't just Sarah Emily's ownest,
darlingest love.
Mr. Gordon came hurrying in from the field, and after he had made them
all welcome over again, he followed John about in a happy daze, saying
again and again that if only Mary and Malcolm were here--no, no, Archie
and Lizzie--tuts, it was Malcolm and Jean he meant,--if they were only
home now, the family would be complete--"almost complete," he added.
And then his eyes once more took on their far-away look, and he slipped
away into the study, whither Elizabeth softly followed him.
In the late afternoon the younger boys came home from school, and the
excitement had to be all lived through again. They all wandered about
the old house, everyone following in the wake of the baby. The Dale
rooms were not the bare, echoing spaces they once were. Just two years
before, Cousin Griselda had passed quietly away, and her little
annuity, as well as the property in McGlashan Street, had passed to
Miss Gordon. The latter had experienced much real grief over her loss,
and had taken pains in the intervening time to impress upon all her
family that this bereavement was part of the sacrifice she had
deliberately made for them. Nevertheless, the Gordons had benefited
some from the slight addition to their income, and there were many
comforts in the big stone house which had been absent in the early
days. Early in the evening Mother MacAllister and Charles Stuart came
over, and Granny Teeter returned their visit, bringing with her Auntie
Jinit McKerracher, who had dropped in. Elizabeth and Mary and Sarah
Emily, when they were not quarreling over who should nurse Baby Jackie,
managed to set the table for a second late tea. A grand tea it was
too, with the big shining tablecloth Aunt Margaret had brought from the
Old Country, and the high glass preserve dish that always had reminded
Elizabeth in her early years of the pictures of the laver in the
tabernacle court. It was a great day altogether, and Elizabeth enjoyed
so much the old joy of straying down the lane and over the fields with
John and Charles Stuart, that when John Coulson drove up to the door,
and Annie with the Vision, once more a bundle of shawls, was put into
the carriage, she was glad she was to remain at home till Monday.
The Coulson family drove away, with a bunch of early Dale rhubarb, and
green onions, under the carriage seat, along with a fresh loaf of
Mother MacAllister's bread, and a roll of Auntie Jinit McKerracher's
butter, and a jar of Granny Teeter's cider. When they were gone, John
went into the study for a talk with his father alone, and Elizabeth and
Mary repaired to their little room to discuss the week's doings. It
was not the bare room it once was; the girl's deft hands had decorated
it with cheap but dainty muslin curtains, pictures, and bric-a-brac.
Elizabeth went down on her knees to clear out a bureau drawer for the
clothes she had brought.
She laughed as she brought up some old treasures. Here was a pair of
white pillow covers that Mrs. Jarvis had sent her on her thirteenth
birthday. There was a motto outlined on each, and silk threads for
working it had accompanied the gift. But Elizabeth had finished only
one, and put a half-dozen stitches into the other. "Look at those!"
she cried, half-laughing, half-ashamed, as she hung them over a chair.
"I wonder when I'll ever get them finished." Mary picked them up, and
examined them. "You really ought to do them, Lizzie. They'd be so
pretty for our bed done in the pale blue silk." She read the mottoes
aloud, "I slept and dreamed that life was beauty," and the second, "I
awoke and found that life was duty." "It's just like you to drop a
thing in the middle and not finish it." Mary was growing more like her
Aunt Margaret every day in her stately prim manner.
"I didn't drop it in the middle, Miss Wiseacre," said her sister.
"Can't you see I started the Duty one. It's ten stitches past the
middle!" She caught them up, bound "the beauty one" about her head,
stuck the other into her belt for an apron, twisted her face up into a
perfect imitation of Auntie Jinit McKerracher, and proceeded to give
Mary the latest piece of gossip, in a broad Scotch accent, ending up as
Auntie Jinit always did, "Noo, ah'm jist tellin' ye whit ah heered, an'
if it's a lee, ah didna mak it!"
Mary laughed till the tears came. Lizzie was so absurd and so funny.
But the fit of laughter at her antics brought on a fit of coughing, and
a voice called from the foot of the stairs--"Mary, Mary, are you
sitting up in that chilly room? Come right down to the stove at once."
Mary went coughing down the stairs, and Elizabeth listened unconcerned.
