Jimmy Fender asked if I knew of your address. I said I would discover if you would like to receive a letter from him. (Or are the handsome Browns still too distracting by far?)
With fond wishes,
Your friend,
Hattie Summers
PART THE SECOND
{A TOO HASTY DEPARTURE}
James's breath upon Helena's ear tickled as he whispered to her. “Will you come with me, Beloved?”
“If I go with you, I succumb to the temptations I have always sought to resist,” she cried.
“Yes, my dear,” he said, “but truly 'tis past time to suffer a change of heart. Your father will wonder already not to see you by his left hand at supper.”
So on they sped, leaving their tracks in the velvety snow as a traveler on the desert sands. The nearest railway station was about a mile. To this they hastily went, with Helena clutching her portmanteau full of jewels and some moneys for fare and other necessary expenses.
Did it not occur to our heroine to wonder why 'twas she who paid out the money? No, indeed, not yet, for still she looked upon James's bright eyes and twirling mustache with great affection.
As the train pulled away from the station, Helena spied Mr. Edwards, the stationmaster, waving his handkerchief in farewell. He was a man she had known since childhood, always with a kind word and a striped peppermint. Helena felt a tearing in her heart as she left all she knew and loved behind her. Such scenes, once imprinted upon our memories, will not so easily be erased. Helena spent a very wakeful night.
James, however, was dreaming of the future that he hoped to have. As we shall see, James's purpose for carrying Helena from her father's arms was a double one. Let us watch him. He is not the man he appears.
As the night grew deeper, Mr. Edwards also was unable to set his mind at rest, for he had witnessed Helena's companion and was not pleased. Though his opinion of the earl's other daughter was a low one, he resolved to speak with her on the morrow.
To be continued …
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15
I did not hear a word of the sermon this morning, except to know its title, “How Best to Secure Our Place in Heaven.” I am certain it was edifying, but I had my mind taken with other things, such as Mrs. Rattle and how best to secure a visit there to-day.
I need not have worried, for Mrs. Goodhand spoke with me as we came home from the service, asking if I would like to be the messenger again. I hastily agreed to do the errand. Two o'clock found me standing on the doorstep of Silver Lining cottage.
Mrs. Rattle was dressed again in her “bloomers,” with a shirtwaist of scarlet, giving the impression of a British soldier at ease. When she answered my knock, I held out the bundle from Mrs. Goodhand.
“Will you come in to-day, Mable Riley?” she asked, taking the loaf.
“I had better not,” I said. I felt that Mrs. Goodhand would not approve of me carrying her charity past the door. But perhaps she could not complain if I helped put it to use under God's own sky? “May I see your ducks instead?”
Mrs. Rattle knew at once my thinking, for she laughed a hearty laugh and led me behind the cottage, where she has built a little duck pen using dead tree branches knit together to form a “briar patch” fence. There is a small pond at the bottom of a grassy incline, and the ducks paddled about most contentedly.
Mrs. Rattle made a queer clucking noise in her throat and was soon surrounded by her flock. I helped to unwrap Mrs. Goodhand's corn loaf, and it crumbled immediately into duck-sized morsels. What a party they had, pecking and quacking and edging one another out of the way with their floppy feet.
I was sorry when they had finished their share, for it meant my visit was over for to-day. Mrs. Rattle escorted me back to the road, speaking only to admire the maple trees, beginning to dress themselves in their autumn golds.
“The name of your cottage is a pretty one,” I said before taking my leave. “How did you think of it?”
Mrs. Rattle tilted her head and began to recite in a low voice.
“Was I deceiv'd, or did a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night?
“It is by John Milton,” she said, “From Comus, an epic poem.”
“What does it mean, exactly?” I asked.
“To me it means that my little cottage is a spot of brightness in a dark world,” she said, looking away over the rolling meadow.
I hovered for a moment between good manners and curiosity.
“Is the world so very dark?” I asked.
Her eyes came back to rest on mine, gray like a rainy pond.
“I have often wondered whether children should be warned of what lies ahead,” she said. “Girls, in particular, are forced to don a heavy harness without much preparation.”
Aha! I thought. One of her opinions! I recollected Elizabeths hushed voice.
“Would it be better to arrive on the doorstep of womanhood trained to do battle? Or should children remain unfettered so long as they are able?”
“I don't know,” I stammered as she seemed to pause for a reply. “I'm not sure I understand what we should be fighting for?”
“You will be fighting to be heard, Mable Riley” Her voice lifted. “You will be fighting for the right to vote, as men do. You will be fighting to end injustice against women in the workplace. You will be fighting for a voice!”
She raised a fist and clicked her heels and gave me a triumphant salute before closing the door of her cottage. I felt a giggle rising in my throat and ran like a rabbit down the road before my laughter could escape me.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 16
The news from the United States is sad. President McKinley died on Saturday, the strain upon his heart too much to pursue recovery.
Vice President Theodore Roosevelt has hurried back from his holiday to become the twenty-sixth president of the United States of America. Sir Wilfrid Laurier, our Canadian prime minister, said he “received the news with keen regret.”
