DAWN CLOUDS
"And so you see; Aunt Margaret, I could not possibly have acted
otherwise. I had to leave it all."
Miss Gordon sat a trifle straighter in her stiff chair. "I fear I must
confess I cannot see it as you do at all, Elizabeth. You say yourself
that Mrs. Jarvis would have been willing to pay Eppie's expenses up
here, or support her in the city, and why you should have made her the
cause of such an eccentric act I cannot understand."
Elizabeth looked out of the window in silent misery. Before her, Tom
Teeter's fields stretched away bare and brown, with patches of snow in
the hollows and the fence-corners. Rain had fallen the night before, a
cold March rain, freezing as it fell, and clothing every object of the
landscape in an icy coat that glittered and blazed in the morning
light. But the sun and the fresh wind, dancing up from the south and
bringing a fragrant hint of pussy-willows from the creek banks, were
causing this fairy world of glass to dissolve. Such a glorious world
as it was seemed too radiant and unreal to last. There was a sound of
pouring water and a rattle as of shattered glass as the airy things
tumbled to pieces.
The fences along Champlain's Road and the lane were made of polished
silver rails that gave back the sunbeams in blinding flashes. The
roofs of the houses and barns were covered with glass, the trees were
loaded with diamonds. From the east windows of the dining-room where
Elizabeth sat by the fire, she could see the orchard and the
out-houses. They were all transformed, the former into a fairy forest
of glass, the latter into crystal palaces. Even the old pump had been
changed into a column of silver.
The breeze, dancing up over The Dale, set the fairy forest of glass
swaying, with a silken rustle. On every swinging branch millions of
jewels flashed in the sunlight. With a soft crashing sound some tree
would let fall its priceless burden in a dazzling rain of diamonds.
Crash! and the silver roof of the barn slid down into the yard,
collapsing in a flood of opals. The whole world seemed unreal and
unstable, toppling to pieces and vanishing in the rising mist.
To Elizabeth it seemed like her new radiant world of usefulness, which
she had been building on her journey from Toronto. It was falling to
pieces about her ears, before the breath of her aunt's disapproval.
The glorious freshness of the breeze, the dazzling blue of the sky, and
the quivering, flashing radiance of the bejeweled world set all her
city-stifled nerves tingling to be up and away over the wind-swept
fields and the wet lanes. But she sat in the old rocker by the
dining-room fire and clasped her hands close in her efforts to keep
back the tears. This homecoming had been so sadly different from all
others. She had not been welcome. The Dale and every dear old
familiar nook and corner of the surrounding fields had seemed to open
their arms to her and Eppie when John Coulson brought them out from
Cheemaun three days before. Her father had received them with
unquestioning joy. Mary and the boys had been hilarious in their
welcome. Her aunt alone had met her with a greeting tempered by
doubts. Notwithstanding the years of worldly success to Elizabeth's
credit, Miss Gordon still lived in some fear lest the wild streak
reappear. She had reserved her judgment, however, until her niece
should explain, and the opportunity for a quiet talk had come upon the
third morning after their arrival. As soon as breakfast was over, and
the early morning duties attended to, Miss Gordon took her
embroidery--Mary did the darning now--to the dining-room fire and
called Elizabeth to her.
The old stone house was very quiet. Sarah Emily's successor, a shy
little maid from an orphan home, was moving noiselessly about the
kitchen under Mary's able supervision. Jamie was far on the road to
Cheemaun High School, his books slung over his back, and Mr. Gordon was
shut in his study. Eppie lay upstairs in the big airy room that had
once been the boys'. Even where she sat Elizabeth could catch the echo
of her racking cough.
Miss Gordon seated herself comfortably before the fire, bidding
Elizabeth do the same.
They had not yet had a moment to talk about the future, she said
pleasantly. There had been so much to say about poor little Eppie.
But they must discuss Elizabeth's own affairs now. First, how long
could she remain at home? She hoped Mrs. Jarvis did not want her to
return immediately?
Elizabeth felt, rather than saw, the look of sharp inquiry her aunt
bent upon her. There was no hope of putting off the explanation any
longer. She turned towards her with a sinking heart. It had always
been impossible to explain her actions to Aunt Margaret. And now,
though she was a woman, Elizabeth felt a return of her old childish
dread of being misunderstood.
She began carefully--away back at the resolution her young heart had
made to use her influence with Mrs. Jarvis to help Eppie. Of her
higher aims and aspirations she could not speak; and because she was
forced to do so, to be silent concerning her yearnings for a higher
life, and the revelation that had come to her that wonderful afternoon
in St. Stephen's; because of this, even to her own ears, her story did
not sound convincing. Her course of conduct did not appear so
inevitable as it had before she faced her aunt.
