Chronicles of Avonlea

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Prissy wanted to get married--and she wanted to get married to
Stephen--and Emmeline wouldn't let her.

"Prissy Strong," I said in exasperation, "you haven't the
spirit of a mouse! Why on earth did you write him such a
letter?"

"Why, Emmeline made me," said Prissy, as if there couldn't be
any appeal from that; and I knew there couldn't--for Prissy. I
also knew that if Stephen wanted to see Prissy again Emmeline
must know nothing of it, and I told him so when he came down
the next evening--to borrow a hoe, he said. It was a long way
to come for a hoe.

"Then what am I to do?" he said. "It wouldn't be any use to
write, for it would likely fall into Emmeline's hands. She
won't let Prissy go anywhere alone after this, and how am I to
know when the old cat is away?"

"Please don't insult cats," I said. "I'll tell you what we'll
do. You can see the ventilator on our barn from your place,
can't you? You'd be able to make out a flag or something tied
to it, wouldn't you, through that spy-glass of yours?"

Stephen thought he could.

"Well, you take a squint at it every now and then," I said.
"Just as soon as Emmeline leaves Prissy alone I'll hoist the
signal."

The chance didn't come for a whole fortnight. Then, one
evening, I saw Emmeline striding over the field below our
house. As soon as she was out of sight I ran through the birch
grove to Prissy.

"Yes, Em'line's gone to sit up with Jane Lawson to-night,"
said Prissy, all fluttered and trembling.

"Then you put on your muslin dress and fix your hair," I said.
"I'm going home to get Thomas to tie something to that
ventilator."

But do you think Thomas would do it? Not he. He said he owed
something to his position as elder in the church. In the end I
had to do it myself, though I don't like climbing ladders. I
tied Thomas' long red woollen scarf to the ventilator, and
prayed that Stephen would see it. He did, for in less than an
hour he drove down our lane and put his horse in our barn. He
was all spruced up, and as nervous and excited as a schoolboy.
He went right over to Prissy, and I began to tuft my new
comfort with a clear conscience. I shall never know why it
suddenly came into my head to go up to the garret and make
sure that the moths hadn't got into my box of blankets; but I
always believed that it was a special interposition of
Providence. I went up and happened to look out of the east
window; and there I saw Emmeline Strong coming home across our
pond field.

I just flew down those garret stairs and out through the
birches. I burst into the Strong kitchen, where Stephen and
Prissy were sitting as cozy as you please.

"Stephen, come quick! Emmeline's nearly here," I cried.

Prissy looked out of the window and wrung her hands.

"Oh, she's in the lane now," she gasped. "He can't get out of
the house without her seeing him. Oh, Rosanna, what shall we
do?

I really don't know what would have become of those two people
if I hadn't been in existence to find ideas for them.

"Take Stephen up to the garret and hide him there, Prissy," I
said firmly, "and take him quick."

Prissy took him quick, but she had barely time to get back to
the kitchen before Emmeline marched in--mad as a wet hen
because somebody had been ahead of her offering to sit up with
Jane Lawson, and so she lost the chance of poking and prying
into things while Jane was asleep. The minute she clapped eyes
on Prissy she suspected something. It wasn't any wonder, for
there was Prissy, all dressed up, with flushed cheeks and
shining eyes. She was all in a quiver of excitement, and
looked ten years younger.

"Priscilla Strong, you've been expecting Stephen Clark here
this evening!" burst out Emmeline. "You wicked, deceitful,
underhanded, ungrateful creature!"

And she went on storming at Prissy, who began to cry, and
looked so weak and babyish that I was frightened she would
betray the whole thing.

"This is between you and Prissy, Emmeline," I struck in, "and
I'm not going to interfere. But I want to get you to come over
and show me how to tuft my comfort that new pattern you
learned in Avonlea, and as it had better be done before dark I
wish you'd come right away."

"I s'pose I'll go," said Emmeline ungraciously, "but Priscilla
shall come, too, for I see that she isn't to be trusted out of
my sight after this."

I hoped Stephen would see us from the garret window and make
good his escape. But I didn't dare trust to chance, so when I
got Emmeline safely to work on my comfort I excused myself and
slipped out. Luckily my kitchen was on the off side of the
house, but I was a nervous woman as I rushed across to the
Strong place and dashed up Emmeline's garret stairs to
Stephen. It was fortunate I had come, for he didn't know we
had gone. Prissy had hidden him behind the loom and he didn't
dare move for fear Emmeline would hear him on that creaky
floor. He was a sight with cobwebs.

