by Ruth Glover
Olga and Finch had progressed to the point where no one had better criticize the “little missy” in their hearing! Laughable, unsettling, pointed, her quotations might be, but there was no meanness in her.
Upstairs, Frances leaned back on the pillows of her bed, exhausted from the climb; reaching a hand for Kerry’s, she searched for words on a subject she had plumbed to its depths before now, as several times requested by Aunt Charlotte, who professed to be at her wit’s end.
“You know what I’m trying to say, don’t you, wee Kerry? You know Aunt Charlotte was distressed. But how can I scold! You mean so well—”
Kerry’s sorrowful face looked up, a ray of hope lighting her eyes. “‘As vinegar upon nitre, so is he that singeth songs to a heavy heart,’” she said. “And Franny, he means she, too, did you know that? So he, that is, she, meaning you, singeth songs to my heavy heart. Oh, Franny, that’s so good of you!”
Frances shook her head helplessly.
“What is nit-er?” Kerry asked now. “Or is it nit-ree? I don’t know how to pronounce it, and I don’t know what it means. Do you, Franny?”
“Maybe, Kerry, it’s time to stop saying words you don’t understand. Not for my sake, you understand, but for Uncle Sebastian and Aunt Charlotte. They are so good to us. I’m sure you want to please them, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Kerry said, her eyes downcast now and her voice muffled. “I truly b’lieve I love Aunt Charlotte and maybe even Uncle Sebastian a little.” The smallest tear appeared on her rosy cheek, a cheek filling out beautifully from all the “meat in due season” and other good things that were available in abundance in this house of Maxwell.
“You know, Kerry, there are so many other words, good words, that are there for us all to use, if we want to, and if we know them. Why don’t we start right now and look up the meaning and the pronunciation of nitre. Would you like that? Then you can substitute another word for it, a word you understand. Now, there’s a good girl; run and get the dictionary.”
And so Frances, lovingly and patiently, directed her dear companion toward the use of alternate words and phrases, thoughts that Kerry could put together herself, expressing herself in her own words and not always in the words of others, biblical though they might be.
There was a great eruption in kind approach, however, with the arrival of the governess. Miss Beery was scandalized by the free-thinking and outspoken Kerry, and her methods were not always wise. The beleaguered and harassed Kerry, trying to express herself when alone with Frances, could come up with no better description of her feelings for the governess than through the use of the familiar Scriptures. In her thinking they were perfectly suitable for the occasion, and nothing else would do.
“‘I hate her with perfect hatred,’” she said to Frances one day.
“But you mustn’t hate, Kerry,” Frances, who had never hated anyone, said gently. “And I don’t think hatred is perfect. Can you think of another way to express yourself?”
It had sent Kerry in search of the dictionary—again.
“I feel great an-im-osity and hos-til-ity,” she reported happily afterward, “though I don’t really know what they mean. Why can’t I just say hate if that’s what I mean?” Her face fell when Frances sighed and took her hand, a sure sign that teaching was needed—again.
But from her beloved Franny, Kerry took every correction. To be like Franny—that was the highest goal she could reach. Therefore Kerry gave herself to the lessons the governess laid out, with a minimum of complaint and, eventually, the use of Scriptures—never mind that they were apropos—abated. At least they were seldom spoken aloud, and when they were, it was under her breath and in the company of Franny alone, or Gladdy.
As Kerry adored Frances, so Gladdy adored Kerry. Older and more worldly wise, still Gladdy found fascination in the child who was so different from anyone she had ever known, who was kind, happy, playful and, perhaps best of all, totally without class consciousness. That Gladdy wore uniforms mattered not a whit; that Gladdy had little or no education did.
“Aunt Charlotte,” Kerry brought up one day with her new small layer of polish and propriety in evidence, “Gladdy needs help more than I do.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Charlotte asked, laying aside her book and giving her niece her attention, more absorbed with her niece’s proper clothing and shining, well-trimmed hair than with her words.
“I mean her grammar, Aunt Charlotte. And she can’t read!” Not reading was a shame of massive proportions to Kerry.