When she had bidden Mrs. Jarvis farewell, declaring she could no longer
endure the life of fashion and idleness which they lived, and had
buried poor old Sandy and taken Eppie and fled home with her, she had
been as thoroughly convinced as Charles Stuart, her aider and abettor,
that this was the only line of conduct to pursue. To Elizabeth's mind
it had appeared beyond doubt that, from the day her benefactress,
acting through Mr. Huntley, had allowed Eppie to be driven from her
home, that those two had been directly responsible for all the girl's
misery. And this one case had revealed to her the awful train of
innocent victims that must surely follow in the path of selfish
idleness which Mrs. Jarvis pursued, or that of money-making followed by
Mr. Huntley. And Elizabeth, too, was of their world, eating of their
bread, accepting all the luxury that came from this wrong-doing. This
was the thought that had stung her into such headlong action. She had
told Mrs. Jarvis the whole truth, offending her bitterly thereby, and
had escaped without even a word of farewell to Mr. Huntley. But now,
in the telling of it all, she seemed to see herself each moment growing
more culpable and ridiculous in her aunt's eyes.
And when she finished her story with an appeal, she was met by that
old, old sentence that had been so many times pronounced upon her:
"I cannot understand you."
Elizabeth did not quite understand herself. She knew only that an
inner voice--an echo from the thrilling words spoken in the church--had
commanded and she could not but obey. The King's Highway was calling
for her--she was needed to make it smooth for someone's feet. That
voice had promised great things, too,--that the wilderness and the
solitary places should be glad because of her coming, that the rose of
Sharon should blossom by her side--that, because of her, some little of
the sorrow and sighing of this sad world should flee away. And now,
instead, there were thorns along the pathway, and she had brought
distress upon one she loved.
If she could only explain, she said to herself in despair. She looked
out of the west window away down Champlain's Road with its swaying,
towering hedge of bejeweled elms, to the old farm-house against the
pines of Long Hill. Mother MacAllister would understand without any
explanation. If she were only telling Mother MacAllister!
"It seems so unnecessary, your leaving Mrs. Jarvis," Miss Gordon
continued. "Someone else could have brought Eppie. And what we are to
do with her I cannot tell. You cannot but see that she is consumptive,
and it would be folly for us to allow her to be in the same home with
Mary. Even you must understand that Mary is in danger of that disease,
Elizabeth."
The girl's face blanched. "I will take complete care of her, aunt,"
she said hastily. "Mary need not go near her. But both Mr. Bagsley
and Mrs. Jarvis's doctor said Eppie would soon get better with fresh
air and good nursing."
"One never can tell with a disease like that. And as for good
nursing--I see clearly that as usual the burden must fall upon me."
Miss Gordon sighed deeply and hunted in her basket for her spool. "It
is quite out of the question for you to undertake nursing her. I could
not allow it in any case, but it would be unfair to Mrs. Jarvis. She
must expect your return any day?" She looked up inquiringly, and
Elizabeth's clasped hands clenched each other again. She made a
desperate attempt to be brave, and turned squarely towards her aunt.
The very necessity of the case drove her to take courage.
"Aunt Margaret," she said deliberately, "you do not quite understand
yet. I--I cannot--I am not going back to Mrs. Jarvis--any more."
Miss Gordon dropped the linen square she was embroidering, but
recovered it instantly. Even in the shock of dismay, she was dignified
and self-restrained.
"Elizabeth," she said with a dreadful calm, "what is this you are
telling me?"
"I cannot go back," repeated the girl with the courage of despair. "I
am sorry--oh, sorrier than I can possibly tell you, Aunt Margaret, that
I have brought all this trouble upon you. But I had to leave. I
explained to Mrs. Jarvis how I felt--that it seemed as if we both had
profited at Eppie's expense, and that as she had allowed Eppie to be
turned out of her home, I felt as if she were responsible--as well as
myself. And so I came away. I couldn't live that kind of life after
seeing Eppie's home--and what she was almost driven to. Oh, Aunt
Margaret, can't you understand that I couldn't!"
Miss Gordon was staring at her in a way that robbed Elizabeth of her
small stock of courage. "Wait," she said, raising her hand to stop the
incoherent flow. "Do I understand you to say that you--you insulted
Mrs. Jarvis--and left her?"
"I didn't mean to insult her," whispered Elizabeth with dry lips.
"I--I felt I was as much to blame as she--and I said so."
"And Mr. Huntley? What of him?" The girl looked up suddenly, a wave
of indignation lending a flash to her gray eyes.
"Aunt Margaret, he owned the house Eppie lived in!" she cried, as
though it were a final condemnation.
Miss Gordon waved her aside.
"And he was ready to offer you marriage. Mrs. Jarvis told me so in her
last letter. Elizabeth,--do you at all comprehend what a disastrous
thing you have done?"
Elizabeth looked out of the window in dumb despair. Miss Gordon arose,
and, crossing the room, closed the door leading into the hall. In all
the years in which she had seen her aunt disturbed over her
wrong-doing, Elizabeth had never witnessed her so near losing her
self-control. The sight alarmed her.
Miss Gordon came back to her seat and threw her work aside. She faced
her niece, clasping and unclasping her long slender hands, until her
heavy, old-fashioned rings made deep marks in the flesh.
