The Complete Works of L M Montgomery, page 665
“No,” mourned Mrs. Page, “and the poor boy feels so badly over it. His heart is set on going to college and being a doctor like his father. He believes he could work his way through, if he could only get a start. But there isn’t any chance. And I can’t afford to keep him at school any longer. He is going into Mr. Churchill’s store at Willow Centre in the fall. Mr. Churchill has very kindly offered him a place. Leicester hates the thought of it — I know he does, although he never says so.”
“Next to Leicester’s college course we want—”
“Music lessons for Jean.”
Dorinda winked again.
“Are music lessons for Jean really a difficulty?” she said. “That is, one spelled with a capital?”
“Oh, yes, Dorinda dear. At least, I’m worried over it. Jean loves music so, and she has never had anything, poor child, not even as much school as she ought to have had. I’ve had to keep her home so much to help me with the work. She has been such a good, patient little girl too, and her heart is set on music lessons.”
“Well, she must have them then — after we get Leicester’s year at the academy for him. That’s two. The third is a new—”
“The roof must be shingled this fall,” said Mrs. Page anxiously. “It really must, Dorinda. It is no better than a sieve. We are nearly drowned every time it rains. But I don’t know where the money to do it is going to come from.”
“Shingles for the roof, three,” said Dorinda, as if she were carefully jotting down something in a mental memorandum. “And fourth — now, Mother Page, I will have my say this time — fourthly, biggest capital of all, a Nice, New Dress and a Warm Fur Coat for Mother Page this winter. Yes, yes, you must have them, dearest. It’s absolutely necessary. We can wait a year or so for college courses and music lessons to grow; we can set basins under the leaks and borrow some more if we haven’t enough. But a new dress and coat for you we must, shall, and will have, however it is to be brought about.”
“I wouldn’t mind if I never got another new stitch, if I could only manage the other things,” said Mrs. Page stoutly. “If your Uncle Eugene would only help us a little, until Leicester got through! He really ought to. But of course he never will.”
“Have you ever asked him?” said Dorinda.
“Oh, my dear, no; of course not,” said Mrs. Page in a horrified tone, as if Dorinda had asked if she had ever stolen a neighbour’s spoons.
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” said Dorinda seriously.
“Oh, Dorinda, Uncle Eugene hates us all. He is terribly bitter against us. He would never, never listen to any request for help, even if I could bring myself to make it.”
“Mother, what was the trouble between us and Uncle Eugene? I have never known the rights of it. I was too small to understand when I was home before. All I remember is that Uncle Eugene never came to see us or spoke to us when he met us anywhere, and we were all afraid of him somehow. I used to think of him as an ogre who would come creeping up the back stairs after dark and carry me off bodily if I wasn’t good. What made him our enemy? And how did he come to get all of Grandfather Page’s property when Father got nothing?”
“Well, you know, Dorinda, that your Grandfather Page was married twice. Eugene was his first wife’s son, and your father the second wife’s. Eugene was a great deal older than your father — he was twenty-five when your father was born. He was always an odd man, even in his youth, and he had been much displeased at his father’s second marriage. But he was very fond of your father — whose mother, as you know, died at his birth — and they were good friends and comrades until just before your father went to college. They then quarrelled; the cause of the quarrel was insignificant; with anyone else than Eugene a reconciliation would soon have been effected. But Eugene never was friendly with your father from that time. I think he was jealous of old Grandfather’s affection; thought the old man loved your father best. And then, as I have said, he was very eccentric and stubborn. Well, your father went away to college and graduated, and then — we were married. Grandfather Page was very angry with him for marrying me. He wanted him to marry somebody else. He told him he would disinherit him if he married me. I did not know this until we were married. But Grandfather Page kept his word. He sent for a lawyer and had a new will made, leaving everything to Eugene. I think, nay, I am sure, that he would have relented in time, but he died the very next week; they found him dead in his bed one morning, so Eugene got everything; and that is all there is of the story, Dorinda.”
