Chronicles of Avonlea
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Lucy Maud Montgomery >> Chronicles of Avonlea
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"Lauretta Bradley and Sara Shaw are two different people,"
said Sara's father, trying to smile.
"And your house, too," pursued Mrs. Blewett ruthlessly. "It's
such a queer, little, old place. What'll she think of it after
her aunt's? I've heard tell Mrs. Adair lives in a perfect
palace. I'll just warn you kindly that Sary'll probably look
down on you, and you might as well be prepared for it. Of
course, I suppose she kind of thinks she has to come back,
seeing she promised you so solemn she would. But I'm certain
she doesn't want to, and I don't blame her either."
Even Mrs. Blewett had to stop for breath, and Old Man Shaw
found his opportunity. He had listened, dazed and shrinking,
as if she were dealing him physical blows, but now a swift
change swept over him. His blue eyes flashed ominously,
straight into Mrs. Blewett's straggling, ferrety gray orbs.
"If you're said your say, Martha Blewett, you can go," he said
passionately. "I'm not going to listen to another such word.
Take yourself out of my sight, and your malicious tongue out
of my hearing!"
Mrs. Blewett went, too dumfounded by such an unheard-of
outburst in mild Old Man Shaw to say a word of defence or
attack. When she had gone Old Man Shaw, the fire all faded
from his eyes, sank back on his bench. His delight was dead;
his heart was full of pain and bitterness. Martha Blewett was
a warped and ill-natured woman, but he feared there was
altogether too much truth in what she said. Why had he never
thought of it before? Of course White Sands would seem dull
and lonely to Blossom; of course the little gray house where
she was born would seem a poor abode after the splendours of
her aunt's home. Old Man Shaw walked through his garden and
looked at everything with new eyes. How poor and simple
everything was! How sagging and weather-beaten the old house!
He went in, and up-stairs to Sara's room. It was neat and
clean, just as she had left it three years ago. But it was
small and dark; the ceiling was discoloured, the furniture
old-fashioned and shabby; she would think it a poor, mean
place. Even the orchard over the hill brought him no comfort
now. Blossom would not care for orchards. She would be ashamed
of her stupid old father and the barren farm. She would hate
White Sands, and chafe at the dull existence, and look down on
everything that went to make up his uneventful life.
Old Man Shaw was unhappy enough that night to have satisfied
even Mrs. Blewett had she known. He saw himself as he thought
White Sands folk must see him--a poor, shiftless, foolish old
man, who had only one thing in the world worthwhile, his
little girl, and had not been of enough account to keep her.
"Oh, Blossom, Blossom!" he said, and when he spoke her name it
sounded as if he spoke the name of one dead.
After a little the worst sting passed away. He refused to
believe long that Blossom would be ashamed of him; he knew she
would not. Three years could not so alter her loyal nature--
no, nor ten times three years. But she would be changed--she
would have grown away from him in those three busy, brilliant
years. His companionship could no longer satisfy her. How
simple and childish he had been to expect it! She would be
sweet and kind--Blossom could never be anything else. She
would not show open discontent or dissatisfaction; she would
not be like Lauretta Bradley; but it would be there, and he
would divine it, and it would break his heart. Mrs. Blewett
was right. When he had given Blossom up he should not have
made a half-hearted thing of his sacrifice--he should not have
bound her to come back to him.
He walked about in his little garden until late at night,
under the stars, with the sea crooning and calling to him down
the slope. When he finally went to bed he did not sleep, but
lay until morning with tear-wet eyes and despair in his heart.
All the forenoon he went about his usual daily work absently.
Frequently he fell into long reveries, standing motionless
wherever he happened to be, and looking dully before him. Only
once did he show any animation. When he saw Mrs. Blewett
coming up the lane he darted into the house, locked the door,
and listened to her knocking in grim silence. After she had
gone he went out, and found a plate of fresh doughnuts,
covered with a napkin, placed on the bench at the door. Mrs.
Blewett meant to indicate thus that she bore him no malice for
her curt dismissal the day before; possibly her conscience
gave her some twinges also. But her doughnuts could not
minister to the mind she had diseased. Old Man Shaw took them
up; carried them to the pig-pen, and fed them to the pigs. It
was the first spiteful thing he had done in his life, and he
felt a most immoral satisfaction in it.
In mid-afternoon he went out to the garden, finding the new
loneliness of the little house unbearable. The old bench was
warm in the sunshine. Old Man Shaw sat down with a long sigh,
and dropped his white head wearily on his breast. He had
decided what he must do. He would tell Blossom that she might
go back to her aunt and never mind about him--he would do very
well by himself and he did not blame her in the least.
