Further Chronicles of Avonlea Read online

all gaily busy recalling what had happened in the old

  times and telling what had happened in the new.

  Edith recounted the successes of her concert tours;

  Malcolm expatiated proudly on his plans for developing

  his beloved college; Ralph described the country

  through which his new railroad ran, and the

  difficulties he had had to overcome in connection with

  it. James, aside, discussed his orchard and his crops

  with Margaret, who had not been long enough away from

  the farm to lose touch with its interests. Aunt Isabel

  knitted and smiled complacently on all, talking now

  with one, now with the other, secretly quite proud of

  herself that she, an old woman of eighty-five, who had

  seldom been out of White Sands in her life, could

  discuss high finance with Ralph, and higher education

  with Malcolm, and hold her own with James in an

  argument on drainage.

  The White Sands school teacher, an arch-eyed, red-

  mouthed bit a girl - a Bell from Avonlea - who boarded

  with the James Monroes, amused herself with the boys.

  All were enjoying themselves hugely, so it is not to be

  wondered at that they did not miss Robert, who had gone

  home early because his old housekeeper was nervous if

  left alone at night.

  He came again the next afternoon. From James, in the

  barnyard, he learned that Malcolm and Ralph had driven

  to the harbor, that Margaret and Mrs. James had gone to

  call on friends in Avonlea, and that Edith was walking

  somewhere in the woods on the hill. There was nobody in

  the house except Aunt Isabel and the teacher.

  "You'd better wait and stay the evening," said James,

  indifferently. "They'll all be back soon."

  Robert went across the yard and sat down on the rustic

  bench in the angle of the front porch. It was a fine

  December evening, as mild as autumn; there had been no

  snow, and the long fields, sloping down from the

  homestead, were brown and mellow. A weird, dreamy

  stillness had fallen upon the purple earth, the

  windless woods, the rain of the valleys, the sere

  meadows. Nature seemed to have folded satisfied hands

  to rest, knowing that her long, wintry slumber was

  coming upon her. Out to sea, a dull, red sunset faded

  out into somber clouds, and the ceaseless voice of many

  waters came up from the tawny shore.

  Robert rested his chin on his hand and looked across

  the vales and hills, where the feathery gray of

  leafless hardwoods was mingled with the sturdy,

  unfailing green of the conebearers. He was a tall, bent

  man, with thin, gray hair, a lined face, and deeply-

  set, gentle brown eyes - the eyes of one who, looking

  through pain, sees rapture beyond.

  He felt very happy. He loved his family clannishly, and

  he was rejoiced that they were all again near to him.

  He was proud of their success and fame. He was glad

  that James had prospered so well of late years. There

  was no canker of envy or discontent in his soul.

  He heard absently indistinct voices at the open hall

  window above the porch, where Aunt Isabel was talking

  to Kathleen Bell. Presently Aunt Isabel moved nearer to

  the window, and her words came down to Robert with

  startling clearness.

  "Yes, I can assure you, Miss Bell, that I'm real proud

  of my nephews and nieces. They're a smart family.

  They've almost all done well, and they hadn't any of

  them much to begin with. Ralph had absolutely nothing

  and to-day he is a millionaire. Their father met with

  so many losses, what with his ill-health and the bank

  failing, that he couldn't help them any. But they've

  all succeeded, except poor Robert - and I must admit

  that he's a total failure."

  "Oh, no, no," said the little teacher deprecatingly.

  "A total failure!" Aunt Isabel repeated her words

  emphatically. She was not going to be contradicted by

  anybody, least of all a Bell from Avonlea. "He has been

  a failure since the time he was born. He is the first

  Monroe to disgrace the old stock that way. I'm sure his

  brothers and sisters must be dreadfully ashamed of him.

  He has lived sixty years and he hasn't done a thing

  worth while. He can't even make his farm pay. If he's

  kept out of debt it's as much as he's ever managed to

  do."