Mary had always been coughing and always been chased to the stove ever
since she could remember. She folded her head-dress and put it into
the drawer. She glanced at its inscription, "I slept and dreamed that
life was beauty." She was sleeping these happy days, and dreaming too
that life was all joy. The other pillow-cover slipped from her belt
and lay on the floor. Her careless foot trampled it. It was the one
that read, "I awoke and found that life was duty." The significance of
her unconscious act did not reach her. She hummed a gay song learned
at school, as she crammed the pieces of embroidery into a drawer. They
were merely embroidery to Elizabeth, and so was life. She had not yet
read the inscription traced over it by the finger of God, and knew not
its divine meaning.
But in the silence of the little room, the remembrance of Dr.
Primrose's fell message suddenly returned. It was the first time she
had recalled it all that long, happy day. Well, there was no use
worrying, she concluded philosophically. Sufficient unto the day was
the evil thereof, and she ran down the stairs singing.
The summer holidays soon came, and Elizabeth left Cheemaun under a
cloud. She had failed, while the rest of the family had succeeded.
Everyone came home bearing laurels but her, and her aunt keenly felt
the one shadow over the family glory.
Nevertheless, for Elizabeth the vacation passed gayly. She seemed to
be the only one who did not grieve over her lack of success. She was
indeed the only really Gay Gordon, so studious and hard-working had
they all become.
Elizabeth somehow seemed the only one also who managed to play all the
time. She had the faculty of turning everything into play. John hired
with Tom Teeter for the summer, and Charles Stuart toiled all day in
his own fields. Jean came home laden with books, and studied both
night and day. Even Malcolm in his two weeks' vacation busied himself
in the garden with his father. But Elizabeth seemed to have no
definite place assigned her in the domestic economy. Mary had such
light duties as her health permitted, but she refused all her sister's
offers of assistance. Lizzie was sure to get the darning all tangled
and spoiled, and if one left her any sewing to do, one might see her
next moment chasing Jamie down the lane, with the unsewed article left
hanging over a raspberry bush. Yes, Lizzie was no good, as Sarah Emily
declared when she ventured into the kitchen, and the only time she
appeared at an advantage was during Annie's weekly visits when she
excelled everyone in her care of the baby. Even her aunt had to admit
her superiority here. She was as careful, as wise and responsible as
Miss Gordon could wish, and she often wondered how the reckless,
nonsensical girl could be so suddenly transformed. But then Miss
Gordon was still far from understanding her niece.
Elizabeth's days were very full in spite of her idleness. There were
her weekly visits to Mother MacAllister, frequent calls on poor Susie
lying in pain on her hard bed, and even an occasional call upon Rosie
away down in Forest Glen. Rosie hailed Elizabeth's visits with
delight, though she was too busy to return them. The Carricks were
toiling night and day, sewing, and preserving fruit, and "hooking" mats
and quilting quilts. For in the fall, just at the season when a
wedding trip to the Toronto Autumn Exhibition was looked upon as the
most fashionable social departure in the countryside, Rosie and Hector
McQueen, who had never outlived the days of chivalry, were to be
married! It made Elizabeth feel old and queer and dreadfully sorry for
Rosie all at one moment just to think about it.
Elizabeth was sometimes possessed with the feeling that she was outside
everybody else's life. Of course there was John. He was her chum and
her soul's companion, but the rest of the family seemed to live in a
world full of interests into which she could not enter. Jean was
burning with ambition. She talked only of her studies, of her progress
and aspirations in the teaching profession, and of Miss Mills, with
whom she studied. Miss Mills was a mathematical wonder, Jean declared,
but in Elizabeth's opinion, she was a tough mathematical problem
clothed in partially human flesh. She wondered much at Miss Mills, and
at Jean too, and tried to catch her enthusiasm. But she could see
nothing in Jean's life over which to grow enthusiastic.
Another person who seemed to have grown away from her was Charles
Stuart. The Pretender had changed within the last few years. He was a
tall, broad-shouldered young man now, and his dark eyes did not dance
so mischievously in his handsome face. They wore something of the
expression of dreamy kindness that lay in the depths of his mother's
gray eyes. He was generally very quiet too, given to sitting alone
with a book, and Elizabeth often found him dull and stupid.
Mother MacAllister sometimes seemed worried over him, and Elizabeth
wondered much what could be the reason. Had the Pretender been wild
and bad as he used to be she could have understood, but he seemed so
quiet and steady.
One evening she came near divining the reason for her anxious looks.
Elizabeth still kept up her Saturday afternoon visit to Mother
MacAllister, and to-night they had had the blue dishes for tea. As she
wiped them and arranged them on the high shelf of the cupboard, Mother
MacAllister went down cellar to attend to her milk. Elizabeth finished
her work and picked up a book Charles Stuart had left on the window.