I got him down and smuggled him into our barn, and he stayed
there until it was dark and the Strong girls had gone home.
Emmeline began to rage at Prissy the moment they were outside
my door.

Then Stephen came in and we talked things over. He and Prissy
had made good use of their time, short as it had been. Prissy
had promised to marry him, and all that remained was to get
the ceremony performed.

"And that will be no easy matter," I warned him. "Now that
Emmeline's suspicions are aroused she'll never let Prissy out
of her sight until you're married to another woman, if it's
years. I know Emmeline Strong. And I know Prissy. If it was
any other girl in the world she'd run away, or manage it
somehow, but Prissy never will. She's too much in the habit of
obeying Emmeline. You'll have an obedient wife, Stephen--if
you ever get her."

Stephen looked as if he thought that wouldn't be any drawback.
Gossip said that Althea had been pretty bossy. I don't know.
Maybe it was so.

"Can't you suggest something, Rosanna?" he implored. "You've
helped us so far, and I'll never forget it."

"The only thing I can think of is for you to have the license
ready, and speak to Mr. Leonard, and keep an eye on our
ventilator," I said. "I'll watch here and signal whenever
there's an opening."

Well, I watched and Stephen watched, and Mr. Leonard was in
the plot, too. Prissy was always a favourite of his, and he
would have been more than human, saint as he is, if he'd had
any love for Emmeline, after the way she was always trying to
brew up strife in the church.

But Emmeline was a match for us all. She never let Prissy out
of her sight. Everywhere she went she toted Prissy, too. When
a month had gone by, I was almost in despair. Mr. Leonard had
to leave for the Assembly in another week and Stephen's
neighbours were beginning to talk about him. They said that a
man who spent all his time hanging around the yard with a
spyglass, and trusting everything to a hired boy, couldn't be
altogether right in his mind.

I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Emmeline driving
away one day alone. As soon as she was out of sight I whisked
over, and Anne Shirley and Diana Barry went with me.

They were visiting me that afternoon. Diana's mother was my
second cousin, and, as we visited back and forth frequently,
I'd often seen Diana. But I'd never seen her chum, Anne
Shirley, although I'd heard enough about her to drive anyone
frantic with curiosity. So when she came home from Redmond
College that summer I asked Diana to take pity on me and bring
her over some afternoon.

I wasn't disappointed in her. I considered her a beauty,
though some people couldn't see it. She had the most
magnificent red hair and the biggest, shiningest eyes I ever
saw in a girl's head. As for her laugh, it made me feel young
again to hear it. She and Diana both laughed enough that
afternoon, for I told them, under solemn promise of secrecy,
all about poor Prissy's love affair. So nothing would do them
but they must go over with me.

The appearance of the house amazed me. All the shutters were
closed and the door locked. I knocked and knocked, but there
was no answer. Then I walked around the house to the only
window that hadn't shutters--a tiny one upstairs. I knew it
was the window in the closet off the room where the girls
slept. I stopped under it and called Prissy. Before long
Prissy came and opened it. She was so pale and woe-begone
looking that I pitied her with all my heart.

"Prissy, where has Emmeline gone?" I asked.

"Down to Avonlea to see the Roger Pyes. They're sick with
measles, and Emmeline couldn't take me because I've never had
measles."

Poor Prissy! She had never had anything a body ought to have.

"Then you just come and unfasten a shutter, and come right
over to my house," I said exultantly. "We'll have Stephen and
the minister here in no time."

"I can't--Em'line has locked me in here," said Prissy
woefully.

I was posed. No living mortal bigger than a baby could have
got in or out of that closet window.

"Well," I said finally, "I'll put the signal up for Stephen
anyhow, and we'll see what can be done when he gets here."

I didn't know how I was ever to get the signal up on that
ventilator, for it was one of the days I take dizzy spells;
and if I took one up on the ladder there'd probably be a
funeral instead of a wedding. But Anne Shirley said she'd put
it up for me, and she did. I had never seen that girl before,
and I've never seen her since, but it's my opinion that there
wasn't much she couldn't do if she made up her mind to do it.

Stephen wasn't long in getting there and he brought the
minister with him. Then we all, including Thomas--who was
beginning to get interested in the affair in spite of himself-
-went over and held council of war beneath the closet window.

Thomas suggested breaking in doors and carrying Prissy off
boldly, but I could see that Mr. Leonard looked very dubious
over that, and even Stephen said he thought it could only be
done as a last resort. I agreed with him. I knew Emmeline
Strong would bring an action against him for housebreaking as
likely as not. She'd be so furious she'd stick at nothing if
we gave her any excuse. Then Anne Shirley, who couldn't have
been more excited if she was getting married herself, came to
the rescue again.

