CHAPTER IX. UNA INTERVENES
Miss Cornelia had an interview with Mr. Meredith which proved somethingof a shock to that abstracted gentleman. She pointed out to him, nonetoo respectfully, his dereliction of duty in allowing a waif like MaryVance to come into his family and associate with his children withoutknowing or learning anything about her.
"I don't say there is much harm done, of course," she concluded. "ThisMary-creature isn't what you might call bad, when all is said and done.I've been questioning your children and the Blythes, and from what I canmake out there's nothing much to be said against the child except thatshe's slangy and doesn't use very refined language. But think what mighthave happened if she'd been like some of those home children we know of.You know yourself what that poor little creature the Jim Flaggs' had,taught and told the Flagg children."
Mr. Meredith did know and was honestly shocked over his own carelessnessin the matter.
"But what is to be done, Mrs. Elliott?" he asked helplessly. "We can'tturn the poor child out. She must be cared for."
"Of course. We'd better write to the Hopetown authorities at once.Meanwhile, I suppose she might as well stay here for a few more daystill we hear from them. But keep your eyes and ears open, Mr. Meredith."
Susan would have died of horror on the spot if she had heard MissCornelia so admonishing a minister. But Miss Cornelia departed in a warmglow of satisfaction over duty done, and that night Mr. Meredith askedMary to come into his study with him. Mary obeyed, looking literallyghastly with fright. But she got the surprise of her poor, batteredlittle life. This man, of whom she had stood so terribly in awe, was thekindest, gentlest soul she had ever met. Before she knew what happenedMary found herself pouring all her troubles into his ear and receivingin return such sympathy and tender understanding as it had neveroccurred to her to imagine. Mary left the study with her face and eyesso softened that Una hardly knew her.
"Your father's all right, when he does wake up," she said with a sniffthat just escaped being a sob. "It's a pity he doesn't wake up oftener.He said I wasn't to blame for Mrs. Wiley dying, but that I must tryto think of her good points and not of her bad ones. I dunno whatgood points she had, unless it was keeping her house clean and makingfirst-class butter. I know I 'most wore my arms out scrubbing her oldkitchen floor with the knots in it. But anything your father says goeswith me after this."
Mary proved a rather dull companion in the following days, however. Sheconfided to Una that the more she thought of going back to the asylumthe more she hated it. Una racked her small brains for some way ofaverting it, but it was Nan Blythe who came to the rescue with asomewhat startling suggestion.
"Mrs. Elliott might take Mary herself. She has a great big house and Mr.Elliott is always wanting her to have help. It would be just a splendidplace for Mary. Only she'd have to behave herself."
"Oh, Nan, do you think Mrs. Elliott would take her?"
"It wouldn't do any harm if you asked her," said Nan. At first Una didnot think she could. She was so shy that to ask a favour of anybody wasagony to her. And she was very much in awe of the bustling, energeticMrs. Elliott. She liked her very much and always enjoyed a visit to herhouse; but to go and ask her to adopt Mary Vance seemed such a height ofpresumption that Una's timid spirit quailed.
When the Hopetown authorities wrote to Mr. Meredith to send Mary to themwithout delay Mary cried herself to sleep in the manse attic that nightand Una found a desperate courage. The next evening she slipped awayfrom the manse to the harbour road. Far down in Rainbow Valley she heardjoyous laughter but her way lay not there. She was terribly pale andterribly in earnest--so much so that she took no notice of the peopleshe met--and old Mrs. Stanley Flagg was quite huffed and said UnaMeredith would be as absentminded as her father when she grew up.
Miss Cornelia lived half way between the Glen and Four Winds Point, in ahouse whose original glaring green hue had mellowed down to an agreeablegreenish gray. Marshall Elliott had planted trees about it and set out arose garden and a spruce hedge. It was quite a different place fromwhat it had been in years agone. The manse children and the Inglesidechildren liked to go there. It was a beautiful walk down the old harbourroad, and there was always a well-filled cooky jar at the end.
