Further Chronicles of Avonlea Read online

contemptuous pity. That woman had no son - nothing but

  pale-faced girls. Thyra had never wanted a daughter,

  but she pitied and despised all sonless women.

  Chester's dog whined suddenly and piercingly on the

  doorstep outside. He was tired of the cold stone and

  wanted his warm corner behind the stove. Thyra smiled

  grimly when she heard him. She had no intention of

  letting him in. She said she had always disliked dogs,

  but the truth, although she would not glance at it, was

  that she hated the animal because Chester loved him.

  She could not share his love with even a dumb brute.

  She loved no living creature in the world but her son,

  and fiercely demanded a like concentrated affection

  from him. Hence it pleased her to hear his dog whine.

  It was now quite dark; the stars had begun to shine out

  over the shorn harvest fields, and Chester had not

  come. Across the lane Cynthia White had pulled down her

  blind, in despair of out-watching Thyra, and had

  lighted a lamp. Lively shadows of little girl-shapes

  passed and repassed on the pale oblong of light. They

  made Thyra conscious of her exceeding loneliness. She

  had just decided that she would walk down the lane and

  wait for Chester on the bridge, when a thunderous knock

  came at the east kitchen door.

  She recognized August Vorst's knock and lighted a lamp

  in no great haste, for she did not like him. He was a

  gossip and Thyra hated gossip, in man or woman. But

  August was privileged.

  She carried the lamp in her hand, when she went to the

  door, and its upward-striking light gave her face a

  ghastly appearance. She did not mean to ask August in,

  but he pushed past her cheerfully, not waiting to be

  invited. He was a midget of a man, lame of foot and

  hunched of back, with a white, boyish face, despite his

  middle age and deep-set, malicious black eyes.

  He pulled a crumpled newspaper from his pocket and

  handed it to Thyra. He was the unofficial mail-carrier

  of Avonlea. Most of the people gave him a trifle for

  bringing their letters and papers from the office. He

  earned small sums in various other ways, and so

  contrived to keep the life in his stunted body. There

  was always venom in August's gossip. It was said that

  he made more mischief in Avonlea in a day than was made

  otherwise in a year, but people tolerated him by reason

  of his infirmity. To be sure, it was the tolerance they

  gave to inferior creatures, and August felt this.

  Perhaps it accounted for a good deal of his malignity.

  He hated most those who were kindest to him, and, of

  these, Thyra Carewe above all. He hated Chester, too,

  as he hated strong, shapely creatures. His time had

  come at last to wound them both, and his exultation

  shone through his crooked body and pinched features

  like an illuminating lamp. Thyra perceived it and

  vaguely felt something antagonistic in it. She pointed

  to the rocking-chair, as she might have pointed out a

  mat to a dog.

  August crawled into it and smiled. He was going to make

  her writhe presently, this woman who looked down upon

  him as some venomous creeping thing she disdained to

  ]crush with her foot.

  "

  Did you see anything of Chester on the road?" asked

  Thyra, giving August the very opening he desired. "He

  went to the harbor after tea to see Joe Raymond about

  the loan of his boat, but it's the time he should be

  back. I can't think what keeps the boy."

  "Just what keeps most men - leaving out creatures like

  me - at some time or other in their lives. A girl - a

  pretty girl, Thyra. It pleases me to look at her. Even

  a hunchback can use his eyes, eh? Oh, she's a rare

  one!"

  "What is the man talking about?" said Thyra

  wonderingly.

  "Damaris Garland, to be sure. Chester's down at Tom

  Blair's now, talking to her - and looking more than his

  tongue says, too, of that you may be sure. Well, well,

  we were all young once, Thyra - all young once, even

  crooked little August Vorst. Eh, now?"

  "What do you mean?" said Thyra.

