Chronicles of Avonlea
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Lucy Maud Montgomery >> Chronicles of Avonlea
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One day, when the Avonlea slopes were golden-hued with the
ripened harvest, Aunty Nan did not get up. She complained of
nothing but great weariness. Mrs. William remarked to her
husband that if SHE lay in bed every day she felt tired,
there wouldn't be much done at Gull Point Farm. But she
prepared an excellent breakfast and carried it patiently up to
Aunty Nan, who ate little of it.
After dinner Jordan crept up by way of the back stairs to see
her. Aunty Nan was lying with her eyes fixed on the pale pink
climbing roses that nodded about the window. When she saw
Jordan she smiled.
"Them roses put me so much in mind of little Joscelyn," she
said softly. "She loved them so. If I could only see her! Oh,
Jordan, if I could only see her! Maria says it's terrible
childish to be always harping on that string, and mebbe it is.
But--oh, Jordan, there's such a hunger in my heart for her,
such a hunger!"
Jordan felt a queer sensation in his throat, and twisted his
ragged straw hat about in his big hands. Just then a vague
idea which had hovered in his brain all day crystallized into
decision. But all he said was:
"I hope you'll feel better soon, Aunty Nan."
"Oh, yes, Jordan dear, I'll be better soon," said Aunty Nan
with her own sweet smile. "'The inhabitant shall not say I am
sick,' you know. But if I could only see little Joscelyn
first!"
Jordan went out and hurried down-stairs. Billy Morrison was in
the stable, when Jordan stuck his head over the half-door.
"Say, can I have the rest of the day off, sir? I want to go to
Kensington."
"Well, I don't mind," said Billy Morrison amiably. "May's well
get you jaunting done 'fore harvest comes on. And here, Jord;
take this quarter and get some oranges for Aunty Nan. Needn't
mention it to headquarters."
Billy Morrison's face was solemn, but Jordan winked as he
pocketed the money.
"If I've any luck, I'll bring her something that'll do her
more good than the oranges," he muttered, as he hurried off to
the pasture. Jordan had a horse of his own now, a rather bony
nag, answering to the name of Dan. Billy Morrison had agreed
to pasture the animal if Jordan used him in the farm work, an
arrangement scoffed at by Mrs. William in no measured terms.
Jordan hitched Dan into the second best buggy, dressed himself
in his Sunday clothes, and drove off. On the road he re-read a
paragraph he had clipped from the Charlottetown Daily
Enterprise of the previous day.
"Joscelyn Burnett, the famous contralto, is spending a few
days in Kensington on her return from her Maritime concert
tour. She is the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Bromley, of The
Beeches."
"Now if I can get there in time," said Jordan emphatically.
Jordan got to Kensington, put Dan up in a livery stable, and
inquired the way to The Beeches. He felt rather nervous when
he found it, it was such a stately, imposing place, set back
from the street in an emerald green seclusion of beautiful
grounds.
"Fancy me stalking up to that front door and asking for Miss
Joscelyn Burnett," grinned Jordan sheepishly. "Mebbe they'll
tell me to go around to the back and inquire for the cook. But
you're going just the same, Jordan Sloane, and no skulking.
March right up now. Think of Aunty Nan and don't let style
down you."
A pert-looking maid answered Jordan's ring, and stared at him
when he asked for Miss Burnett.
"I don't think you can see her," she said shortly, scanning
his country cut of hair and clothes rather superciliously.
"What is your business with her?"
The maid's scorn roused Jordan's "dander," as he would have
expressed it.
"I'll tell her that when I see her," he retorted coolly. "Just
you tell her that I've a message for her from Aunty Nan
Morrison of Gull Point Farm, Avonlea. If she hain't forgot,
that'll fetch her. You might as well hurry up, if you please,
I've not overly too much time."
The pert maid decided to be civil at least, and invited Jordan
to enter. But she left him standing in the hall while she went
in search of Miss Burnett. Jordan gazed about him in
amazement. He had never been in any place like this before.