He was still sitting broodingly there when a girl came up the
lane. She was tall and straight, and walked with a kind of
uplift in her motion, as if it would be rather easier to fly
than not. She was dark, with a rich dusky sort of darkness,
suggestive of the bloom on purple plums, or the glow of deep
red apples among bronze leaves. Her big brown eyes lingered on
everything in sight, and little gurgles of sound now and again
came through her parted lips, as if inarticulate joy were thus
expressing itself.
At the garden gate she saw the bent figure on the old bench,
and the next minute she was flying along the rose walk.
"Daddy!" she called, "daddy!"
Old Man Shaw stood up in hasty bewilderment; then a pair of
girlish arms were about his neck, and a pair of warm red lips
were on his; girlish eyes, full of love, were looking up into
his, and a never-forgotten voice, tingling with laughter and
tears blended into one delicious chord, was crying,
"Oh, daddy, is it really you? Oh, I can't tell you how good it
is to see you again!"
Old Man Shaw held her tightly in a silence of amazement and
joy too deep for wonder. Why, this was his Blossom--the very
Blossom who had gone away three years ago! A little taller, a
little more womanly, but his own dear Blossom, and no
stranger. There was a new heaven and a new earth for him in
the realization.
"Oh, Baby Blossom!" he murmured, "Little Baby Blossom!"
Sara rubbed her cheek against the faded coat sleeve.
"Daddy darling, this moment makes up for everything, doesn't
it?"
"But--but--where did you come from?" he asked, his senses
beginning to struggle out of their bewilderment of surprise.
"I didn't expect you till to-morrow. You didn't have to walk
from the station, did you? And your old daddy not there to
welcome you!"
Sara laughed, swung herself back by the tips of her fingers
and danced around him in the childish fashion of long ago.
"I found I could make an earlier connection with the C.P.A.
yesterday and get to the Island last night. I was in such a
fever to get home that I jumped at the chance. Of course I
walked from the station--it's only two miles and every step
was a benediction. My trunks are over there. We'll go after
them to-morrow, daddy, but just now I want to go straight to
every one of the dear old nooks and spots at once."
"You must get something to eat first," he urged fondly. "And
there ain't much in the house, I'm afraid. I was going to bake
to-morrow morning. But I guess I can forage you out something,
darling."
He was sorely repenting having given Mrs. Blewett's doughnuts
to the pigs, but Sara brushed all such considerations aside
with a wave of her hand.
"I don't want anything to eat just now. By and by we'll have a
snack; just as we used to get up for ourselves whenever we
felt hungry. Don't you remember how scandalized White Sands
folks used to be at our irregular hours? I'm hungry; but it's
soul hunger, for a glimpse of all the dear old rooms and
places. Come--there are four hours yet before sunset, and I
want to cram into them all I've missed out of these three
years. Let us begin right here with the garden. Oh, daddy, by
what witchcraft have you coaxed that sulky rose-bush into
bloom?"
"No witchcraft at all--it just bloomed because you were coming
home, baby," said her father.
They had a glorious afternoon of it, those two children. They
explored the garden and then the house. Sara danced through
every room, and then up to her own, holding fast to her
father's hand.
"Oh, it's lovely to see my little room again, daddy. I'm sure
all my old hopes and dreams are waiting here for me."
She ran to the window and threw it open, leaning out.
"Daddy, there's no view in the world so beautiful as that
curve of sea between the headlands. I've looked at magnificent
scenery--and then I'd shut my eyes and conjure up that
picture. Oh, listen to the wind keening in the trees! How I've
longed for that music!"
He took her to the orchard and followed out his crafty plan of
surprise perfectly. She rewarded him by doing exactly what he
had dreamed of her doing, clapping her hands and crying out:
"Oh, daddy! Why, daddy!"
They finished up with the shore, and then at sunset they came
back and sat down on the old garden bench. Before them a sea
of splendour, burning like a great jewel, stretched to the
gateways of the west. The long headlands on either side were
darkly purple, and the sun left behind him a vast, cloudless
arc of fiery daffodil and elusive rose. Back over the orchard
in a cool, green sky glimmered a crystal planet, and the night
poured over them a clear wine of dew from her airy chalice.
The spruces were rejoicing in the wind, and even the battered
firs were singing of the sea. Old memories trooped into their
hearts like shining spirits.