  She had sat down in a chair before him, with her hands

  folded in her lap. Her face, always pale, had not

  changed; but her lips were curiously white. August

  Vorst saw this and it pleased him. Also, her eyes were

  worth looking at, if you liked to hurt people - and

  that was the only pleasure August took in life. He

  would drink this delightful cup of revenge for her long

  years of disdainful kindness - ah, he would drink it

  slowly to prolong its sweetness. Sip by sip - he rubbed

  his long, thin, white hands together - sip by sip,

  tasting each mouthful.

  "Eh, now? You know well enough, Thyra."

  "I know nothing of what you would be at, August Vorst.

  You speak of my son and Damaris - was that the name? -

  Damaris Garland as if they were something to each

  other. I ask you what you mean by it?"

  "Tut, tut, Thyra, nothing very terrible. There's no

  need to look like that about it. Young men will be young

  men to the end of time, and there's no harm in

  Chester's liking to look at a lass, eh, now? Or in

  talking to her either? The little baggage, with the red

  lips of her! She and Chester will make a pretty pair.

  He's not so ill-looking for a man, Thyra."

  "I am not a very patient woman, August," said Thyra

  coldly. "I have asked you what you mean, and I want a

  straight answer. Is Chester down at Tom Blair's while I

  have been sitting here, alone, waiting for him?"

  August nodded. He saw that it would not be wise to

  trifle longer with Thyra.

  "That he is. I was there before I came here. He and

  Damaris were sitting in a corner by themselves, and

  very well-satisfied they seemed to be with each other.

  Tut, tut, Thyra, don't take the news so. I thought you

  knew. It's no secret that Chester has been going after

  Damaris ever since she came here. But what then? You

  can't tie him to your apron strings forever, woman.

  He'll be finding a mate for himself, as he should.

  Seeing that he's straight and well-shaped, no doubt

  Damaris will look with favor on him. Old Martha Blair

  declares the girl loves him better than her eyes."

  Thyra made a sound like a strangled moan in the middle

  of August's speech. She heard the rest of it immovably.

  When it came to an end she stood and looked down upon

  him in a way that silenced him.

  "You've told the news you came to tell, and gloated

  over it, and now get you gone," she said slowly.

  "Now, Thyra," he began, but she interrupted him

  threateningly.

  "Get you gone, I say! And you need not bring my mail

  here any longer. I want no more of your misshapen body

  and lying tongue!"

&n
bsp; August went, but at the door he turned for a parting

  stab.

  "My tongue is not a lying one, Mrs. Carewe. I've told

  you the truth, as all Avonlea knows it. Chester is mad

  about Damaris Garland. It's no wonder I thought you

  knew what all the settlement can see. But you're such a

  jealous, odd body, I suppose the boy hid it from you

  for fear you'd go into a tantrum. As for me, I'll not

  forget that you've turned me from your door because I

  chanced to bring you news you'd no fancy for."

  Thyra did not answer him. When the door closed behind

  him she locked it and blew out the light. Then she

  threw herself face downward on the sofa and burst into

  wild tears. Her very soul ached. She wept as

  tempestuously and unreasoningly as youth weeps,

  although she was not young. It seemed as if she was

  afraid to stop weeping lest she should go mad thinking.

  But, after a time, tears failed her, and she began

  bitterly to go over, word by word, what August Vorst

  had said.

  That her son should ever cast eyes of love on any girl

  was something Thyra had never thought about. She would

  not believe it possible that he should love any one but

  herself, who loved him so much. And now the possibility

  invaded her mind as subtly and coldly and remorselessly

  as a sea-fog stealing landward.

  Chester had been born to her at an age when most women

  are letting their children slip from them into the

  world, with some natural tears and heartaches, but

  content to let them go, after enjoying their sweetest

  years. Thyra's late-come motherhood was all the more

  intense and passionate because of its very lateness.

  She had been very ill when her son was born, and had

  lain helpless for long weeks, during which other women

  had tended her baby for her. She had never been able to

  forgive them for this.

  Her husband had died before Chester was a year old. She

  had laid their son in his dying arms and received him

  back again with a last benediction. To Thyra that

  moment had something of a sacrament in it. It was as if

  the child had been doubly given to her, with a right to

  him solely that nothing could take away or transcend.

