Further Chronicles of Avonlea

by L. M. Montgomery

found Eunice standing by the table, with her hat and

  shawl on, tying up a parcel.

  "Eunice! Where on earth are you going?"

  "Over home," said Eunice. "If Christopher is going to

  be ill he must be nursed, and I'm the one to do it. He

  ought to be seen to right away."

  "Eunice Carr! Have you gone clean out of your senses?

  It's the smallpox - the smallpox! If he's got it he'll

  have to be taken to the smallpox hospital in town. You

  shan't stir a step to go to that house!"

  "I will." Eunice faced her excited aunt quietly. The

  odd resemblance to her mother, which only came out in

  moments of great tension, was plainly visible. "He

  shan't go to the hospital - they never get proper

  attention there. You needn't try to stop me. It won't

  put you or your family in any danger."

  Caroline fell helplessly into a chair. She felt that it

  would be of no use to argue with a woman so determined.

  She wished Charles was there. But Charles had already

  gone, post-haste, for the doctor.

  With a firm step, Eunice went across the field foot-

  path she had not trodden for so long. She felt no fear

  - rather a sort of elation. Christopher needed her once

  more; the interloper who had come between them was not

  there. As she walked through the frosty twilight she

  thought of the promise made to Naomi Holland, years

  ago.

  Christopher saw her coming and waved her back.

  "Don't come any nearer, Eunice. Didn't Caroline tell

  you? I'm taking smallpox."

  Eunice did not pause. She went boldly through the yard

  and up the porch steps. He retreated before her and

  held the door.

  "Eunice, you're crazy, girl! Go home, before it's too

  late."

  Eunice pushed open the door resolutely and went in.

  "It's too late now. I'm here, and I mean to stay and

  nurse you, if it's the smallpox you've got. Maybe it's

  not. Just now, when a person has a finger-ache, he

  thinks it's smallpox. Anyhow, whatever it is, you ought

  to be in bed and looked after. You'll catch cold. Let

  me get a light and have a look at you."

  Christopher had sunk into a chair. His natural

  selfishness reasserted itself, and he made no further

  effort to dissuade Eunice. She got a lamp and set it on

  the table by him, while she scrutinized his face

  closely.

  "You look feverish. What do you feel like? When did you

  take sick?"

  "Yesterday afternoon. I have chills and hot spells and

  pains in my back. Eunice, do you think it's really

  smallpox? And will I die?"

  He caught her hands, and looked imploringly up at her,

  as a child might have done. Eunice felt a wave of love

  and tenderness sweep warmly over her starved heart.

  "Don't worry. Lots of people recover from smallpox if

  they're properly nursed, and you'll be that, for I'll

  see to it. Charles has gone for the doctor, and we'll

  know when he comes. You must go straight to bed."

  She took off her hat and shawl, and hung them up. She

  felt as much at home as if she had never been away. She

  had got back to her kingdom, and there was none to

  dispute it with her. When Dr. Spencer and old Giles

  Blewett, who had had smallpox in his youth, came, two

  hours later, they found Eunice in serene charge. the

  house was in order and reeking of disinfectants.

  Victoria's fine furniture and fixings were being

  bundled out of the parlor. There was no bedroom

  downstairs, and, if Christopher was going to be ill, he

  must be installed there.

  The doctor looked grave.

  "I don't like it," he said, "but I'm not quite sure

  yet. If it is smallpox the eruption will probably by

  out by morning. I must admit he has most of the

  symptoms. Will you have him taken to the hospital?"

  "No," said Eunice, decisively. "I'll nurse him myself.

  I'm not afraid and I'm well and strong."

  "Very well. You've been vaccinated lately?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, nothing more can be done at present. You may as

  well lie down for a while and save your strength."

  But Eunice could not do that. There was too much to

  attend to. She went out to the hall and threw up the

  window. Down below, at a safe distance, Charles Holland

  was waiting. The cold wind blew up to Eunice the odor

  of the disinfectants with which he had steeped himself.

  "What does the doctor say?" he shouted.