"Couldn't you put a ladder up to the closet window," she said,
"And Mr. Clark can go up it and they can be married there.
Can't they, Mr. Leonard?"

Mr. Leonard agreed that they could. He was always the most
saintly looking man, but I know I saw a twinkle in his eye.

"Thomas, go over and bring our little ladder over here," I
said.

Thomas forgot he was an elder, and he brought the ladder as
quick as it was possible for a fat man to do it. After all it
was too short to reach the window, but there was no time to go
for another. Stephen went up to the top of it, and he reached
up and Prissy reached down, and they could just barely clasp
hands so. I shall never forget the look of Prissy. The window
was so small she could only get her head and one arm out of
it. Besides, she was almost frightened to death.

Mr. Leonard stood at the foot of the ladder and married them.
As a rule, he makes a very long and solemn thing of the
marriage ceremony, but this time he cut out everything that
wasn't absolutely necessary; and it was well that he did, for
just as he pronounced them man and wife, Emmeline drove into
the lane.

She knew perfectly well what had happened when she saw the
minister with his blue book in his hand. Never a word said
she. She marched to the front door, unlocked it, and strode
upstairs. I've always been convinced it was a mercy that
closet window was so small, or I believe that she would have
thrown Prissy out of it. As it was, she walked her downstairs
by the arm and actually flung her at Stephen.

"There, take your wife," she said, "and I'll pack up every
stitch she owns and send it after her; and I never want to see
her or you again as long as I live."

Then she turned to me and Thomas.

"As for you that have aided and abetted that weakminded fool
in this, take yourselves out of my yard and never darken my
door again."

"Goodness, who wants to, you old spitfire?" said Thomas.

It wasn't just the thing for him to say, perhaps, but we are
all human, even elders.

The girls didn't escape. Emmeline looked daggers at them.

"This will be something for you to carry back to Avonlea," she
said. "You gossips down there will have enough to talk about
for a spell. That's all you ever go out of Avonlea for--just
to fetch and carry tales."

Finally she finished up with the minister.

"I'm going to the Baptist church in Spencervale after this,"
she said. Her tone and look said a hundred other things. She
whirled into the house and slammed the door.

Mr. Leonard looked around on us with a pitying smile as
Stephen put poor, half-fainting Prissy into the buggy.

"I am very sorry," he said in that gently, saintly way of his,
"for the Baptists."

XI. The Miracle at Carmody

Salome looked out of the kitchen window, and a pucker of
distress appeared on her smooth forehead.

"Dear, dear, what has Lionel Hezekiah been doing now?" she
murmured anxiously.

Involuntarily she reached out for her crutch; but it was a
little beyond her reach, having fallen on the floor, and
without it Salome could not move a step.

"Well, anyway, Judith is bringing him in as fast as she can,"
she reflected. "He must have been up to something terrible
this time; for she looks very cross, and she never walks like
that unless she is angry clear through. Dear me, I am
sometimes tempted to think that Judith and I made a mistake in
adopting the child. I suppose two old maids don't know much
about bringing up a boy properly. But he is NOT a bad child,
and it really seems to me that there must be some way of
making him behave better if we only knew what it was."

Salome's monologue was cut short by the entrance of her sister
Judith, holding Lionel Hezekiah by his chubby wrist with a
determined grip.

Judith Marsh was ten years older than Salome, and the two
women were as different in appearance as night and day.
Salome, in spite of her thirty-five years, looked almost
girlish. She was small and pink and flower-like, with little
rings of pale golden hair clustering all over her head in a
most unspinster-like fashion, and her eyes were big and blue,
and mild as a dove's. Her face was perhaps a weak one, but it
was very sweet and appealing.

Judith Marsh was tall and dark, with a plain, tragic face and
iron-gray hair. Her eyes were black and sombre, and every
feature bespoke unyielding will and determination. Just now
she looked, as Salome had said, "angry clear through," and the
baleful glances she cast on the small mortal she held would
have withered a more hardened criminal than six happy-go-lucky
years had made of Lionel Hezekiah.

Lionel Hezekiah, whatever his shortcomings, did not look bad.
Indeed, he was as engaging an urchin as ever beamed out on a
jolly good world through a pair of big, velvet-brown eyes. He
was chubby and firm-limbed, with a mop of beautiful golden
curls, which were the despair of his heart and the pride and
joy of Salome's; and his round face was usually a lurking-
place for dimples and smiles and sunshine.

