The Complete Works of L M Montgomery, page 566
“Why do you always speak of yourself as old?” said Betty, crossly, ignoring my reference to Frank.
“Because I am old, my dear. Witness these gray hairs.”
I pushed up my hat to show them the more recklessly.
Betty barely glanced at them.
“You have just enough to give you a distinguished look,” she said, “and you are only forty. A man is in his prime at forty. He never has any sense until he is forty — and sometimes he doesn’t seem to have any even then,” she concluded impertinently.
My heart beat. Did Betty suspect? Was that last sentence meant to inform me that she was aware of my secret folly, and laughed at it?
“I came over to see what has gone wrong between you and Frank,” I said gravely.
Betty bit her lips.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Betty,” I said reproachfully, “I brought you up…or endeavored to bring you up…to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Don’t tell me I have failed. I’ll give you another chance. Have you quarreled with Frank?”
“No,” said the maddening Betty, “HE quarreled with me. He went away in a temper and I do not care if he never comes back!”
I shook my head.
“This won’t do, Betty. As your old family friend I still claim the right to scold you until you have a husband to do the scolding. You mustn’t torment Frank. He is too fine a fellow. You must marry him, Betty.”
“Must I?” said Betty, a dusky red flaming out on her cheek. She turned her eyes on me in a most disconcerting fashion. “Do YOU wish me to marry Frank, Stephen?”
Betty had a wretched habit of emphasizing pronouns in a fashion calculated to rattle anybody.
“Yes, I do wish it, because I think it will be best for you,” I replied, without looking at her. “You must marry some time, Betty, and Frank is the only man I know to whom I could trust you. As your guardian, I have an interest in seeing you well and wisely settled for life. You have always taken my advice and obeyed my wishes; and you’ve always found my way the best, in the long run, haven’t you, Betty? You won’t prove rebellious now, I’m sure. You know quite well that I am advising you for your own good. Frank is a splendid young fellow, who loves you with all his heart. Marry him, Betty. Mind, I don’t COMMAND. I have no right to do that, and you are too old to be ordered about, if I had. But I wish and advise it. Isn’t that enough, Betty?”
I had been looking away from her all the time I was talking, gazing determinedly down a sunlit vista of pines. Every word I said seemed to tear my heart, and come from my lips stained with life-blood. Yes, Betty should marry Frank! But, good God, what would become of me!
Betty left her station under the pine tree, and walked around me until she got right in front of my face. I couldn’t help looking at her, for if I moved my eyes she moved too. There was nothing meek or submissive about her; her head was held high, her eyes were blazing, and her cheeks were crimson. But her words were meek enough.
“I will marry Frank if you wish it, Stephen,” she said. “You are my friend. I have never crossed your wishes, and, as you say, I have never regretted being guided by them. I will do exactly as you wish in this case also, I promise you that. But, in so solemn a question, I must be very certain what you DO wish. There must be no doubt in my mind or heart. Look me squarely in the eyes, Stephen — as you haven’t done once to-day, no, nor once since I came home from school — and, so looking, tell me that you wish me to marry Frank Douglas and I will do it! DO you, Stephen?”
I had to look her in the eyes, since nothing else would do her; and, as I did so, all the might of manhood in me rose up in hot revolt against the lie I would have told her. That unfaltering, impelling gaze of hers drew the truth from my lips in spite of myself.
“No, I don’t wish you to marry Frank Douglas, a thousand times no!” I said passionately. “I don’t wish you to marry any man on earth but myself. I love you — I love you, Betty. You are dearer to me than life — dearer to me than my own happiness. It was your happiness I thought of — and so I asked you to marry Frank because I believed he would make you a happy woman. That is all!”
Betty’s defiance went from her like a flame blown out. She turned away and drooped her proud head.
“It could not have made me a happy woman to marry one man, loving another,” she said, in a whisper.
I got up and went over to her.
“Betty, whom do you love?” I asked, also in a whisper.
