Further Chronicles of Avonlea Page 3

cockles of my heart, and I began to enjoy the Sewing

  Circle famously. I got a lot of pretty new dresses and

  the dearest hat, and I went everywhere I was asked and

  had a good time.

  But there is one thing you can be perfectly sure of. If

  you do wrong you are going to be punished for it

  sometime, somehow and somewhere. My punishment was

  delayed for two months, and then it descended on my

  head and I was crushed to the very dust.

  Another new family besides the Mercers had come to

  Avonlea in the spring - the Maxwells. There were just

  Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell; they were a middle-aged couple

  and very well off. Mr. Maxwell had bought the lumber

  mills, and they lived up at the old Spencer place which

  had always been "the" place of Avonlea. They lived

  quietly, and Mrs. Maxwell hardly ever went anywhere

  because she was delicate. She was out when I called and

  I was out when she returned my call, so that I had

  never met her.

  It was the Sewing Circle day again - at Sarah

  Gardiner's this time. I was late; everybody else was

  there when I arrived, and the minute I entered the room

  I knew something had happened, although I couldn't

  imagine what. Everybody looked at me in the strangest

  way. Of course, Wilhelmina Mercer was the first to set

  her tongue going.

  "Oh, Miss Holmes, have you seen him yet?" she

  exclaimed.

  "Seen whom?" I said non-excitedly, getting out my

  thimble and patterns.

  "Why, Cecil Fenwick. He's here - in Avonlea - visiting

  his sister, Mrs. Maxwell."

  I suppose I did what they expected me to do. I dropped

  everything I held, and Josephine Cameron said

  afterwards that Charlotte Holmes would never be paler

  when she was in her coffin. If they had just known why

  I turned so pale!

  "It's impossible!" I said blankly.

  "It's really true," said Wilhelmina, delighted at this

  development, as she supposed it, of my romance. "I was

  up to see Mrs. Maxwell last night, and I met him."

  "It - can't be - the same - Cecil Fenwick," I said

  faintly, because I had to say something.

  "Oh, yes, it is. He belongs in Blakely, New Brunswick,

  and he's a lawyer, and he's been out West twenty-two

  years. He's oh! so handsome, and just as you described

  him, except that his hair is quite gray. He has never

  married - I asked Mrs. Maxwell - so you see he has

  never forgotten you, Miss Holmes. And, oh, I believe

  everything is going to come out all right."

  I couldn't exactly share her cheerful belief.

  Everything seemed to me to be coming out most horribly

  wrong. I was so mixed up I didn't know what to do or

  say. I felt as if I were in a bad dream - it must be a

  dream - there couldn't really be a Cecil Fenwick! My

  feelings were simply indescribable. Fortunately every

  one put my agitation down to quite a different cause,

  and they very kindly left me alone to recover myself. I

  shall never forget that awful afternoon. Right after

  tea I excused myself and went home as fast as I could

  go. There I shut myself up in my room, but not to write

  poetry in my blank book. No, indeed! I felt in no

  poetical mood.

  I tried to look the facts squarely in the face. There

  was a Cecil Fenwick, extraordinary as the coincidence

  was, and he was here in Avonlea. All my friends - and

  foes - believed that he was the estranged lover of my

  youth. If he stayed long in Avonlea, one of two things

  was bound to happen. He would hear the story I had told

  about him and deny it, and I would be held up to shame

  and derision for the rest of my natural life; or else

  he would simply go away in ignorance, and everybody

  would suppose he had forgotten me and would pity me

  maddeningly. The latter possibility was bad enough, but

  it wasn't to be compared to the former; and oh, how I

  prayed - yes, I did pray about it - that he would go

  right away. But Providence had other views for me.

  Cecil Fenwick didn't go away. He stayed right on in

  Avonlea, and the Maxwells blossomed out socially in his

  honor and tried to give him a good time. Mrs. Maxwell

  gave a party for him. I got a card - but you may be

  very sure I didn't go, although Nancy thought I was

  crazy not to. Then every one else gave parties in honor

  of Mr. Fenwick and I was invited and never went.