"Baby Blossom," said Old Man Shaw falteringly, "are you quite
sure you'll be contented here? Out there"--with a vague sweep
of his hand towards horizons that shut out a world far removed
from White Sands--"there's pleasure and excitement and all
that. Won't you miss it? Won't you get tired of your old
father and White Sands?"
Sara patted his hand gently.
"The world out there is a good place," she said thoughtfully,
"I've had three splendid years and I hope they'll enrich my
whole life. There are wonderful things out there to see and
learn, fine, noble people to meet, beautiful deeds to admire;
but," she wound her arm about his neck and laid her cheek
against his--"there is no daddy!"
And Old Man Shaw looked silently at the sunset--or, rather,
through the sunset to still grander and more radiant
splendours beyond, of which the things seen were only the pale
reflections, not worthy of attention from those who had the
gift of further sight.
VII. Aunt Olivia's Beau
Aunt Olivia told Peggy and me about him on the afternoon we
went over to help her gather her late roses for pot-pourri. We
found her strangely quiet and preoccupied. As a rule she was
fond of mild fun, alert to hear East Grafton gossip, and given
to sudden little trills of almost girlish laughter, which for
the time being dispelled the atmosphere of gentle old-
maidishness which seemed to hang about her as a garment. At
such moments we did not find it hard to believe--as we did at
other times--that Aunt Olivia had once been a girl herself.
This day she picked the roses absently, and shook the fairy
petals into her little sweet-grass basket with the air of a
woman whose thoughts were far away. We said nothing, knowing
that Aunt Olivia's secrets always came our way in time. When
the rose-leaves were picked, we carried them in and upstairs
in single file, Aunt Olivia bringing up the rear to pick up
any stray rose-leaf we might drop. In the south-west room,
where there was no carpet to fade, we spread them on
newspapers on the floor. Then we put our sweet-grass baskets
back in the proper place in the proper closet in the proper
room. What would have happened to us, or to the sweet-grass
baskets, if this had not been done I do not know. Nothing was
ever permitted to remain an instant out of place in Aunt
Olivia's house.
When we went downstairs, Aunt Olivia asked us to go into the
parlour. She had something to tell us, she said, and as she
opened the door a delicate pink flush spread over her face. I
noted it, with surprise, but no inkling of the truth came to
me--for nobody ever connected the idea of possible lovers or
marriage with this prim little old maid, Olivia Sterling.
Aunt Olivia's parlour was much like herself--painfully neat.
Every article of furniture stood in exactly the same place it
had always stood. Nothing was ever suffered to be disturbed.
The tassels of the crazy cushion lay just so over the arm of
the sofa, and the crochet antimacassar was always spread at
precisely the same angel over the horsehair rocking chair. No
speck of dust was ever visible; no fly ever invaded that
sacred apartment.
Aunt Olivia pulled up a blind, to let in what light could sift
finely through the vine leaves, and sat down in a high-backed
old chair that had appertained to her great-grandmother. She
folded her hands in her lap, and looked at us with shy appeal
in her blue-gray eyes. Plainly she found it hard to tell us
her secret, yet all the time there was an air of pride and
exultation about her; somewhat, also, of a new dignity. Aunt
Olivia could never be self-assertive, but if it had been
possible that would have been her time for it.
"Have you ever heard me speak of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson?"
asked Aunt Olivia.
We had never heard her, or anybody else, speak of Mr. Malcolm
MacPherson; but volumes of explanation could not have told us
more about him than did Aunt Olivia's voice when she
pronounced his name. We knew, as if it had been proclaimed to
us in trumpet tones, that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson must be Aunt
Olivia's beau, and the knowledge took away our breath. We even
forgot to be curious, so astonished were we.
And there sat Aunt Olivia, proud and shy and exulting and
shamefaced, all at once!
"He is a brother of Mrs. John Seaman's across the bridge,"
explained Aunt Olivia with a little simper. "Of course you
don't remember him. He went out to British Columbia twenty
years ago. But he is coming home now--and--and--tell your
father, won't you--I--I--don't like to tell him--Mr. Malcolm
MacPherson and I are going to be married."
"Married!" gasped Peggy. And "married!" I echoed stupidly.
Aunt Olivia bridled a little.
"There is nothing unsuitable in that, is there?" she asked,
rather crisply.
"Oh, no, no," I hastened to assure her, giving Peggy a
surreptitious kick to divert her thoughts from laughter. "Only
you must realize, Aunt Olivia, that this is a very great
surprise to us."
"I thought it would be so," said Aunt Olivia complacently.
"But your father will know--he will remember. I do hope he
won't think me foolish. He did not think Mr. Malcolm
MacPherson was a fit person for me to marry once. But that was
long ago, when Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was very poor. He is in
very comfortable circumstances now."