Even the king sent a telegram:
MOST TRULY DO I SYMPATHISE WITH YOU AND THE WHOLE AMERICAN NATION AT THE LOSS OF YOUR DISTINGUISHED AND EVER TO BE REGRETTED PRESIDENT.
EDWARD REX
The newspaper reports that Mrs. McKinley is bearing up well, but whatever does that mean? If she truly loved him, she must be distraught beyond measure. When I am married, I hope I will not “bear up well” if a ruthless killer shoots my husband. I hope to love so deeply that I will tear out the hair from my head and hurl myself at walls to distract from the pain within.
Did Mama not cry every night, with the quilt pulled high to muffle the sound? Though by day, it's true, she bore up well. There was too much work to be done and babies to care for.
It makes me wonder again about Mrs. Rattle's loss. Did she love her husband? As she never mentions him, does this mean she is bearing up well? Or has she gone mad with grief? Her proclamations about battling women could be a symptom of her affliction. I am determined to discover the truth.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17
I have not told Viola what I learned of Mrs. Rattle's convictions. Whether this is because she might sneer or that she might forbid me to visit again, I am not certain.
I find I look forward to Mr. Goodhand's comments upon the news in the Stratford Daily Beacon. I am discovering that hearing another's convictions on a subject helps to form one's own, whether in agreement or in opposition.
“PERSONAL AND SOCIAL NOTES”
he read this evening.
“Bright Creek Cheese factory is hiring more labour for the busy autumn season. Applicants should inquire to Mr. Francis Forrest, manager.
“Humph,” said Mr. Goodhand. “His profits are increasing while his milk order stays the same?
“Joseph Power, the capable and obliging milk hauler, has completed his contract this fall. His many friends hope to see him on the route next summer.
“If he can manage to stay out of the whiskey on the evening run, we'll be happy enough to see him.
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“A meeting of the Ladies Reading Circle will take place on Sunday afternoon at the home of Miss Thyra Robertson. All ladies are welcome. Sandwiches will be served.
“Bad enough to waste time reading a book,” said Mr. Goodhand. “Let alone having tea parties to waste more time talking about it.”
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18
When I open the reading primer each afternoon, I shudder with dread. We spend an hour in dreary woe, listening to one child after another read from the Saunders' New Ontario School Reader, book 1:
“Ann may sell a bun.
Sue may buy a bun.
Dick may sell a gun.
Tom may buy a gun.
Sal may sell a cake.
Lil may buy a cake.
Nick may sell a rake.
Nell may buy a rake.”
And so on … The lessons have been written as a sleeping spell. More than once I have given Peter or Ellen a jiggle to wake them up. Viola is most impatient when she hears their efforts to read aloud.
I feel very sorry for little Peter Rubens, Adeline's younger brother. His right arm is broken and bandaged from a fall. “Off the barn roof,” he says, though he is only just seven and I wonder that he would be allowed to climb so high.
Frank is the son of Viola's foe, Mrs. Forrest, and brother to Cathy. Frank will not stop scratching, and I am quite sure he is flea infested. He claims to sleep with two dogs upon his bed. One of the dogs must sleep across his head, to muffle his father's snoring.
My girls are Ellen and Irene. If only Ellen could keep her finger from her nose, she would be a great deal more appealing. Irene has finally stopped crying for her mama every morning and now cries when it is time for dismissal instead. She has the fairest skin forever smeared with ink, however I try. Her mother has written a letter to Viola requesting that Irene be permitted to use only a pencil.
Ambler's Corners
September 17, 1901
My dearest Mable,
Your second letter came upon the tail of the first and was considerably entertaining. How I chuckled over your encounter with the mad suffragist Mrs. Rattle! Oh, that I had been with you to roll our eyes and egg her on! We might have drawn yet more lunacy from her and had “opinions” to divert us for many a day. You must discover more about her mysterious past and vanished husband. Does she seem to you like a murderess?
As for poor Helena's plight, it is quite as difficult to await the fictional outcome as the true! Write another chapter at once!
I have a small romance to report at this end, and it involves a person near and dear to you. Have you guessed? Your brother Arthur is seen every evening visiting Laura Melbourne, sitting on her veranda, or once even taking in laundry from the clothesline when it began to rain all of a sudden! Very intimate, think you not?
School is much the same as it always was, except that you are not here, chattering in my ear and driving Mr. Gilfallen to distraction. We had our first arithmetic quiz to-day. I missed only one question that I know of. You, most probably, would have had a perfect score. The one good thing about your absence is that I will have the opportunity to stand first upon occasion.
Bonnie and Stella are in dreadful trouble for using playing cards in the yard. You know how Mr. Gilfallen disapproves of gambling. We have yet to hear of their punishment. I know not what to think of the matter. I wish I could hear your opinion.
That's all for tonight, my dear friend.
Affectionately
Hattie Summers
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
I have been thinking that 1901 is a sad year for the world, with two great leaders having died.
