Rainbow Valley
this mess on the floor and we’ll go outside. You dust the furniture and
I’ll shake the rugs. I’m going to do it in the graveyard. I don’t want
to send dust flying all over the lawn.”
Faith enjoyed the rug shaking. To stand on Hezekiah Pollock’s
tombstone, flapping and shaking rugs, was real fun. To be sure, Elder
Abraham Clow and his wife, driving past in their capacious
double-seated buggy, seemed to gaze at her in grim disapproval.
“Isn’t that a terrible sight?” said Elder Abraham solemnly.
“I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,”
said Mrs. Elder Abraham, more solemnly still.
Faith waved a door mat cheerily at the Clow party. It did not worry her
that the elder and his wife did not return her greeting. Everybody knew
that Elder Abraham had never been known to smile since he had been
appointed Superintendent of the Sunday School fourteen years
previously. But it hurt her that Minnie and Adella Clow did not wave
back. Faith liked Minnie and Adella. Next to the Blythes, they were her
best friends in school and she always helped Adella with her sums. This
was gratitude for you. Her friends cut her because she was shaking rugs
in an old graveyard where, as Mary Vance said, not a living soul had
been buried for years. Faith flounced around to the veranda, where she
found Una grieved in spirit because the Clow girls had not waved to
her, either.
“I suppose they’re mad over something,” said Faith. “Perhaps they’re
jealous because we play so much in Rainbow Valley with the Blythes.
Well, just wait till school opens and Adella wants me to show her how
to do her sums! We’ll get square then. Come on, let’s put the things
back in. I’m tired to death and I don’t believe the rooms will look
much better than before we started—though I shook out pecks of dust in
the graveyard. I _hate_ house-cleaning.”
It was two o’clock before the tired girls finished the two rooms. They
got a dreary bite in the kitchen and intended to wash the dishes at
once. But Faith happened to pick up a new story-book Di Blythe had lent
her and was lost to the world until sunset. Una took a cup of rank tea
up to Carl but found him asleep; so she curled herself up on Jerry’s
bed and went to sleep too. Meanwhile, a weird story flew through Glen
St. Mary and folks asked each other seriously what was to be done with
those manse youngsters.
“That is past laughing at, believe _me_,” said Miss Cornelia to her
husband, with a heavy sigh. “I couldn’t believe it at first. Miranda
Drew brought the story home from the Methodist Sunday School this
afternoon and I simply scoffed at it. But Mrs. Elder Abraham says she
and the Elder saw it with their own eyes.”
“Saw what?” asked Marshall.
“Faith and Una Meredith stayed home from Sunday School this morning and
_cleaned house_,” said Miss Cornelia, in accents of despair. “When
Elder Abraham went home from the church—he had stayed behind to
straighten out the library books—he saw them shaking rugs in the
Methodist graveyard. I can never look a Methodist in the face again.
Just think what a scandal it will make!”
A scandal it assuredly did make, growing more scandalous as it spread,
until the over-harbour people heard that the manse children had not
only cleaned house and put out a washing on Sunday, but had wound up
with an afternoon picnic in the graveyard while the Methodist Sunday
School was going on. The only household which remained in blissful
ignorance of the terrible thing was the manse itself; on what Faith and
Una fondly believed to be Tuesday it rained again; for the next three
days it rained; nobody came near the manse; the manse folk went
nowhere; they might have waded through the misty Rainbow Valley up to
Ingleside, but all the Blythe family, save Susan and the doctor, were
away on a visit to Avonlea.
“This is the last of our bread,” said Faith, “and the ditto is done. If
Aunt Martha doesn’t get better soon _what_ will we do?”
“We can buy some bread in the village and there’s the codfish Mary
dried,” said Una. “But we don’t know how to cook it.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” laughed Faith. “You just boil it.”
Boil it they did; but as it did not occur to them to soak it beforehand
it was too salty to eat. That night they were very hungry; but by the
following day their troubles were over. Sunshine returned to the world;
Carl was well and Aunt Martha’s misery left her as suddenly as it had
come; the butcher called at the manse and chased famine away. To crown
all, the Blythes returned home, and that evening they and the manse
children and Mary Vance kept sunset tryst once more in Rainbow Valley,
where the daisies were floating upon the grass like spirits of the dew
and the bells on the Tree Lovers rang like fairy chimes in the scented
twilight.
CHAPTER XI.
A DREADFUL DISCOVERY
“Well, you kids have gone and done it now,” was Mary’s greeting, as she
joined them in the Valley. Miss Cornelia was up at Ingleside, holding
agonized conclave with Anne and Susan, and Mary hoped that the session
might be a long one, for it was all of two weeks since she had been
allowed to revel with her chums in the dear valley of rainbows.
“Done what?” demanded everybody but Walter, who was day-dreaming as
usual.
“It’s you manse young ones, I mean,” said Mary. “It was just awful of
you. _I_ wouldn’t have done such a thing for the world, and _I_ weren’t
brought up in a manse—weren’t brought up _anywhere_—just _come_ up.”
“What have _we_ done?” asked Faith blankly.
“Done! You’d _better_ ask! The talk is something terrible. I expect
it’s ruined your father in this congregation. He’ll never be able to
live it down, poor man! Everybody blames him for it, and that isn’t
fair. But nothing _is_ fair in this world. You ought to be ashamed of
yourselves.”
“What _have_ we done?” asked Una again, despairingly. Faith said
nothing, but her eyes flashed golden-brown scorn at Mary.
“Oh, don’t pretend innocence,” said Mary, witheringly. “Everybody knows
what you have done.”