“You,” she murmured meekly — oh, so meekly, my proud little girl!
“Betty,” I said brokenly, “I’m old — too old for you — I’m more than twenty years your senior — I’m—”
“Oh!” Betty wheeled around on me and stamped her foot. “Don’t mention your age to me again. I don’t care if you’re as old as Methuselah. But I’m not going to coax you to marry me, sir! If you won’t, I’ll never marry anybody — I’ll live and die an old maid. You can please yourself, of course!”
She turned away, half-laughing, half-crying; but I caught her in my arms and crushed her sweet lips against mine.
“Betty, I’m the happiest man in the world — and I was the most miserable when I came here.”
“You deserved to be,” said Betty cruelly. “I’m glad you were. Any man as stupid as you deserves to be unhappy. What do you think I felt like, loving you with all my heart, and seeing you simply throwing me at another man’s head. Why, I’ve always loved you, Stephen; but I didn’t know it until I went to that detestable school. Then I found out — and I thought that was why you had sent me. But, when I came home, you almost broke my heart. That was why I flirted so with all those poor, nice boys — I wanted to hurt you but I never thought I succeeded. You just went on being FATHERLY. Then, when you brought Frank here, I almost gave up hope; and I tried to make up my mind to marry him; I should have done it if you had insisted. But I had to have one more try for happiness first. I had just one little hope to inspire me with sufficient boldness. I saw you, that night, when you came back here and picked up my rose! I had come back, myself, to be alone and unhappy.”
“It is the most wonderful thing that ever happened — that you should love me,” I said.
“It’s not — I couldn’t help it,” said Betty, nestling her brown head on my shoulder. “You taught me everything else, Stephen, so nobody but you could teach me how to love. You’ve made a thorough thing of educating me.”
“When will you marry me, Betty?” I asked.
“As soon as I can fully forgive you for trying to make me marry somebody else,” said Betty.
It was rather hard lines on Frank, when you come to think of it. But, such is the selfishness of human nature that we didn’t think much about Frank. The young fellow behaved like the Douglas he was. Went a little white about the lips when I told him, wished me all happiness, and went quietly away, “gentleman unafraid.”
He has since married and is, I understand, very happy. Not as happy as I am, of course; that is impossible, because there is only one Betty in the world, and she is my wife.
IN HER SELFLESS MOOD
The raw wind of an early May evening was puffing in and out the curtains of the room where Naomi Holland lay dying. The air was moist and chill, but the sick woman would not have the window closed.
“I can’t get my breath if you shut everything up so tight,” she said. “Whatever comes, I ain’t going to be smothered to death, Car’line Holland.”
Outside of the window grew a cherry tree, powdered with moist buds with the promise of blossoms she would not live to see. Between its boughs she saw a crystal cup of sky over hills that were growing dim and purple. The outside air was full of sweet, wholesome springtime sounds that drifted in fitfully. There were voices and whistles in the barnyard, and now and then faint laughter. A bird alighted for a moment on a cherry bough, and twittered restlessly. Naomi knew that white mists were hovering in the silent hollows, that the maple at the gate wore a misty blossom red, and that violet stars were shining bluely on the brooklands.
The room was a small, plain one. The floor was bare, save for a couple of braided rugs, the plaster discolored, the walls dingy and glaring. There had never been much beauty in Naomi Holland’s environment, and, now that she was dying, there was even less.
At the open window a boy of about ten years was leaning out over the sill and whistling. He was tall for his age, and beautiful — the hair a rich auburn with a glistening curl in it, skin very white and warm-tinted, eyes small and of a greenish blue, with dilated pupils and long lashes. He had a weak chin, and a full, sullen mouth.
The bed was in the corner farthest from the window; on it the sick woman, in spite of the pain that was her portion continually, was lying as quiet and motionless as she had done ever since she had lain down upon it for the last time. Naomi Holland never complained; when the agony was at its worst, she shut her teeth more firmly over her bloodless lip, and her great black eyes glared at the blank wall before in a way that gave her attendants what they called “the creeps,” but no word or moan escaped her.