“Does she need to?” Charlotte asked. “Olga reads, and Finch, and they are quite capable of directing her in all things.”
“But, Aunt! Think of all the things she’s missing!” Throwing caution to the winds, Kerry burst forth with, “She was ahungered, and you gave her no meat!” Only a child herself and lacking in words, Kerry couldn’t adequately express herself aside from a portion of Scripture.
“Ahungered? Why, though she’s thin, she’s very well fed!”
“Not food hunger, Aunt Charlotte! She’s hungry to learn. I know, because she hangs around when lessons are going on, if she possibly can. And once I found her trying to sound out some word . . . from the Bible,” she finished lamely.
Charlotte was made uncomfortable by the little that was said and the much that was hinted at, and Gladdy, to her happiness and Kerry’s joy, was included in the study time for one hour each day.
As the years passed and Kerry “grew in favor” with the adults in the family, Aunt Charlotte trusted her with certain errands and responsibilities that called for excursions into the city, always a time of excitement and pleasure. On all such outings she was accompanied—at first by Miss Beery, then by Gladdy, who was judged a fit companion by this time. If Charlotte Maxwell had known the adventures they experienced together, she would have shriveled up and slunk away from proper society, never to be seen or heard from again. If occasionally during “at homes” she noted certain ladies lowering their voices, looking her direction, hiding behind their fans, and gesturing strangely, she failed to make the connection with her niece who was growing up, it seemed, into a biddable, polite, even discreet young woman.
Only Franny knew the true Kerry and, at times, sighed to find her so little changed from the waif who had first come to live among them. Unchanged at heart where the true Kerry dwelt, Kerry went through all the intricacies and niceties of proper decorum as expected of young women just before the end of the century and learned to do it very well. Eventually even the ladies at the society functions ceased their pointing and whispering and head shaking.
And so the outings abroad increased, until Kerry and Gladdy felt themselves to indeed be women of the world.
And what a world it was! What a time in which to live! Something called the motion picture had been patented; a hydroelectric plant opened at Niagara Falls; L.C. Rivard became Montreal’s first owner of a motor car—a Locomobile; and a Dr. Henri Casgrain of Quebec became the first known Canadian to drive a motor car—top speed, 18 mph; vaccination of school children was compulsory (setting off a storm of protest); the Imperial Penny Postage (2 cents) was inaugurated throughout the British Commonwealth; gold was discovered in the Klondike by George Carmack, Skookum Jim, and Tagish Charlie; and immigration to the Canadian West began to boom in earnest.
Though still honored and perhaps revered, the 1890s witnessed the sunset of the good queen’s influence. “Britishness” reached its peak with Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee and began its decline. Something new, something different emerged: As the swarm of immigrants tasted freedom and grew accustomed to the heady diet, they were to become confident, ambitious, expectant of even better things. They were, to put it into one word, silently but real-ly becoming Canadian.
The freedom that Gladdy and Kerry experienced—Kerry in her mid-teen years and Gladdy nearing nineteen—was not shared by Frances except on rare occasions when she was deemed strong enough to go along—usually in the carriage—for an outing in the
fresh air. But slowly it became obvious to the two younger girls, to the governess, and to her aunt and uncle, that Frances was showing better color, was even “sparkling” on occasion, and was, in general, exhibiting more of an interest in life. Frances seemed, at last, in her mid-twenties, on the verge of enjoying life as a normal young woman. “She’s like a rose in the fall that has decided to bloom,” fanciful Kerry described her, then adding, “and she’s all the sweeter for the wait.”
It was true, Frances was a new person. Frances was in love.
At first not discerned by anyone—for, after all, no one expected invalids to enjoy the ordinary experiences of life—the secret eventually came to light.
A dancing master came twice weekly to teach Kerry (with Gladdy watching and secretly humming and going through the steps all alone at first, then with Kerry as her teacher and partner). These sessions were chaperoned by Frances, and no one—not the spinster Miss Beery, not the chaste Kerry or the innocent Gladdy—was experienced enough in love to see what was happening before their very eyes.