“_I_ don’t,” interjected Jem Blythe indignantly. “Don’t let me catch
you making Una cry, Mary Vance. What are you talking about?”
“I s’pose you don’t know, since you’re just back from up west,” said
Mary, somewhat subdued. Jem could always manage her. “But everybody
else knows, you’d better believe.”
“Knows what?”
“That Faith and Una stayed home from Sunday School last Sunday and
_cleaned house_.”
“We didn’t,” cried Faith and Una, in passionate denial.
Mary looked haughtily at them.
“I didn’t suppose you’d deny it, after the way you’ve combed _me_ down
for lying,” she said. “What’s the good of saying you didn’t? Everybody
knows you _did_. Elder Clow and his wife saw you. Some people say it
will break up the church, but _I_ don’t go that far. You _are_ nice
ones.”
Nan Blythe stood up and put her arms around the dazed Faith and Una.
“They were nice enough to take you in and feed you and clothe you when
you were starving in Mr. Taylor’s barn, Mary Vance,” she said. “You are
_very_ grateful, I must say.”
“I _am_ grateful,” retorted Mary. “You’d know it if you’d heard me
standing up for Mr. Meredith through thick and thin. I’ve blistered my
tongue talking for him this week. I’ve said again and again that he
isn’t to blame if his young ones did clean house on Sunday. He was
away—and they knew better.”
“But we didn’t,” protested Una. “It was _Monday_ we cleaned house.
Wasn’t it, Faith?”
“Of course it was,” said Faith, with flashing eyes. “We went to Sunday
School in spite of the rain—and no one came—not even Elder Abraham, for
all his talk about fair-weather Christians.”
“It was Saturday it rained,” said Mary. “Sunday was as fine as silk. I
wasn’t at Sunday School because I had toothache, but every one else was
and they saw all your stuff out on the lawn. And Elder Abraham and Mrs.
Elder Abraham saw you shaking rugs in the graveyard.”
Una sat down among the daisies and began to cry.
“Look here,” said Jem resolutely, “this thing must be cleared up.
_Somebody_ has made a mistake. Sunday _was_ fine, Faith. How could you
have thought Saturday was Sunday?”
“Prayer-meeting was Thursday night,” cried Faith, “and Adam flew into
the soup-pot on Friday when Aunt Martha’s cat chased him, and spoiled
our dinner; and Saturday there was a snake in the cellar and Carl
caught it with a forked stick and carried it out, and Sunday it rained.
So there!”
“Prayer-meeting was Wednesday night,” said Mary. “Elder Baxter was to
lead and he couldn’t go Thursday night and it was changed to Wednesday.
You were just a day out, Faith Meredith, and you _did_ work on Sunday.”
Suddenly Faith burst into a peal of laughter.
“I suppose we did. What a joke!”
“It isn’t much of a joke for your father,” said Mary sourly.
“It’ll be all right when people find out it was just a mistake,” said
Faith carelessly. “We’ll explain.”
“You can explain till you’re black in the face,” said Mary, “but a lie
like that’ll travel faster’n further than you ever will. I’VE seen more
of the world than you and _I_ know. Besides, there are plenty of folks
won’t believe it was a mistake.”
“They will if I tell them,” said Faith.
“You can’t tell everybody,” said Mary. “No, I tell you you’ve disgraced
your father.”
Una’s evening was spoiled by this dire reflection, but Faith refused to
be made uncomfortable. Besides, she had a plan that would put
everything right. So she put the past with its mistake behind her and
gave herself over to enjoyment of the present. Jem went away to fish
and Walter came out of his reverie and proceeded to describe the woods
of heaven. Mary pricked up her ears and listened respectfully. Despite
her awe of Walter she revelled in his “book talk.” It always gave her a
delightful sensation. Walter had been reading his Coleridge that day,
and he pictured a heaven where
“There were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree,
And there were forests ancient as the hills
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.”
“I didn’t know there was any woods in heaven,” said Mary, with a long
breath. “I thought it was all streets—and streets—_and_ streets.”
“Of course there are woods,” said Nan. “Mother can’t live without trees
and I can’t, so what would be the use of going to heaven if there
weren’t any trees?”
“There are cities, too,” said the young dreamer, “splendid
cities—coloured just like the sunset, with sapphire towers and rainbow
domes. They are built of gold and diamonds—whole streets of diamonds,
flashing like the sun. In the squares there are crystal fountains
kissed by the light, and everywhere the asphodel blooms—the flower of
heaven.”
“Fancy!” said Mary. “I saw the main street in Charlottetown once and I
thought it was real grand, but I s’pose it’s nothing to heaven. Well,
it all sounds gorgeous the way you tell it, but won’t it be kind of
dull, too?”
“Oh, I guess we can have some fun when the angels’ backs are turned,”
said Faith comfortably.
“Heaven is _all_ fun,” declared Di.
“The Bible doesn’t say so,” cried Mary, who had read so much of the
Bible on Sunday afternoons under Miss Cornelia’s eye that she now
considered herself quite an authority on it.
“Mother says the Bible language is figurative,” said Nan.
“Does that mean that it isn’t true?” asked Mary hopefully.
“No—not exactly—but I think it means that heaven will be just like what
you’d like it to be.”
“I’d like it to be just like Rainbow Valley,” said Mary, “with all you
kids to gas and play with. _That’s_ good enough for me. Anyhow, we
can’t go to heaven till we’re dead and maybe not then, so what’s the
use of worrying? Here’s Jem with a string of trout and it’s my turn to
fry them.”
“We ought to know more about heaven than Walter does when we’re the