"Elizabeth," she said with an effort at calm, "the only possible excuse
that can be made for your conduct is that you must have been out of
your mind when you acted so. If you realized what you were doing, you
have acted criminally. You have brought this consumptive girl here,
and endangered Mary's life, just when I felt she was beginning to be
strong. You have destroyed John's prospects. He cannot possibly
accept this position, since you have treated Mr. Huntley in this
fashion. You have utterly ruined your own chances in life. And what
chances you have had! Never was a girl so fortunate as you. But you
have all your life deliberately flung aside every piece of good fortune
that came your way. And wait,"--as Elizabeth strove to speak--"this is
not the worst. You have never known that we live here in The Dale
merely by Mrs. Jarvis's favor. Your father has no deed for this
property, no more than old Sandy McLachlan had for his. He might claim
it by law, now,--but if Mrs. Jarvis asks us to leave, we must do so.
Thank Heaven, some of the Gordons have pride! And that she will ask us
now, after the outrageous manner in which you have met all her
generosity, I have not the slightest doubt. We shall all be turned out
of our home, and you will bring your father's gray hairs down with
sorrow to the grave."
She arose and walked up and down, wringing her hands. Her extravagant
words and actions were so pregnant with genuine grief and despair, that
they smote Elizabeth's heart with benumbing blows. Mary, John, her
aunt, and now the best beloved of all--her father! She was bringing
ruin upon them all! Totally unaccustomed to deliberate thinking, she
was unable to view the situation calmly, and took every accusation of
her aunt's literally.
"Aunt Margaret!" she cried desperately, moved more by the sight of the
stately woman's abandon than by the thought of her own shortcomings.
"Oh, Aunt Margaret,--don't! It may not be so bad! And can't you see I
didn't mean to do wrong? Oh, I truly didn't. You always taught us to
do our duty first. We knew it was the sense of duty that kept you here
when you wanted to go back to Edinburgh. And I felt it was my duty to
bring Eppie and come away. Oh, if you could only have seen the place
where poor old Sandy died! And Eppie need not stay here. Tom and
Granny Teeter want to take her--and the Cleggs, and,--oh, if you'll
only forgive me!" Elizabeth broke down completely. She had made a
horrible mistake somehow--she did not understand how, any more than she
had understood in her childhood how she was always bringing sorrow upon
her aunt.
Miss Gordon came and stood over her. She was once more calm and
self-contained. "I can never forgive you, Elizabeth," she said
deliberately, "until you have become reconciled to Mrs. Jarvis. Go
back to her and beg her pardon for your conduct, and then come and ask
mine."
She gathered up her work, and in her stateliest manner walked from the
room. Elizabeth's first impulse was to fling herself upon the sofa in
a passion of despair, but the remembrance of Eppie saved her. She sat
a few minutes fighting for self-control, and praying for help, the
first real prayer she had uttered for years. When she was sufficiently
calm she went up to the room where Eppie lay with the March sunshine
streaming over her pillow. Her eyes brightened at the sight of
Elizabeth, but instantly the old look of dull despair came back.
"You're a little better to-day, aren't you, dear?" Elizabeth asked,
striving to be cheerful. Eppie nodded. "Yes, I'm better," she said
drearily.
"And it's the loveliest day, Eppie. Why, we have glass trees in the
lane, and it's so sunshiny. If you'll only hurry up and get strong,
you'll be in time to pick the first May flowers that grow down by the
old place."
"I think I'd rather not see it, Lizzie," said the sick girl.
"Grandaddy and me used to talk by the hour about comin' back to Forest
Glen. And I always wanted to get back that bad it made me sick. But
now I think I'd sooner not see the old place, because he can't see it
too."
Elizabeth's forced calm was forsaking her. The tears welled up in her
eyes.
"Ye're not well yourself to-day, Lizzie," whispered Eppie. "What's
troublin'?"
"Nothing you can help, dear," said Elizabeth hastily. "See, I'm going
to get you some milk and then you must sleep." She fled from the room,
and down the hall towards her own little bedroom. At the head of the
stairs she met Mary carrying a covered dish. Mary was not ignorant of
the turn affairs had taken, and her sympathy was all for her sister,
for she would have welcomed any disaster that brought Lizzie home.
"I've made Eppie a custard," she said comfortingly. "I'll give it to
her and you can go to see Mother MacAllister--she'll help." There was
a secret bond of sympathy between the sisters that enabled Mary to
divine that whatever was the nature of Elizabeth's trouble, Mother
MacAllister would prove an excellent doctor.
But Elizabeth took the bowl. "No, I must attend to Eppie myself. Aunt
Margaret does not want you to be with her. Never mind me, Mary dear,
I've made a big muddle of things, as usual, but it can't be helped now.
I shall go and see Mother MacAllister as soon as Eppie goes to sleep."
It was afternoon before Elizabeth found an opportunity to leave.
Eppie's cough was painful and persistent, and Miss Gordon kept her room
prostrated with a nervous headache. But late in the day both invalids
sank into slumber, and finding nothing to do, Elizabeth flung on her
coat and hat and fled downstairs.