The hall was wonderful enough, and through the open doors on
either hand stretched vistas of lovely rooms that, to Jordan's
eyes, looked like those of a palace.
"Gee whiz! How do they ever move around without knocking
things over?"
Then Joscelyn Burnett came, and Jordan forgot everything else.
This tall, beautiful woman, in her silken draperies, with a
face like nothing Jordan had ever seen, or even dreamed
about,--could this be Aunty Nan's little Joscelyn? Jordan's
round, freckled countenance grew crimson. He felt horribly
tonguetied and embarrassed. What could he say to her? How
could he say it?
Joscelyn Burnett looked at him with her large, dark eyes,--the
eyes of a woman who had suffered much, and learned much, and
won through struggle to victory.
"You have come from Aunty Nan?" she said. "Oh, I am so glad to
hear from her. Is she well? Come in here and tell me all about
her."
She turned toward one of those fairy-like rooms, but Jordan
interrupted her desperately.
"Oh, not in there, ma'am. I'd never get it out. Just let me
blunder through it out here someways. Yes'm, Aunty Nan, she
ain't very well. She's--she's dying, I guess. And she's
longing for you night and day. Seems as if she couldn't die in
peace without seeing you. She wanted to get to Kensington to
hear you sing, but that old cat of a Mrs. William--begging you
pardon, ma'am--wouldn't let her come. She's always talking of
you. If you can come out to Gull Point Farm and see her, I'll
be most awful obliged to you, ma'am."
Joscelyn Burnett looked troubled. She had not forgotten Gull
Point Farm, nor Aunty Nan; but for years the memory had been
dim, crowded into the background of consciousness by the more
exciting events of her busy life. Now it came back with a
rush. She recalled it all tenderly--the peace and beauty and
love of that olden summer, and sweet Aunty Nan, so very wise
in the lore of all things simple and good and true. For the
moment Joscelyn Burnett was a lonely, hungry-hearted little
girl again, seeking for love and finding it not, until Aunty
Nan had taken her into her great mother-heart and taught her
its meaning.
"Oh, I don't know," she said perplexedly. "If you had come
sooner--I leave on the 11:30 train tonight. I MUST leave by
then or I shall not reach Montreal in time to fill a very
important engagement. And yet I must see Aunty Nan, too. I
have been careless and neglectful. I might have gone to see
her before. How can we manage it?"
"I'll bring you back to Kensington in time to catch that
train," said Jordan eagerly. "There's nothing I wouldn't do
for Aunty Nan--me and Dan. Yes, sir, you'll get back in time.
Just think of Aunty Nan's face when she sees you!"
"I will come," said the great singer, gently.
It was sunset when they reached Gull Point Farm. An arc of
warm gold was over the spruces behind the house. Mrs. William
was out in the barn-yard, milking, and the house was deserted,
save for the sleeping baby in the kitchen and the little old
woman with the watchful eyes in the up-stairs room.
"This way, ma'am," said Jordan, inwardly congratulating
himself that the coast was clear. "I'll take you right up to
her room."
Up-stairs, Joscelyn tapped at the half-open door and went in.
Before it closed behind her, Jordan heard Aunty Nan say,
"Joscelyn! Little Joscelyn!" in a tone that made him choke
again. He stumbled thankfully down-stairs, to be pounced upon
by Mrs. William in the kitchen.
"Jordan Sloane, who was that stylish woman you drove into the
yard with? And what have you done with her?"
"That was Miss Joscelyn Burnett," said Jordan, expanding
himself. This was his hour of triumph over Mrs. William. "I
went to Kensington and brung her out to see Aunty Nan. She's
up with her now."
"Dear me," said Mrs. William helplessly. "And me in my milking
rig! Jordan, for pity's sake, hold the baby while I go and put
on my black silk. You might have given a body some warning. I
declare I don't know which is the greatest idiot, you or Aunty
Nan!"