Frances, being stronger, had hinted that she too might like a discreet dance step or two with Señor Garibaldi, he of the swimming dark eyes, the small mustache, and the graceful hands and feet. Kerry, stepping back and allowing Franny to step within the circle of the dancing master’s arm, noted Franny’s heightened color, which was natural. But the tremulous lips? The starry eyes?
When the first short session was over and Señor Garibaldi bowed gracefully over Franny’s hand, it did seem, to Kerry, that he held her hand longer than was necessary. Never could Kerry recall having seen eyes looked into as soulfully; never had Franny lingered—light as a bird and as fragile—so long a time on weary feet. Untaught in love, still Kerry’s breath caught for a moment as she recognized the chemistry—as old as time and as new as the moment—that passed between the two. Of its own volition, it seemed, a Scripture sang itself into her heart: “I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go.” Never had Scripture seemed more appropriate. The Song of Solomon, always a puzzle to Kerry, suddenly made sense, beautiful sense.
Still, Franny turned back to Kerry, back to everyday life, and said nothing. But it was not necessary—the secret was out.
“Gladdy,” Kerry whispered later, “have you noticed . . . anything unusual about Franny?”
“You mean,” Gladdy, more worldly-wise and therefore more observant, said straightaway, “about Señor Garibaldi? I didn’t fink . . . think you saw, and I didn’t know whether to say somefing or not.” At times of stress or excitement, Gladdy tended to revert to her old, natural way of speaking. Her speech showed improvement, but to her everlasting sorrow her hair, more like a porcupine with hackles up than anything else when not forcibly restrained, was not as tractable. Now it crouched, as it were, atop her head like a live thing, ready to spring forth at the least excuse; the vibrant color remained as undimmed as ever.
Not certain how Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Sebastian would feel about such an alliance, Kerry said nothing to them of her suspicions concerning Franny and Señor Garibaldi. But even Charlotte and Sebastian noticed the improvement in Frances’s health and outlook. Always gentle, kind, soft of speech, and slow to show annoyance—Franny seemed sweeter than ever. Franny glowed. Franny glowed for about six weeks.
There came a day when Señor Garibaldi did not arrive at the scheduled time. Though Kerry waited in the room they called the classroom, he did not come. Neither did Franny, as chaperone. With a sense of something wrong Kerry made her way to Franny’s room, to find the drapes closed and the room in semidarkness though it was mid-afternoon. Franny’s low voice had responded to Kerry’s knock: “Who is it?”
“It’s Kerry. What’s wrong? May I come in?”
After a long silence Franny’s muffled voice gave permission. She was prostrate on her bed, face white in the gloom, eyes puffed.
Kerry flew to her side. “Franny! Whatever is wrong? What is it?”
“You mustn’t be concerned, Kerry. I’m just ill today. That’s all—ill.”
“But you’ve been so well, so . . . happy.”
Franny was silent, too silent; it was an agonizing silence.
“Shall I get Auntie?” Kerry asked, worried and perplexed.
Franny gave a short laugh; one would have called it a bitter laugh if one didn’t know Frances any better than that. “My heavens, no. Above all people, don’t call Aunt Charlotte. Just leave me be, Kerry. I’ll be all right. Please, dear.”
Kerry crept away with the first real unhappiness she had felt in her aunt’s home. That it touched her beloved Franny was worse, she believed, than if she herself were the one suffering.
At the dinner table that evening, Sebastian being absent and only Kerry and Charlotte present, an empty chair gaped loudly of Frances’s absence; she had so often, of late, been present, adding her special cheer to the occasion. It was a quiet, gloomy affair.
Finally Charlotte, with a sigh, laid aside her serviette, and said, “There is a problem, a very real problem to be faced, Kerry. Particularly by Frances, and we must help her face it and bear the pain.”
“What, Aunt? What’s wrong? Oh, I can hardly stand it . . . I hurt so.”
“Frances hurts far more. Yes, I’ll tell you about it, my dear. You are old enough to be treated as an adult, and we mustn’t ignore that. You’ll need to be an adult, certainly, to help Frances.”
“Anything!” Kerry promised.
