Rainbow Valley
But there was a queer, wild charm about her which captivated them all.
She was taken to Rainbow Valley that afternoon and introduced to the
Blythes as “a friend of ours from over-harbour who is visiting us.” The
Blythes accepted her unquestioningly, perhaps because she was fairly
respectable now. After dinner—through which Aunt Martha had mumbled and
Mr. Meredith had been in a state of semi-unconsciousness while brooding
his Sunday sermon—Faith had prevailed on Mary to put on one of her
dresses, as well as certain other articles of clothing. With her hair
neatly braided Mary passed muster tolerably well. She was an acceptable
playmate, for she knew several new and exciting games, and her
conversation lacked not spice. In fact, some of her expressions made
Nan and Di look at her rather askance. They were not quite sure what
their mother would have thought of her, but they knew quite well what
Susan would. However, she was a visitor at the manse, so she must be
all right.
When bedtime came there was the problem of where Mary should sleep.
“We can’t put her in the spare room, you know,” said Faith perplexedly
to Una.
“I haven’t got anything in my head,” cried Mary in an injured tone.
“Oh, I didn’t mean _that_,” protested Faith. “The spare room is all
torn up. The mice have gnawed a big hole in the feather tick and made a
nest in it. We never found it out till Aunt Martha put the Rev. Mr.
Fisher from Charlottetown there to sleep last week. _He_ soon found it
out. Then father had to give him his bed and sleep on the study lounge.
Aunt Martha hasn’t had time to fix the spare room bed up yet, so she
says; so _nobody_ can sleep there, no matter how clean their heads are.
And our room is so small, and the bed so small you can’t sleep with
us.”
“I can go back to the hay in the old barn for the night if you’ll lend
me a quilt,” said Mary philosophically. “It was kind of chilly last
night, but ‘cept for that I’ve had worse beds.”
“Oh, no, no, you mustn’t do that,” said Una. “I’ve thought of a plan,
Faith. You know that little trestle bed in the garret room, with the
old mattress on it, that the last minister left there? Let’s take up
the spare room bedclothes and make Mary a bed there. You won’t mind
sleeping in the garret, will you, Mary? It’s just above our room.”
“Any place’ll do me. Laws, I never had a decent place to sleep in my
life. I slept in the loft over the kitchen at Mrs. Wiley’s. The roof
leaked rain in the summer and the snow druv in in winter. My bed was a
straw tick on the floor. You won’t find me a mite huffy about where _I_
sleep.”
The manse garret was a long, low, shadowy place, with one gable end
partitioned off. Here a bed was made up for Mary of the dainty
hemstitched sheets and embroidered spread which Cecilia Meredith had
once so proudly made for her spare-room, and which still survived Aunt
Martha’s uncertain washings. The good nights were said and silence fell
over the manse. Una was just falling asleep when she heard a sound in
the room just above that made her sit up suddenly.
“Listen, Faith—Mary’s crying,” she whispered. Faith replied not, being
already asleep. Una slipped out of bed, and made her way in her little
white gown down the hall and up the garret stairs. The creaking floor
gave ample notice of her coming, and when she reached the corner room
all was moonlit silence and the trestle bed showed only a hump in the
middle.
“Mary,” whispered Una.
There was no response.
Una crept close to the bed and pulled at the spread. “Mary, I know you
are crying. I heard you. Are you lonesome?”
Mary suddenly appeared to view but said nothing.
“Let me in beside you. I’m cold,” said Una shivering in the chilly air,
for the little garret window was open and the keen breath of the north
shore at night blew in.
Mary moved over and Una snuggled down beside her.
“_Now_ you won’t be lonesome. We shouldn’t have left you here alone the
first night.”
“I wasn’t lonesome,” sniffed Mary.
“What were you crying for then?”
“Oh, I just got to thinking of things when I was here alone. I thought
of having to go back to Mrs. Wiley—and of being licked for running
away—and—and—and of going to hell for telling lies. It all worried me
something scandalous.”
“Oh, Mary,” said poor Una in distress. “I don’t believe God will send
you to hell for telling lies when you didn’t know it was wrong. He
_couldn’t_. Why, He’s kind and good. Of course, you mustn’t tell any
more now that you know it’s wrong.”
“If I can’t tell lies what’s to become of me?” said Mary with a sob.
“_You_ don’t understand. You don’t know anything about it. You’ve got a
home and a kind father—though it does seem to me that he isn’t more’n
about half there. But anyway he doesn’t lick you, and you get enough to
eat such as it is—though that old aunt of yours doesn’t know _anything_
about cooking. Why, this is the first day I ever remember of feeling
‘sif I’d enough to eat. I’ve been knocked about all of my life, ‘cept
for the two years I was at the asylum. They didn’t lick me there and it
wasn’t too bad, though the matron was cross. She always looked ready to
bite my head off a nail. But Mrs. Wiley is a holy terror, that’s what
_she_ is, and I’m just scared stiff when I think of going back to her.”
