PART THE FIRST
{OUR BOLD HEROINE}
'Twas midnight and the moon shone brightly over the snow, making it appear as though the white mantle of the earth were studded with diamonds.
Away upon the hill we can see an enormous mansion from which brilliant lights are streaming forth. One would think to see the house that an important event was taking place. It was not so, at least not within the earl's knowledge. This old earl, whose wife had long since died, was fond of show, so he always kept his large house lit up with many lights. It is said that it cost him more than $1,000 every year in oil and glass.
He spent much time and money upon his second daughter, indulging her every whim, although she took no notice of it. Helena was the cause of her father's greatest pride and the joy of the whole neighborhood. The people both rich and poor for many miles around looked up to her for help and were seldom disappointed.
Alas! There was a firstborn daughter also, the spiteful Myrtle. This girl was held in no great esteem, for her sour expression and willful temperament were to be avoided rather than sought out. Jealousy of her good sister was made clear in every sharp word and unkind action.
But let us now return to our heroine, for an important event was indeed taking place for her. Allow me to describe Helena.
By popular judgment she was not perhaps beautiful, but to some she was as lovely as a spring morning. She combed her auburn tresses smoothly back, which showed a full, broad forehead. Her cheeks were rosy red, making almost too great a contrast with the rest of her face, which was white as the snow that blanketed the fields. Her eyes were deep sapphire pools, too thoughtful and bright for common tastes.
Let us watch her now as she treads softly over the wintery terrain. Unbeknownst to Helena, her buttoned boots carry her down a path with many turns and brambles. But for now, her face is lit up, not with the moonlight alone but with the light of love and happiness. Yes, Helena was happy as she ventured out upon the first adventure of her life. For who is that beside her, carrying her case? 'Tis James and he whispers in her ear.
“Oh, my darling, will you return to live under your father's roof, or will you come away with me?”
To be continued …
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 8
AFTER LUNCHEON
I arrived from the Land of Dreams this morning with a collision, having received Violas elbow between my shoulder blades. I lay awake wondering why I feel so disheartened until Viola poked me to get dressed for church.
The Reverend Mr. Scott was very earnest this morning. His sermon was “How Will We Be When We Are Old?” I think his intention was to have us study our behaviour and our faith, so that we should grow old with grace. Instead I have been frightened silly that I will live my whole life on a hidden-away farm, ironing my collars and correcting spelling and not ever seeing a big city lit up with electricity or dancing until midnight or being kissed. How will that be when I am old? Having no memories to keep me company while I am waiting for God to take me? Even He will find I am too dull to bother with, and I shall go on living until I waste away to bones from boredom.
I had intended this year in Sellerton to be an adventure! I was to explore unknown places and to experience the unexpected! What has occurred but that I am transported only to another family, with chores and duties and petty arguments, not identical to my own, perhaps, but near enough to be confining. This will not do! It now becomes my purpose to discover an escapade….
AFTER THE TEA BUT BEFORE THE SUPPER …
Perhaps it takes only a little determination to change the course of one's life, for here on this very page I declared my yearning for novelty and already have I tripped across it! It came about in this manner: I went to the kitchen earlier, to borrow a needle from Mrs. Goodhand, as mine had jumped into a crack in the floor and hidden there. I heard Elizabeths cross voice as I entered, and thought at once to leave, but was seen already and could not depart naturally.
“Why must I go?” she complained. “I came only to fetch the soap for my mother. Mrs. Rattle is so peculiar! She speaks recklessly, as if to test me, and she's never grateful in the least for our donations.”
“We are being good neighbours,” said Mrs. Goodhand, reproving her niece. “I have baked the loaves and they await delivery.”
“Why need it be me?” asked Elizabeth as she noticed me in the doorway. “As long as the bread is delivered, why should Mable not be the do-gooder today?”
I was instantly of two minds. I had no wish to perform a task that Elizabeth found distasteful, but I could hear my mother's voice imploring me to “be always quick in doing what is right for others.”
“Is there an errand you would have done, Mrs. Goodhand?” I asked, ignoring Elizabeth's smirk of satisfaction. Mrs. Goodhand sighed and wiped her hands upon her apron front.