First, Queen Victoria, in January. Mrs. Goodhand has kept a scrapbook since she was a young girl, presenting every notice and picture she ever found of the queen, including many of the funeral. Of course, Victoria was very old. I suppose with eighty-two years' worth of accomplishments, her thoughts will be occupied for eternity in Heaven. If one has not lived a full life, one might waste time in Heaven regretting the brevity of one's earthly hours, which is not what Heaven is for.
President McKinley will be busy in Heaven trying to forgive his assassin and perhaps praying for his wife to bear up well. Something I am curious about is this: Once a person is in Heaven, does he indeed watch over his family and other worldly acquaintances? As one might watch a village street through the parlour window? And are there shutters to open and close?
I ponder this because I wonder how my father passes his days in Heaven. Does he know we miss him? Does he look upon us wistfully also knowing (dare I say it?) that we miss him less as the months and years go by? There are times when I wish that my father could be witness to my life. When I recite well at school or finish my chores and help the little ones finish theirs.
More often, however (and I write this in very small letters that no one should ever read it), I admit that I should be mortified or ashamed to think that my every action is on display. I am not wicked or lazy, but I do not want my father (or my mother or Viola or any other person) to see me as I travel through my day.
For instance, on the subject of boys … How greatly it would affect me to imagine my own father watching every encounter! Both Brown boys spoke to me to-day, one after the other. If it does not sound too vain, I venture that they had between them a dare to do so!
Joseph caught me first, as I walked back to the classroom after eating my apples and cheese. His step fell in with mine and he grinned at me sideways before checking over his shoulder where his brother stood with Tommy
Thomas. I pretended not to note that we had an audience and tossed my braid most charmingly.
“Hey” said Joseph.
“Hey yourself,” said I. “Am I a horse and wanting hay?”
“Uh, no,” said he, then took a great swallow as if to make himself more brave. “I am to say … I mean … I was to ask you … I mean …” He glanced around once more. “Could you just nod,” he whispered, “and not mind that there's no question spoke aloud?”
We were by now at the door, and I stopped with my foot upon the lowest step.
“No,” I said, shaking my head, “I cannot agree without knowing why.” As soon as my head did move, the hoots began from the watching boys. I smiled at Josephs fallen face, to give him courage for the next attempt.
It was after lessons that Henry found me sweeping the classroom while Viola closed the shutters from without.
“Mable?” he said.
“Well, at least you have learned my name,” said I. “Your brother addressed me ‘Hey!’”
“Was that the reason you refused him?”
“I was asked nothing to refuse,” said I.
Viola choosing that moment to appear, I bent to my sweeping most industriously. (Would I have acted differently if I knew my father were watching me from his porch chair in Heaven?)
“Do you need a task, Henry Brown?” asked my sister.
“No, ma'am.”
“Do you keep your hat on to speak with your teacher?”
“No, ma'am.” He slid it off.
“Have you somewhere to be?”
“Yes, ma'am.” And away he went.
Viola did not scold me as I expected and was quite pleasant as we began our journey homeward.
“Viola?”
“Mmmm?” Her thoughts were elsewhere, on Tennyson, perhaps, or the fifth years' inability to repeat their times tables.
“Viola, is teaching what you thought it would be?” I asked. “Or does the tedium of discipline outweigh the satisfaction of instruction?”
She gave me her attention now but did not yet answer.
“There seems to be so little satisfaction,” I added, laughing. “Hearing Cathy Forrest recite The Fairy Garden can scarcely be why you chose to become a teacher!”
“There is no choice, Mable,” said Viola. “You will be a teacher too, until you marry. That's what girls do. Our mother needs our help and so we teach.”
“It seems to suit you,” I
ventured, not adding that bossing a whole roomful of children must multiply the pleasure of bossing a sister.
“I like it more than I imagined,” she said. “And perhaps that makes me better at it than I expected. I was afraid I would stand before you all with a mouth full of cotton, unable to speak. But lessons seem to move along quite smoothly, do they not? I find success lies in the planning.”
We walked along in silence for a bit, until I thought of something else to say. “I like the part of teaching when I see upon their faces the light of understanding. But it does not occur so very often. I think I would rather do something else when it comes time. Perhaps I could write novels. Or better yet, I'll be an adventurer and travel to France or Africa!”
“There's no one going to pay you for your silly stories, Mable,” said Viola sharply. “And certainly no earnings to be had exploring the Nile River. If your geography grades are any indication, you will not find your way out of Perth County.”
And with that, she marched ahead at a determined pace.
I loitered behind, collecting pinecones from the roadside, knowing that Mrs. Goodhand likes to use them for scrubbing her pots. I had quite a lovely wander by myself, and heard a bobolink call out its evening song.
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
The reading lessons have continued to vex me considerably, but to-day I discovered a remedy.
It drives me to distraction hearing Frank Forrest pause for several seconds before each word and then read like a whining wasp. The texts were no doubt written by the most pious and well meaning of instructors, but they make for tedious reading. I remember them well from my own primary days and was tired of them then!
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