  "He thinks it's the smallpox. Have you sent word to

  Victoria?"

  "Yes, Jim Blewett drove into town and told her. She'll

  stay with her sister till it is over. Of course it's

  the best thing for her to do. She's terribly frightened."

  Eunice's lip curled contemptuously. To her, a wife who

  could desert her husband, no matter what disease he

  had, was an incomprehensible creature. But it was

  better so; she would have Christopher all to herself.

  The night was long and wearisome, but the morning came

  all too soon for the dread certainty it brought. The

  doctor pronounced the case smallpox. Eunice had hoped

  against hope, but now, knowing the worst, she was very

  calm and resolute.

  By noon the fateful yellow flag was flying over the

  house, and all arrangements had been made. Caroline was

  to do the necessary cooking, and Charles was to bring

  the food and leave it in the yard. Old Giles Blewett

  was to come every day and attend to the stock, as well

  as help Eunice with the sick man; and the long, hard

  fight with death began.

  It was a hard fight, indeed. Christopher Holland, in

  the clutches of the loathsome disease, was an object

  from which his nearest and dearest might have been

  pardoned for shrinking. But Eunice never faltered; she

  never left her post. Sometimes she dozed in a chair by

  the bed, but she never lay down. Her endurance was

  something wonderful, her patience and tenderness almost

  superhuman. To and fro she went, in noiseless ministry,

  as the long, dreadful days wore away, with a quiet

  smile on her lips, and in her dark, sorrowful eyes the

  rapt look of a pictured saint in some dim cathedral

  niche. For her there was no world outside the bare room

  where lay the repulsive object she loved.

  One day the doctor looked very grave. He had grown

  well-hardened to pitiful scenes in his life-time; but

  he shrunk from telling Eunice that her brother could

  not live. He had never seen such devotion as hers. It

  seemed brutal to tell her that it had been in vain.

  But Eunice had seen it for herself. She took it very

  calmly, the doctor thought. And she had her reward at

  last - such as it was. She thought it amply sufficient.

  One night Christopher Holland opened his swollen eyes

  as she bent over him. They were alone in the old house.

  It was raining outside, and the dr
ops rattled noisily

  on the panes.

  Christopher smiled at his sister with parched lips, and

  put out a feeble hand toward her.

  "Eunice," he said faintly, "you've been the best sister

  ever a man had. I haven't treated you right; but you've

  stood by me to the last. Tell Victoria - tell her - to

  be good to you - "

  His voice died away into an inarticulate murmur. Eunice

  Carr was alone with her dead.

  They buried Christopher Holland in haste and privacy

  the next day. The doctor disinfected the house, and

  Eunice was to stay there alone until it might be safe

  to make other arrangements. She had not shed a tear;

  the doctor thought she was a rather odd person, but he

  had a great admiration for her. He told her she was the

  best nurse he had ever seen. To Eunice, praise or blame

  mattered nothing. Something in her life had snapped -

  some vital interest had departed. She wondered how she

  could live through the dreary, coming years.

  Late that night she went into the room where her mother

  and brother had died. The window was open and the cold,

  pure air was grateful to her after the drug-laden

  atmosphere she had breathed so long. She knelt down by

  the stripped bed.

  "Mother," she said aloud, "I have kept my promise."

  When she tried to rise, long after, she staggered and

  fell across the bed, with her hand pressed on her

  heart. Old Giles Blewett found her there in the

  morning. There was a smile on her face.

  Chapter XIII

  The Conscience Case Of David Bell

  EBEN BELL came in with an armful of wood and banged it

  cheerfully down in the box behind the glowing Waterloo

  stove, which was coloring the heart of the little

  kitchen's gloom with tremulous, rose-red whirls of

  light.

  "There, sis, that's the last chore on my list. Bob's

  milking. Nothing more for me to do but put on my white

  collar for meeting. Avonlea is more than lively since

  the evangelist came, ain't it, though!"