  "Some men can't even do that," murmured the little

  school teacher. She was really so much in awe of this

  imperious, clever old Aunt Isabel that it was positive

  heroism on her part to venture even this faint protest.

  "More is expected of a Monroe," said Aunt Isabel

  majestically. "Robert Monroe is a failure, and that is

  the only name for him."

  Robert Monroe stood up below the window in a dizzy,

  uncertain fashion. Aunt Isabel had been speaking of

  him! He, Robert, was a failure, a disgrace to his

  blood, of whom his nearest and dearest were ashamed!

  Yes, it was true; he had never realized it before; he

  had known that he could never win power or accumulate

  riches, but he had not thought that mattered much. Now,

  through Aunt Isabel's scornful eyes, he saw himself as

  the world saw him - as his brothers and sisters must

  see him. There lay the sting. What the world thought of

  him did not matter; but that his own should think him a

  failure and disgrace was agony. He moaned as he started

  to walk across the yard, only anxious to hide his pain

  and shame away from all human sight, and in his eyes

  was the look of a gentle animal which had been stricken

  by a cruel and unexpected blow.

  Edith Monroe, who, unaware of Robert's proximity, had

  been standing on the other side of the porch, saw that

  look, as he hurried past her, unseeing. A moment before

  her dark eyes had been flashing with anger at Aunt

  Isabel's words; now the anger was drowned in a sudden

  rush of tears.

  She took a quick step after Robert, but checked the

  impulse. Not then - and not by her alone - could that

  deadly hurt be healed. Nay, more, Robert must never

  suspect that she knew of any hurt. She stood and

  watched him through her tears as he went away across

  the low-lying shore fields to hide his broken heart

  under his own humble roof. She yearned to hurry after

  him and comfort him, but she knew that comfort was not

  what Robert needed now. Justice, and justice only,

  could pluck out the sting, which otherwise must rankle

  to the death.

  Ralph and Malcolm were driving into the yard. Edith

  went over to them.

  "Boys," she said resolutely, "I want to have a talk

  with you."

  The Christmas dinner at the old homestead was a merry

  one. Mrs. James spread a feast that was fit for the

  halls of Lucullus. Laughter, jest, and repartee flew

  from lip to lip. Nobody appeared to notice that Robert
/>
  ate little, said nothing, and sat with his form

  shrinking in his shabby "best" suit, his gray head bent

  even lower than usual, as if desirous of avoiding all

  observation. When the others spoke to him he answered

  deprecatingly, and shrank still further into himself.

  Finally all had eaten all they could, and the remainder

  of the plum pudding was carried out. Robert gave a low

  sigh of relief. It was almost over. Soon he would be

  able to escape and hide himself and his shame away from

  the mirthful eyes of these men and women who had earned

  the right to laugh at the world in which their success

  gave them power and influence. He - he - only - was a

  failure.

  He wondered impatiently why Mrs. James did not rise.

  Mrs. James merely leaned comfortably back in her chair,

  with the righteous expression of one who has done her

  duty by her fellow creatures' palates, and looked at

  Malcolm.

  Malcolm rose in his place. Silence fell on the company;

  everybody looked suddenly alert and expectant, except

  Robert. He still sat with bowed head, wrapped in his

  own bitterness.

  "I have been told that I must lead off," said Malcolm,

  "because I am supposed to possess the gift of gab. But,

  if I do, I am not going to use it for any rhetorical

  effect to-day. Simple, earnest words must express the

  deepest feelings of the heart in doing justice to its

  own. Brothers and sisters, we meet to-day under our own

  roof-tree, surrounded by the benedictions of the past

  years. Perhaps invisible guests are here - the spirits

  of those who founded this home and whose work on earth

  has long been finished. It is not amiss to hope that

  this is so and our family circle made indeed complete.

  To each one of us who are here in visible bodily

  presence some measure of success has fallen; but only

  one of us has been supremely successful in the only

  things that really count - the things that count for

  eternity as well as time - sympathy and unselfishness

  and self-sacrifice.