She paused for a moment at the study door as she passed. Her father
was sitting at his desk, over his accounts. Elizabeth approached and
gently laid her hand upon his shoulder. It was a very thin, stooped
shoulder now, and the hair on his bowed head was almost white. The
mental picture of him being driven from The Dale through her act rose
up before his daughter, and choked her utterance. Unaccustomed to any
affectionate demonstrations as the Gordon training had made her, she
could not even put her arms about his neck, as she longed to do, but
stood by him silent, her hand on his shoulder.
"Well, Mary, child," he said in his absent way. Then he glanced up.
"Eh, eh, it's little Lizzie? Well, well! Tuts, tuts, of course you
are home again." He patted the hand on his shoulder affectionately.
"Are you glad to have me home, father?" whispered the girl when she
could find her voice. It was a foolish question, but she longed to
hear him say she was welcome.
"Glad?" he said. "Tuts, tuts, there's been no sunshine in the house
since 'Lizbeth left. Eh, eh, indeed, I think I must just be sending
word to that Mrs. Jarvis that I can't spare you any longer."
Elizabeth smiled wanly. She could not trust herself to speak again.
She wanted to tell him she had come home to stay, and all that her
homecoming meant. But she could not bear to trouble him. She merely
patted his hand and slipped away before the tears could come.
The radiant morning had been succeeded by a dull afternoon. Every opal
and diamond of the opening day had vanished. Low sullen clouds drifted
over the dim-colored earth, and the wind was chill and dreary.
Elizabeth's mood was in perfect accord with the grayness. She was
about to give herself up to melancholy when, as she plodded up the
muddy lane, she was hailed cheerfully from the road. The speaker was
Auntie Jinit McKerracher, as she was still called, though correctly
speaking, she had been for some time past Auntie Jinit Martin.
Evidently her life as mistress of the red-brick house, from which she
had just come, had been a success. Auntie Jinit looked every inch a
woman of prosperous independence. Though the low clouds threatened
rain, she wore a very gay and expensive bonnet, adorned with many pink
roses that scarcely rivaled the color of her cheeks. The dress she
held up in both hands, high above her trim gaiter-tops, was of black
satin, much bedecked with heavy beaded trimming. From all appearances
Auntie Jinit had, to use her own phrase, been "up sides" with Jake
Martin, since her second marriage.
"And is yon yersel', Lizzie lass!" she cried heartily. "An' hoo's the
pair bit lamb the day?"
"Eppie? Oh, not much better, Auntie Jinit. I'm afraid sometimes poor
Eppie will never be better."
A sympathetic light shone in Auntie Jinit's bright eyes, and a shrewd,
knowing pair of eyes they were. Not much escaped them, and her visit
to The Dale the day before, coupled with Elizabeth's disappointed
appearance, told her plainly that all was not well between the girl and
her aunt.
"Tuts, lass," she said, "the warm weather 'll be along foreby, an'
she'll pick up. Ah'll send oor Charlie ower wi' a bit jug o' cream
ivery morn, an' it'll mak the pair thing fatten up a wee."
"Thank you, Auntie Jinit," said Elizabeth, the kindness bringing the
tears to her eyes. "You're so good."
Mrs. Martin glanced at her sideways again. She had seen little of
Elizabeth within the last few years, but her regard for the girl had
never changed. She was as proud of her as though she had been her own
daughter. Her eyes rested fondly on the slim, erect figure in the long
gray coat, the smart, blue-gray velvet toque that matched the deep eyes
beneath, and the soft, warm coils of the girl's brown hair. Lizzie was
a lady and no mistake, Mrs. Martin declared to herself, a lady from her
heart out to her clothes; and if that stuck up bit buddy at The Dale,
who thought herself so much above her neighbors, had been worrying the
lass, she, Auntie Jinit, was going to find out about it.
"Ye'll need help in lookin' after her," she said, feeling her way, "an'
Mary's no able to gie it."
"That's just the trouble," said Elizabeth, responding to the sympathy.
"I wouldn't mind caring for her myself entirely, but Aunt Margaret--I
mean we all feel a little afraid for Mary--she's not strong. And, to
tell you the truth, Auntie Jinit," she added hesitatingly, "I don't
quite know what to do with poor Eppie."
"Hoots, lassie." Auntie Jinit's voice was very sympathetic. She was
beginning to understand fully. "There's mair folk than ah can name
that's jist wearyin' to tak the bairn. There's Tom Teeter----"
"But granny could never give her proper care, auntie, and it wouldn't
be right to burden her."
"Weel, there's Noah Clegg, an' there's yer ain Mother MacAllister, aye,
an' there's Jinit Martin, tae. We've a braw hoose ower by yonder, jist
wearyin' to be filled. Ah'll tak the bit lass masel," she finished up
suddenly, and closed her firm mouth with a resolute air.
Elizabeth looked at her in amazement and admiration. Jake Martin's
house was the last place in Ontario she had supposed one would choose
as a refuge for an orphan. Certainly Auntie Jinit had worked a
revolution there.
"But there's Susie, Auntie Jinit, she's not as strong as Mary."
"Ah'll mind Susie, niver you fear, ma lass----"
"And--Mr. Martin?" hesitatingly.