  Marrying! She had never thought of it in connection

  with him. He did not come of a marrying race. His

  father had been sixty when he had married her, Thyra

  Lincoln, likewise well on in life. Few of the Lincolns

  or Carewes had married young, many not at all. And, to

  her, Chester was her baby still. He belonged solely to

  her.

  And now another woman had dared to look upon him with

  eyes of love. Damaris Garland! Thyra now remembered

  seeing her. She was a new-comer in Avonlea, having come

  to live with her uncle and aunt after the death of her

  mother. Thyra had met her on the bridge one day a month

  previously. Yes, a man might think she was pretty - a

  low-browed girl, with a wave of reddish-gold hair, and

  crimson lips blossoming out against the strange, milk-

  whiteness of her skin. Her eyes, too - Thyra recalled

  them - hazel in tint, deep, and laughter-brimmed.

  The girl had gone past her with a smile that brought

  out many dimples. There was a certain insolent quality

  in her beauty, as if it flaunted itself somewhat too

  defiantly in the beholder's eye. Thyra had turned and

  looked after the lithe, young creature, wondering who

  she might be.

  And to-night, while she, his mother, waited for him in

  darkness and loneliness, he was down at Blair's,

  talking to this girl! He loved her; and it was past

  doubt that she loved him. The thought was more bitter

  than death to Thyra. That she should dare! Her anger

  was all against the girl. She had laid a snare to get

  Chester and he, like a fool, was entangled in it,

  thinking, man-fashion, only of her great eyes and red

  lips. Thyra thought savagely of Damaris' beauty.

  "She shall not have him," she said, with slow emphasis.

  "I will never give him up to any other woman, and,

  least of all, to her. She would leave me no place in

  his heart at all - me, his mother, who almost died to

  give him life. He belongs to me! Let her look for the

  son of some other woman - some woman who has many sons.

  She shall not have my only one!"

  She got up, wrapped a shawl about her head, and went

  out into the darkly golden evening. The clouds had

  cleared away, and the moon was shining. The air was

  chill, with a bell-like clearness. The alders by the

  river rustled eerily as she walked by them and out upon

  the bridge. Here she paced up and down, peering with

  troubled eyes along the road beyond, or leaning over

  the rail, looking at the sparkling silver ribbon of

  moonlight that garlanded the waters. Late travelers

  passed her, and wondered at her presence and mien. Carl

  White saw her, and told his wife about her when he got

  home.

  "Striding to and fro over the bridge like mad! At first

  I thought it was old, crazy May Blair. What do you

  suppose she was doing down there at this hour of the

  night?"

  "Watching for Ches, no doubt," said Cynthia. "He ain't

  home yet. Likely he's snug at Blairs'. I do wonder if

  Thyra suspicions that he goes after Damaris. I've never

  dared to hint it to her. She'd be as liable to fly at

  me, tooth and claw, as not."

  "Well, she picks out a precious queer night for moon-

  gazing," said Carl, who was a jolly soul and took life

  as he found it. "It's bitter cold - there'll be a hard

  frost. It's a pity she can't get it grained into her

  that the boy is grown up and must have his fling like

  the other lads. She'll go out of her mind yet, like her

  old grandmother Lincoln, if she doesn't ease up. I've a

  notion to go down to the bridge and reason a bit with

  her."

  "Indeed, and you'll do no such thing!" cried Cynthia.

  "Thyra Carewe is best left alone, if she is in a

  tantrum. She's like no other woman in Avonlea - or out

  of it. I'd as soon meddle with a tiger as her, if she's

  rampaging about Chester. I don't envy Damaris Garland

  her life if she goes in there. Thyra'd sooner strangle

  her than not, I guess."

  "You women are all terrible hard on Thyra," said Carl,

  good-naturedly. He had been in love with Thyra,

  himself, long ago, and he still liked her in a friendly

  fashion. He always stood up for her when the Avonlea

  women ran her down. He felt troubled about her all

  night, recalling her as she paced the bridge. He wished

  he had gone back, in spite of Cynthia.