  "I shall tell you my own story for the benefit of those

  who have not heard it. When I was a lad of sixteen I

  started to work out my own education. Some of you will

  remember that old Mr. Blair of Avonlea offered me a

  place in his store for the summer, at wages which would

  go far towards paying my expenses at the country

  academy the next winter. I went to work, eager and

  hopeful. All summer I tried to do my faithful best for

  my employer. In September the blow fell. A sum of money

  was missing from Mr. Blair's till. I was suspected and

  discharged in disgrace. All my neighbors believed me

  guilty; even some of my own family looked upon me with

  suspicion - nor could I blame them, for the

  circumstantial evidence was strongly against me."

  Ralph and James looked ashamed; Edith and Margaret, who

  had not been born at the time referred to, lifted their

  faces innocently. Robert did not move or glance up. He

  hardly seemed to be listening.

  "I was crushed in an agony of shame and despair,"

  continued Malcolm. "I believed my career was ruined. I

  was bent on casting all my ambitions behind me, and

  going west to some place where nobody knew me or my

  disgrace. But there was one person who believed in my

  innocence, who said to me, 'You shall not give up - you

  shall not behave as if you were guilty. You are

  innocent, and in time your innocence will be proved.

  Meanwhile show yourself a man. You have nearly enough

  to pay your way next winter at the Academy. I have a

  little I can give to help you out. Don't give in -

  never give in when you have done no wrong.'

  "I listened and took his advice. I went to the Academy.

  My story was there as soon as I was, and I found myself

  sneered at and shunned. Many a time I would have given

  up in despair, had it not been for the encouragement of

  my counselor. He furnished the backbone for me. I was

  determined that his belief in me should be justified. I

  studied hard and came out at the head of my class. Then

  there seemed to be no chance of my earning any more

  money that summer. But a farmer at Newbridge, who cared

  nothing about the character of his help, if he could

  get the work out of them, offered to hire me. The

  prospect was distasteful but, urged by the man who

  believed in me, I took the place and endured the

  hardships. Another winter of lonely work passed at the

  Academy. I won the Farrell Scholarship the last year it

  was offered, and that meant an Arts course for me. I

  went to Redmond College. My story was not openly known

  there, but something of it got abroad, enough to taint

  my life there also with its suspicion. But the year I

  graduated, Mr. Blair's nephew, who, as you know, was

  the real culprit, confessed his guilt, and I was

  cleared before the world. Since then my career has been

  what is called a brilliant one. But" - Malcolm turned

  and laid his hand on Robert's thin shoulder - "all of

  my success I owe to my brother Robert. It is his

  success - not mine - and here to-day, since we have

  agreed to say what is too often left to be said over a

  coffin lid, I thank him for all he did for me, and tell

  him that there is nothing I am more proud of and

  thankful for than such a brother."

  Robert had looked up at last, amazed, bewildered,

  incredulous. His face crimsoned as Malcolm sat down.

  But now Ralph was getting up.

  "I am no orator as Malcolm is," he quoted gaily, "but

  I've got a story to tell, too, which only one of you

  knows. Forty years ago, when I started in life as a

  business man, money wasn't so plentiful with me as it

  may be to-day. And I needed it badly. A chance came my

  way to make a pile of it. It wasn't a clean chance. It

  was a dirty chance. It looked square on the surface;

  but, underneath, it meant trickery and roguery. I

  hadn't enough perception to see that, though - I was

  fool enough to think it was all right. I told Robert

  what I meant to do. And Robert saw clear through the

  outward sham to the real, hideous thing underneath. He

  showed me what it meant and he gave me a preachment

  about a few Monroe Traditions of truth and honor. I saw

  what I had been about to do as he saw it - as all good

  men and true must see it. And I vowed then and there

  that I'd never go into anything that I wasn't sure was

  fair and square and clean through and through. I've

  kept that vow. I am a rich man, and not a dollar of my

  money is 'tainted' money. But I didn't make it. Robert

  really made every cent of my money. If it hadn't been

  for him I'd have been a poor man to-day, or behind

  prison bars, as are the other men who went into that

  deal when I backed out.
I've got a son here. I hope

  he'll be as clever as his Uncle Malcolm; but I hope,

  still more earnestly, that he'll be as good and

  honorable a man as his Uncle Robert."