But just now Lionel Hezekiah was under a blight; he had been
caught red-handed in guilt, and was feeling much ashamed of
himself. He hung his head and squirmed his toes under the
mournful reproach in Salome's eyes. When Salome looked at him
like that, Lionel Hezekiah always felt that he was paying more
for his fun than it was worth.

"What do you suppose I caught him doing this time?" demanded
Judith.

"I--I don't know," faltered Salome.

"Firing--at--a--mark--on--the--henhouse--door--with--new-laid-
-eggs," said Judith with measured distinctness. "He has broken
every egg that was laid to-day except three. And as for the
state of that henhouse door--"

Judith paused, with an indignant gesture meant to convey that
the state of the henhouse door must be left to Salome's
imagination, since the English language was not capable of
depicting it.

"O Lionel Hezekiah, why will you do such things?" said Salome
miserably.

"I--didn't know it was wrong," said Lionel Hezekiah, bursting
into prompt tears. "I--I thought it would be bully fun.
Seems's if everything what's fun 's wrong."

Salome's heart was not proof against tears, as Lionel Hezekiah
very well knew. She put her arm about the sobbing culprit, and
drew him to her side.

"He didn't know it was wrong," she said defiantly to Judith.

"He's got to be taught, then," was Judith's retort. "No, you
needn't try to beg him off, Salome. He shall go right to bed
without supper, and stay there till to-morrow morning."

"Oh! not without his supper," entreated Salome. "You--you
won't improve the child's morals by injuring his stomach,
Judith."

"Without his supper, I say," repeated Judith inexorably.
"Lionel Hezekiah, go up-stairs to the south room, and go to
bed at once."

Lionel Hezekiah went up-stairs, and went to bed at once. He
was never sulky or disobedient. Salome listened to him as he
stumped patiently up-stairs with a sob at every step, and her
own eyes filled with tears.

"Now don't for pity's sake go crying, Salome," said Judith
irritably. "I think I've let him off very easily. He is enough
to try the patience of a saint, and I never was that," she
added with entire truth.

"But he isn't bad," pleaded Salome. "You know he never does
anything the second time after he has been told it was wrong,
never."

"What good does that do when he is certain to do something new
and twice as bad? I never saw anything like him for
originating ideas of mischief. Just look at what he has done
in the past fortnight--in one fortnight, Salome. He brought in
a live snake, and nearly frightened you into fits; he drank up
a bottle of liniment, and almost poisoned himself; he took
three toads to bed with him; he climbed into the henhouse
loft, and fell through on a hen and killed her; he painted his
face all over with your water-colours; and now comes THIS
exploit. And eggs at twenty-eight cents a dozen! I tell you,
Salome, Lionel Hezekiah is an expensive luxury."

"But we couldn't do without him," protested Salome.

"_I_ could. But as you can't, or think you can't, we'll have
to keep him, I suppose. But the only way to secure any peace
of mind for ourselves, as far as I can see, is to tether him
in the yard, and hire somebody to watch him."

"There must be some way of managing him," said Salome
desperately. She thought Judith was in earnest about the
tethering. Judith was generally so terribly in earnest in all
she said. "Perhaps it is because he has no other employment
that he invents so many unheard-of things. If he had anything
to occupy himself with--perhaps if we sent him to school--"

"He's too young to go to school. Father always said that no
child should go to school until it was seven, and I don't mean
Lionel Hezekiah shall. Well, I'm going to take a pail of hot
water and a brush, and see what I can do to that henhouse
door. I've got my afternoon's work cut out for me."

Judith stood Salome's crutch up beside her, and departed to
purify the henhouse door. As soon as she was safely out of the
way, Salome took her crutch, and limped slowly and painfully
to the foot of the stairs. She could not go up and comfort
Lionel Hezekiah as she yearned to do, which was the reason
Judith had sent him up-stairs. Salome had not been up-stairs
for fifteen years. Neither did she dare to call him out on the
landing, lest Judith return. Besides, of course he must be
punished; he had been very naughty.

"But I wish I could smuggle a bit of supper up to him," she
mused, sitting down on the lowest step and listening. "I don't
hear a sound. I suppose he has cried himself to sleep, poor,
dear baby. He certainly is dreadfully mischievous; but it
seems to me that it shows an investigating turn of mind, and
if it could only be directed into the proper channels--I wish
Judith would let me have a talk with Mr. Leonard about Lionel
Hezekiah. I wish Judith didn't hate ministers so. I don't mind
so much her not letting me go to church, because I'm so lame
that it would be painful anyhow; but I'd like to talk with Mr.
Leonard now and then about some things. I can never believe
that Judith and father were right; I am sure they were not.
There is a God, and I'm afraid it's terribly wicked not to go
to church. But there, nothing short of a miracle would
convince Judith; so there is no use in thinking about it. Yes,
Lionel Hezekiah must have gone to sleep."