  Mollie Bell nodded. She was curling her hair before the

  tiny mirror that hung on the whitewashed wall and

  distorted her round, pink-and-white face into a

  grotesque caricature.

  "Wonder who'll stand up to-night," said Eben

  reflectively, sitting down on the edge of the wood-box.

  "There ain't many sinners left in Avonlea - only a few

  hardened chaps like myself."

  "You shouldn't talk like that," said Mollie rebukingly.

  "What if father heard you?"

  "Father wouldn't hear me if I shouted it in his ear,"

  returned Eben. "He goes around, these days, like a man

  in a dream and a mighty bad dream at that. Father has

  always been a good man. What's the matter with him?"

  "I don't know," said Mollie, dropping her voice.

  "Mother is dreadfully worried over him. And everybody

  is talking, Eb. It just makes me squirm. Flora Jane

  Fletcher asked me last night why father never

  testified, and him one of the elders. She said the

  minister was perplexed about it. I felt my face getting

  red."

  "Why didn't you tell her it was no business of hers?"

  said Eben angrily. "Old Flora Jane had better mind her

  own business."

  "But all the folks are talking about it, Eb. And mother

  is fretting her heart out over it. Father has never

  acted like himself since these meetings began. He just

  goes there night after night, and sits like a mummy,

  with his head down. And almost everybody else in

  Avonlea has testified."

  "Oh, no, there's lots haven't," said Eben. "Matthew

  Cuthbert never has, nor Uncle Elisha, nor any of the

  Whites."

  "But everybody knows they don't believe in getting up

  and testifying, so nobody wonders when they don't.

  Besides," Mollie laughed - "Matthew could never get a

  word out in public, if he did believe in it. He'd be

  too shy. But," she added with a sigh, "it isn't that

  way with father. He believes in testimony, so people

  wonder why he doesn't get up. Why, even old Josiah

  Sloane gets up every night."

  "With his whiskers sticking out every which way, and

  his hair ditto," interjected the graceless Eben.

  "When the minister calls for testimonials and all the

  folks look at our pew, I feel ready to sink through the

  floor for shame," sighed Mollie. "If father would get

  up just once!"

  Miriam Bell entered the kitchen. She was ready for the

  meeting, to which Major Spencer was to take her. She

  was a tall, pale girl, with a serious face, and dark,

  thoughtful eyes, totally unlike Mollie. She had "come

  under conviction" during the meetings, and had stood up

  for prayer and testimony several times. The evangelist

  thought her very spiritual. She heard Mollie's

  concluding sentence and spoke reprovingly.

  "You shouldn't criticize your father, Mollie. It isn't

  for you to judge him."

  Eben had hastily slipped out. He was afraid Miriam

  would begin talking religion to him if he stayed. He

  had with difficulty escaped from an exhortation by

  Robert in the cow-stable. There was no peace in Avonlea

  for the unregenerate, he reflected. Robert and Miriam

  had both "come out," and Mollie was hovering on the

  brink.

  "Dad and I are the black sheep of the family," he said,

  with a laugh, for which he at once felt guilty. Eben

  had been brought up with a strict reverence for all

  religious matters. On the surface he might sometimes

  laugh at them, but the deeps troubled him whenever he

  did so.

  Indoors, Miriam touched her younger sister's shoulder

  and looked at her affectionately.

  "Won't you decide to-night, Mollie?" she asked, in a

  voice tremulous with emotion.

  Mollie crimsoned and turned her face away

  uncomfortably. She did not know what answer to make,

  and was glad that a jingle of bells outside saved her

  the necessity of replying.

  "There's your beau, Miriam," she said, as she darted

  into the sitting room.

  Soon after, Eben brought the family pung and his chubby

  red mare to the door for Mollie. He had not as yet

  attained to the dignity of a cutter of his own. That

  was for his elder brother, Robert, who presently came

  out in his new fur coat and drove dashingly away with

  bells and glitter.

  "Thinks he's the people," remarked Eben, with a

  fraternal grin.

