The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

Just because I am an old woman outwardly it doesn’t follow that I am one inwardly. Hearts don’t grow old — or shouldn’t. Mine hasn’t, I am thankful to say. It bounded like a girl’s with delight when I saw Doctor John and Marcella Barry drive past this afternoon. If the doctor had been my own son I couldn’t have felt more real pleasure in his happiness. I’m only an old lady who can do little but sit by her window and knit, but eyes were made for seeing, and I use mine for that purpose. When I see the good and beautiful things — and a body need never look for the other kind, you know — the things God planned from the beginning and brought about in spite of the counter plans and schemes of men, I feel such a deep joy that I’m glad, even at seventy-five, to be alive in a world where such things come to pass. And if ever God meant and made two people for each other, those people were Doctor John and Marcella Barry; and that is what I always tell folk who come here commenting on the difference in their ages. “Old enough to be her father,” sniffed Mrs. Riddell to me the other day. I didn’t say anything to Mrs. Riddell. I just looked at her. I presume my face expressed what I felt pretty clearly. How any woman can live for sixty years in the world, as Mrs. Riddell has, a wife and mother at that, and not get some realization of the beauty and general satisfactoriness of a real and abiding love, is something I cannot understand and never shall be able to.

  Nobody in Bridgeport believed that Marcella would ever come back, except Doctor John and me — not even her Aunt Sara. I’ve heard people laugh at me when I said I knew she would; but nobody minds being laughed at when she is sure of a thing and I was sure that Marcella Barry would come back as that the sun rose and set. I hadn’t lived beside her for eight years to know so little about her as to doubt her. Neither had Doctor John.

  Marcella was only eight years old when she came to live in Bridgeport. Her father, Chester Barry, had just died. Her mother, who was a sister of Miss Sara Bryant, my next door neighbor, had been dead for four years. Marcella’s father left her to the guardianship of his brother, Richard Barry; but Miss Sara pleaded so hard to have the little girl that the Barrys consented to let Marcella live with her aunt until she was sixteen. Then, they said, she would have to go back to them, to be properly educated and take the place of her father’s daughter in his world. For, of course, it is a fact that Miss Sara Bryant’s world was and is a very different one from Chester Barry’s world. As to which side the difference favors, that isn’t for me to say. It all depends on your standard of what is really worth while, you know.

  So Marcella came to live with us in Bridgeport. I say “us” advisedly. She slept and ate in her aunt’s house, but every house in the village was a home to her; for, with all our little disagreements and diverse opinions, we are really all one big family, and everybody feels an interest in and a good working affection for everybody else. Besides, Marcella was one of those children whom everybody loves at sight, and keeps on loving. One long, steady gaze from those big grayish-blue black-lashed eyes of hers went right into your heart and stayed there.

  She was a pretty child and as good as she was pretty. It was the right sort of goodness, too, with just enough spice of original sin in it to keep it from spoiling by reason of over-sweetness. She was a frank, loyal, brave little thing, even at eight, and wouldn’t have said or done a mean or false thing to save her life.

  She and I were right good friends from the beginning. She loved me and she loved her Aunt Sara; but from the very first her best and deepest affection went out to Doctor John Haven, who lived in the big brick house on the other side of Miss Sara’s.

  Doctor John was a Bridgeport boy, and when he got through college he came right home and settled down here, with his widowed mother. The Bridgeport girls were fluttered, for eligible young men were scarce in our village; there was considerable setting of caps, I must say that, although I despise ill-natured gossip; but neither the caps nor the wearers thereof seemed to make any impression on Doctor John. Mrs. Riddell said that he was a born old bachelor; I suppose she based her opinion on the fact that Doctor John was always a quiet, bookish fellow, who didn’t care a button for society, and had never been guilty of a flirtation in his life. I knew Doctor John’s heart far better than Martha Riddell could know anybody’s; and I knew there was nothing of the old bachelor in his nature. He just had to wait for the right woman, that was all, not being able to content himself with less as some men can and do. If she never came Doctor John would never marry; but he wouldn’t be an old bachelor for all that.