The misty sea was lapping softly far down on the sands. Three big boatswere skimming down the harbour like great white sea-birds. A schoonerwas coming up the channel. The world of Four Winds was steeped inglowing colour, and subtle music, and strange glamour, and everybodyshould have been happy in it. But when Una turned in at Miss Cornelia'sgate her very legs had almost refused to carry her.
Miss Cornelia was alone on the veranda. Una had hoped Mr. Elliott wouldbe there. He was so big and hearty and twinkly that there would beencouragement in his presence. She sat on the little stool Miss Corneliabrought out and tried to eat the doughnut Miss Cornelia gave her. Itstuck in her throat, but she swallowed desperately lest Miss Cornelia beoffended. She could not talk; she was still pale; and her big, dark-blueeyes looked so piteous that Miss Cornelia concluded the child was insome trouble.
"What's on your mind, dearie?" she asked. "There's something, that'splain to be seen."
Una swallowed the last twist of doughnut with a desperate gulp.
"Mrs. Elliott, won't you take Mary Vance?" she said beseechingly.
Miss Cornelia stared blankly.
"Me! Take Mary Vance! Do you mean keep her?"
"Yes--keep her--adopt her," said Una eagerly, gaining courage now thatthe ice was broken. "Oh, Mrs. Elliott, PLEASE do. She doesn't want to goback to the asylum--she cries every night about it. She's so afraidof being sent to another hard place. And she's SO smart--there isn'tanything she can't do. I know you wouldn't be sorry if you took her."
"I never thought of such a thing," said Miss Cornelia rather helplessly.
"WON'T you think of it?" implored Una.
"But, dearie, I don't want help. I'm quite able to do all the work here.And I never thought I'd like to have a home girl if I did need help."
The light went out of Una's eyes. Her lips trembled. She sat down on herstool again, a pathetic little figure of disappointment, and began tocry.
"Don't--dearie--don't," exclaimed Miss Cornelia in distress. She couldnever bear to hurt a child. "I don't say I WON'T take her--but the ideais so new it has just kerflummuxed me. I must think it over."
"Mary is SO smart," said Una again.
"Humph! So I've heard. I've heard she swears, too. Is that true?"
"I've never heard her swear EXACTLY," faltered Una uncomfortably. "ButI'm afraid she COULD."
"I believe you! Does she always tell the truth?"
"I think she does, except when she's afraid of a whipping."
"And yet you want me to take her!"
"SOME ONE has to take her," sobbed Una. "SOME ONE has to look after her,Mrs. Elliott."
"That's true. Perhaps it IS my duty to do it," said Miss Cornelia witha sigh. "Well, I'll have to talk it over with Mr. Elliott. So don't sayanything about it just yet. Take another doughnut, dearie."
Una took it and ate it with a better appetite.
"I'm very fond of doughnuts," she confessed "Aunt Martha never makesany. But Miss Susan at Ingleside does, and sometimes she lets us havea plateful in Rainbow Valley. Do you know what I do when I'm hungry fordoughnuts and can't get any, Mrs. Elliott?"
"No, dearie. What?"
"I get out mother's old cook book and read the doughnut recipe--andthe other recipes. They sound SO nice. I always do that when I'mhungry--especially after we've had ditto for dinner. THEN I read thefried chicken and the roast goose recipes. Mother could make all thosenice things."
"Those manse children will starve to death yet if Mr. Meredith doesn'tget married," Miss Cornelia told her husband indignantly after Unahad gone. "And he won't--and what's to be done? And SHALL we take thisMary-creature, Marshall?"
"Yes, take her," said Marshall laconically.
"Just like a man," said his wife, despairingly. "'
Take her'--as if thatwas all. There are a hundred things to be considered, believe ME."
"Take her--and we'll consider them afterwards, Cornelia," said herhusband.
In the end Miss Cornelia did take her and went up to announce herdecision to the Ingleside people first.
"Splendid!" said Anne delightedly. "I've been hoping you would do thatvery thing, Miss Cornelia. I want that poor child to get a good home. Iwas a homeless little orphan just like her once."
"I don't think this Mary-creature is or ever will be much like you,"retorted Miss Cornelia gloomily. "She's a cat of another colour. Butshe's also a human being with an immortal soul to save. I've got ashorter catechism and a small tooth comb and I'm going to do my duty byher, now that I've set my hand to the plough, believe me."