As Mrs. William flounced out of the kitchen, Jordan took his
satisfaction in a quiet laugh.
Up-stairs in the little room was a great glory of sunset and
gladness of human hearts. Joscelyn was kneeling by the bed,
with her arms about Aunty Nan; and Aunty Nan, with her face
all irradiated, was stroking Joscelyn's dark hair fondly.
"O, little Joscelyn," she murmured, "it seems too good to be
true. It seems like a beautiful dream. I knew you the minute
you opened the door, my dearie. You haven't changed a bit. And
you're a famous singer now, little Joscelyn! I always knew you
would be. Oh, I want you to sing a piece for me--just one,
won't you, dearie? Sing that piece people like to hear you
sing best. I forget the name, but I've read about it in the
papers. Sing it for me, little Joscelyn."
And Joscelyn, standing by Aunty Nan's bed, in the sunset
light, sang the song she had sung to many a brilliant audience
on many a noted concert-platform--sang it as even she had
never sung before, while Aunty Nan lay and listened
beatifically, and downstairs even Mrs. William held her
breath, entranced by the exquisite melody that floated through
the old farmhouse.
"O, little Joscelyn!" breathed Aunty Nan in rapture, when the
song ended.
Joscelyn knelt by her again and they had a long talk of old
days. One by one they recalled the memories of that vanished
summer. The past gave up its tears and its laughter. Heart and
fancy alike went roaming through the ways of the long ago.
Aunty Nan was perfectly happy. And then Joscelyn told her all
the story of her struggles and triumphs since they had parted.
When the moonlight began to creep in through the low window,
Aunty Nan put out her hand and touched Joscelyn's bowed head.
"Little Joscelyn," she whispered, "if it ain't asking too
much, I want you to sing just one other piece. Do you remember
when you were here how we sung hymns in the parlour every
Sunday night, and my favourite always was 'The Sands of Time
are Sinking?' I ain't never forgot how you used to sing that,
and I want to hear it just once again, dearie. Sing it for me,
little Joscelyn."
Joscelyn rose and went to the window. Lifting back the
curtain, she stood in the splendour of the moonlight, and sang
the grand old hymn. At first Aunty Nan beat time to it feebly
on the counterpane; but when Joscelyn came to the verse, "With
mercy and with judgment," she folded her hands over her breast
and smiled.
When the hymn ended, Joscelyn came over to the bed.
"I am afraid I must say good-bye now, Aunty Nan," she said.
Then she saw that Aunty Nan had fallen asleep. She would not
waken her, but she took from her breast the cluster of crimson
roses she wore and slipped them gently between the toil-worn
fingers.
"Good-bye, dear, sweet mother-heart," she murmured.
Down-stairs she met Mrs. William splendid in rustling black
silk, her broad, rubicund face smiling, overflowing with
apologies and welcomes, which Joscelyn cut short coldly.
"Thank you, Mrs. Morrison, but I cannot possibly stay longer.
No, thank you, I don't care for any refreshments. Jordan is
going to take me back to Kensington at once. I came out to see
Aunty Nan."
"I'm certain she'd be delighted," said Mrs. William
effusively. "She's been talking about you for weeks."
"Yes, it has made her very happy," said Joscelyn gravely. "And
it has made me happy, too. I love Aunty Nan, Mrs. Morrison,
and I owe her much. In all my life I have never met a woman so
purely, unselfishly good and noble and true."
"Fancy now," said Mrs. William, rather overcome at hearing
this great singer pronounce such an encomium on quiet, timid
old Aunty Nan.
Jordan drove Joscelyn back to Kensington; and up-stairs in her
room Aunty Nan slept, with that rapt smile on her face and
Joscelyn's red roses in her hands. Thus it was that Mrs.