  He was thirty when Marcella came to Bridgeport — a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of thick brown curls and level, dark hazel eyes. He walked with a little stoop, his hands clasped behind him; and he had the sweetest, deepest voice. Spoken music, if ever a voice was. He was kind and brave and gentle, but a little distant and reserved with most people. Everybody in Bridgeport liked him, but only a very few ever passed the inner gates of his confidence or were admitted to any share in his real life. I am proud to say I was one; I think it is something for an old woman to boast of.

  Doctor John was always fond of children, and they of him. It was natural that he and little Marcella should take to each other. He had the most to do with bringing her up, for Miss Sara consulted him in everything. Marcella was not hard to manage for the most part; but she had a will of her own, and when she did set it up in opposition to the powers that were, nobody but the doctor could influence her at all; she never resisted him or disobeyed his wishes.

  Marcella was one of those girls who develop early. I suppose her constant association with us elderly folks had something to do with it, too. But, at fifteen, she was a woman, loving, beautiful, and spirited.

  And Doctor John loved her — loved the woman, not the child. I knew it before he did — but not, as I think, before Marcella did, for those young, straight-gazing eyes of hers were wonderfully quick to read into other people’s hearts. I watched them together and saw the love growing between them, like a strong, fair, perfect flower, whose fragrance was to endure for eternity. Miss Sara saw it, too, and was half-pleased and half-worried; even Miss Sara thought the Doctor too old for Marcella; and besides, there were the Barrys to be reckoned with. Those Barrys were the nightmare dread of poor Miss Sara’s life.

  The time came when Doctor John’s eyes were opened. He looked into his own heart and read there what life had written for him. As he told me long afterwards, it came to him with a shock that left him white-lipped. But he was a brave, sensible fellow and he looked the matter squarely in the face. First of all, he put away to one side all that the world might say; the thing concerned solely him and Marcella, and the world had nothing to do with it. That disposed of, he asked himself soberly if he had a right to try to win Marcella’s love. He decided that he had not; it would be taking an unfair advantage of her youth and inexperience. He knew that she must soon go to her father’s people — she must not go bound by any ties of his making. Doctor John, for Marcella’s sake, gave the decision against his own heart.

  So much did Doctor John tell me, his old friend and confidant. I said nothing and gave no advice, not having lived seventy-five years for nothing. I knew that Doctor John’s decision was manly and right and fair; but I also knew it was all nullified by the fact that Marcella already loved him.

  So much I knew; the rest I was left to suppose. The Doctor and Marcella told me much, but there were some things too sacred to be told, even to me. So that to this day I don’t know how the doctor found out that Marcella loved him. All I know is that one day, just a month before her sixteenth birthday, the two came hand in hand to Miss Sara and me, as we sat on Miss Sara’s veranda in the twilight, and told us simply that they had plighted their troth to each other.

  I looked at them standing there with that wonderful sunrise of life and love on their faces — the doctor, tall and serious, with a sprinkle of silver in his brown hair and the smile of a happy man on his lips — Marcella, such a slip of a girl, with her black hair in a long braid and her lovely face all dewed over
with tears and sunned over with smiles — I, an old woman, looked at them and thanked the good God for them and their delight.

  Miss Sara laughed and cried and kissed — and forboded what the Barrys would do. Her forebodings proved only too true. When the doctor wrote to Richard Barry, Marcella’s guardian, asking his consent to their engagement, Richard Barry promptly made trouble — the very worst kind of trouble. He descended on Bridgeport and completely overwhelmed poor Miss Sara in his wrath. He laughed at the idea of countenancing an engagement between a child like Marcella and an obscure country doctor. And he carried Marcella off with him!

  She had to go, of course. He was her legal guardian and he would listen to no pleadings. He didn’t know anything about Marcella’s character, and he thought that a new life out in the great world would soon blot out her fancy.

