Rainbow Valley
tree, and laid the offending muff on a bough. Una saw that it was lined
with shirred red satin and had red tassels. She looked down at her own
rather purple, chapped, little hands and wondered if she would ever,
_ever_ be able to put them into a muff like that.
“Give us a chew,” said Mary companionably. Nan, Di and Faith all
produced an amber-hued knot or two from their pockets and passed them
to Mary. Una sat very still. She had four lovely big knots in the
pocket of her tight, thread-bare little jacket, but she wasn’t going to
give one of them to Mary Vance—not one. Let Mary pick her own gum!
People with squirrel muffs needn’t expect to get everything in the
world.
“Great day, isn’t it?” said Mary, swinging her legs, the better,
perhaps, to display new boots with very smart cloth tops. Una tucked
_her_ feet under her. There was a hole in the toe of one of her boots
and both laces were much knotted. But they were the best she had. Oh,
this Mary Vance! Why hadn’t they left her in the old barn?
Una never felt badly because the Ingleside twins were better dressed
than she and Faith were. _They_ wore their pretty clothes with careless
grace and never seemed to think about them at all. Somehow, they did
not make other people feel shabby. But when Mary Vance was dressed up
she seemed fairly to exude clothes—to walk in an atmosphere of
clothes—to make everybody else feel and think clothes. Una, as she sat
there in the honey-tinted sunshine of the gracious December afternoon,
was acutely and miserably conscious of everything she had on—the faded
tam, which was yet her best, the skimpy jacket she had worn for three
winters, the holes in her skirt and her boots, the shivering
insufficiency of her poor little undergarments. Of course, Mary was
going out for a visit and she was not. But even if she had been she had
nothing better to put on and in this lay the sting.
“Say, this is great gum. Listen to me cracking it. There ain’t any gum
spruces down at Four Winds,” said Mary. “Sometimes I just hanker after
a chew. Mrs. Elliott won’t let me chew gum if she sees me. She says it
ain’t lady-like. This lady-business puzzles me. I can’t get on to all
its kinks. Say, Una, what’s the matter with you? Cat got your tongue?”
“No,” said Una, who could not drag her fascinated eyes from that
squirrel muff. Mary leaned past her, picked it up and thrust it into
Una’s hands.
“Stick your paws in that for a while,” she ordered. “They look sorter
pinched. Ain’t that a dandy muff? Mrs. Elliott give it to me last week
for a birthday present. I’m to get the collar at Christmas. I heard her
telling Mr. Elliott that.”
“Mrs. Elliott is very good to you,” said Faith.
“You bet she is. And _I’m_ good to her, too,” retorted Mary. “I work
like a nigger to make it easy for her and have everything just as she
likes it. We was made for each other. ‘Tisn’t every one could get along
with her as well as I do. She’s pizen neat, but so am I, and so we
agree fine.”
“I told you she would never whip you.”
“So you did. She’s never tried to lay a finger on me and I ain’t never
told a lie to her—not one, true’s you live. She combs me down with her
tongue sometimes though, but that just slips off _me_ like water off a
duck’s back. Say, Una, why didn’t you hang on to the muff?”
Una had put it back on the bough.
“My hands aren’t cold, thank you,” she said stiffly.
“Well, if you’re satisfied, _I_ am. Say, old Kitty Alec has come back
to church as meek as Moses and nobody knows why. But everybody is
saying it was Faith brought Norman Douglas out. His housekeeper says
you went there and gave him an awful tongue-lashing. Did you?”
“I went and asked him to come to church,” said Faith uncomfortably.
“Fancy your spunk!” said Mary admiringly. “_I_ wouldn’t have dared do
that and I’m not so slow. Mrs. Wilson says the two of you jawed
something scandalous, but you come off best and then he just turned
round and like to eat you up. Say, is your father going to preach here
to-morrow?”
“No. He’s going to exchange with Mr. Perry from Charlottetown. Father
went to town this morning and Mr. Perry is coming out to-night.”
“I _thought_ there was something in the wind, though old Martha
wouldn’t give me any satisfaction. But I felt sure she wouldn’t have
been killing that rooster for nothing.”
“What rooster? What do you mean?” cried Faith, turning pale.
“_I_ don’t know what rooster. I didn’t see it. When she took the butter
Mrs. Elliott sent up she said she’d been out to the barn killing a
rooster for dinner tomorrow.”
Faith sprang down from the pine.
“It’s Adam—we have no other rooster—she has killed Adam.”
“Now, don’t fly off the handle. Martha said the butcher at the Glen had
no meat this week and she had to have something and the hens were all
laying and too poor.”
“If she has killed Adam—” Faith began to run up the hill.
Mary shrugged her shoulders.
“She’ll go crazy now. She was so fond of that Adam. He ought to have
been in the pot long ago—he’ll be as tough as sole leather. But _I_
wouldn’t like to be in Martha’s shoes. Faith’s just white with rage;
Una, you’d better go after her and try to peacify her.”
Mary had gone a few steps with the Blythe girls when Una suddenly
turned and ran after her.
“Here’s some gum for you, Mary,” she said, with a little repentant
catch in her voice, thrusting all her four knots into Mary’s hands,
“and I’m glad you have such a pretty muff.”
“Why, thanks,” said Mary, rather taken by surprise. To the Blythe
girls, after Una had gone, she said, “Ain’t she a queer little mite?
But I’ve always said she had a good heart.”