Auntie Jinit laughed a gay, self-sufficient laugh. "Ah'll mind him
tae," she said firmly. "Ah've sed to Jake mony's the time--there'll be
some awfu' jedgment come upon this house, Jake Martin, because ye
turned a bit helpless bairn an' a decreepit auld buddy oot o' their
hame. An' Jake kens ah'm richt. He's been a bit worrit aboot it, an'
ah'll jist pit it till him plain that if he taks Eppie it'll jist avert
the wrath o' the Almichty."
Had Elizabeth's heart been a little less heavy, she must have enjoyed
immensely this slight revelation of the change in affairs at the Martin
home. Auntie Jinit had indeed worked a transformation there. The
house was well-furnished and comfortable. The younger children were
receiving an education; Charlie, one of the older sons, had returned to
help his father on the farm; Susie, under the care of the best doctors
in Cheemaun, was slowly creeping back to health and strength, and Mrs.
Martin herself was the finest dressed woman who drove along Champlain's
Road of a Saturday with her butter and eggs.
Something like a smile gleamed in Elizabeth's eyes, as she looked at
her, tripping along by the muddy roadside.
"So don't ye worry, ma lass," she said. "It's a braw fine thing ye
did, bringin' the pair stray lamb back to the auld place, an' berryin'
the auld man; an' it's no fit ye'll be carryin' the burden. Beside,
ye'll be leavin' us a' sune, ah doot. Yon braw leddy 'll no be able to
spare ye lang."
Elizabeth slowly shook her head. "I don't intend going back," she
whispered.
"Not gaun back!" Auntie Jinit's very figure was a living interrogation
mark. But her penetrating glance saw the misery in the girl's face,
and her pity, always more active than even her curiosity, made her
pause. She tactfully changed the subject. She could afford to wait;
for all things that were hidden within the surroundings of Forest Glen
were certain to be revealed sooner or later to Mrs. Jake Martin.
"It's a raw day," she said. "Ah didna like to venture oot, but ah
thocht ah'd jist rin ower an' see pair Wully. He's no weel, an' he
wearies for me whiles. Ah tauld Jake if he wesna jist himsel, ah'd
bide wi him the nicht." She gave a sidelong glance as she said this,
half amused, half defiant. But Elizabeth had not been home long enough
to understand the full meaning of the words and look. These periodical
illnesses to which "pair Wully" was so strangely subject had a peculiar
significance in the Martin household. It was reported throughout the
neighborhood that when Jake grew obdurate, as he sometimes dared, even
yet, his wife, by some process of mental telepathy, became convinced of
the notion that pair Wully would be jist wearyin' for her, he wasna'
weel onyway, an' micht jist slip awa' afore she saw him; and away the
devoted sister would hie, leaving the forsaken husband and his home to
whatever ill-luck fate might send. As his house was faultlessly and
economically run when its mistress was there, and fell into ruinous
neglect in her absence, Jake generally succumbed at an early date.
Wully's physical condition having a strange correspondence to Jake's
mental state, they always recovered at precisely the same time, and
Auntie Jinit returned triumphant. On this present occasion, the
proposed papering of the Martin parlor had caused a serious
indisposition in the Johnstone home, and Auntie Jinit was on her way
gayly thither, prepared to nurse her brother until the paper was ready
to be hung. She anticipated a struggle over Eppie, but Auntie Jinit
knew her power and was ready for the fray.
She kissed Elizabeth affectionately as she left her at the MacAllister
gate, bidding her be cheery, it would all end right, and tripped away
down the road to her brother's home. Elizabeth found Mother
MacAllister sitting in her accustomed seat by the kitchen window. She
had more time to sit there now, for Wully Johnstone's only unmarried
daughter had come to be the helper in the MacAllister kitchen when
Sarah Emily became the wife of Peter, and declared she couldn't put up
with anybody's penoeuvres when she was cooking a dinner.
Mother MacAllister's eyes rested fondly on the girl as she laid off her
coat and hat. Lizzie was still to her the little daughter she had
lost, and her homecomings brought her joy second only to that of her
own son.
"And you'll not be looking yourself, lovey," she said tenderly when
Eppie had been inquired for. "Is it a trouble I could be helping?"
Yes, it was just for help she had come, Elizabeth explained, and
sitting on her old seat, the milking-stool, at Mother MacAllister's
knee, she told her all, how she had left Mrs. Jarvis, and the life of
fashion they had lived, because she had been given a glimpse of another
life--one employed in the King's service. And she had seen also the
life that the unfortunate ones of the earth led, the cruel misery they
suffered, and it had all seemed to her the direct result of her own
self-indulgence. She had fled from that selfish life, and now her act
was likely to bring disaster upon those she loved best, and she was in
doubt. Perhaps she had done wrong. Had she? And was it possible a
right act could bring such dire results?
And then Mother MacAllister went, as she always did in times of
perplexity, to the story of the One Who had suffered all man's
infirmities and knew as no other knew how to sympathize with man's
troubles. She read of how He turned away from worldly power and
triumph and chose a life of poverty, and a death of shame, because He
loved, and love gave all. And sitting there, listening, with swelling
heart Elizabeth lived again that radiant evening when Mother
MacAllister had first shown her a glimpse of what His service meant.