  Wilhelmina Mercer came and pleaded and scolded and told

  me if I avoided Mr. Fenwick like that he would think I

  still cherished bitterness against him, and he wouldn't

  make any advances towards a reconciliation. Wilhelmina

  means well, but she hasn't a great deal of sense.

  Cecil Fenwick seemed to be a great favorite with

  everybody, young and old. He was very rich, too, and

  Wilhelmina declared that half the girls were after him.

  "If it wasn't for you, Miss Holmes, I believe I'd have

  a try for him myself, in spite of his gray hair and

  quick temper - for Mrs. Maxwell says he has a pretty

  quick temper, but it's all over in a minute," said

  Wilhelmina, half in jest and wholly in earnest.

  As for me, I gave up going out at all, even to church.

  I fretted and pined and lost my appetite and never

  wrote a line in my blank book. Nancy was half frantic

  and insisted on dosing me with her favorite patent pills.

  I took them meekly, because it is a waste of

  time and energy to oppose Nancy, but, of course, they

  didn't do me any good. My trouble was too deep-seated

  for pills to cure. If ever a woman was punished for

  telling a lie I was that woman. I stopped my

  subscription to the Weekly Advocate because it still

  carried that wretched porous plaster advertisement, and

  I couldn't bear to see it. If it hadn't been for that I

  would never have thought of Fenwick for a name, and all

  this trouble would have been averted.

  One evening, when I was moping in my room, Nancy came

  up.

  "There's a gentleman in the parlor asking for you, Miss

  Charlotte."

  My heart gave just one horrible bounce.

  "What - sort of a gentleman, Nancy?" I faltered.

  "I think it's that Fenwick man that there's been such a

  time about," said Nancy, who didn't know anything about

  my imaginary escapades, "and he looks to be mad clean

  through about something, for such a scowl I never

  seen."

  "Tell him I'll be down directly, Nancy," I said quite

  calmly.

  As soon as Nancy had clumped downstairs again I put on

  my lace fichu and put two hankies in my belt, for I

  thought I'd probably need more than one. Then I hunted

  up an old Advocate for proof, and down I went to the

  parlor. I know exactly how a criminal feels going to

  execution, and I've been opposed to capital punishment

  ever since.

  I op
ened the parlor door and went in, carefully closing

  it behind me, for Nancy has a deplorable habit of

  listening in the hall. Then my legs gave out

  completely, and I couldn't have walked another step to

  save my life. I just stood there, my hand on the knob,

  trembling like a leaf.

  A man was standing by the south window looking out; he

  wheeled around as I went in, and, as Nancy said, he had

  a scowl on and looked angry clear through. He was very

  handsome, and his gray hair gave him such a

  distinguished look. I recalled this afterward, but just

  at the moment you may be quite sure I wasn't thinking

  about it at all.

  Then all at once a strange thing happened. The scowl

  went right off his face and the anger out of his eyes.

  He looked astonished, and then foolish. I saw the color

  creeping up into his cheeks. As for me, I still stood

  there staring at him, not able to say a single word.

  "Miss Holmes, I presume," he said at last, in a deep,

  thrilling voice. "I - I - oh, confound it! I have

  called - I heard some foolish stories and I came here

  in a rage. I've been a fool - I know now they weren't

  true. Just excuse me and I'll go away and kick myself."

  "No," I said, finding my voice with a gasp, "you

  mustn't go until you've heard the truth. It's dreadful

  enough, but not as dreadful as you might otherwise

  think. Those - those stories - I have a confession to

  make. I did tell them, but I didn't know there was such

  a person as Cecil Fenwick in existence."

  He looked puzzled, as well he might. Then he smiled,

  took my hand and led me away from the door - to the

  knob of which I was still holding with all my might -

  to the sofa.

  "Let's sit down and talk it over 'comfy,' " he said.

  I just confessed the whole shameful business. It was

  terribly humiliating, but it served me right. I told

  him how people were always twitting me for never having

  had a beau, and how I had told them I had; and then I

  showed him the porous plaster advertisement.