“There is, Mable, though I do not approve of Elizabeths reluctance.” She explained there is a widow lady of little means, living a mile off toward the town. Mrs. Goodhand makes to her a gift of corn bread every Sunday, though the other women of the church are not so openhanded.
“Because she's mad,” said Elizabeth. “Perfectly loony. And she does not go to church.”
“Not mad, I think,” said Mrs. Goodhand. “But nor is she wholesome.”
I felt a shiver climb my spine.
“There is nothing to fear.” Mrs. Goodhand saw me flinch and patted my arm. “She will not eat you. That is why you are bringing bread.” She used one of her few smiles and sent me to fetch my shawl. I took the bundle and went the way I was pointed, wondering at whom I should find. I expected a withered crone crouching behind brambles, waving a hawthorn cane and muttering dreadful maledictions.
Think, then, of my surprise when the door of a cottage called Silver Lining was opened by a woman only a few years older than Viola, perhaps five and twenty. She wore a most extraordinary ensemble her skirt coming only to her knees, with wide trousers underneath, gathered tight at the ankles. She wore slippers on her feet coloured the deepest red, as though she'd been wading in blood. She looked like the illustration of a Persian genie in a book, and not at all like a widow lady in a farm cottage in Ontario. It was her dark hair, unconfined and hanging loose about her face, that made me recollect the bicycle rider we had passed on our first night in Sellerton. This must be she!
“Did you think you were arriving at an exhibit, my dear?” she asked, raising one eyebrow high. “Or have you some purpose here other than to stare?”
I closed my mouth, which had gaped without my knowing, and opened it again to stammer, “I am seeking Mrs. Rattle. I am Mable Riley, from the Goodhand farm.”
She smiled then and glanced down upon her own self. “They did not warn you that I wore bloomers before they sent you here, Mable Riley?”
“Bloomers, ma'am?”
“My trousers, dear, made popular by Miss Amelia Bloomer and named for her. They are worn by women everywhere who are tired of dragging their skirts across the countryside.” She spun about and kicked her legs up with a look of naughty glee. “Are they not clever? I can move whichever way I will!”
They were clever, though most exotic, too. I could see at once why Mrs. Rattle had not joined the fold at Sellerton Methodist.
“I've brought you –” I stopped. This woman did not seem so needful of a neighbour's charity as the one I had imagined.
“Oh! You've brought the Christian bread!” Mrs. Rattle laughed aloud. “Tell me, Mable, are you another relation of Mrs. Goodhand? Like the truculent niece, Elizabeth?”
“No, ma'am. My sister and I are boarding there. My sister is the new schoolteacher, Miss Riley”
“Then I hope it will not offend you to know that my ducks are most partial to Mrs. Goodhand's Holy Loaves?”
“Your ducks, ma'am?”
“When none other of the ladies will even nod in my direction, Mrs. Goodhand is so good as to bake me corn bread every Sunday to perform her charitable duty, is that not right?”
I nodded.<
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“How cruel, then, to say that her loaves are too dry! They crumble to sawdust and parch the throat. But my ducklings love them and nibble them up in a frenzy!”
She gently pried the bundle from beneath my arm.
“Do come again, Mable Riley,” she said, closing the door with a teasing smile.
I was left looking at the little painted sign above the knocker that said SILVER LINING in white script upon a blue background.
Now I must devise a way to visit her again, without allowing Elizabeth to know that I desire it, else she might thwart me. Common sense tells me that Mrs. Rattle is not a godly woman, or even an admirable one. And yet I am drawn to her as to no one else in Sellerton. Already I have smiled too often at her use of “truculent” when describing Elizabeth. Does this mean I am weak and easily corrupted? I feel I have eaten a cake all to myself and must have yet another taste!
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, PAST 10:00 P.M.
Why has it fallen to me, I wonder, to soak the vegetable garden, feed the chickens, and scrape Mr. Goodhand's boots each evening? Nonetheless, I did all my chores quickly so that I might study for tomorrow's spelling bee. I am determined to oust Elizabeth from first place!