  By this time Robert's head was bent again, and his face

  buried in his hands.

  "My turn next," said James. "I haven't much to say -

  only this. After mother died I took typhoid fever. Here

  I was with no one to wait on me. Robert came and nursed

  me. He was the most faithful, tender, gentle nurse ever

  a man had. The doctor said Robert saved my life. I

  don't suppose any of the rest of us here can say we

  have saved a life."

  Edith wiped away her tears and sprang up impulsively.

  "Years ago," she said, "there was a poor, ambitious

  girl who had a voice. She wanted a musical education

  and her only apparent chance of obtaining it was to get

  a teacher's certificate and earn money enough to have

  her voice trained. She studied hard, but her brains, in

  mathematics at least, weren't as good as her voice, and

  the time was short. She failed. She was lost in

  disappointment and despair, for that was the last year

  in which it was possible to obtain a teacher's

  certificate without attending Queen's Academy, and she

  could not afford that. Then her oldest brother came to

  her and told her he could spare enough money to send

  her to the conservatory of music in Halifax for a year.

  He made her take it. She never knew till long

  afterwards that he had sold the beautiful horse which

  he loved like a human creature, to get the money. She

  went to the Halifax conservatory. She won a musical

  scholarship. She has had a happy life and a successful

  career. And she owes it all to her brother Robert - "

  But Edith could go no further. Her voice failed her and

  she sat down in tears. Margaret did not try to stand

  up.

  "I was only five when my mother died," she sobbed.

  "Robert was both father and mother to me. Never had

  child or girl so wise and loving a guardian as he was

  to me. I have never forgotten the lessons he taught me.

  Whatever there is of good in my life or character I owe

  to him. I was often headstrong and willful, but he

  never lost patience with me. I owe everything to

  Robert."

  Suddenly the little teacher rose with wet eyes and

  crimson cheeks.

  "I have something to say, too," she said resolutely.

  "You have spoken for yourselves. I speak for the people

  of White Sands. There is a man in this settlement whom

  everybody loves. I shall tell you some of the things he

  has done."

  "Last fall, in an October storm, the harbor lighthouse

  flew a flag of distress. Only one man was brave enough

  to face the danger of sailing to the lighthouse to find

  out what the trouble was. That was Robert Monroe. He

  found the keeper alone with a broken leg; and he sailed

  back and made - yes, made the unwilling and terrified

  doctor go with him to the lighthouse. I saw him when he

  told the doctor he must go; and I tell you that no man

  living could have set his will against Robert Monroe's

  at that moment.

  "Four years ago old Sarah Cooper was to be taken to the

  poorhouse. She was broken-hearted. One man took the

  poor, bed-ridden, fretful old creature into his home,

  paid for medical attendance, and waited on her himself,

  when his housekeeper couldn't endure her tantrums and

  temper. Sarah Cooper died two years afterwards, and her

  latest breath was a benediction on Robert Monroe - the

  best man God ever made.

  "Eight years ago Jack Blewitt wanted a place. Nobody

  would hire him, because his father was in the

  penitentiary, and some people thought Jack ought to be

  there, too. Robert Monroe hired him - and helped him,

  and kept him straight, and got him started right - and

  Jack Blewitt is a hard-working, respected young man to-

  day, with every prospect of a useful and honorable

  life. There is hardly a man, woman, or child in White

  Sands who doesn't owe something to Robert Monroe!"

  As Kathleen Bell sat down, Malcolm sprang up and held

  out his hands.

  "Every one of us stand up and sing Auld Lang Syne," he

  cried.

  Everybody stood up and joined hands, but one did not