"Tell us about it, Aunt Olivia," said Peggy. She did not look
at me, which was my salvation. Had I caught Peggy's eye when
Aunt Olivia said "Mr. Malcolm MacPherson" in that tone I must
have laughed, willy-nilly.
"When I was a girl the MacPhersons used to live across the
road from here. Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was my beau then. But
my family--and your father especially--dear me, I do hope he
won't be very cross--were opposed to his attentions and were
very cool to him. I think that was why he never said anything
to me about getting married then. And after a time he went
away, as I have said, and I never heard anything from him
directly for many a year. Of course, his sister sometimes gave
me news of him. But last June I had a letter from him. He said
he was coming home to settle down for good on the old Island,
and he asked me if I would marry him. I wrote back and said I
would. Perhaps I ought to have consulted your father, but I
was afraid he would think I ought to refuse Mr. Malcolm
MacPherson."
"Oh, I don't think father will mind," said Peggy reassuringly.
"I hope not, because, of course, I would consider it my duty
in any case to fulfil the promise I have given to Mr. Malcolm
MacPherson. He will be in Grafton next week, the guest of his
sister, Mrs. John Seaman, across the bridge."
Aunt Olivia said that exactly as if she were reading it from
the personal column of the Daily Enterprise.
"When is the wedding to be?" I asked.
"Oh!" Aunt Olivia blushed distressfully. "I do not know the
exact date. Nothing can be definitely settled until Mr.
Malcolm MacPherson comes. But it will not be before September,
at the earliest. There will be so much to do. You will tell
your father, won't you?"
We promised that we would, and Aunt Olivia arose with an air
of relief. Peggy and I hurried over home, stopping, when we
were safely out of earshot, to laugh. The romances of the
middle-aged may be to them as tender and sweet as those of
youth, but they are apt to possess a good deal of humour for
onlookers. Only youth can be sentimental without being mirth-
provoking. We loved Aunt Olivia and were glad for her late,
new-blossoming happiness; but we felt amused over it also. The
recollection of her "Mr. Malcolm MacPherson" was too much for
us every time we thought of it.
Father pooh-poohed incredulously at first, and, when we had
convinced him, guffawed with laughter. Aunt Olivia need not
have dreaded any more opposition from her cruel family.
"MacPherson was a good fellow enough, but horribly poor," said
father. "I hear he has done very well out west, and if he and
Olivia have a notion of each other they are welcome to marry
as far as I am concerned. Tell Olivia she mustn't take a spasm
if he tracks some mud into her house once in a while."
Thus it was all arranged, and, before we realized it at all,
Aunt Olivia was mid-deep in marriage preparations, in all of
which Peggy and I were quite indispensable. She consulted us
in regard to everything, and we almost lived at her place in
those days preceding the arrival of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson.
Aunt Olivia plainly felt very happy and important. She had
always wished to be married; she was not in the least strong-
minded and her old-maidenhood had always been a sore point
with her. I think she looked upon it as somewhat of a
disgrace. And yet she was a born old maid; looking at her, and
taking all her primness and little set ways into
consideration, it was quite impossible to picture her as the
wife of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson, or anybody else.
We soon discovered that, to Aunt Olivia, Mr. Malcolm
MacPherson represented a merely abstract proposition--the man
who was to confer on her the long-withheld dignity of
matronhood. Her romance began and ended there, although she
was quite unconscious of this herself, and believed that she
was deeply in love with him.
"What will be the result, Mary, when he arrives in the flesh
and she is compelled to deal with 'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson' as
a real, live man, instead of a nebulous 'party of the second
part' in the marriage ceremony?" queried Peggy, as she hemmed
table-napkins for Aunt Olivia, sitting on her well-scoured
sandstone steps, and carefully putting all thread-clippings
and ravellings into the little basket which Aunt Olivia had
placed there for that purpose.
"It may transform her from a self-centered old maid into a
woman for whom marriage does not seem such an incongruous
thing," I said.
The day on which Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was expected Peggy and
I went over. We had planned to remain away, thinking that the
lovers would prefer their first meeting to be unwitnessed, but
Aunt Olivia insisted on our being present. She was plainly
nervous; the abstract was becoming concrete. Her little house
was in spotless, speckless order from top to bottom. Aunt
Olivia had herself scrubbed the garret floor and swept the
cellar steps that very morning with as much painstaking care
as if she expected that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson would hasten to
inspect each at once and she must stand or fall by his opinion
of them.