William found her, going in the next morning with her
breakfast. The sunlight crept over the pillow, lighting up the
sweet old face and silver hair, and stealing downward to the
faded red roses on her breast. Smiling and peaceful and happy
lay Aunty Nan, for she had fallen on the sleep that knows no
earthy wakening, while little Joscelyn sang.
V. The Winning of Lucinda
The marriage of a Penhallow was always the signal for a
gathering of the Penhallows. From the uttermost parts of the
earth they would come--Penhallows by birth, and Penhallows by
marriage and Penhallows by ancestry. East Grafton was the
ancient habitat of the race, and Penhallow Grange, where "old"
John Penhallow lived, was a Mecca to them.
As for the family itself, the exact kinship of all its various
branches and ramifications was a hard thing to define. Old
Uncle Julius Penhallow was looked upon as a veritable wonder
because he carried it all in his head and could tell on sight
just what relation any one Penhallow was to any other
Penhallow. The rest made a blind guess at it, for the most
part, and the younger Penhallows let it go at loose
cousinship.
In this instance it was Alice Penhallow, daughter of "young"
John Penhallow, who was to be married. Alice was a nice girl,
but she and her wedding only pertain to this story in so far
as they furnish a background for Lucinda; hence nothing more
need be said of her.
On the afternoon of her wedding day--the Penhallows held to
the good, old-fashioned custom of evening weddings with a
rousing dance afterwards--Penhallow Grange was filled to
overflowing with guests who had come there to have tea and
rest themselves before going down to "young" John's. Many of
them had driven fifty miles. In the big autumnal orchard the
younger fry foregathered and chatted and coquetted. Up-stairs,
in "old" Mrs. John's bedroom, she and her married daughters
held high conclave. "Old" John had established himself with
his sons and sons-in-law in the parlour, and the three
daughters-in-law were making themselves at home in the blue
sitting-room, ear-deep in harmless family gossip. Lucinda and
Romney Penhallow were also there.
Thin Mrs. Nathaniel Penhallow sat in a rocking chair and
toasted her toes at the grate, for the brilliant autumn
afternoon was slightly chilly and Lucinda, as usual, had the
window open. She and plump Mrs. Frederick Penhallow did most
of the talking. Mrs. George Penhallow being rather out of it
by reason of her newness. She was George Penhallow's second
wife, married only a year. Hence, her contributions to the
conversation were rather spasmodic, hurled in, as it were, by
dead reckoning, being sometimes appropriate and sometimes
savouring of a point of view not strictly Penhallowesque.
Romney Penhallow was sitting in a corner, listening to the
chatter of the women, with the inscrutable smile that always
vexed Mrs. Frederick. Mrs. George wondered within herself what
he did there among the women. She also wondered just where he
belonged on the family tree. He was not one of the uncles, yet
he could not be much younger than George.
"Forty, if he is a day," was Mrs. George's mental dictum, "but
a very handsome and fascinating man. I never saw such a
splendid chin and dimple."
Lucinda, with bronze-colored hair and the whitest of skins,
defiant of merciless sunlight and revelling in the crisp air,
sat on the sill of the open window behind the crimson vine
leaves, looking out into the garden, where dahlias flamed and
asters broke into waves of purple and snow. The ruddy light of
the autumn afternoon gave a sheen to the waves of her hair and
brought out the exceeding purity of her Greek outlines.
Mrs. George knew who Lucinda was--a cousin of the second
generation, and, in spite of her thirty-five years, the
acknowledged beauty of the whole Penhallow connection.
She was one of those rare women who keep their loveliness
unmarred by the passage of years. She had ripened and matured,
but she had not grown old. The older Penhallows were still
inclined, from sheer force of habit, to look upon her as a
girl, and the younger Penhallows hailed her as one of
themselves. Yet Lucinda never aped girlishness; good taste and
a strong sense of humour preserved her amid many temptations
thereto. She was simply a beautiful, fully developed woman,
with whom Time had declared a truce, young with a mellow youth
which had nothing to do with years.