  He heard me right through without a word, and then he

  threw back his big, curly, gray head and laughed.

  "This clears up a great many mysterious hints I've been

  receiving ever since I came to Avonlea," he said, "and

  finally a Mrs. Gilbert came to my sister this afternoon

  with a long farrago of nonsense about the love affair I

  had once had with some Charlotte Holmes here. She

  declared you had told her about it yourself. I confess

  I flamed up. I'm a peppery chap, and I thought - I

  thought - oh, confound it, it might as well out: I

  thought you were some lank old maid who was amusing

  herself telling ridiculous stories about me. When you

  came into the room I knew that, whoever was to blame,

  you were not."

  "But I was," I said ruefully. "It wasn't right of me to

  tell such a story - and it was very silly, too. But who

  would ever have supposed that there could be real Cecil

  Fenwick who had lived in Blakely? I never heard of such

  a coincidence."

  "It's more than a coincidence," said Mr. Fenwick

  decidedly. "It's predestination; that is what it is.

  And now let's forget it and talk of something else."

  We talked of something else - or at least Mr. Fenwick

  did, for I was too ashamed to say much - so long that

  Nancy got restive and clumped through the hall every

  five minutes; but Mr. Fenwick never took the hint. When

  he finally went away he asked if he might come again.

  "It's time we made up that old quarrel, you know," he

  said, laughing.

  And I, an old maid of forty, caught myself blushing

  like a girl. But I felt like a girl, for it was such a

  relief to have that explanation all over. I couldn't

  even feel angry with Adella Gilbert. She was always a

  mischief maker, and when a woman is born that way she

  is more to be pitied than blamed. I wrote a poem in the

  blank book before I went to sleep; I hadn't written

  anything for a month, and it was lovely to be at it

  once more.

  Mr. Fenwick did come again - the very next evening, but

  one. And he came so often after that that even Nancy

  got resigned to him. One day I had to tell her

  something. I shrank from doing it, for I feared it

  would make her feel badly.

  "Oh, I've been expecting to hear it," she said grimly.

  "I felt the minute that man came into the house he

  brought trouble with him. Well, Miss Charlotte, I wish

  you happiness. I don't know how the climate of

  California will agree with me, but I suppose I'll have

  to put up with it."

  "But, Nancy," I said, "I can't expect you to go away

  out there with me. It's too much to ask of you."

  "And where else would I be going?" demanded Nancy in

  genuine astonishment. "How under the canopy could you

  keep house without me? I'm not going to trust you to

  the mercies of a yellow Chinee with a pig-tail. Where

  you go I go, Miss Charlotte, and there's an end of it."

  I was very glad, for I hated to think of parting with

  Nancy even to go with Cecil. As for the blank book, I

  haven't told my husband about it yet, but I mean to

  some day. And I've subscribed for the Weekly Advocate

  again.

  Chapter III

  Her Father's Daughter

  "WE must invite your Aunt Jane, of course," said Mrs.

  Spencer.

  Rachel made a protesting movement with her large,

  white, shapely hands - hands which were so different

  from the thin, dark, twisted ones folded on the table

  opposite her. The difference was not caused by hard

  work or the lack of it; Rachel had worked hard all her

  life. It was a difference inherent in temperament. The

  Spencers, no matter what they did, or how hard they

  labored, all had plump, smooth, white hands, with firm,

  supple fingers; the Chiswicks, even those who toiled

  not, neither did they spin, had hard, knotted, twisted

  ones. Moreover, the contrast went deeper than

  externals, and twined itself with the innermost fibers

  of life, and thought, and action.

  "I don't see why we must invite Aunt Jane," said

  Rachel, with as much impatience as her soft, throaty

  voice could express. "Aunt Jane doesn't like me, and I

  don't like Aunt Jane."

  "I'm sure I don't see why you don't like her," said

  Mrs. Spencer. "It's ungrateful of you. She has always

  been very kind to you."