Peggy and I helped her to dress. She insisted on wearing her
best black silk, in which she looked unnaturally fine. Her
soft muslin became her much better, but we could not induce
her to wear it. Anything more prim and bandboxy than Aunt
Olivia when her toilet was finished it has never been my lot
to see. Peggy and I watched her as she went downstairs, her
skirt held stiffly up all around her that it might not brush
the floor.
"'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson' will be inspired with such awe that
he will only be able to sit back and gaze at her," whispered
Peggy. "I wish he would come and have it over. This is getting
on my nerves."
Aunt Olivia went into the parlour, settled herself in the old
carved chair, and folded her hands. Peggy and I sat down on
the stairs to await his coming in a crisping suspense. Aunt
Olivia's kitten, a fat, bewhiskered creature, looking as if it
were cut out of black velvet, shared our vigil and purred in
maddening peace of mind.
We could see the garden path and gate through the hall window,
and therefore supposed we should have full warning of the
approach of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. It was no wonder,
therefore, that we positively jumped when a thunderous knock
crashed against the front door and re-echoed through the
house. Had Mr. Malcolm MacPherson dropped from the skies?
We afterwards discovered that he had come across lots and
around the house from the back, but just then his sudden
advent was almost uncanny. I ran downstairs and opened the
door. On the step stood a man about six feet two in height,
and proportionately broad and sinewy. He had splendid
shoulders, a great crop of curly black hair, big, twinkling
blue eyes, and a tremendous crinkly black beard that fell over
his breast in shining waves. In brief, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson
was what one would call instinctively, if somewhat tritely, "a
magnificent specimen of manhood."
In one hand he carried a bunch of early goldenrod and smoke-
blue asters.
"Good afternoon," he said in a resonant voice which seemed to
take possession of the drowsy summer afternoon. "Is Miss
Olivia Sterling in? And will you please tell her that Malcolm
MacPherson is here?"
I showed him into the parlour. Then Peggy and I peeped through
the crack of the door. Anyone would have done it. We would
have scorned to excuse ourselves. And, indeed, what we saw
would have been worth several conscience spasms if we had felt
any.
Aunt Olivia arose and advanced primly, with outstretched hand.
"Mr. MacPherson, I am very glad to see you," she said
formally.
"It's yourself, Nillie!" Mr. Malcolm MacPherson gave two
strides.
He dropped his flowers on the floor, knocked over a small
table, and sent the ottoman spinning against the wall. Then he
caught Aunt Olivia in his arms and--smack, smack, smack! Peggy
sank back upon the stair-step with her handkerchief stuffed in
her mouth. Aunt Olivia was being kissed!
Presently, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson held her back at arm's
length in his big paws and looked her over. I saw Aunt
Olivia's eyes roam over his arm to the inverted table and the
litter of asters and goldenrod. Her sleek crimps were all
ruffled up, and her lace fichu twisted half around her neck.
She looked distressed.
"It's not a bit changed you are, Nillie," said Mr. Malcolm
MacPherson admiringly. "And it's good I'm feeling to see you
again. Are you glad to see me, Nillie?"
"Oh, of course," said Aunt Olivia.
She twisted herself free and went to set up the table. Then
she turned to the flowers, but Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had
already gathered them up, leaving a goodly sprinkling of
leaves and stalks on the carpet.
"I picked these for you in the river field, Nillie," he said.
"Where will I be getting something to stick them in? Here,
this will do."
He grasped a frail, painted vase on the mantel, stuffed the
flowers in it, and set it on the table. The look on Aunt
Olivia's face was too much for me at last. I turned, caught
Peggy by the shoulder and dragged her out of the house.
"He will horrify the very soul out of Aunt Olivia's body if he
goes on like this," I gasped. "But he's splendid--and he
thinks the world of her--and, oh, Peggy, did you EVER hear
such kisses? Fancy Aunt Olivia!"
It did not take us long to get well acquainted with Mr.
Malcolm MacPherson. He almost haunted Aunt Olivia's house, and
Aunt Olivia insisted on our staying with her most of the time.
She seemed to be very shy of finding herself alone with him.
He horrified her a dozen times in an hour; nevertheless, she
was very proud of him, and liked to be teased about him, too.
She was delighted that we admired him.
"Though, to be sure, he is very different in his looks from
what he used to be," she said. "He is so dreadfully big! And I
do not like a beard, but I have not the courage to ask him to
shave it off. He might be offended. He has bought the old
Lynde place in Avonlea and wants to be married in a month.
But, dear me, that is too soon. It--it would be hardly
proper."
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