Between the paroxysms she kept up her keen interest in the life that went on about her. Nothing escaped her sharp, alert eyes and ears. This evening she lay spent on the crumpled pillows; she had had a bad spell in the afternoon and it had left her very weak. In the dim light her extremely long face looked corpse-like already. Her black hair lay in a heavy braid over the pillow and down the counterpane. It was all that was left of her beauty, and she took a fierce joy in it. Those long, glistening, sinuous tresses must be combed and braided every day, no matter what came.
A girl of fourteen was curled up on a chair at the head of the bed, with her head resting on the pillow. The boy at the window was her half-brother; but, between Christopher Holland and Eunice Carr, not the slightest resemblance existed.
Presently the sibilant silence was broken by a low, half-strangled sob. The sick woman, who had been watching a white evening star through the cherry boughs, turned impatiently at the sound.
“I wish you’d get over that, Eunice,” she said sharply. “I don’t want any one crying over me until I’m dead; and then you’ll have plenty else to do, most likely. If it wasn’t for Christopher I wouldn’t be anyways unwilling to die. When one has had such a life as I’ve had, there isn’t much in death to be afraid of. Only, a body would like to go right off, and not die by inches, like this. ‘Tain’t fair!”
She snapped out the last sentence as if addressing some unseen, tyrannical presence; her voice, at least, had not weakened, but was as clear and incisive as ever. The boy at the window stopped whistling, and the girl silently wiped her eyes on her faded gingham apron.
Naomi drew her own hair over her lips, and kissed it.
“You’ll never have hair like that, Eunice,” she said. “It does seem most too pretty to bury, doesn’t it? Mind you see that it is fixed nice when I’m laid out. Comb it right up on my head and braid it there.”
A sound, such as might be wrung from a suffering animal, came from the girl, but at the same moment the door opened and a woman entered.
“Chris,” she said sharply, “you get right off for the cows, you lazy little scamp! You knew right well you had to go for them, and here you’ve been idling, and me looking high and low for you. Make haste now; it’s ridiculous late.”
The boy pulled in his head and scowled at his aunt, but he dared not disobey, and went out slowly with a sulky mutter.
His aunt subdued a movement, that might have developed into a sound box on his ears, with a rather frightened glance at the bed. Naomi Holland was spent and dying, but her temper was still a thing to hold in dread, and her sister-in-law did not choose to rouse it by slapping Christopher. To her and her co-nurse the spasms of rage, which the sick woman sometimes had, seemed to partake of the nature of devil possession. The last one, only three days before, had been provoked by Christopher’s complaint of some real or fancied ill-treatment from his aunt, and the latter had no mind to bring on another. She went over to the bed, and straightened the clothes.
“Sarah and I are going out to milk, Naomi, Eunice will stay with you. She can run for us if you feel another spell coming on.”
Naomi Holland looked up at her sister-in-law with something like malicious enjoyment.
“I ain’t going to have any more spells, Car’line Anne. I’m going to die to-night. But you needn’t hurry milking for that, at all. I’ll take my time.”
She liked to see the alarm that came over the other woman’s face.
It was richly worth while to scare Caroline Holland like that.
“Are you feeling worse, Naomi?” asked the latter shakily. “If you are I’ll send for Charles to go for the doctor.”
“No, you won’t. What good can the doctor do me? I don’t want either his or Charles’ permission to die. You can go and milk at your ease. I won’t die till you’re done — I won’t deprive you of the pleasure of seeing me.”
Mrs. Holland shut her lips and went out of the room with a martyr-like expression. In some ways Naomi Holland was not an exacting patient, but she took her satisfaction out in the biting, malicious speeches she never failed to make. Even on her death-bed her hostility to her sister-in-law had to find vent.