Shortly after supper, I went to “Endeavour” with Viola, Elizabeth, and Alfred. It is the custom hereabouts to visit the church on Thursday evenings for an extra lesson and choir practice. Viola is in the choir, as is expected of the teacher. I do not sing. My sister says I am no asset to a choir, unless it were composed of frogs! Alfred, however, is revealed to have a melodious baritone voice.
During the walk home, as the evening advanced to darkness, he and Viola continued to rehearse the hymns learned at Endeavour. Elizabeth and I dallied behind, not wishing such a serenade. It was the first occasion of our being alone together, and one might guess I did not take pleasure in it. On the contrary, for I wished to question her on the subject of Mrs. Rattle.
“Where has she lived before now?” I asked. “Or did she always live hereabouts?”
“She moved into that cottage only in June. They say she may have lived in the United States or some say France.”
“And what of Mr. Rattle? Is he long dead?”
“She has never mentioned him,” said Elizabeth. “I confess I have wondered that myself. My mother says no widow who loved her husband could wear such nonsense.”
“Perhaps he traveled to the Klondike River in search of gold and froze to death on a mountain pass, leaving her with no support. Or perhaps he died while away in Africa, fighting the Boers? And was honoured with a medal! Or was gravely ill and nursed to the end by her tenderness? Or was murdered, perhaps, by a jealous lover in a fit of unharnessed desire!”
Elizabeth stopped on the spot and stared at me with such a look as to bring my imagination to a halt.
“Only that she is peculiar,” I mumbled, “as you said yourself. One would not expect a person such as she in a place such as this.”
“No, indeed,” said Elizabeth. “Nor will she be present for long, if Mrs. Forrest has anything to do with it.”
“Has she offended in some way?”
“She has … opinions.” Elizabeths voice dropped to a whisper. “And does not withhold them.” Crickets chirruped at the side of the path, and “Rock of Ages” wafted back from Viola and Alfred far ahead.
Opinions. The very word, when spoken in this way, was chilling to the bone, as though it were some dread disease and Mrs. Rattle too far gone for salvation. I said no more and hurried up my pace.
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13
Grrr! Viola has had one of her dismal ideas. We are to have two teams for the spelling bee each Friday so that we must depend on one another to win! My own ability becomes irrelevant! It is my good fortune to have Tommy instead of Adeline, who stumbles dreadfully. However, I have Cathy Forrest, who seems to misspell intentionally so that she might weep explosively for all to pity her. I am also blighted with the near-idiot Dottie Blau, in Grade Three. I will be drilling the younger ones endlessly if we're to have any hope of winning. To-day was only a demonstration match, but it still is sad to record that we did not have the superior score. Thankfully, it does not count toward the total.
The worst part is that Viola has assigned us names! I am captain of the Cheerful Commas and Elizabeth is captain of the Happy Hyphens! Grrr! Why not the Addled Apostrophes? Or the Quacking Mad Quotation Marks???
For the first mile of the walk home, I wheedled and coaxed as best I could that Viola might change the plan. She ignored my pleas, and for the second mile I refused to speak to her. But then we came home to such a fuss that I must feel sorry for her again!
Upon our arrival, Mrs. Goodhand was serving tea to Mrs. Forrest on the veranda. As Mrs. Goodhand is not the sort of woman to entertain in the middle of a workday, we knew as we approached there was a serious matter at hand.
“I hope no one has died,” said Viola.
It soon became clear that we were the object of the visit, for Mrs. Forrest pushed her teacup aside, leaving it tipped in her hurry, and struggled to her feet, very red of face. Mrs. Goodhand made an effort to soothe her, but we were on the porch steps by now and the fuss had begun.
“I'm surprised you'd have them in the house, Hazel,” said Mrs. Forrest, pinning Viola with a fiery eye. “You may be overcharitable with certain women, but I've never known you to have time for downright hussies, particularly where your Alfred is involved.”
“Now, Suzanna,” said Mrs. Goodhand.
My thoughts seized upon Mrs. Forrest's name being Suzanna and far too pretty for her, but she was speaking again and jabbing her finger in Viola's direction.
