Rainbow Valley

by L. M. Montgomery

  CHAPTER XIV. MRS. ALEC DAVIS MAKES A CALL

  John Meredith walked slowly home. At first he thought a little aboutRosemary, but by the time he reached Rainbow Valley he had forgotten allabout her and was meditating on a point regarding German theology whichEllen had raised. He passed through Rainbow Valley and knew it not. Thecharm of Rainbow Valley had no potency against German theology. When hereached the manse he went to his study and took down a bulky volume inorder to see which had been right, he or Ellen. He remained immersed inits mazes until dawn, struck a new trail of speculation and pursued itlike a sleuth hound for the next week, utterly lost to the world, hisparish and his family. He read day and night; he forgot to go to hismeals when Una was not there to drag him to them; he never thought aboutRosemary or Ellen again. Old Mrs. Marshall, over-harbour, was very illand sent for him, but the message lay unheeded on his desk and gathereddust. Mrs. Marshall recovered but never forgave him. A young couple cameto the manse to be married and Mr. Meredith, with unbrushed hair, incarpet slippers and faded dressing gown, married them. To be sure, hebegan by reading the funeral service to them and got along as far as"ashes to ashes and dust to dust" before he vaguely suspected thatsomething was wrong.

  "Dear me," he said absently, "that is strange--very strange."

  The bride, who was very nervous, began to cry. The bridegroom, who wasnot in the least nervous, giggled.

  "Please, sir, I think you're burying us instead of marrying us," hesaid.

  "Excuse me," said Mr. Meredith, as it it did not matter much. He turnedup the marriage service and got through with it, but the bride neverfelt quite properly married for the rest of her life.

  He forgot his prayer-meeting again--but that did not matter, for it wasa wet night and nobody came. He might even have forgotten his Sundayservice if it had not been for Mrs. Alec Davis. Aunt Martha came in onSaturday afternoon and told him that Mrs. Davis was in the parlour andwanted to see him. Mr. Meredith sighed. Mrs. Davis was the only woman inGlen St. Mary church whom he positively detested. Unfortunately, shewas also the richest, and his board of managers had warned Mr. Meredithagainst offending her. Mr. Meredith seldom thought of such a worldlymatter as his stipend; but the managers were more practical. Also, theywere astute. Without mentioning money, they contrived to instil intoMr. Meredith's mind a conviction that he should not offend Mrs. Davis.Otherwise, he would likely have forgotten all about her as soon as AuntMartha had gone out. As it was, he turned down his Ewald with a feelingof annoyance and went across the hall to the parlour.

  Mrs. Davis was sitting on the sofa, looking about her with an air ofscornful disapproval.

  What a scandalous room! There were no curtains on the window. Mrs. Davisdid not know that Faith and Una had taken them down the day before touse as court trains in one of their plays and had forgotten to put themup again, but she could not have accused those windows more fiercelyif she had known. The blinds were cracked and torn. The pictures on thewalls were crooked; the rugs were awry; the vases were full of fadedflowers; the dust lay in heaps--literally in heaps.

  "What are we coming to?" Mrs. Davis asked herself, and then primmed upher unbeautiful mouth.

  Jerry and Carl had been whooping and sliding down the banisters as shecame through the hall. They did not see her and continued whooping andsliding, and Mrs. Davis was convinced they did it on purpose. Faith'spet rooster ambled through the hall, stood in the parlour doorway andlooked at her. Not liking her looks, he did not venture in. Mrs. Davisgave a scornful sniff. A pretty manse, indeed, where roosters paradedthe halls and stared people out of countenance.

  "Shoo, there," commanded Mrs. Davis, poking her flounced,changeable-silk parasol at him.

  Adam shooed. He was a wise rooster and Mrs. Davis had wrung the necksof so many roosters with her own fair hands in the course of her fiftyyears that an air of the executioner seemed to hang around her. Adamscuttled through the hall as the minister came in.

  Mr. Meredith still wore slippers and dressing gown, and his dark hairstill fell in uncared-for locks over his high brow. But he looked thegentleman he was; and Mrs. Alec Davis, in her silk dress and beplumedbonnet, and kid gloves and gold chain looked the vulgar, coarse-souledwoman she was. Each felt the antagonisn of the other's personality. Mr.Meredith shrank, but Mrs. Davis girded up her loins for the fray. Shehad come to the manse to propose a certain thing to the minister andshe meant to lose no time in proposing it. She was going to do hima favour--a great favour--and the sooner he was made aware of it thebetter. She had been thinking about it all summer and had come to adecision at last. This was all that mattered, Mrs. Davis thought. Whenshe decided a thing it WAS decided. Nobody else had any say in thematter. That had always been her attitude. When she had made her mind upto marry Alec Davis she had married him and that was the end to it. Alechad never known how it happened, but what odds? So in this case--Mrs.Davis had arranged everything to her own satisfaction. Now it onlyremained to inform Mr. Meredith.

  "Will you please shut that door?" said Mrs. Davis, unprimming hermouth slightly to say it, but speaking with asperity. "I have somethingimportant to say, and I can't say it with that racket in the hall."