“It seems Señor Garibaldi,” Charlotte said in a strained voice, “has been enticing Frances to fall in love with him. By little actions, soft gripping of her hands, looking into her eyes and, finally, declaring her to be his true love.”
“But, Aunt . . . is that so bad? It’s made Franny come alive. She’s been feeling so much better, and I think it’s all because she has hope, now, of a normal future—”
“She has hope of nothing!” Charlotte said in a hard voice. “That man is a blackguard . . . an unprincipled wretch—”
Charlotte’s wrath caused her voice to rise, but her vocabulary was inadequate to express her feelings, and she stumbled now with various descriptions of the dancing master, all of them insulting: shameless fortune hunter, traitor, knave, mercenary.
Kerry’s face must have shown her bewilderment, for Charlotte ceased her tirade, brought her serviette to her face for a moment, and spoke more calmly. Garibaldi (he no longer rated the “Señor”) was a snake in the grass who had inveigled himself into Frances’s affections, very soon urging marriage upon her, which was to be a fleeing away in the night, a private ceremony, then and only then making an announcement to the family. A romantic escapade, he had termed it.
“But, Aunt Charlotte—I still don’t see—”
“The man is a charlatan, Kerry! A mountebank! With the lowest of purposes!”
“How do we know—”
“From Gideon, that’s how.”
Gideon, it seemed, while driving the dancing master back and forth, had become a confidant. From the beginning, Señor Garibaldi had been interested in the family’s wealth. He had assumed that Miss Frances, being the oldest, was heiress to it all. And he had, forthwith, “pressed his suit.” Poor, dear Frances—gullible, taken in by his protestations of love, yearning for someone to love, had been easy prey.
Somewhere along the way Garibaldi had brought up to Franny the subject of her parentage—her mother and father, where were they? Abroad, perhaps? Frances had quickly explained that her parents were dead, that she had been taken in by dear Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Sebastian, and that she was, in fact, a penniless orphan, dependent on their love and provision.
“The change in him was instantaneous, I understand,” Charlotte said with pity. “In fact, his whole expression revealed his dismay. He turned cold, stepped away from her, with condemnation in his eyes for her as though she had betrayed him. Not understanding . . . perhaps not daring to, Frances cried out . . . asking why it mattered, telling him she never had any expectation
s of living in wealth . . . that she was a simple woman, with simple desires—”
“Poor Franny!” To so belittle herself! And all for nothing! “Did he . . . spurn her?” Kerry stumbled over the word.
“Worse. He accused her of toying with his affections, of leading him on. Franny fainted, totally overcome, and Garibaldi left her lying there and made his escape. How do I know these details? Gladdy was there, behind the door, hearing it all. She had gone up, hoping to get in on the lesson, but slipped behind the door and listened when she realized something most unnatural was going on. It was she who helped Frances up and got her to her room. Then of course she came for me. Frances, trembling and broken, couldn’t explain much. So between what Gideon, Gladdy, and the little Frances said, I pieced together the sordid story. Oh, the cad!”
Recalling Franny’s white face and her dead eyes, a great fear welled up in Kerry’s heart. What, oh what, did darling Franny have to live for now? Having poor health—for even now she appeared sick, terribly sick, a sickness for which there was no pill, no potion; nothing to occupy her days from now on out; no hope of independence—the future, for Franny, appeared to be a vast wasteland of emptiness.
Strange, that when thrown into a desperate crisis, there was no life-giving, hope-building, faith-strengthening Scripture; among the many Kerry knew, none sprang to mind. If she’d been a little older, a little wiser, and better taught, Kerry might have wondered at this. As it was, she carried her heartache alone, never knowing there was a Friend who surpassed Franny for gentleness, a Burden-bearer who surpassed Aunt Charlotte for comfort, a Father who was more faithful than she could comprehend.
“Oh, Aunt,” she cried, devastated, “whatever will happen to her?”
With the sound of the shriek still echoing through the schoolroom, everyone seemed to freeze momentarily in place. When the echoes died out the silence was as thunderous, in its way, as the blood-curdling scream. Parker Jones’s sermon notes drooped in his hand; a fussy baby, startled out of its small whimper, stared wide-eyed at it knew not what.