“It is my daily obligation to set a fine example for my precious Cathy. Is it right that I should send her off to be instructed by a mere girl, with morals so loose they're falling out like old teeth?”
“Now, now, these are good girls. It must be a misunderstanding.”
“What is the trouble?” asked Viola. “What is it you think I've done?”
“Think? As if I didn't hear it with my own two ears!”
“What, Mrs. Forrest? What did you hear?”
“I heard singing! Don't you deny it! As I traveled home from the church last night! God's own hymns being la-de-dahed like common music hall songs. And she wasn't alone, Hazel! That's the worst of it. She was accompanied by your son, Alfred, whose voice I would recognize anywhere. I'd not have believed it of him, but hussies like her take pleasure in leading good boys astray. Did you know they were out together? In the dark?”
She swayed a little in her temper and sat with a thump into her chair, fanning her neck with a limp glove. Why did Viola not defend herself but instead hold her breath?
“Your accusations are ridiculous,” I said, tapping my foot on the step in my impatience.
“Mable!” Viola's hand reached out to hush me, but I kept on.
“They weren't alone! We all walked home together from Endeavor! Elizabeth and I were only a few steps behind. Surely God is as pleased to hear Viola singing under the open heavens as He is in a church. It was lovely, like a ghost chorus.”
Mrs. Forrest glowered at Mrs. Goodhand, as if she were responsible in some way. “How do you tolerate this insolence?”
Mrs. Goodhand seemed to make up her mind about something. She waved her hand at Viola and me, to shoo us away. We shuffled toward the kitchen door but did not enter.
“I will speak to Alfred,” she said to Mrs. Forrest. “I will hear the whole story from every person. There is no need for you to be overly heated on the matter, Suzanna. I perceive no harm to Cathy yet.”
“Am I to wait until the harm is done, then?” Mrs. Forrest stood up again, glaring at Viola as her hands clawed at the table for support. “You may be certain that I am ever vigilant. You are being watched at every brazen turn.”
“I shall keep it in mind, Mrs. Forrest,” replied Viola, admirably without a breath of impudence. “I thank you for instructing us as to local custom.” She swept into the
house, leaving me to hear Mrs. Forrest erupt anew.
“Local custom? When is moral behaviour a matter of local custom?”
Mrs. Goodhand accompanied the visitor through the gate.
We shelled the peas without a word passing between us. Viola's cheeks were quite pale until bedtime, when washing brought the colour back. It was not until then that I dared to ask her why she'd held her tongue so firmly.
“It will do no one a lick of good if I lose my place,” she said quietly. “The children need a teacher and Mama needs my salary.”
“What about you, Viola? What do you need? Is it not tempting to tell that nosy old bat what a horror her ‘precious’ Cathy is already?”
“Temptation is put before us in order to be overcome,” she replied in her most prim and aggravating voice.
She made one remark further, as we pulled up the eiderdown: “If a girl's reputation is so fragile as this, what must it be like for a woman who has truly fallen?”
Ambler's Corners
September 13, 1901
My dearest Mable,
Your story has been the saviour of our lunch hours this week and kept us guessing all manner of outcomes! Please send another chapter at once! We have been suffering inclement weather, so our meals at school are taken indoors, making your entertainment even more welcome. I worry, however, that it is so wicked. Please make Helena repent.
Lindsey says your brother Arthur is paying his attentions to her sister, Laura. Do you know the truth of that? He has had a haircut that shows white spots on either jaw where the sun had not touched! He may want to wait a few days before calling on Laura Melbourne until his sideburns have grown a little! It is daring enough that he thinks a banker's daughter will love a fruit farmer's son, let alone one with a labourer's sunburn!
We are beginning algebra. Mr. Gilfallen has no patience for idleness or diversion (as you well know!) and pinned Bonnie's braid to the wall when she did not provide the correct answer. But how could she? We've only just begun the algebraic theories! Is your sister teaching you the same? I wonder if you will be behind us or ahead when it comes time for the examinations?
Mable Riley Page 3