  Mr. Meredith shut the door meekly. Then he sat down before Mrs. Davis.He was not wholly aware of her yet. His mind was still wrestling withEwald's arguments. Mrs. Davis sensed this detachment and it annoyed her.

  "I have come to tell you, Mr. Meredith," she said aggressively, "that Ihave decided to adopt Una."

  "To--adopt--Una!" Mr. Meredith gazed at her blankly, not understandingin the least.

  "Yes. I've been thinking it over for some time. I have often thought ofadopting a child, since my husband's death. But it seemed so hard toget a suitable one. It is very few children I would want to take into MYhome. I wouldn't think of taking a home child--some outcast of the slumsin all probability. And there is hardly ever any other child to be got.One of the fishermen down at the harbour died last fall and left sixyoungsters. They tried to get me to take one, but I soon gave themto understand that I had no idea of adopting trash like that. Theirgrandfather stole a horse. Besides, they were all boys and I wanted agirl--a quiet, obedient girl that I could train up to be a lady. Unawill suit me exactly. She would be a nice little thing if she wasproperly looked after--so different from Faith. I would never dream ofadopting Faith. But I'll take Una and I'll give her a good home, andup-bringing, Mr. Meredith, and if she behaves herself I'll leave her allmy money when I die. Not one of my own relatives shall have a cent of itin any case, I'm determined on that. It was the idea of aggravating themthat set me to thinking of adopting a child as much as anything in thefirst place. Una shall be well dressed and educated and trained, Mr.Meredith, and I shall give her music and painting lessons and treat heras if she was my own."

  Mr. Meredith was wide enough awake by this time. There was a faint flushin his pale cheek and a dangerous light in his fine dark eyes. Was thiswoman, whose vulgarity and consciousness of money oozed out of her atevery pore, actually asking him to give her Una--his dear little wistfulUna with Cecilia's own dark-blue eyes--the child whom the dying motherhad clasped to her heart after the other children had been led weepingfrom the room. Cecilia had clung to her baby until the gates of deathhad shut between them. She had looked over the little dark head to herhusband.

  "Take good care of her, John," she had entreated. "She is so small--andsensitive. The others can fight their way--but the world will hurt HER.Oh, John, I don't know what you and she are going to do. You both needme so much. But keep her close to you--keep her close to you."

  These had been almost her last words except a few unforgettable ones forhim alone. And it was this child whom Mrs. Davis had coolly announcedher intention of taking from him. He sat up straight and looked at Mrs.Davis. In spite of the worn dressing gown and the frayed slippers therewas something about him that made Mrs. Davis feel a little of the oldreverence for "the cloth" in which she had been brought up. After all,there WAS a certain divinity hedging a minister, even
a poor, unworldly,abstracted one.

  "I thank you for your kind intentions, Mrs. Davis," said Mr. Meredithwith a gentle, final, quite awful courtesy, "but I cannot give you mychild."

  Mrs. Davis looked blank. She had never dreamed of his refusing.

  "Why, Mr. Meredith," she said in astonishment. "You must be cr--youcan't mean it. You must think it over--think of all the advantages I cangive her."

  "There is no need to think it over, Mrs. Davis. It is entirely out ofthe question. All the worldly advantages it is in your power to bestowon her could not compensate for the loss of a father's love and care. Ithank you again--but it is not to be thought of."

  Disappointment angered Mrs. Davis beyond the power of old habit tocontrol. Her broad red face turned purple and her voice trembled.

  "I thought you'd be only too glad to let me have her," she sneered.

  "Why did you think that?" asked Mr. Meredith quietly.

  "Because nobody ever supposed you cared anything about any of yourchildren," retorted Mrs. Davis contemptuously. "You neglect themscandalously. It is the talk of the place. They aren't fed and dressedproperly, and they're not trained at all. They have no more manners thana pack of wild Indians. You never think of doing your duty as a father.You let a stray child come here among them for a fortnight and nevertook any notice of her--a child that swore like a trooper I'm told. YOUwouldn't have cared if they'd caught small-pox from her. And Faith madean exhibition of herself getting up in preaching and making that speech!And she rid a pig down the street--under your very eyes I understand.The way they act is past belief and you never lift a finger to stop themor try to teach them anything. And now when I offer one of them a goodhome and good prospects you refuse it and insult me. A pretty fatheryou, to talk of loving and caring for your children!"

  "That will do, woman!" said Mr. Meredith. He stood up and looked at Mrs.Davis with eyes that made her quail. "That will do," he repeated. "Idesire to hear no more, Mrs. Davis. You have said too much. It may bethat I have been remiss in some respects in my duty as a parent, but itis not for you to remind me of it in such terms as you have used. Let ussay good afternoon."