  After the first outburst of tears and prayers Marcella took it very calmly, as far as outward eye could see. She was as cool and dignified and stately as a young queen. On the night before she went away she came over to say good-bye to me. She did not even shed any tears, but the look in her eyes told of bitter hurt. “It is goodbye for five years, Miss Tranquil,” she said steadily. “When I am twenty-one I will come back. That is the only promise I can make. They will not let me write to John or Aunt Sara and I will do nothing underhanded. But I will not forget and I will come back.”

  Richard Barry would not even let her see Doctor John alone again. She had to bid him good-bye beneath the cold, contemptuous eyes of the man of the world. So there was just a hand-clasp and one long deep look between them that was tenderer than any kiss and more eloquent than any words.

  “I will come back when I am twenty-one,” said Marcella. And I saw Richard Barry smile.

  So Marcella went away and in all Bridgeport there were only two people who believed she would ever return. There is no keeping a secret in Bridgeport, and everybody knew all about the love affair between Marcella and the doctor and about the promise she had made. Everybody sympathized with the doctor because everybody believed he had lost his sweetheart.

  “For of course she’ll never come back,” said Mrs. Riddell to me. “She’s only a child and she’ll soon forget him. She’s to be sent to school and taken abroad and between times she’ll live with the Richard Barrys; and they move, as everyone knows, in the very highest and gayest circles. I’m sorry for the doctor, though. A man of his age doesn’t get over a thing like that in a hurry and he was perfectly silly over Marcella. But it really serves him right for falling in love with a child.”

  There are times when Martha Riddell gets on my nerves. She’s a good-hearted woman, and she means well; but she rasps — rasps terribly.

  Even Miss Sara exasperated me. But then she had her excuse. The child she loved as her own had been torn from her and it almost broke her heart. But even so, I thought she ought to have had a little more faith in Marcella.

  “Oh, no, she’ll never come back,” sobbed Miss Sara. “Yes, I know she promised. But they’ll wean her away from me. She’ll have such a gay, splendid life she’ll not want to come back. Five years is a lifetime at her age. No, don’t try to comfort me, Miss Tranquil, because I won’t be comforted!”

  When a person has made up her mind to be miserable you just have to let her be miserable.

  I almost dreaded to see Doctor John for fear he would be in despair, too, without any confidence in Marcella. But when he came I saw I needn’t have worried. The light had all gone out of his eyes, but there was a calm, steady patience in them.

  “She will come back to me, Miss Tranquil,” he said. “I know what people are saying, but that does not trouble me. They do not know Marcella as I do. She promised and she will keep her word — keep it joyously and gladly, too. If I did not know that I would not wish its fulfilment. When she is free she will turn her back on that brilliant world and all it offers her and come back to me. My part is to wait and believe.”

  So Doctor John waited and believed. After a little while the excitement died away and people forgot Marcella. We never heard from or about her, except a paragraph now and then in the society columns of the city paper the doctor took. We knew she was sent to school for three years; then the Barrys took her abroad. She was presented at court. When the doctor read this — he was with me at the time — he put his hand over his eyes and sat very silent for a long time. I wondered if at last some momentary doubt had crept into his mind — if he did not fear that Marcella must have forgotten him. The paper told of her triumph and her beauty and hinted at a titled match. Was it probable or even possible that she would be faithful to him after all this?

  The doctor must have guessed my thoughts, for at last he looked up with a smile.

  “She will come back,” was all he said. But I saw that the doubt, if doubt it were, had gone. I watched him as he went away, that tall, gentle, kindly-eyed man, and I prayed that his trust might not be misplaced; for if it should be it would break his heart.

  Five years seems a long time in looking forward. But they pass quickly. One day I remembered that it was Marcella’s twenty-first birthday. Only one other person thought of it. Even Miss Sara did not. Miss Sara remembered Marcella only as a child that had been loved and lost. Nobody else in Bridgeport thought about her at all. The doctor came in that evening. He had a rose in his buttonhole and he walked with a step as light as a boy’s.

  “She is free to-day,” he said. “We shall soon have her again, Miss Tranquil.”