Mary received the news with chastened satisfaction.
"It's better luck than I expected," she said.
"You'll have to mind your p's and q's with Mrs. Elliott," said Nan.
"Well, I can do that," flashed Mary. "I know how to behave when I wantto just as well as you, Nan Blythe."
"You mustn't use bad words, you know, Mary," said Una anxiously.
"I s'pose she'd die of horror if I did," grinned Mary, her white eyesshining with unholy glee over the idea. "But you needn't worry, Una.Butter won't melt in my mouth after this. I'll be all prunes andprisms."
"Nor tell lies," added Faith.
"Not even to get off from a whipping?" pleaded Mary.
"Mrs. Elliott will NEVER whip you--NEVER," exclaimed Di.
"Won't she?" said Mary skeptically. "If I ever find myself in a placewhere I ain't licked I'll think it's heaven all right. No fear of metelling lies then. I ain't fond of telling 'em--I'd ruther not, if itcomes to that."
The day before Mary's departure from the manse they had a picnic in herhonour in Rainbow Valley, and that evening all the manse childrengave her something from their scanty store of treasured things fora keepsake. Carl gave her his Noah's ark and Jerry his second bestjew's-harp. Faith gave her a little hairbrush with a mirror in the backof it, which Mary had always considered very wonderful. Una hesitatedbetween an old beaded purse and a gay picture of Daniel in the lion'sden, and finally offered Mary her choice. Mary really hankered after thebeaded purse, but she knew Una loved it, so she said,
"Give me Daniel. I'd rusher have it 'cause I'm partial to lions. Only Iwish they'd et Daniel up. It would have been more exciting."
At bedtime Mary coaxed Una to sleep with her.
"It's for the last time," she said, "and it's raining tonight, andI hate sleeping up there alone when it's raining on account of thatgraveyard. I don't mind it on fine nights, but a night like this I can'tsee anything but the rain pouring down on them old white stones, and thewind round the window sounds as if them dead people were trying to getin and crying 'cause they couldn't."
"I like rainy nights," said Una, when they were cuddled down together inthe little attic room, "and so do the Blythe girls."
"I don't mind 'em when I'm not handy to graveyards," said Mary. "If Iwas alone here I'd cry my eyes out I'd be so lonesome. I feel awful badto be leaving you all."
"Mrs. Elliott will let you come up and play in Rainbow Valley quiteoften I'm sure," said Una. "And you WILL be a good girl, won't you,Mary?"
"Oh, I'll try," sighed Mary. "But it won't be as easy for me to begood--inside, I mean, as well as outside--as it is for you. You hadn'tsuch scalawags of relations as I had."
"But your people must have had some good qualities as well as bad ones,"argued Una. "You must live up to them and never mind their bad ones."
"I don't believe they had any good qualities," said Mary gloomily. "Inever heard of any. My grandfather had money, but they say he was arascal. No, I'll just have to start out on my own hook and do the best Ican."
"And God will help you, you know, Mary, if you ask Him."
"I don't know about that."
"Oh, Mary. You know we asked God to get a home for you and He did."
"I don't see what He had to do with it," retorted Mary. "It was you putit into Mrs. Elliott's head."
"But God put it into her HEART to take you. All my putting it into herHEAD wouldn't have done any good if He hadn't."
"Well, there may be something in that," admitted Mary. "Mind you, Ihaven't got anything against God, Una. I'm willing to give Him achance. But, honest, I think He's an awful lot like your father--justabsent-minded and never taking any notice of a body most of the time,but sometimes waking up all of a suddent and being awful good and kindand sensible."
"Oh, Mary, no!" exclaimed horrified Una. "God isn't a bit like father--Imean He's a thousand times better and kinder."
"If He's as good as your father He'll do for me," said Mary. "When yourfather was talking to me I felt as if I never could be bad any more."
"I wish you'd talk to father about Him," sighed Una. "He can explain itall so much better than I can."
