Rainbow Valley
“I want to be sick. I’m not punishing myself. Go away.”
“Where’s her shoes and stockings?” asked Jerry of Una.
“She gave them to Lida Marsh.”
“Lida Marsh? What for?”
“Because Lida had none—and her feet were so cold. And now she wants to
be sick so that she won’t have to go to church to-morrow and wear her
striped stockings. But, Jerry, she may die.”
“Faith,” said Jerry, “get off that ice-bank or I’ll pull you off.”
“Pull away,” dared Faith.
Jerry sprang at her and caught her arms. He pulled one way and Faith
pulled another. Una ran behind Faith and pushed. Faith stormed at Jerry
to leave her alone. Jerry stormed back at her not to be a dizzy idiot;
and Una cried. They made no end of noise and they were close to the
road fence of the graveyard. Henry Warren and his wife drove by and
heard and saw them. Very soon the Glen heard that the manse children
had been having an awful fight in the graveyard and using most improper
language. Meanwhile, Faith had allowed herself to be pulled off the ice
because her feet were aching so sharply that she was ready to get off
any way. They all went in amiably and went to bed. Faith slept like a
cherub and woke in the morning without a trace of a cold. She felt that
she couldn’t feign sickness and act a lie, after remembering that
long-ago talk with her father. But she was still as fully determined as
ever that she would not wear those abominable stockings to church.
CHAPTER XXV.
ANOTHER SCANDAL AND ANOTHER “EXPLANATION”
Faith went early to Sunday School and was seated in the corner of her
class pew before any one came. Therefore, the dreadful truth did not
burst upon any one until Faith left the class pew near the door to walk
up to the manse pew after Sunday School. The church was already half
filled and all who were sitting near the aisle saw that the minister’s
daughter had boots on but no stockings!
Faith’s new brown dress, which Aunt Martha had made from an ancient
pattern, was absurdly long for her, but even so it did not meet her
boot-tops. Two good inches of bare white leg showed plainly.
Faith and Carl sat alone in the manse pew. Jerry had gone into the
gallery to sit with a chum and the Blythe girls had taken Una with
them. The Meredith children were given to “sitting all over the church”
in this fashion and a great many people thought it very improper. The
gallery especially, where irresponsible lads congregated and were known
to whisper and suspected of chewing tobacco during service, was no
place for a son of the manse. But Jerry hated the manse pew at the
very top of the church, under the eyes of Elder Clow and his family. He
escaped from it whenever he could.
Carl, absorbed in watching a spider spinning its web at the window, did
not notice Faith’s legs. She walked home with her father after church
and he never noticed them. She got on the hated striped stockings
before Jerry and Una arrived, so that for the time being none of the
occupants of the manse knew what she had done. But nobody else in Glen
St. Mary was ignorant of it. The few who had not seen soon heard.
Nothing else was talked of on the way home from church. Mrs. Alec Davis
said it was only what she expected, and the next thing you would see
some of those young ones coming to church with no clothes on at all.
The president of the Ladies’ Aid decided that she would bring the
matter up at the next Aid meeting, and suggest that they wait in a body
on the minister and protest. Miss Cornelia said that she, for her part,
gave up. There was no use worrying over the manse fry any longer. Even
Mrs. Dr. Blythe felt a little shocked, though she attributed the
occurrence solely to Faith’s forgetfulness. Susan could not immediately
begin knitting stockings for Faith because it was Sunday, but she had
one set up before any one else was out of bed at Ingleside the next
morning.
“You need not tell me anything but that it was old Martha’s fault, Mrs.
Dr. dear.” she told Anne. “I suppose that poor little child had no
decent stockings to wear. I suppose every stocking she had was in
holes, as you know very well they generally are. And _I_ think, Mrs.
Dr. dear, that the Ladies’ Aid would be better employed in knitting
some for them than in fighting over the new carpet for the pulpit
platform. _I_ am not a Ladies’ Aider, but I shall knit Faith two pairs
of stockings, out of this nice black yarn, as fast as my fingers can
move and that you may tie to. Never shall I forget my sensations, Mrs.
Dr. dear, when I saw a minister’s child walking up the aisle of our
church with no stockings on. I really did not know what way to look.”
“And the church was just full of Methodists yesterday, too,” groaned
Miss Cornelia, who had come up to the Glen to do some shopping and run
into Ingleside to talk the affair over. “I don’t know how it is, but
just as sure as those manse children do something especially awful the
church is sure to be crowded with Methodists. I thought Mrs. Deacon
Hazard’s eyes would drop out of her head. When she came out of church
she said, ‘Well, that exhibition was no more than decent. I do pity the
Presbyterians.’ And we just had to _take_ it. There was nothing one
could say.”
“There was something _I_ could have said, Mrs. Dr. dear, if I had heard
her,” said Susan grimly. “I would have said, for one thing, that in my
opinion clean bare legs were quite as decent as holes. And I would have
said, for another, that the Presbyterians did not feel greatly in need
of pity seeing that they had a minister who could _preach_ and the
Methodists had _not_. I could have squelched Mrs. Deacon Hazard, Mrs.
Dr dear, and that you may tie to.”
“I wish Mr. Meredith didn’t preach quite so well and looked after his
family a little better,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “He could at least
glance over his children before they went to church and see that they
were quite properly clothed. I’m tired making excuses for him, believe
_me_.”
