Further Chronicles of Avonlea Read online

dreamed him. She had always been sure he could tell

  beautiful stories.

  "Come up to the house and I'll show you some pretty

  things," he said finally.

  Then followed a wonderful hour. The little low-

  ceilinged room, with its square window, into which he

  took her, was filled with the flotsam and jetsam of his

  roving life - things beautiful and odd and strange

  beyond all telling. The things that pleased Rachel most

  were two huge shells on the chimney piece - pale pink

  shells with big crimson and purple spots.

  "Oh, I didn't know there could be such pretty things in

  the world," she exclaimed.

  "If you would like," began the big man; then he paused

  for a moment. "I'll show you something prettier still."

  Rachel felt vaguely that he meant to say something else

  when he began; but she forgot to wonder what it was

  when she saw what he brought out of a little corner

  cupboard. It was a teapot of some fine, glistening

  purple ware, coiled over by golden dragons with gilded

  claws and scales. The lid looked like a beautiful

  golden flower and the handle was a coil of a dragon's

  tail. Rachel sat and looked at it rapt-eyed.

  "That's the only thing of any value I have in the world

  - now," he said.

  Rachel knew there was something very sad in his eyes

  and voice. She longed to kiss him again and comfort

  him. But suddenly he began to laugh, and then he

  rummaged out some goodies for her to eat, sweetmeats

  more delicious than she had ever imagined. While she

  nibbled them he took down an old violin and played

  music that made her want to dance and sing. Rachel was

  perfectly happy. She wished she might stay forever in

  that low, dim room with all its treasures.

  "I see your little friends coming around the point," he

  said, finally. "I suppose you must go. Put the rest of

  the goodies in your pocket."

  He took her up in his arms and held her tightly against

  his breast for a single moment. She felt him kissing

  her hair.

  "There, run along, little girl. Good-by," he said

  gently.

  "Why don't you ask me to come and see you again?" cried

  Rachel, half in tears. "I'm coming anyhow."

  "If you can come, come," he said. "If you don't come, I

  shall know it is because you can't - and that is much

  to know. I'm very, very, very glad, little woman, that

  you have come once."

  Rachel was sitting demurely on the skids when her

  companions came back. They had not seen her leaving the

  house, and she said not a word to them of her

  experiences. She only smiled mysteriously when they

  asked her if she had been lonesome.

  That night, for the first time, she mentioned her

  father's name in her prayers. She never forgot to do so

  afterwards. She always said, "bless mother - and

  father," with an instinctive pause between the two

  names - a pause which indicated new realization of the

  tragedy which had sundered them. And the tone in which

  she said "father" was softer and more tender than the

  one which voiced "mother."

  Rachel never visited the Cove again. Isabella Spencer

  discovered that the children had been there, and,

  although she knew nothing of Rachel's interview with

  her father, she told the child that she must never

  again go to that part of the shore.

  Rachel shed many a bitter tear in secret over this

  command; but she obeyed it. Thenceforth there had been

  no communication between her and her father, save the

  unworded messages of soul to soul across whatever may

  divide them.

  David Spencer's invitation to his daughter's wedding

  was sent with the others, and the remaining days of

  Rachel's maidenhood slipped away in a whirl of

  preparation and excitement in which her mother reveled,

  but which was distasteful to the girl.

  The wedding day came at last, breaking softly and

  fairly over the great sea in a sheen of silver and

  pearl and rose, a September day, as mild and beautiful

  as June.

  The ceremony was to be performed at eight o'clock in

  the evening. At seven Rachel stood in her room, fully

  dressed and alone. She had no bridesmaid, and she had

  asked her cousins to leave her to herself in this last

  solemn hour of girlhood. She looked very fair and sweet

  in the sunset-light that showered through the birches.

  Her wedding gown was a fine, sheer organdie, simply and

  daintily made. In the loose waves of her bright hair

  she wore her bridegroom's flowers, roses as white as a

  virgin's dream. She was very happy; but her happiness

  was faintly threaded with the sorrow inseparable from

  all change.