  Mrs. Davis did not say anything half so amiable as good afternoon, butshe took her departure. As she swept past the minister a large, plumptoad, which Carl had secreted under the lounge, hopped out almost underher feet. Mrs. Davis gave a shriek and in trying to avoid treading onthe awful thing, lost her balance and her parasol. She did not exactlyfall, but she staggered and reeled across the room in a very undignifiedfashion and brought up against the door with a thud that jarred her fromhead to foot. Mr. Meredith, who had not seen the toad, wondered if shehad been attacked with some kind of apoplectic or paralytic seizure,and ran in alarm to her assistance. But Mrs. Davis, recovering her feet,waved him back furiously.

  "Don't you dare to touch me," she almost shouted. "This is some moreof your children's doings, I suppose. This is no fit place for a decentwoman. Give me my umbrella and let me go. I'll never darken the doors ofyour manse or your church again."

  Mr. Meredith picked up the gorgeous parasol meekly enough and gave it toher. Mrs. Davis seized it and marched out. Jerry and Carl had given upbanister sliding and were sitting on the edge of the veranda with Faith.Unfortunately, all three were singing at the tops of their healthy youngvoices "There'll be a hot time in the old town to-night." Mrs. Davisbelieved the song was meant for her and her only. She stopped and shookher parasol at them.

  "Your father is a fool," she said, "and you are three young varmintsthat ought to be whipped within an inch of your lives."

  "He isn't," cried Faith. "We're not," cried the boys. But Mrs. Davis wasgone.

  "Goodness, isn't she mad!" said Jerry. "And what is a 'varmint' anyhow?"

  John Meredith paced up and down the parlour for a few minutes; then hewent back to his study and sat down. But he did not return to his Germantheology. He was too grievously disturbed for that. Mrs. Davis hadwakened him up with a vengeance. WAS he such a remiss, careless fatheras she had accused him of being? HAD he so scandalously neglected thebodily and spiritual welfare of the four little motherless creaturesdependent on him? WERE his people talking of it as harshly as Mrs. Davishad declared? It must be so, since Mrs. Davis had come to ask for Una inthe full and confident belief that he would hand the child over to heras unconcernedly and gladly as one might hand over a strayed, unwelcomekitten. And, if so, what then?

  John Meredith groaned and resumed his pacing up and down the dusty,disordered room. What could he do? He loved his children as deeply asany father could and he knew, past the power of Mrs. Davis or any of herilk, to disturb his conviction, that they loved him devotedly. But WAShe fit to have charge of them? He knew--none better--his weaknesses andlimitations. What was needed was a good woman's presence and influenceand common sense. But how could that be arranged? Even were he ableto get such a housekeeper it would cut Aunt Martha to the quick. Shebelieved she could still do all that was meet and necessary. He couldnot so hurt and insult the poor old woman who had been so kind to himand his. How devoted she had been to Cecilia! And Cecilia had askedhim to be very considerate of Aunt Martha. To be sure, he suddenlyremembered that Aunt Martha had once hinted that he ought to marryagain. He felt she would not resent a wife as she would a housekeeper.But that was out of the question. He did not wish to marry--he didnot and could not care for anyone. Then what could he do? It suddenlyoccurred to him that he would go over to Ingleside and talk over hisdifficulties with Mrs. Blythe. Mrs. Blythe was one of the few women henever felt shy or tongue-tied with. She was always so sympathetic andrefreshing. It might be that she could suggest some solution of hisproblems. And even if she could not Mr. Meredith felt that he neededa little decent human companionship after his dose of Mrs.Davis--something to take the taste of her out of his soul.

  He dressed hurriedly and ate his supper less abstractedly than usual. Itoccurred to him that it was a poor meal. He looked at his children; theywere rosy and healthy looking enough--except Una, and she had never beenvery strong even when her mother was alive. They were all laughing andtalking--certainly they seemed happy. Carl was especially happy becausehe had two most beautiful spiders crawling around his supper plate.Their voices were pleasant, their manners did not seem bad, they wereconsiderate of and gentle to one another. Yet Mrs. Davis had said theirbehaviour was the talk of the congregation.

  As Mr. Meredith went through his gate Dr. Blythe and Mrs. Blythe drovepast on the road that led to Lowbridge. The minister's face fell. Mrs.Blythe was going away--there was no use in going to Ingleside. Andhe craved a little companionship more than ever. As he gazed ratherhopelessly over the landscape the sunset light struck on a window of theold West homestead on the hill. It flared out rosily like a beacon ofgood hope. He suddenly remembered Rosemary and Ellen West. He thoughtthat he would relish some of Ellen's pungent conversation. He thought itwould be pleasant to see Rosemary's slow, sweet smile and calm,heavenly blue eyes again. What did that old poem of Sir Philip Sidney'ssay?--"continual comfort in a face"--that just suited her. And he neededcomfort. Why not go and call? He remembered that Ellen had asked him todrop in sometimes and there was Rosemary's book to take back--he oughtto take it back before he forgot. He had an uneasy suspicion that therewere a great many books in his library which he had borrowed at sundrytimes and in divers places and had forgotten to take back. It was surelyhis duty to guard against that in this case. He went back into hisstudy, got the book, and plunged downward into Rainbow Valley.