CHAPTER XIX.
POOR ADAM!
When Una got home Faith was lying face downwards on her bed, utterly
refusing to be comforted. Aunt Martha had killed Adam. He was reposing
on a platter in the pantry that very minute, trussed and dressed,
encircled by his liver and heart and gizzard. Aunt Martha heeded
Faith’s passion of grief and anger not a whit.
“We had to have something for the strange minister’s dinner,” she said.
“You’re too big a girl to make such a fuss over an old rooster. You
knew he’d have to be killed sometime.”
“I’ll tell father when he comes home what you’ve done,” sobbed Faith.
“Don’t you go bothering your poor father. He has troubles enough. And
_I’m_ housekeeper here.”
“Adam was _mine_—Mrs. Johnson gave him to me. You had no business to
touch him,” stormed Faith.
“Don’t you get sassy now. The rooster’s killed and there’s an end of
it. I ain’t going to set no strange minister down to a dinner of cold
b’iled mutton. I was brought up to know better than that, if I have
come down in the world.”
Faith would not go down to supper that night and she would not go to
church the next morning. But at dinner time she went to the table, her
eyes swollen with crying, her face sullen.
The Rev. James Perry was a sleek, rubicund man, with a bristling white
moustache, bushy white eyebrows, and a shining bald head. He was
certainly not handsome and he was a very tiresome, pompous sort of
person. But if he had looked like the Archangel Michael and talked with
the tongues of men and angels Faith would still have utterly detested
him. He carved Adam up dexterously, showing off his plump white hands
and very handsome diamond ring. Also, he made jovial remarks all
through the performance. Jerry and Carl giggled, and even Una smiled
wanly, because she thought politeness demanded it. But Faith only
scowled darkly. The Rev. James thought her manners shockingly bad.
Once, when he was delivering himself of an unctuous remark to Jerry,
Faith broke in rudely with a flat contradiction. The Rev. James drew
his bushy eyebrows together at her.
“Little girls should not interrupt,” he said, “and they should not
contradict people who know far more than they do.”
This put Faith in a worse temper than ever. To be called “little girl”
as if she were no bigger than chubby Rilla Blythe over at Ingleside! It
was insufferable. And how that abominable Mr. Perry did eat! He even
picked poor Adam’s bones. Neither Faith nor Una would touch a mouthful,
and looked upon the boys as little better than cannibals. Faith felt
that if that awful repast did not soon come to an end she would wind it
up by throwing something at Mr. Perry’s gleaming head. Fortunately, Mr.
Perry found Aunt Martha’s leathery apple pie too much even for his
powers of mastication and the meal came to an end, after a long grace
in which Mr. Perry offered up devout thanks for the food which a kind
and beneficent Providence had provided for sustenance and temperate
pleasure.
“God hadn’t a single thing to do with providing Adam for you,” muttered
Faith rebelliously under her breath.
The boys gladly made their escape to outdoors, Una went to help Aunt
Martha with the dishes—though that rather grumpy old dame never
welcomed her timid assistance—and Faith betook herself to the study
where a cheerful wood fire was burning in the grate. She thought she
would thereby escape from the hated Mr. Perry, who had announced his
intention of taking a nap in his room during the afternoon. But
scarcely had Faith settled herself in a corner, with a book, when he
walked in and, standing before the fire, proceeded to survey the
disorderly study with an air of disapproval.
“You father’s books seem to be in somewhat deplorable confusion, my
little girl,” he said severely.
Faith darkled in her corner and said not a word. She would _not_ talk
to this—this creature.
“You should try to put them in order,” Mr. Perry went on, playing with
his handsome watch chain and smiling patronizingly on Faith. “You are
quite old enough to attend to such duties. _My_ little daughter at home
is only ten and she is already an excellent little housekeeper and the
greatest help and comfort to her mother. She is a very sweet child. I
wish you had the privilege of her acquaintance. She could help you in
many ways. Of course, you have not had the inestimable privilege of a
good mother’s care and training. A sad lack—a very sad lack. I have
spoken more than once to your father in this connection and pointed out
his duty to him faithfully, but so far with no effect. I trust he may
awaken to a realization of his responsibility before it is too late. In
the meantime, it is your duty and privilege to endeavour to take your
sainted mother’s place. You might exercise a great influence over your
brothers and your little sister—you might be a true mother to them. I
fear that you do not think of these things as you should. My dear
child, allow me to open your eyes in regard to them.”
Mr. Perry’s oily, complacent voice trickled on. He was in his element.
Nothing suited him better than to lay down the law, patronize and
exhort. He had no idea of stopping, and he did not stop. He stood
before the fire, his feet planted firmly on the rug, and poured out a
flood of pompous platitudes. Faith heard not a word. She was really not
listening to him at all. But she was watching his long black coat-tails
with impish delight growing in her brown eyes. Mr. Perry was standing
_very_ near the fire. His coat-tails began to scorch—his coat-tails
began to smoke. He still prosed on, wrapped up in his own eloquence.
The coat-tails smoked worse. A tiny spark flew up from the burning wood
and alighted in the middle of one. It clung and caught and spread into
a smouldering flame. Faith could restrain herself no longer and broke
into a stifled giggle.
Mr. Perry stopped short, angered over this impertinence. Suddenly he
became conscious that a reek of burning cloth filled the room. He
whirled round and saw nothing. Then he clapped his hands to his
coat-tails and brought them around in front of him. There was already