  Presently her mother came in, carrying a small basket.

  "Here is something for you, Rachel. One of the boys

  from the harbor brought it up. He was bound to give it

  into your own hands - said that was his orders. I just

  took it and sent him to the right-about - told him I'd

  give it to you at once, and that that was all that was

  necessary."

  She spoke coldly. She knew quite well who had sent the

  basket, and she resented it; but her resentment was not

  quite strong enough to overcome her curiosity. She

  stood silently by while Rachel unpacked the basket.

  Rachel's hands trembled as she took off the cover. Two

  huge pink-spotted shells came first. How well she

  remembered them! Beneath them, carefully wrapped up in

  a square of foreign-looking, strangely scented silk,

  was the dragon teapot. She held it in her hands and

  gazed at it with tears gathering thickly in her eyes.

  "Your father sent that," said Isabella Spencer with an

  odd sound in her voice. "I remember it well. It was

  among the things I packed up and sent after him. His

  father had brought it home from China fifty years ago,

  and he prized it beyond anything. They used to say it

  was worth a lot of money."

  "Mother, please leave me alone for a little while,"

  said Rachel, imploringly. She had caught sight of a

  little note at the bottom of the basket, and she felt

  that she could not read it under her mother's eyes.

  Mrs. Spencer went out with unaccustomed acquiescence,

  and Rachel went quickly to the window, where she read

  her letter by the fading gleams of twilight. It was

  very brief, and the writing was that of a man who holds

  a pen but seldom.

  "My dear little girl," it ran, "I'm sorry I can't go to

  your wedding. It was like you to ask me - for I know it

  was your doing. I wish I could see you married, but I

  can't go to the house I was turned out of. I hope you

  will be very happy. I am sending you the shells and

  teapot you liked so much. Do you remember that day we

  had such a good time? I would liked to have seen you

  a
gain before you were married, but it can't be.

  "Your loving father, "David Spencer."

  Rachel resolutely blinked away the tears that filled

  her eyes. A fierce desire for her father sprang up in

  her heart - an insistent hunger that would not be

  denied. She must see her father; she must have his

  blessing on her new life. A sudden determination took

  possession of her whole being - a determination to

  sweep aside all conventionalities and objections as if

  they had not been.

  It was now almost dark. The guests would not be coming

  for half an hour yet. It was only fifteen minutes' walk

  over the hill to the Cove. Hastily Rachel shrouded

  herself in her new raincoat, and drew a dark,

  protecting hood over her gay head. She opened the door

  and slipped noiselessly downstairs. Mrs. Spencer and

  her assistants were all busy in the back part of the

  house. In a moment Rachel was out in the dewy garden.

  She would go straight over the fields. Nobody would see

  her.

  It was quite dark when she reached the Cove. In the

  crystal cup of the sky over her the stars were

  blinking. Flying flakes of foam were scurrying over the

  sand like elfin things. A soft little wind was crooning

  about the eaves of the little gray house where David

  Spencer was sitting, alone in the twilight, his violin

  on his knee. He had been trying to play, but could not.

  His heart yearned after his daughter - yes, and after a

  long-estranged bride of his youth. His love of the sea

  was sated forever; his love for wife and child still

  cried for its own under all his old anger and

  stubbornness.

  The door opened suddenly and the very Rachel of whom he

  was dreaming came suddenly in, flinging off her wraps

  and standing forth in her young beauty and bridal

  adornments, a splendid creature, almost lighting up the

  gloom with her radiance.

  "Father," she cried, brokenly, and her father's eager

  arms closed around her.

  Back in the house she had left, the guests were coming

  to the wedding. There were jests and laughter and

  friendly greeting. The bridegroom came, too, a slim,

  dark-eyed lad who tiptoed bashfully upstairs to the

  spare room, from which he presently emerged to confront

  Mrs. Spencer on the landing.