“And Uncle Eugene has been our enemy ever since?”
“Yes, ever since. So you see, Dorinda dear, that I cannot ask any favours of Uncle Eugene.”
“Yes, I see,” said Dorinda understandingly. To herself she added, “But I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
Dorinda thought hard and long for the next few days about the capital difficulties. She could think of only one thing to do and, despite old Admiral Page’s fighting blood, she shrank from doing it. But one night she found Leicester with his head down on his books and — no, it couldn’t be tears in his eyes, because Leicester laughed scornfully at the insinuation.
“I wouldn’t cry over it, Dorinda; I hope I’m more of a man than that. But I do really feel rather cut up because I’ve no chance of getting to college. And I hate the thought of going into a store. But I know I must for Mother’s sake, and I mean to pitch in and like it in spite of myself when the time comes. Only — only—”
And then Leicester got up and whistled and went to the window and stood with his back to Dorinda.
“That settles it,” said Dorinda out loud, as she brushed her hair before the glass that night. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” asked Jean from the bed.
“A desperate deed,” said Dorinda solemnly, and that was all she would say.
Next day Mrs. Page and Leicester went to town on business. In the afternoon Dorinda put on her best dress and hat and started out. Admiral Page’s fighting blood was glowing in her cheeks as she walked briskly up the hill road, but her heart beat in an odd fashion.
“I wonder if I am a little scared, ‘way down deep,” said Dorinda. “I believe I am. But I’m going to do it for all that, and the scareder I get the more I’ll do it.”
Oaklawn, where Uncle Eugene lived, was two miles away. It was a fine old place in beautiful grounds. But Dorinda did not quail before its splendours; nor did her heart fail her, even after she had rung the bell and had been shown by a maid into a very handsome parlour, but it still continued to beat in that queer fashion halfway up her throat.
Presently Uncle Eugene came in, a tall, black-eyed old man, with a fine head of silver hair that should have framed a ruddy, benevolent face, instead of Uncle Eugene’s hard-lipped, bushy-browed countenance.
Dorinda stood up, dusky and crimson, with brave, glowing eyes. Uncle Eugene looked at her sharply.
“Who are you?” he said bluntly.
“I am your niece, Dorinda Page,” said Dorinda steadily.
“And what does my niece, Dorinda Page, want with me?” demanded Uncle Eugene, motioning to her to sit down and sitting down himself. But Dorinda remained standing. It is easier to fight on your feet.
“I want you to do four things, Uncle Eugene,” she said, as calmly as if she were making the most natural and ordinary request in the world. “I want you to lend us the money to send Leicester to Blue Hill Academy; he will pay it back to you when he gets through college. I want you to lend Jean the money for music lessons; she will pay you back when she gets far enough along to give lessons herself. And I want you to lend me the money to shingle our house and get Mother a new dress and fur coat for the winter. I’ll pay you back sometime for that, because I am going to set up as a dressmaker pretty soon.”
“Anything more?” said Uncle Eugene, when Dorinda stopped.
“Nothing more just now, I think,” said Dorinda reflectively.
“Why don’t you ask for something for yourself?” said Uncle Eugene.
“I don’t want anything for myself,” said Dorinda promptly. “Or — yes, I do, too. I want your friendship, Uncle Eugene.”
“Be kind enough to sit down,” said Uncle Eugene.
Dorinda sat.
“You are a Page,” said Uncle Eugene. “I saw that as soon as I came in. I will send Leicester to college and I shall not ask or expect to be paid back. Jean shall have her music lessons, and a piano to practise them on as well. The house shall be shingled, and the money for the new dress and coat shall be forthcoming. You and I will be friends.”
“Thank you,” gasped Dorinda, wondering if, after all, it wasn’t a dream.