Mrs. George liked and admired Lucinda. Now, when Mrs. George
liked and admired any person, it was a matter of necessity
with her to impart her opinions to the most convenient
confidant. In this case it was Romney Penhallow to whom Mrs.
George remarked sweetly:
"Really, don't you think our Lucinda is looking remarkably
well this fall?"
It seemed a very harmless, inane, well-meant question. Poor
Mrs. George might well be excused for feeling bewildered over
the effect. Romney gathered his long legs together, stood up,
and swept the unfortunate speaker a crushing Penhallow bow of
state.
"Far be it from me to disagree with the opinion of a lady--
especially when it concerns another lady," he said, as he left
the blue room.
Overcome by the mordant satire in his tone, Mrs. George
glanced speechlessly at Lucinda. Behold, Lucinda had squarely
turned her back on the party and was gazing out into the
garden, with a very decided flush on the snowy curves of her
neck and cheek. Then Mrs. George looked at her sisters-in-law.
They were regarding her with the tolerant amusement they might
bestow on a blundering child. Mrs. George experienced that
subtle prescience whereby it is given us to know that we have
put our foot in it. She felt herself turning an uncomfortable
brick-red. What Penhallow skeleton had she unwittingly
jangled? Why, oh, why, was it such an evident breach of the
proprieties to praise Lucinda?
Mrs. George was devoutly thankful that a summons to the tea-
table rescued her from her mire of embarrassment. The meal was
spoiled for her, however; the mortifying recollection of her
mysterious blunder conspired with her curiosity to banish
appetite. As soon as possible after tea she decoyed Mrs.
Frederick out into the garden and in the dahlia walk solemnly
demanded the reason of it all.
Mrs. Frederick indulged in a laugh which put the mettle of her
festal brown silk seams to the test.
"My dear Cecilia, it was SO amusing," she said, a little
patronizingly.
"But WHY!" cried Mrs. George, resenting the patronage and
the mystery. "What was so dreadful in what I said? Or so
funny? And WHO is this Romney Penhallow who mustn't be
spoken to?"
"Oh, Romney is one of the Charlottetown Penhallows," explained
Mrs. Frederick. "He is a lawyer there. He is a first cousin of
Lucinda's and a second of George's--or is he? Oh, bother! You
must go to Uncle John if you want the genealogy. I'm in a
chronic muddle concerning Penhallow relationship. And, as for
Romney, of course you can speak to him about anything you like
except Lucinda. Oh, you innocent! To ask him if he didn't
think Lucinda was looking well! And right before her, too! Of
course he thought you did it on purpose to tease him. That was
what made him so savage and sarcastic."
"But WHY?" persisted Mrs. George, sticking tenaciously to
her point.
"Hasn't George told you?"
"No," said George's wife in mild exasperation. "George has
spent most of his time since we were married telling me odd
things about the Penhallows, but he hasn't got to that yet,
evidently."
"Why, my dear, it is our family romance. Lucinda and Romney
are in love with each other. They have been in love with each
other for fifteen years and in all that time they have never
spoken to each other once!"
"Dear me!" murmured Mrs. George, feeling the inadequacy of
mere language. Was this a Penhallow method of courtship? "But
WHY?"
"They had a quarrel fifteen years ago," said Mrs. Frederick
patiently. "Nobody knows how it originated or anything about
it except that Lucinda herself admitted it to us afterwards.
But, in the first flush of her rage, she told Romney that she
would never speak to him again as long as she lived. And HE
said he would never speak to her until she spoke first--
because, you see, as she was in the wrong she ought to make
the first advance. And they never have spoken. Everybody in
the connection, I suppose, has taken turns trying to reconcile
them, but nobody has succeeded. I don't believe that Romney
has ever so much as THOUGHT of any other woman in his whole
life, and certainly Lucinda has never thought of any other
man. You will notice she still wears Romney's ring. They're
practically engaged still, of course. And Romney said once
that if Lucinda would just say one word, no matter what it
was, even if it were something insulting, he would speak, too,
and beg her pardon for his share in the quarrel--because then,
you see, he would not be breaking his word. He hasn't referred
to the matter for years, but I presume that he is of the same
mind still. And they are just as much in love with each other
as they ever were. He's always hanging about where she is--
when other people are there, too, that is. He avoids her like
a plague when she is alone. That was why he was stuck out in
the blue room with us to-day. There doesn't seem to be a
particle of resentment between them. If Lucinda would only
speak! But that Lucinda will not do."