  "She has always been very kind with one hand," smiled

  Rachel. "I remember the first time I ever saw Aunt

  Jane. I was six years old. She held out to me a small

  velvet pincushion with beads on it. And then, because I

  did not, in my shyness, thank her quite as promptly as

  I should have done, she rapped my head with her

  bethimbled finger to 'teach me better manners.' It hurt
<
br />   horribly - I've always had a tender head. And that has

  been Aunt Jane's way ever since. When I grew too big

  for the thimble treatment she used her tongue instead -

  and that hurt worse. And you know, mother, how she used

  to talk about my engagement. She is able to spoil the

  whole atmosphere if she happens to come in a bad humor.

  I don't want her."

  "She must be invited. People would talk so if she

  wasn't."

  "I don't see why they should. She's only my great-aunt

  by marriage. I wouldn't mind in the least if people did

  talk. They'll talk anyway - you know that, mother."

  "Oh, we must have her," said Mrs. Spencer, with the

  indifferent finality that marked all her words and

  decisions - a finality against which it was seldom of

  any avail to struggle. People, who knew, rarely

  attempted it; strangers occasionally did, misled by the

  deceit of appearances.

  Isabella Spencer was a wisp of a woman, with a pale,

  pretty face, uncertainly-colored, long-lashed grayish

  eyes, and great masses of dull, soft, silky brown hair.

  She had delicate aquiline features and a small, babyish

  red mouth. She looked as if a breath would sway her.

  The truth was that a tornado would hardly have caused

  her to swerve an inch from her chosen path.

  For a moment Rachel looked rebellious; then she

  yielded, as she generally did in all differences of

  opinion with her mother. It was not worth while to

  quarrel over the comparatively unimportant matter of

  Aunt Jane's invitation. A quarrel might be inevitable

  later on; Rachel wanted to save all her resources for

  that. She gave her shoulders a shrug, and wrote Aunt

  Jane's name down on the wedding list in her large,

  somewhat untidy handwriting - a handwriting which

  always seemed to irritate her mother. Rachel never

  could understand this irritation. She could never guess

  that it was because her writing looked so much like

  that in a certain packet of faded letters which Mrs.

  Spencer kept at the bottom of an old horsehair trunk in

  her bedroom. They were postmarked from seaports all

  over the world. Mrs. Spencer never read them or looked

  at them; but she remembered every dash and curve of the

  handwriting.

  Isabella Spencer had overcome many things in her life

  by the sheer force and persistency of her will. But she

  could not get the better of heredity. Rachel was her

  father's daughter at all points, and Isabella Spencer

  escaped hating her for it only by loving her the more

  fiercely because of it. Even so, there were many times

  when she had to avert her eyes from Rachel's face

  because of the pang of the more subtle remembrances;

  and never, since her child was born, could Isabella

  Spencer bear to gaze on that child's face in sleep.

  Rachel was to be married to Frank Bell in a fortnight's

  time. Mrs. Spencer was pleased with the match. She was

  very fond of Frank, and his farm was so near to her own

  that she would not lose Rachel altogether. Rachel

  fondly believed that her mother would not lose her at

  all; but Isabella Spencer, wiser by olden experience,

  knew what her daughter's marriage must mean to her, and

  steeled her heart to bear it with what fortitude she

  might.

  They were in the sitting-room, deciding on the wedding

  guests and other details. The September sunshine was

  coming in through the waving boughs of the apple tree

  that grew close up to the low window. The glints

  wavered over Rachel's face, as white as a wood lily,

  with only a faint dream of rose in the cheeks. She wore

  her sleek, golden hair in a quaint arch around it. Her

  forehead was very broad and white. She was fresh and

  young and hopeful. The mother's heart contracted in a

  spasm of pain as she looked at her. How like the girl

  was to - to - to the Spencers! Those easy, curving

  outlines, those large, mirthful blue eyes, that finely

  molded chin! Isabella Spencer shut her lips firmly and

  crushed down some unbidden, unwelcome memories.

  "There will be about sixty guests, all told," she said,

  as if she were thinking of nothing else. "We must move

  the furniture out of this room and set the supper-table