Salome pictured him so, with his long, curling lashes brushing
his rosy, tear-stained cheek and his chubby fists clasped
tightly over his breast as was his habit; her heart grew warm
and thrilling with the maternity the picture provoked.

A year previously Lionel Hezekiah's parents, Abner and Martha
Smith, had died, leaving a houseful of children and very
little else. The children were adopted into various Carmody
families, and Salome Marsh had amazed Judith by asking to be
allowed to take the five-year-old "baby." At first Judith had
laughed at the idea; but, when she found that Salome was in
earnest, she yielded. Judith always gave Salome her own way
except on one point.

"If you want the child, I suppose you must have him," she said
finally. "I wish he had a civilized name, though. Hezekiah is
bad, and Lionel is worse; but the two in combination, and
tacked on to Smith at that, is something that only Martha
Smith could have invented. Her judgment was the same clear
through, from selecting husbands to names."

So Lionel Hezekiah came into Judith's home and Salome's heart.
The latter was permitted to love him all she pleased, but
Judith overlooked his training with a critical eye. Possibly
it was just as well, for Salome might otherwise have ruined
him with indulgence. Salome, who always adopted Judith's
opinions, no matter how ill they fitted her, deferred to the
former's decrees meekly, and suffered far more than Lionel
Hezekiah when he was punished.

She sat on the stairs until she fell asleep herself, her head
pillowed on her arm. Judith found her there when she came in,
severe and triumphant, from her bout with the henhouse door.
Her face softened into marvelous tenderness as she looked at
Salome.

"She's nothing but a child herself in spite of her age," she
thought pityingly. "A child that's had her whole life thwarted
and spoiled through no fault of her own. And yet folks say
there is a God who is kind and good! If there is a God, he is
a cruel, jealous tyrant, and I hate Him!"

Judith's eyes were bitter and vindictive. She thought she had
many grievances against the great Power that rules the
universe, but the most intense was Salome's helplessness--
Salome, who fifteen years before had been the brightest,
happiest of maidens, light of heart and foot, bubbling over
with harmless, sparkling mirth and life. If Salome could only
walk like other women, Judith told herself that she would not
hate the great tyrannical Power.

Lionel Hezekiah was subdued and angelic for four days after
that affair of the henhouse door. Then he broke out in a new
place. One afternoon he came in sobbing, with his golden curls
full of burrs. Judith was not in, but Salome dropped her
crochet-work and gazed at him in dismay.

"Oh, Lionel Hezekiah, what have you gone and done now?"

"I--I just stuck the burrs in 'cause I was playing I was a
heathen chief," sobbed Lionel Hezekiah. "It was great fun
while it lasted; but, when I tried to take them out, it hurt
awful."

Neither Salome nor Lionel Hezekiah ever forgot the harrowing
hour that followed. With the aid of comb and scissors, Salome
eventually got the burrs out of Lionel Hezekiah's crop of
curls. It would be impossible to decide which of them suffered
more in the process. Salome cried as hard as Lionel Hezekiah
did, and every snip of the scissors or tug at the silken floss
cut into her heart. She was almost exhausted when the
performance was over; but she took the tired Lionel Hezekiah
on her knee, and laid her wet cheek against his shining head.

"Oh, Lionel Hezekiah, what does make you get into mischief so
constantly?" she sighed.

Lionel Hezekiah frowned reflectively.

"I don't know," he finally announced, "unless it's because you
don't send me to Sunday school."

Salome started as if an electric shock had passed through her
frail body.

"Why, Lionel Hezekiah," she stammered, "what put such and idea
into your head?"

"Well, all the other boys go," said Lionel Hezekiah defiantly;
"and they're all better'n me; so I guess that must be the
reason. Teddy Markham says that all little boys should go to
Sunday school, and that if they don't they're sure to go to
the bad place. I don't see how you can 'spect me to behave
well when you won't send me to Sunday school.

"Would you like to go?" asked Salome, almost in a whisper.

"I'd like it bully," said Lionel Hezekiah frankly and
succinctly.

"Oh, don't use such dreadful words," sighed Salome helplessly.
"I'll see what can be done. Perhaps you can go. I'll ask your
Aunt Judith."

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