Outside, at the steps, Sarah Spencer was waiting, with the milk pails over her arm. Sarah Spencer had no fixed abiding place, but was always to be found where there was illness. Her experience, and an utter lack of nerves, made her a good nurse. She was a tall, homely woman with iron gray hair and a lined face. Beside her, the trim little Caroline Anne, with her light step and round, apple-red face, looked almost girlish.
The two women walked to the barnyard, discussing Naomi in undertones as they went. The house they had left behind grew very still.
In Naomi Holland’s room the shadows were gathering. Eunice timidly bent over her mother.
“Ma, do you want the light lit?”
“No, I’m watching that star just below the big cherry bough. I’ll see it set behind the hill. I’ve seen it there, off and on, for twelve years, and now I’m taking a good-by look at it. I want you to keep still, too. I’ve got a few things to think over, and I don’t want to be disturbed.”
The girl lifted herself about noiselessly and locked her hands over the bed-post. Then she laid her face down on them, biting at them silently until the marks of her teeth showed white against their red roughness.
Naomi Holland did not notice her. She was looking steadfastly at the great, pearl-like sparkle in the faint-hued sky. When it finally disappeared from her vision she struck her long, thin hands together twice, and a terrible expression came over her face for a moment. But, when she spoke, her voice was quite calm.
“You can light the candle now, Eunice. Put it up on the shelf here, where it won’t shine in my eyes. And then sit down on the foot of the bed where I can see you. I’ve got something to say to you.”
Eunice obeyed her noiselessly. As the pallid light shot up, it revealed the child plainly. She was thin and ill-formed — one shoulder being slightly higher than the other. She was dark, like her mother, but her features were irregular, and her hair fell in straggling, dim locks about her face. Her eyes were a dark brown, and over one was the slanting red scar of a birth mark.
Naomi Holland looked at her with the contempt she had never made any pretense of concealing. The girl was bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, but she had never loved her; all the mother love in her had been lavished on her son.
When Eunice had placed the candle on the shelf and drawn down the ugly blue paper blinds, shutting out the strips of violet sky where a score of glimmering points were now visible, she sat down on the foot of the bed, facing her mother.
“The door is shut, is it, Eunice?”
Eunice nodded.
“Because I don’t want Car’line or any one else peeking and harking to what I’ve got to say. She’s out milking now, and I must make the most of the chance. Eunice, I’m going to die, and…”
“Ma!”
“There now, no taking on! You knew it had to come sometime soon. I haven’t the strength to talk much, so I want you just to be quiet and listen. I ain’t feeling any pain now, so I can think and talk pretty clear. Are you listening, Eunice?”
“Yes, ma.”
“Mind you are. It’s about Christopher. It hasn’t been out of my mind since I laid down here. I’ve fought for a year to live, on his account, and it ain’t any use. I must just die and leave him, and I don’t know what he’ll do. It’s dreadful to think of.”
She paused, and struck her shrunken hand sharply against the table.
“If he was bigger and could look out for himself it wouldn’t be so bad. But he is only a little fellow, and Car’line hates him. You’ll both have to live with her until you’re grown up. She’ll put on him and abuse him. He’s like his father in some ways; he’s got a temper and he is stubborn. He’ll never get on with Car’line. Now, Eunice, I’m going to get you to promise to take my place with Christopher when I’m dead, as far as you can. You’ve got to; it’s your duty. But I want you to promise.”
“I will, ma,” whispered the girl solemnly.
“You haven’t much force — you never had. If you was smart, you could do a lot for him. But you’ll have to do your best. I want you to promise me faithfully that you’ll stand by him and protect him — that you won’t let people impose on him; that you’ll never desert him as long as he needs you, no matter what comes. Eunice, promise me this!”
In her excitement the sick woman raised herself up in the bed, and clutched the girl’s thin arm. Her eyes were blazing and two scarlet spots glowed in her thin cheeks.
Eunice’s face was white and tense. She clasped her hands as one in prayer.
“Mother, I promise it!”
Naomi relaxed her grip on the girl’s arm and sank back exhausted on the pillow. A death-like look came over her face as the excitement faded.