  “Do you think she will be the same?” I said.

  I don’t know what made me say it. I hate to be one of those people who throw cold water on other peoples’ hopes. But it slipped out before I thought. I suppose the doubt had been vaguely troubling me always, under all my faith in Marcella, and now made itself felt in spite of me.

  But the doctor only laughed.

  “How could she be changed?” he said. “Some women might be — most women would be — but not Marcella. Dear Miss Tranquil, don’t spoil your beautiful record of confidence by doubting her now. We shall have her again soon — how soon I don’t know, for I don’t even know where she is, whether in the old world or the new — but just as soon as she can come to us.”

  We said nothing more — neither of us. But every day the light in the doctor’s eyes grew brighter and deeper and tenderer. He never spoke of Marcella, but I knew she was in his thoughts every moment. He was much calmer than I was. I trembled when the postman knocked, jumped when the gate latch clicked, and fairly had a cold chill if I saw a telegraph boy running down the street.

  One evening, a fortnight later, I went over to see Miss Sara. She was out somewhere, so I sat down in her little sitting room to wait for her. Presently the doctor came in and we sat in the soft twilight, talking a little now and then, but silent when we wanted to be, as becomes real friendship. It was such a beautiful evening. Outside in Miss Sara’s garden the roses were white and red, and sweet with dew; the honeysuckle at the window sent in delicious breaths now and again; a few sleepy birds were twittering; between the trees the sky was all pink and silvery blue and there was an evening star over the elm in my front yard. We heard somebody come through the door and down the hall. I turned, expecting to see Miss Sara — and I saw Marcella! She was standing in the doorway, tall and beautiful, with a ray of sunset light falling athwart her black hair under her travelling hat. She was looking past me at Doctor John and in her splendid eyes was the look of the exile who had come home to her own.

  “Marcella!” said the doctor.

  I went out by the dining-room door and shut it behind me, leaving them alone together.

  The wedding is to be next month. Miss Sara is beside herself with delight. The excitement has been really terrible, and the way people have talked and wondered and exclaimed has almost worn my patience clean out. I’ve snubbed more persons in the last ten days than I ever did in all my life before.

  Nothing of this worries Doctor John or Marcella. They are too happy to care for gossip or outsi
de curiosity. The Barrys are not coming to the wedding, I understand. They refuse to forgive Marcella or countenance her folly, as they call it, in any way. Folly! When I see those two together and realize what they mean to each other I have some humble, reverent idea of what true wisdom is.

  The End of the Young Family Feud

  A week before Christmas, Aunt Jean wrote to Elizabeth, inviting her and Alberta and me to eat our Christmas dinner at Monkshead. We accepted with delight. Aunt Jean and Uncle Norman were delightful people, and we knew we should have a jolly time at their house. Besides, we wanted to see Monkshead, where Father had lived in his boyhood, and the old Young homestead where he had been born and brought up and where Uncle William still lived. Father never said much about it, but we knew he loved it very dearly, and we had always greatly desired to get at least a glimpse of what Alberta liked to call “our ancestral halls.”

  Since Monkshead was only sixty miles away, and Uncle William lived there as aforesaid, it may be pertinently asked what there was to prevent us from visiting it and the homestead as often as we wished. We answer promptly: the family feud.

  Father and Uncle William were on bad terms, or rather on no terms at all, and had been ever since we could remember. After Grandfather Young’s death there had been a wretched quarrel over the property. Father always said that he had been as much to blame as Uncle William, but Great-aunt Emily told us that Uncle William had been by far the most to blame, and that he had behaved scandalously to Father. Moreover, she said that Father had gone to him when cooling-down time came, apologized for what he had said, and asked Uncle William to be friends again; and that William, simply turned his back on Father and walked into the house without saying a word, but, as Great-aunt Emily said, with the Young temper sticking out of every kink and curve of his figure. Great-aunt Emily is our aunt on Mother’s side, and she does not like any of the Youngs except Father and Uncle Norman.