  When Chester came home he met his mother on the bridge.

  In the faint, yet penetrating, moonlight they looked

  curiously alike, but Chester had the milder face. He

  was very handsome. Even in the seething of h
er pain and

  jealousy Thyra yearned over his beauty. She would have

  liked to put up her hands and caress his face, but her

  voice was very hard when she asked him where he had

  been so late.

  "I called in at Tom Blair's on my way home from the

  harbor," he answered, trying to walk on. But she held

  him back by his arm.

  "Did you go there to see Damaris?" she demanded

  fiercely.

  Chester was uncomfortable. Much as he loved his mother,

  he felt, and always had felt, an awe of her and an

  impatient dislike of her dramatic ways of speaking and

  acting. He reflected, resentfully, that no other young

  man in Avonlea, who had been paying a friendly call,

  would be met by his mother at midnight and held up in

  such tragic fashion to account for himself. He tried

  vainly to loosen her hold upon his arm, but he

  understood quite well that he must give her an answer.

  Being strictly straight-forward by nature and

  upbringing, he told the truth, albeit with more anger

  in his tone than he had ever shown to his mother

  before.

  "Yes," he said shortly.

  Thyra released his arm, and struck her hands together

  with a sharp cry. There was a savage note in it. She

  could have slain Damaris Garland at that moment.

  "Don't go on so, mother," said Chester, impatiently.

  "Come in out of the cold. It isn't fit for you to be

  here. Who has been tampering with you? What if I did go

  to see Damaris?"

  "Oh - oh - oh!" cried Thyra. "I was waiting for you -

  alone - and you were thinking only of her! Chester,

  answer me - do you love her?"

  The blood rolled rapidly over the boy's face. He

  muttered something and tried to pass on, but she caught

  him again. He forced himself to speak gently.

  "What if I do, mother?" It wouldn't be such a dreadful

  thing, would it?"

  "And me? And me?" cried Thyra. "What am I to you,

  then?"

  "You are my mother. I wouldn't love you any the less

  because I cared for another, too."

  "I won't have you love another," she cried. "I want all

  your love - all! What's that baby-face to you, compared

  to your mother? I have the best right to you. I won't

  give you up."

  Chester realized that there was no arguing with such a

  mood. He walked on, resolved to set the matter aside

  until she might be more reasonable. But Thyra would not

  have it so. She followed on after him, under the alders

  that crowded over the lane.

  "Promise me that you'll not go there again," she

  entreated. "Promise me that you'll give her up."

  "I can't promise such a thing," he cried angrily.

  His anger hurt her worse than a blow, but she did not

  flinch.

  "You're not engaged to her?" she cried out.

  "Now, mother, be quiet. All the settlement will hear

  you. Why do you object to Damaris? You don't know how

  sweet she is. When you know her - "

  "I will never know her!" cried Thyra furiously. "And

  she shall not have you! She shall not, Chester!"

  He made no answer. She suddenly broke into tears and

  loud sobs. Touched with remorse, he stopped and put his

  arms about her.

  "Mother, mother, don't! I can't bear to see you cry so.

  But, indeed, you are unreasonable. Didn't you ever

  think the time would come when I would want to marry,

  like other men?"

  "No, no! And I will not have it - I cannot bear it,

  Chester. You must promise not to go to see her again. I

  won't go into the house this night until you do. I'll

  stay out here in the bitter cold until you promise to

  put her out of your thoughts."

  "That's beyond my power, mother. Oh, mother, you're

  making it hard for me. Come in, come in! You're

  shivering with cold now. You'll be sick."

  "Not a step will I stir till you promise. Say you won't

  go to see that girl any more, and there's nothing I

  won't do for you. But if you put her before me, I'll

  not go in - I never will go in."

  With most women this would have been an empty threat;

  but it was not so with Thyra, and Chester knew it. He

  knew she would keep her word. And he feared more than

  that. In this frenzy of hers what might she not do? She