Meanwhile, Faith’s soul was being harrowed up in Rainbow Valley. Mary
Vance was there and, as usual, in a lecturing mood. She gave Faith to
understand that she had disgraced herself and her father beyond
redemption and that she, Mary Vance, was done with her. “Everybody” was
talking, and “everybody” said the same thing.
“I simply feel that I can’t associate with you any longer,” she
concluded.
“_We_ are going to associate with her then,” cried Nan Blythe. Nan
secretly thought Faith _had_ done a awful thing, but she wasn’t going
to let Mary Vance run matters in this high-handed fashion. “And if
_you_ are not you needn’t come any more to Rainbow Valley, _Miss_
Vance.”
Nan and Di both put their arms around Faith and glared defiance at
Mary. The latter suddenly crumpled up, sat down on a stump and began to
cry.
“It ain’t that I don’t want to,” she wailed. “But if I keep in with
Faith people’ll be saying I put her up to doing things. Some are saying
it now, true’s you live. I can’t afford to have such things said of me,
now that I’m in a respectable place and trying to be a lady. And _I_
never went bare-legged in church in my toughest days. I’d never have
thought of doing such a thing. But that hateful old Kitty Alec says
Faith has never been the same girl since that time I stayed in the
manse. She says Cornelia Elliott will live to rue the day she took me
in. It hurts my feelings, I tell you. But it’s Mr. Meredith I’m really
worried over.”
“I think you needn’t worry about him,” said Di scornfully. “It isn’t
likely necessary. Now, Faith darling, stop crying and tell us why you
did it.”
Faith explained tearfully. The Blythe girls sympathized with her, and
even Mary Vance agreed that it was a hard position to be in. But Jerry,
on whom the thing came like a thunderbolt, refused to be placated. So
_this_ was what some mysterious hints he had got in school that day
meant! He marched Faith and Una home without ceremony, and the
Good-Conduct Club held an immediate session in the graveyard to sit in
judgment on Faith’s case.
“I don’t see that it was any harm,” said Faith defiantly. “Not _much_
of my legs showed. It wasn’t _wrong_ and it didn’t hurt anybody.”
“It will hurt Dad. You _know_ it will. You know people blame him
whenever we do anything queer.”
“I didn’t think of that,” muttered Faith.
“That’s just the trouble. You didn’t think and you _should_ have
thought. That’s what our Club is for—to bring us up and _make_ us
think. We promised we’d always stop and think before doing things. You
didn’t and you’ve got to be punished, Faith—and real hard, too. You’ll
wear those striped stockings to school for a week for punishment.”
“Oh, Jerry, won’t a day do—two days? Not a whole week!”
“Yes, a whole week,” said inexorable Jerry. “It is fair—ask Jem Blythe
if it isn’t.”
Faith felt she would rather submit then ask Jem Blythe about such a
matter. She was beginning to realize that her offence was a quite
shameful one.
“I’ll do it, then,” she muttered, a little sulkily.
“You’re getting off easy,” said Jerry severely. “And no matter how we
punish you it won’t help father. People will always think you just did
it for mischief, and they’ll blame father for not stopping it. We can
never explain it to everybody.”
This aspect of the case weighed on Faith’s mind. Her own condemnation
she could bear, but it tortured her that her father should be blamed.
If people knew the true facts of the case they would not blame him. But
how could she make them known to all the world? Getting up in church,
as she had once done, and explaining the matter was out of the
question. Faith had heard from Mary Vance how the congregation had
looked upon that performance and realized that she must not repeat it.
Faith worried over the problem for half a week. Then she had an
inspiration and promptly acted upon it. She spent that evening in the
garret, with a lamp and an exercise book, writing busily, with flushed
cheeks and shining eyes. It was the very thing! How clever she was to
have thought of it! It would put everything right and explain
everything and yet cause no scandal. It was eleven o’clock when she had
finished to her satisfaction and crept down to bed, dreadfully tired,
but perfectly happy.
In a few days the little weekly published in the Glen under the name of
_The Journal_ came out as usual, and the Glen had another sensation. A
letter signed “Faith Meredith” occupied a prominent place on the front
page and ran as follows:—
“TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
“I want to explain to everybody how it was I came to go to church
without stockings on, so that everybody will know that father was not
to blame one bit for it, and the old gossips need not say he is,
because it is not true. I gave my only pair of black stockings to Lida
Marsh, because she hadn’t any and her poor little feet were awful cold
and I was so sorry for her. No child ought to have to go without shoes
and stockings in a Christian community before the snow is all gone, and
I think the W. F. M. S. ought to have given her stockings. Of course, I
know they are sending things to the little heathen children, and that
is all right and a kind thing to do. But the little heathen children
have lots more warm weather than we have, and I think the women of our
church ought to look after Lida and not leave it all to me. When I gave
her my stockings I forgot they were the only black pair I had without
holes, but I am glad I did give them to her, because my conscience
would have been uncomfortable if I hadn’t. When she had gone away,
looking so proud and happy, the poor little thing, I remembered that
all I had to wear were the horrid red and blue things Aunt Martha knit
last winter for me out of some yarn that Mrs. Joseph Burr of Upper Glen