"Don't you think she will yet?" said Mrs. George.
Mrs. Frederick shook her crimped head sagely.
"Not now. The whole thing has hardened too long. Her pride
will never let her speak. We used to hope she would be tricked
into it by forgetfulness or accident--we used to lay traps for
her--but all to no effect. It is such a shame, too. They were
made for each other. Do you know, I get cross when I begin to
thrash the whole silly affair over like this. Doesn't it sound
as if we were talking of the quarrel of two school-children?
Of late years we have learned that it does not do to speak of
Lucinda to Romney, even in the most commonplace way. He seems
to resent it."
"HE ought to speak," cried Mrs. George warmly. "Even if she
were in the wrong ten times over, he ought to overlook it and
speak first."
"But he won't. And she won't. You never saw two such
determined mortals. They get it from their grandfather on the
mother's side--old Absalom Gordon. There is no such
stubbornness on the Penhallow side. His obstinacy was a
proverb, my dear--actually a proverb. What ever he said, he
would stick to if the skies fell. He was a terrible old man to
swear, too," added Mrs. Frederick, dropping into irrelevant
reminiscence. "He spent a long while in a mining camp in his
younger days and he never got over it--the habit of swearing,
I mean. It would have made your blood run cold, my dear, to
have heard him go on at times. And yet he was a real good old
man every other way. He couldn't help it someway. He tried to,
but he used to say that profanity came as natural to him as
breathing. It used to mortify his family terribly.
Fortunately, none of them took after him in that respect. But
he's dead--and one shouldn't speak ill of the dead. I must go
and get Mattie Penhallow to do my hair. I would burst these
sleeves clean out if I tried to do it myself and I don't want
to dress over again. You won't be likely to talk to Romney
about Lucinda again, my dear Cecilia?"
"Fifteen years!" murmured Mrs. George helplessly to the
dahlias. "Engaged for fifteen years and never speaking to each
other! Dear heart and soul, think of it! Oh, these
Penhallows!"
Meanwhile, Lucinda, serenely unconscious that her love story
was being mouthed over by Mrs. Frederick in the dahlia garden,
was dressing for the wedding. Lucinda still enjoyed dressing
for a festivity, since the mirror still dealt gently with her.
Moreover, she had a new dress. Now, a new dress--and
especially one as nice as this--was a rarity with Lucinda, who
belonged to a branch of the Penhallows noted for being
chronically hard up. Indeed, Lucinda and her widowed mother
were positively poor, and hence a new dress was an event in
Lucinda's existence. An uncle had given her this one--a
beautiful, perishable thing, such as Lucinda would never have
dared to choose for herself, but in which she revelled with
feminine delight.
It was of pale green voile--a colour which brought out
admirably the ruddy gloss of her hair and the clear brilliance
of her skin. When she had finished dressing she looked at
herself in the mirror with frank delight. Lucinda was not
vain, but she was quite well aware of the fact of her beauty
and took an impersonal pleasure in it, as if she were looking
at some finely painted picture by a master hand.
The form and face reflected in the glass satisfied her. The
puffs and draperies of the green voile displayed to perfection
the full, but not over-full, curves of her fine figure.
Lucinda lifted her arm and touched a red rose to her lips with
the hand upon which shone the frosty glitter of Romney's
diamond, looking at the graceful slope of her shoulder and the
splendid line of chin and throat with critical approval.
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