It was a theological work, and as Mother MacAllister came out of the
cool cellar, the girl looked up joyfully.
"Then Stuart is going to be a minister after all, is he?"
The mother's beautiful eyes grew eager, hungry. "Would he be saying
that to you, lovey?" she asked in a half-whisper.
"No. But this book; it's a theological work. I thought from it----"
Elizabeth's heart was touched by the expression on Mother MacAllister's
face. It had grown very sad. She glanced at the book and shook her
head. "No, no, dearie," she said, and there was a quiver in her voice
that made the girl's heart contract. "I am afraid it is books like
that one that will be keeping young men away from the truth."
Elizabeth patted her arm in silent sympathy. She knew Mother
MacAllister's great ambition for her boy. And Charles Stuart was such
an orator too--it seemed too bad. She picked up the book again,
glancing through it, and thought surely Mother MacAllister must be
mistaken. It seemed such an entirely good sort of book, like
"Pilgrim's Progress," or something of that sort.
"What are you going to be?" she asked as Charles Stuart walked home
with her in the golden August, evening along Champlain's Road.
"I don't know," said the young man. "Sometimes I think I'd like to go
in for medicine. But my four years in Arts will put me hopelessly
behind John. I really haven't decided what I'll do."
"I remember you used to be divided between the ministry and veterinary
surgery," reminded Elizabeth.
He laughed. "I think there is about equal chances between them still,"
he said, and Elizabeth's older self saw he did not wish to pursue the
subject. She was very sorry for Mother MacAllister, but on the whole
she still thought Charles Stuart was wise in choosing some less
exacting profession than the ministry.
But the joyous holidays, driving over the country with John and Charles
Stuart, wandering on berry-picking tramps with Archie and Jamie, or
spending hours of adoration before the Vision, could not last forever.
Malcolm's departure after his short vacation saw the beginning of the
end. The last week of August came and Jean packed her books and went
back to her teaching, her studies, and her beloved Miss Mills. And
then September ripened into October, and college days had come.
As the day of the boys' departure approached, Elizabeth felt as though
she had come to the end of all things. Her own High School days were
over, ended in failure; she was not needed at home, she was no use away
from home, and she had a vague feeling that she was not wanted anywhere.
The night before the boys left, Charles Stuart came over to say
good-by, and before he went home Mr. Gordon led family worship. He
read the 91st Psalm, that one he always chose for the evening reading
the night before any of his loved ones left the home nest. He had read
it often by this time, but it never lost its effect upon the young
people's hearts. It made a grand farewell from the father to his
children, a promise to both of perfect security in the midst of all
dangers.
"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide
under the shadow of the Almighty.... Surely He shall deliver thee from
the snare of the fowler and from the noisome pestilence. He shall
cover thee with His feathers, and under His wings shall thou trust....
Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow
that flieth by day.... For He shall give His angels charge over thee
to keep thee in all thy ways."
The spell of the wonderful words was still over the young folks' hearts
as Elizabeth and John walked up the lane with Charles Stuart. The
latter was particularly quiet. Elizabeth had noticed that his eyes
were moist and his voice very husky when he had bidden her father
good-by. She herself was very, very sad and lonely to-night, and the
weird beauty of the moonlit valley only added to her melancholy.
The night was still young, and up above the Long Hill there lingered
the gold and pink of the sunset. Above the black pines of Arrow Hill a
great round moon hung in the amethyst skies. And low over the valley
there stretched a misty veil of gold and silver, a magic web woven by
the fingers of the moonrise held out in farewell to touch the fairy
hands of the sunset. It was such a night as could intoxicate
Elizabeth. As the boys stood making arrangements for their early
morning drive to Cheemaun, she leaned over the gate and looked down the
long ghostly white line of Champlain's Road, hearing only the soft
splash of the mill water-fall coming up through the scented dusk. She
scarcely noticed Charles Stuart's farewell; nor his lingering
hand-clasp. When he was gone she went upstairs to her room, and long
after Mary and the rest of the household were asleep, she sat by the
window. And for the first time she strove to put on paper the thoughts
that were surging in her heart, demanding expression.
Elizabeth had written many, many rhymes, but they had all been gay and
nonsensical. She had never tried before to express a serious thought.
And to-night, she did not guess that her success was due to the fact
that her heart was aching over the parting with John.