  The rich winter twilight was purpling over the white

  world as they drove down the lane under the over-

  arching wild cherry trees that glittered with gemmy

  hoar-frost. The snow creaked and crisped under the

  runners. A shrill wind was keening in the leafless

  dogwoods. Over the trees the sky was a dome of silver,

  with a lucent star or two on the slope of the west.


  Earth-stars gleamed warmly out here and there, where

  homesteads were tucked snugly away in their orchards or

  groves of birch.

  "The church will be jammed to-night," said Eben. "It's

  so fine that folks will come from near and far. Guess

  it'll be exciting."

  "If only father would testify!" sighed Mollie, from the

  bottom of the pung, where she was snuggled amid furs

  and straw. "Miriam can say what she likes, but I do

  feels as if we were all disgraced. It sends a creep all

  over me to hear Mr. Bentley say, 'Now, isn't there one

  more to say a word for Jesus?' and look right over at

  father."

  Eben flicked his mare with his whip, and she broke into

  a trot. The silence was filled with a faint, fairy-like

  melody from afar down the road where a pungful of young

  folks from White Sands were singing hymns on their way

  to meeting.

  "Look here, Mollie," said Eben awkwardly at last, "are

  you going to stand up for prayers to-night?"

  "I - I can't as long as father acts this way," answered

  Mollie, in a choked voice. "I - I want to, Eb, and

  Mirry and Bob want me to, but I can't. I do hope that

  the evangelist won't come and talk to me special to-

  night. I always feels as if I was being pulled two

  different ways, when he does."

  Back in the kitchen at home Mrs. Bell was waiting for

  her husband to bring the horse to the door. She was a

  slight, dark-eyed little woman, with thin, vivid-red

  cheeks. From out of the swathings in which she had

  wrapped her bonnet, her face gleamed sad and troubled.

  Now and then she sighed heavily.

  The cat came to her from under the stove, languidly

  stretching himself, and yawning until all the red

  cavern of his mouth and throat was revealed. At the

  moment he had an uncanny resemblance to Elder Joseph

  Blewett of White Sands - Roaring Joe, the irreverent

  boys called him - when he grew excited and shouted.

  Mrs. Bell saw it - and then reproached herself for the

  sacrilege.

  "But it's no wonder I've wicked thoughts," she said,

  wearily. "I'm that worried I ain't rightly myself. If

  he would only tell me what the trouble is, maybe I

  could help him. At any rate, I'd know. It hurts me so

  to see him going about, day after day, with his head

  hanging and that look on his face, as if he had

  something fearful on his conscience - him that never

  harmed a living soul. And then the way he groans and

  mutters in his sleep! He has always lived a just,

  upright life. He hasn't no right to go on like this,

  disgracing his family."

  Mrs. Bell's angry sob was cut short by the sleigh at

  the door. Her husband poked in his busy, iron-gray head

  and said, "Now, mother." He helped her into the sleigh,

  tucked the rugs warmly around her, and put a hot brick

  at her feet. His solicitude hurt her. It was all for

  her material comfort. It did not matter to him what

  mental agony she might suffer over his strange

  attitude. For the first time in their married life Mary

  Bell felt resentment against her husband.

  They drove along in silence, past the snow-powdered

  hedges of spruce, and under the arches of the forest

  roadways. They were late, and a great stillness was

  over all the land. David Bell never spoke. All his

  usual cheerful talkativeness had disappeared since the

  revival meetings had begun in Avonlea. From the first

  he had gone about as a man over whom some strange doom

  is impending, seemingly oblivious to all that might be

  said or thought of him in his own family or in the

  church. Mary Bell thought she would go out of her mind

  if her husband continued to act in this way. Her

  reflections were bitter and rebellious as they sped

  along through the glittering night of the winter's

  prime.

  "I don't get one bit of good out of the meetings," she

  thought resentfully. "There ain't any peace or joy for

  me, not even in testifying myself, when David sits

  there like a stick or stone. If he'd been opposed to the

  revivalist coming here, like old Uncle Jerry, or if

  he didn't believe in public testimony, I wouldn't mind.