"Why, so I will, next time he wakes up," promised Mary. "That night hetalked to me in the study he showed me real clear that my praying didn'tkill Mrs. Wiley. My mind's been easy since, but I'm real cautious aboutpraying. I guess the old rhyme is the safest. Say, Una, it seems to meif one has to pray to anybody it'd be better to pray to the devil thanto God. God's good, anyhow so you say, so He won't do you any harm,but from all I can make out the devil needs to be pacified. I think thesensible way would be to say to HIM, 'Good devil, please don't tempt me.Just leave me alone, please.' Now, don't you?"
"Oh, no, no, Mary. I'm sure it couldn't be right to pray to the devil.And it wouldn't do any good because he's bad. It might aggravate him andhe'd be worse than ever."
"Well, as to this God-matter," said Mary stubbornly, "since you and Ican't settle it, there ain't no use in talking more about it until we'vea chanct to find out the rights of it. I'll do the best I can alone tillthen."
"If mother was alive she could tell us everything," said Una with asigh.
"I wisht she was alive," said Mary. "I don't know what's going to becomeof you youngsters when I'm gone. Anyhow, DO try and keep the house alittle tidy. The way people talks about it is scandalous. And the firstthing you know your father will be getting married again and then yournoses will be out of joint."
Una was startled. The idea of her father marrying again had neverpresented itself to her before. She did not like it and she lay silentunder the chill of it.
"Stepmothers are AWFUL creatures," Mary went on. "I could make yourblood run cold if I was to tell you all I know about 'em. The Wilsonkids across the road from Wiley's had a stepmother. She was just as badto 'em as Mrs. Wiley was to me. It'll be awful if you get a stepmother."
"I'm sure we won't," said Una tremulously. "Father won't marry anybodyelse."
"He'll be hounded into it, I expect," said Mary darkly. "All the oldmaids in the settlement are after him. There's no being up to them. Andthe worst of stepmothers is, they always set your father against you.He'd never care anything about you again. He'd always take her part andher children's part. You see, she'd make him believe you were all bad."
"I wish you hadn't told me this, Mary," cried Una. "It makes me feel sounhappy."
"I only wanted to warn you," said Mary, rather repentantly. "Of course,your father's so absent-minded he mightn't happen to think of gettingmarried again. But it's better to be prepared."
Long after Mary slept serenely little Una lay awake, her eyes smartingwith tears. On, how dreadful it would be if her father should marrysomebody who would make him hate her and Jerry and Faith and Carl! Shecouldn't bear it--she couldn't!
Mary had not instilled any poison of the kind Miss Cornelia had fearedinto the manse children's minds. Yet she had certainly contrived to do alittle mischief with the best of intentions. But she slept dreamlessly,while Una lay awake and the rain fell and the wind wailed around theold gray manse. And the Rev. John Meredith forgot to go to bed at allbecause he was absorbed in reading a life of St. Augustine. It was graydawn when he finished it and went up
stairs, wrestling with the problemsof two thousand years ago. The door of the girls' room was open and hesaw Faith lying asleep, rosy and beautiful. He wondered where Una was.Perhaps she had gone over to "stay all night" with the Blythe girls. Shedid this occasionally, deeming it a great treat. John Meredith sighed.He felt that Una's whereabouts ought not to be a mystery to him. Ceceliawould have looked after her better than that.
If only Cecelia were still with him! How pretty and gay she had been!How the old manse up at Maywater had echoed to her songs! And shehad gone away so suddenly, taking her laughter and music and leavingsilence--so suddenly that he had never quite got over his feeling ofamazement. How could SHE, the beautiful and vivid, have died?
The idea of a second marriage had never presented itself seriously toJohn Meredith. He had loved his wife so deeply that he believed he couldnever care for any woman again. He had a vague idea that before verylong Faith would be old enough to take her mother's place. Until then,he must do the best he could alone. He sighed and went to his room,where the bed was still unmade. Aunt Martha had forgotten it, and Maryhad not dared to make it because Aunt Martha had forbidden her to meddlewith anything in the minister's room. But Mr. Meredith did not noticethat it was unmade. His last thoughts were of St. Augustine.
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