And this was a renewed vision, a lifting of the clouds that still
obscured the dawn. She went home with a feeling of exaltation in her
heart. "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have
done it unto Me," Mother MacAllister had said in parting. Lizzie had
done right and she must leave the consequences with Him. He would see
that it came out all right. As she paused to open the sodden gate
leading into The Dale lane, she glanced back at the old farm-house
against the dark background of pines. Above the long hill the wind had
opened a long golden rent in the gray skies. Elizabeth smiled. It was
a beautiful omen, and hopeful.
She soon discovered that she needed all the light that her vision of
love and duty could shed upon her pathway; for the ensuing days proved
dark ones. The possibilities of coming disaster hung over her head,
and her aunt's attitude of aggrieved reproachfulness was torture to the
girl's loving heart. To add to her suffering, Miss Gordon insisted,
martyr-like, in taking charge of Eppie. Elizabeth strove to assist,
but she was always doing things wrong, and her aunt sighed and declared
she only added to her burdens. Offers of a home for Eppie had come
from all sides, but at first Miss Gordon refused each one. For, after
all, the lady of The Dale was made of fine material. Never could she
be brought to turn an orphan from her door, and her stern sense of duty
drove her to nurse the girl with all the care and skill she could
command. But hers was a nature that, while it was capable of rising to
the height of a difficult task, failed in the greater task of carrying
the burden bravely.
So Tom Teeter, the Johnstones, the Cleggs, and the MacAllisters were
forced to content themselves with sending gifts of cream and fresh eggs
and chicken-soup and currant jelly to the poor little guest at The
Dale, until her hosts were embarrassed by their riches. But Auntie
Jinit's offer was not to be so put aside. For what was the use of
vanquishing a husband if one could not display the evidence of one's
triumph? The new gay paper on the parlor wall witnessed to brother
Wully's complete recovery from rheumatism, but the crick in his back,
brought on by his brother-in-law's stormy refusal to take old Sandy
McLachlan's child into his home was long and persistent. It had
vanished at last on a certain evening when Jake sheepishly presented
himself at the Johnstone home to inquire when his truant wife was
coming back. This was always the enemy's sign of capitulation. Auntie
Jinit sailed home with flying colors, and the next morning presented
herself at The Dale and demanded that Eppie go home with her.
Not even Miss Gordon dared deny her, and so Eppie went to her new
home--one where every care a motherly heart could contrive was given
her. But Elizabeth's position was no less uncomfortable after Eppie
was gone. Her aunt treated her with stately politeness, her manner
saying plainly that she was merely waiting for her erring niece to
confess herself mistaken, and ready to make amends. But Elizabeth
still clung forlornly to her resolution. She gained some comfort from
seeing Eppie growing strong and rosy, and much from Mother
MacAllister's counsel.
Annie and John Coulson sympathized, too, though even Annie could not
quite understand.
Just one event broke the monotony of Elizabeth's days before John's
homecoming. This was a visit from Estella and Horace. They drove out
one sunny afternoon and remained to tea. Horace wore an apologetic
air, as though he felt guilty of having jilted Elizabeth, and Estella's
manner was of the same quality, with a dash of triumph. On her way
upstairs to remove her wraps, Estella explained in an ecstatic whisper
that they were really and truly engaged, and didn't Beth think she had
the loveliest diamond ring ever? Horace was such a dear, and the only
thing that marred her perfect happiness was--well, of course it was a
delicate matter--but neither she nor Horry could ever be quite happy
until Beth said she would forgive them.
Too amused to resent the imputation, Elizabeth granted a free and full
pardon, and then the true purport of Estella's visit was revealed.
"What on earth has happened between you and Aunt Jarvis?" she asked,
sitting down on the edge of the bed and fluffing up her light hair
before the mirror. "You see I call her Aunt Jarvis already--I might as
well, you know, we'll be married so soon. Whatever has happened, Beth;
was the old crank nasty to you?"
"Oh, Stella! No, she was always good and kind, but I--oh, I can't
explain, only it was all my fault."
"Well, then, you'd better get to work and make it all right, you silly
thing. Madeline's just out of her head with joy about it. She's quite
the nastiest thing that ever lived, Beth Gordon, even if she is to be
my sister-in-law. Neither she nor old mother Oliver have called on me,
or noticed our engagement in any way, and Madeline's getting ready to
go to the Old Country with Aunt Jarvis--instead of you, Beth, and if
you let her I'll never, never forgive you. We'd just love to take our
wedding-trip to the Old Country--I mean to go abroad, nobody in
Cheemaun ever says the Old Country now--but we can't. Mr. Oliver's as
stingy mean with poor darling Horry as ever he can be. And if Madeline
goes I'll--Oh, Beth, whatever did happen to make you act so?"
Elizabeth explained that she could not possibly interfere. She was not
to return to Toronto. Mrs. Jarvis probably did not want her any more.