  "I want to see Rachel before we go down," he said,

  blushing.

  Mrs. Spencer deposited a wedding present of linen on

  the table which was already laden with gifts, opening

  the door of Rachel's room, and called her. There was no

  reply; the room was dark and still. In sudden alarm,

  Isabella Spencer snatched the lamp from the hall table

  and held it up. The little white room was empty. No

  blushing, white-clad bride tenanted it. But David

  Spencer's letter was lying on the stand. She caught it

  up and read it.

  "Rachel is gone," she gasped. A flash of intuition had

  revealed to her where and why the girl had gone.

  "Gone!" echoed Frank, his face blanching. His pallid

  dismay recalled Mrs. Spencer to herself. She gave a

  bitter, ugly little laugh.

  "Oh, you needn't look so scared, Frank. She hasn't run

  away from you. Hush; come in here - shut the door.

  Nobody must know of this. Nice gossip it would make!

  That little fool has gone to the Cove to see her - her

  father. I know she has. It's just like what she would

  do. He sent her those presents - look - and this

  letter. Read it. She has gone to coax him to come and

  see her married. She was crazy about it. And the

  minister is here and it is half-past seven. She'll ruin

  her dress and shoes in the dust and dew. And what if

  some one has seen her! Was there ever such a little

  fool?"

  Frank's presence of mind had returned to him. He knew

  all about Rachel and her father. She had told him

  everything.

  "I'll go after her," he said gently. "Get me my hat and

  coat. I'll slip down the back stairs and over to the

  Cove."

  "You must get out of the pantry window, then," said

  Mrs. Spencer firmly, mingling comedy and tragedy after

  her characteristic fashion. "The kitchen is full of

  women. I won't have this known and talked about if it

  can possibly be helped."

  The bridegroom, wise beyond his years in the knowledge

  that it was well to yield to women in little things,

  crawled obediently out of the pantry window and darted

  through the birch wood. Mrs. Spencer had stood

  quakingly on guard until he had disappeared.

  So Rachel had gone to her father! Like had broken the

  fetters of years and fled to like.

  "It isn't much use fighting against nature, I guess,"

  she thought grimly. "I'm beat. He must have thought

  something of her, after all, when he sent her that

  teapot and letter. And what does he mean about the 'day

  they had such a good time'? Well, it just means that

  she's been to see him before, sometime, I suppose, and

  kept me in ignorance of it all."

  Mrs. Spencer shut down the pantry window with a vicious

  thud.

  "If only she'll come quietly back with Frank in time to

  prevent gossip I'll forgive her," she said, as she

  turned to the kitchen.

  Rachel was sitting on her father's knee, with both her

  white arms around his neck, when Frank came in. She

  sprang up, her face flushed and appealing, her eyes

  bright and dewy with tears. Frank thought he had never

  seen her look so lovely.

  "Oh, Frank, is it very late? Oh, are you angry?" she

  exclaimed timidly.

  "No, no, dear. Of course I'm not angry. But don't you

  think you'd better come back now? It's nearly eight and

  everybody is waiting."

  "I've been trying to coax father to come up and see me

  married," said Rachel. "Help me, Frank."

  "You'd better come, sir," said Frank, heartily, "I'd

  like it as much as Rachel would."

  David Spencer shook his head stubbornly.

  "No, I can't go to that house. I was locked out of it.

  Never mind me. I've had my happiness in this half hour

  with my little girl. I'd like to see her married, but

  it isn't to be."

  "Yes, it is to be - it shall be," said Rachel

  resolutely. "You shall see me married. Frank, I'm going

  to be married here in my father's house! That is the

  right place for a girl to be married. Go back and tell

  the guests so, and bring them all down."

  Frank looked rather dismayed. David Spencer said

  deprecatingly: "Little girl, don't you think it would

  be - "

  "I'm going to have my own way in this," said Rachel,

  with a sort of tender finality. "Go, Frank. I'll obey

  you all my life after, but you must do this for me. Try

  to understand," she added beseechingly.