“I would have gladly assisted your mother before,” said Uncle Eugene, “if she had asked me. I had determined that she must ask me first. I knew that half the money should have been your father’s by rights. I was prepared to hand it over to him or his family, if I were asked for it. But I wished to humble his pride, and the Carter pride, to the point of asking for it. Not a very amiable temper, you will say? I admit it. I am not amiable and I never have been amiable. You must be prepared to find me very unamiable. I see that you are waiting for a chance to say something polite and pleasant on that score, but you may save yourself the trouble. I shall hope and expect to have you visit me often. If your mother and your brothers and sisters see fit to come with you, I shall welcome them also. I think that this is all it is necessary to say just now. Will you stay to tea with me this evening?”
Dorinda stayed to tea, since she knew that Jean was at home to attend to matters there. She and Uncle Eugene got on famously. When she left, Uncle Eugene, grim and hard-lipped as ever, saw her to the door.
“Good evening, Niece Dorinda. You are a Page and I am proud of you. Tell your mother that many things in this life are lost through not asking for them. I don’t think you are in need of the information for yourself.”
Her Own People
The Taunton School had closed for the summer holidays. Constance Foster and Miss Channing went down the long, elm-shaded street together, as they generally did, because they happened to board on the same block downtown.
Constance was the youngest teacher on the staff, and had charge of the Primary Department. She had taught in Taunton school a year, and at its close she was as much of a stranger in the little corps of teachers as she had been at the beginning. The others thought her stiff and unapproachable; she was unpopular in a negative way with all except Miss Channing, who made it a profession to like everybody, the more so if other people disliked them. Miss Channing was the oldest teacher on the staff, and taught the fifth grade. She was short and stout and jolly; nothing, not even the iciest reserve, ever daunted Miss Channing.
“Isn’t it good to think of two whole blessed months of freedom?” she said jubilantly. “Two months to dream, to be lazy, to go where one pleases, no exercises to correct, no reports to make, no pupils to keep in order. To be sure, I love them every one, but I’ll love them all the more for a bit of a rest from them. Isn’t it good?”
A little satirical smile crossed Constance Foster’s dark, discontented face, looking just then all the more discontented in contrast to Miss Channing’s rosy, beaming countenance.
“It’s very good, if you have anywhere to go, or anybody who cares where you go,” she said bitterly. “For my own part, I’m sorry school is closed. I’d rather go on teaching all summer.”
“Heresy!” said Miss Channing. “Rank heresy! What are your vacation plans?”
“I haven’t any,” said Constance wearily. “I’ve put off thinking about vacation as long as I possibly could. You’ll call that heresy, too, Miss Channing.”
“It’s worse than heresy,” said Miss Channing briskly. “It’s a crying necessity for blue pills, that’s what it is. Your whole mental and moral and physical and spiritual system must be out of kilter, my child. No vacation plans! You must have vacation plans. You must be going somewhere.”
“Oh, I suppose I’ll hunt up a boarding place somewhere in the country, and go there and mope until September.”
“Have you no friends, Constance?”
“No — no, I haven’t anybody in the world. That is why I hate vacation, that is why I’ve hated to hear you and the others discussing your vacation plans. You all have somebody to go to. It has just filled me up with hatred of my life.”
Miss Channing swallowed her honest horror at such a state of feeling.
“Constance, tell me about yourself. I’ve often wanted to ask you, but I was always a little afraid to. You seem so reserved and — and, as if you didn’t want to be asked about yourself.”
“I know it. I know I’m stiff and hateful, and that nobody likes me, and that it is all my own fault. No, never mind trying to smooth it over, Miss Channing. It’s the truth, and it hurts me, but I can’t help it. I’m getting more bitter and pessimistic and unwholesome every day of my life. Sometimes it seems as if I hated all the world because I’m so lonely in it. I’m nobody. My mother died when I was born — and Father — oh, I don’t know. One can’t say anything against one’s father, Miss Channing. But I had a hard childhood — or rather, I didn’t have any childhood at all. We were always moving about. We didn’t seem to have any friends at all. My mother might have had relatives somewhere, but I never heard of any. I don’t even know where her home was. Father never would talk of her. He died two years ago, and since then I’ve been absolutely alone.”