Then, to quit the uncomfortable subject, she suggested they go down to
her aunt and Horace.
"My, you're so close," grumbled Estella, rising and shaking out her
silk skirts. "I came out here on purpose to get it all out of you.
But I'll do it anyway--see if I don't."
"Do what?" added Elizabeth, half-alarmed.
Estella laughed gayly. "Never you mind, Betsey dear. I can be as mum
as yourself, never fear. It'll be a good turn for you, anyway," and
she kissed her old schoolmate with genuine affection.
The subject was not referred to again, as Estella occupied the
remainder of her visit talking about her trousseau, and she left
without Elizabeth discovering just what she intended to do.
The days passed slowly and painfully, and the next event was John's
homecoming. Elizabeth had looked forward to it, with something of the
feeling a ship-wrecked mariner experiences when he sees an approaching
vessel.
But John's presence did not bring the comfort she had fondly expected.
He said not one word of reproach; but his sister could not help seeing
he was deeply disappointed over the loss of his position. He had
received no further orders from Mr. Huntley regarding his appointment,
and had hesitated to approach him. He would send for him, the lawyer
had said, when all arrangements were completed, but no summons had come
yet, and John was feeling very much depressed indeed.
"Oh, John," groaned Elizabeth, as they wandered in the lane one warm
spring evening, "I wish--I can't tell you how I wish I hadn't spoiled
this chance of yours. But I can't see how I could have acted
otherwise."
"It's all right, Lizzie," he said comfortingly. "Don't you worry. Of
course, I can't see just why you went and busted up things in such a
wholesale manner. But I know you felt it was the thing to do, and I
can go somewhere else. I may get in with Dr. Harper here in Cheemaun."
"I feel I did right," Elizabeth said mournfully, "but it seems to have
turned out all wrong. What does Jean say?"
"Jean?" John laughed. "She wasn't saying anything to anybody but old
Bags when I came away. Boys, oh! If I didn't forget. She cautioned
me to break the news that they were engaged."
"Engaged! Who?"
"Why, Jean and Bagsley."
"Jean and--and what?" screamed Elizabeth. "Not the bone man?"
"Yes, why not? He's all right I tell you, Lizzie. Finest chap in our
year. Going to be gold medalist, sure."
"But how on earth?--what in the world?--John Gordon, are you telling me
the truth or is it a joke?"
"Both. Mac and I nearly took hysterics the night Bags told us. We
never suspected it. He never met a girl on the street without shying,
and how he and Jean made it up is a mystery. But it's all right, and
Aunt Margaret 'll be tickled to death. Say, you must tell her. Go and
do it now like a good kid. I'm going over to have a chat with Tom."
But Elizabeth would not let him go. She had not recovered from the
shock. For the first time since her return home she felt her old
spirits return. As yet, to Elizabeth, all love-making was something of
a joke, and this was undoubtedly the funniest thing that had ever
happened in Cupid's line. She deluged John with questions. What had
put it into the bone-collector's shaggy head? And having got it there,
where did he get the courage to propose? He must have done it by
telephone, and long-distance, too. Or did he come stumbling into
Jean's study and inquire in awful tones, "Miss Gordon, will you lend me
your heart?" and then dash out and fall downstairs? And even if one
could imagine his offering himself, how could anyone who knew Jean
conjure up a picture of her stopping her mathematics long enough either
to accept or reject? What a "come-downer" it would be for Jean to be
merely married!
The brother and sister laughed together, in the disrespectful way that
younger brothers and sisters have, and Miss Gordon, seated at her
sewing by the open parlor window, heard Elizabeth's gay voice with
rising resentment. The care-free laughter seemed to her but another
indication of the girl's defiant indifference to her wishes.
Elizabeth entered, radiant with her news, but the sight of her aunt's
face smote her. Miss Gordon had aged under her disappointment, and
looked pale and dispirited.
"Is your head aching, Aunt Margaret?" the girl asked timidly.
"No, I thank you, Elizabeth," was the answer in the tones of stately
politeness which Miss Gordon always used towards her wayward niece. "I
am merely worried. But I have become accustomed to that lately."
She sighed deeply, and glad of a diverting subject, Elizabeth delivered
John's report of Jean. The effect was most gratifying. Her aunt grew
immediately alert and full of eager questions. Elizabeth had very
little to tell. She wisely kept her own impressions of the young man
to herself, but she dwelt upon the glowing report of Dr. Bagsley both
John and Charles Stuart had given, not forgetting to add that he had
greatly helped the latter in his philanthropic work.
"Jean has really done very well, then," Miss Gordon said, her face
suffused with a pleased flush. "I really did not look to her for a
good match. But Jean will always be a success, no matter in what
sphere she is placed."
Elizabeth was silent. She could not picture Jean as a great success at
cooking the bone-man's dinner, though perhaps he never ate anything.
Mary was coming up the garden path from the lane, and as she looked at
her she wondered why girls always seemed to be trained for some other
life than that which fate brought them. She herself should have been a
nurse, and so prepared to care for Eppie, and to do that work upon
which she had now determined. Mary was perfectly fitted for a
home-maker, and the chances of Mary's marrying were very small, and
Jean was a mathematical machine and knew no more about housekeeping
than Dr. Bagsley himself might be expected to know. It was such a
puzzling world--especially for girls.