  "Oh, I understand," Frank reassured her. "Besides
, I

  think you are right. But I was thinking of your mother.

  She won't come."

  "Then you tell her that if she doesn't come I shan't be

  married at all," said Rachel. She was betraying

  unsuspected ability to manage people. She knew that

  ultimatum would urge Frank to his best endeavors.

  Frank, much to Mrs. Spencer's dismay, marched boldly in

  at the front door upon his return. She pounced on him

  and whisked him out of sight into the supper room.

  "Where's Rachel? What made you come that way? Everybody

  saw you!"

  "It makes no difference. They will all have to know,

  anyway. Rachel says she is going to be married from her

  father's house, or not at all. I've come back to tell

  you so."

  Isabella's face turned crimson.

  "Rachel has gone crazy. I wash my hands of this affair.

  Do as you please. Take the guests - the supper, too, if

  you can carry it."

  "We'll all come back here for supper," said Frank,

  ignoring the sarcasm. "Come, Mrs. Spencer, let's make

  the best of it."

  "Do you suppose that I am going to David Spencer's

  house?" said Isabella Spencer violently.

  "Oh you must come, Mrs. Spencer," cried poor Frank

  desperately. He began to fear that he would lose his

  bride past all finding in this maze of triple

  stubbornness. "Rachel says she won't be married at all

  if you don't go, too. Think what a talk it will make.

  You know she will keep her word."

  Isabella Spencer knew it. Amid all the conflict of

  anger and revolt in her soul was a strong desire not to

  make a worse scandal than must of necessity be made.

  The desire subdued and tamed her, as nothing else could

  have done.

  "I will go, since I have to," she said icily. "What

  can't be cured must be endured. Go and tell them."

  Five minutes later the sixty wedding guests were all

  walking over the fields to the Cove, with the minister

  and the bridegroom in the front of the procession. They

  were too amazed even to talk about the strange

  happening. Isabella Spencer walked behind, fiercely

  alone.

  They all crowded into the little room of the house at

  the Cove, and a solemn hush fell over it, broken only

  by the purr of the sea-wind around it and the croon of

  the waves on the shore. David Spencer gave his daughter

  away; but, when the ceremony was concluded, Isabella

  was the first to take the girl in her arms. She clasped

  her and kissed her, with tears streaming down her pale

  face, all her nature melted in a mother's tenderness.

  "Rachel! Rachel! My child, I hope and pray that you may

  be happy," she said brokenly.

  In the surge of the suddenly merry crowd of well-

  wishers around the bride and groom, Isabella was pushed

  back into a shadowy corner behind a heap of sails and

  ropes. Looking up, she found herself crushed against

  David Spencer. For the first time in twenty years the

  eyes of husband and wife met. A strange thrill shot to

  Isabella's heart; she felt herself trembling.

  "Isabella." It was David's voice in her ear a voice

  full of tenderness and pleading - the voice of the

  young wooer of her girlhood - "Is it too late to ask

  you to forgive me? I've been a stubborn fool - but

  there hasn't been an hour in all these years that I

  haven't thought about you and our baby and longed for

  you."

  Isabella Spencer had hated this man; yet her hate had

  been but a parasite growth on a nobler stem, with no

  abiding roots of its own. It withered under his words,

  and lo, there was the old love, fair and strong and

  beautiful as ever.

  "Oh - David - I - was - all - to - blame," she murmured

  brokenly.

  Further words were lost on her husband's lips.

  When the hubbub of handshaking and congratulating had

  subsided, Isabella Spencer stepped out before the

  company. She looked almost girlish and bridal herself,

  with her flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

  "Let's go back now and have supper, and be sensible,"

  she said crisply. "Rachel, your father is coming, too.

  He is coming to stay," - with a defiant glance around