“Oh, you poor girl,” said Miss Channing softly.
“I want friends,” went on Constance, seeming to take a pleasure in open confession now that her tongue was loosed. “I’ve always just longed for somebody belonging to me to love. I don’t love anybody, Miss Channing, and when a girl is in that state, she is all wrong. She gets hard and bitter and resentful — I have, anyway. I struggled against it at first, but it has been too much for me. It poisons everything. There is nobody to care anything about me, whether I live or die.”
“Oh, yes, there is One,” said Miss Channing gently. “God cares, Constance.”
Constance gave a disagreeable little laugh.
“That sounds like Miss Williams — she is so religious. God doesn’t mean anything to me, Miss Channing. I’ve just the same resentful feeling toward him that I have for all the world, if he exists at all. There, I’ve shocked you in good earnest now. You should have left me alone, Miss Channing.”
“God means nothing to you because you’ve never had him translated to you through human love, Constance,” said Miss Channing seriously. “No, you haven’t shocked me — at least, not in the way you mean. I’m only terribly sorry.”
“Oh, never mind me,” said Constance, freezing up into her reserve again as if she regretted her confidences. “I’ll get along all right. This is one of my off days, when everything looks black.”
Miss Channing walked on in silence. She must help Constance, but Constance was not easily helped. When school reopened, she might be able to do something worthwhile for the girl, but just now the only thing to do was to put her in the way of a pleasant vacation.
“You spoke of boarding,” she said, when Constance paused at the door of her boarding-house. “Have you any particular place in view? No? Well, I know a place which I am sure you would like. I was there two summers ago. It is a country place about a hundred miles from here. Pine Valley is its name. It’s restful and homey, and the people are so nice. If you like, I’ll give you the address of the family I boarded with.”
“Thank you,” said Constance indifferently. “I might as well go there as anywhere else.”
“Yes, but listen to me, dear. Don’t take your morbidness with you. Open your heart to the summer, and let its sunshine in, and when you come back in the fall, come prepared to let us all be your friends. We’d like to be, and while friendship doesn’t take the place of the love of one’s own people, still it is a good and beautiful thing. Besides, there are other unhappy people in the world — try to help them when you meet them, and you’ll forget about yourself. Good-by for now, and I hope you’ll have a pleasant vacation in spite of yourself.”
Constance went to Pine Valley, but she took her evil spirit with her. Not even the beauty of the valley, with its great balmy pines, and the cheerful friendliness of its people could exorcise it.
Nevertheless, she liked the place and found a wholesome pleasure in the long tramps she took along the piney roads.
“I saw such a pretty spot in my ramble this afternoon,” she told her landlady one evening. “It is about three miles from here at the end of the valley. Such a picturesque, low-eaved little house, all covered over with honeysuckle. It was set between a big orchard and an old-fashioned flower garden with great pines at the back.”
“Heartsease Farm,” said Mrs. Hewitt promptly. “Bless you, there’s only one place around here of that description. Mr. and Mrs. Bruce, Uncle Charles and Aunt Flora, as we all call them, live there. They are the dearest old couple alive. You ought to go and see them, they’d be delighted. Aunt Flora just loves company. They’re real lonesome by times.”
“Haven’t they any children?” asked Constance indifferently. Her interest was in the place, not in the people.
“No. They had a niece once, though. They brought her up and they just worshipped her. She ran away with a worthless fellow — I forget his name, if I ever knew it. He was handsome and smooth-tongued, but he was a scamp. She died soon after and it just broke their hearts. They don’t even know where she was buried, and they never heard anything more about her husband. I’ve heard that Aunt Flora’s hair turned snow-white in a month. I’ll take you up to see her some day when I find time.”
Mrs. Hewitt did not find time, but thereafter Constance ordered her rambles that she might frequently pass Heartsease Farm. The quaint old spot had a strange attraction for her. She found herself learning to love it, and so unused was this unfortunate girl to loving anything that she laughed at herself for her foolishness.