"Two letters for you, Lizzie," Mary cried. "Jamie's been to the
post-office. One's a gentleman's handwriting, I can tell," she added,
teasingly, "and the other's from Mrs. Jarvis. I know her writing."
Elizabeth took the letters tremblingly. She recognized Mr. Huntley's
hand on the first, and the second was indeed from Mrs. Jarvis. She was
painfully conscious that her aunt was watching her keenly as she opened
the latter. The contents were even more of a surprise. It began, as
Mrs. Jarvis's letters invariably did, with an account of her
sufferings. Such prostrating headaches she had endured. Dr. Ralston
had declared she was on the verge of a nervous collapse, and must leave
the city as soon as she was able to travel. She did not wish to
reproach Beth, but there could be no doubt as to the cause. It had
been so all her life. Those to whom she had given most, for whom she
had made the greatest sacrifices, were always the ones who turned
against her. First her husband, then her niece and Madeline, and
lastly Both, whom she had believed really loved her. But--and here
Elizabeth received her surprise--she was ready to forgive. It was her
way--her weakness, indeed, but she always forgave those who used her
most cruelly. Yes, she would take Beth back if she would say she was
sorry. That she was truly repentant Miss Raymond had assured her.
Horace and his pretty fiancée had called to see her when they were in
the city the day before, and Mrs. Jarvis had understood from them that
Beth loved her in spite of her strange, cruel actions, and was ready to
return. The doctor had prescribed a sea voyage, and just as soon as
she could get a little strength to do some shopping, she would start
for Europe. She was going with a party--Mr. Huntley was to be one of
them--and Beth must come too. Yes, she really must. Mrs. Jarvis was
ready to forgive and forget. So was Mr. Huntley, she felt sure. Of
course, he was grieved and hurt at Beth's conduct. He could not
understand why she had gone away without a word of farewell. She
herself had smoothed matters over as well as she could, but the worry
of it all had got on her nerves. She did not pretend to understand
what strange notions Beth had got into her head. As though she and Mr.
Huntley and Blanche Kendall were responsible for all the poverty in
Toronto. Well, there was no use discussing the matter further--it only
made her nerves worse--and Dr. Ralston had said any more worry might
prove fatal. But she felt that the sea-voyage would perhaps help her.
Beth must write at once and say what she would do, for Madeline would
come if Beth forsook her. Madeline had written, indeed, offering her
services. There was more about the headaches and nerves, but it ended
with words of genuine affection, that brought the tears to Elizabeth's
eyes. To fight against love was the hardest task for Elizabeth.
Almost everyone she cared for, John, her aunt, Mrs. Jarvis, and
Estella, warm-hearted and loyal as she was in spite of many faults,
seemed arrayed against her to force her to yield.
The other letter was in Mr. Huntley's best formal and semi-pompous
style. He, too, began in a slightly aggrieved tone. He did not know
until lately that Miss Gordon was not coming back to Toronto at once.
He had fancied that some slight announcement of her departure was due
him, but, of course, she knew best. Her brother, too, had gone without
acquainting him of the fact. His appointment was still open, and he
would be expected to be on duty within a week's time. Of course, Dr.
Gordon might not care to accept the position now; Mr. Huntley had
gathered from Mrs. Jarvis that somehow Miss Gordon was offended with
him. He was not conscious of any offense given, and hoped to hear from
her that their relations were as friendly as when she had left the
city. In which case he hoped to meet Dr. Gordon at his office not
later than Thursday, when the final arrangements for his work would be
made.
Elizabeth scarcely noticed the polite closing of the letter. Her heart
was beating to suffocation. She was dazzled by the prospect that had
suddenly opened before her. To accept meant to gain everything the
world could give to make her happy; her home secured, John established
in his profession, her aunt content. Then she thought of the sermon in
St. Stephen's Church with its call to a higher life, of Mother
MacAllister's words concerning One Who had Himself trod a thorny path
and Whose true disciple must be content to follow.
She looked up and saw her aunt's eyes fixed upon her in intense
eagerness.
"Your letter is from Mrs. Jarvis?" Miss Gordon could not keep the
painful anxiety from showing in her face.
"Yes," faltered Elizabeth. She did not offer to show it, as had been
her habit in the old days. Miss Gordon turned away with a hurt,
grieved air. "Of course," she said coldly, "I must not ask for your
confidence, Elizabeth. I find it hard to remember that you do not
consult me any more in your affairs."
"Oh, Aunt Margaret!" cried the girl brokenly. It was the cry of a
motherless child appealing for its rights to the one who had, in spite
of all deficiencies, filled a mother's place in her life. "Here,--read
them both. I do want your advice." She shoved both letters into her
aunt's hands as she spoke. Then she rose and fled upstairs to her
little room. Something told her that in that act she had put away from
herself the power to choose; that she had turned her back upon the
Vision.