“Perhaps you won’t have to. Perhaps we’ll be able to think of a way
out. Let’s both ask God to keep you from having to go back to Mrs.
Wiley. You say your prayers, don’t you Mary?”
“Oh, yes, I always go over an old rhyme ‘fore I get into bed,” said
Mary indifferently. “I never thought of asking for anything in
particular though. Nobody in this world ever bothered themselves about
me so I didn’t s’pose God would. He _might_ take more trouble for you,
seeing you’re a minister’s daughter.”
“He’d take every bit as much trouble for you, Mary, I’m sure,” said
Una. “It doesn’t matter whose child you are. You just ask Him—and I
will, too.”
“All right,” agreed Mary. “It won’t do any harm if it doesn’t do much
good. If you knew Mrs. Wiley as well as I do you wouldn’t think God
would want to meddle with her. Anyhow, I won’t cry any more about it.
This is a big sight better’n last night down in that old barn, with the
mice running about. Look at the Four Winds light. Ain’t it pretty?”
“This is the only window we can see it from,” said Una. “I love to
watch it.”
“Do you? So do I. I could see it from the Wiley loft and it was the
only comfort I had. When I was all sore from being licked I’d watch it
and forget about the places that hurt. I’d think of the ships sailing
away and away from it and wish I was on one of them sailing far away
too—away from everything. On winter nights when it didn’t shine, I just
felt real lonesome. Say, Una, what makes all you folks so kind to me
when I’m just a stranger?”
“Because it’s right to be. The bible tells us to be kind to everybody.”
“Does it? Well, I guess most folks don’t mind it much then. I never
remember of any one being kind to me before—true’s you live I don’t.
Say, Una, ain’t them shadows on the walls pretty? They look just like a
flock of little dancing birds. And say, Una, I like all you folks and
them Blythe boys and Di, but I don’t like that Nan. She’s a proud one.”
“Oh, no, Mary, she isn’t a bit proud,” said Una eagerly. “Not a single
bit.”
“Don’t tell me. Any one that holds her head like that _is_ proud. I
don’t like her.”
“_We_ all like her very much.”
“Oh, I s’pose you like her better’n me?” said Mary jealously. “Do you?”
“Why, Mary—we’ve known her for weeks and we’ve only known you a few
hours,” stammered Una.
“So you do like her better then?” said Mary in a rage. “All right! Like
her all you want to. _I_ don’t care. _I_ can get along without you.”
She flung herself over against the wall of the garret with a slam.
“Oh, Mary,” said Una, pushing a tender arm over Mary’s uncompromising
back, “don’t talk like that. I _do_ like you ever so much. And you make
me feel so bad.”
No answer. Presently Una gave a sob. Instantly Mary squirmed around
again and engulfed Una in a bear’s hug.
“Hush up,” she ordered. “Don’t go crying over what I said. I was as
mean as the devil to talk that way. I orter to be skinned alive—and you
all so good to me. I should think you _would_ like any one better’n me.
I deserve every licking I ever got. Hush, now. If you cry any more I’ll
go and walk right down to the harbour in this night-dress and drown
myself.”
This terrible threat made Una choke back her sobs. Her tears were wiped
away by Mary with the lace frill of the spare-room pillow and forgiver
and forgiven cuddled down together again, harmony restored, to watch
the shadows of the vine leaves on the moonlit wall until they fell
asleep.
And in the study below Rev. John Meredith walked the floor with rapt
face and shining eyes, thinking out his message of the morrow, and knew
not that under his own roof there was a little forlorn soul, stumbling
in darkness and ignorance, beset by terror and compassed about with
difficulties too great for it to grapple in its unequal struggle with a
big indifferent world.
CHAPTER VI.
MARY STAYS AT THE MANSE
The manse children took Mary Vance to church with them the next day. At
first Mary objected to the idea.
“Didn’t you go to church over-harbour?” asked Una.
“You bet. Mrs. Wiley never troubled church much, but I went every
Sunday I could get off. I was mighty thankful to go to some place where
I could sit down for a spell. But I can’t go to church in this old
ragged dress.”
This difficulty was removed by Faith offering the loan of her second
best dress.
“It’s faded a little and two of the buttons are off, but I guess it’ll
do.”
“I’ll sew the buttons on in a jiffy,” said Mary.
“Not on Sunday,” said Una, shocked.
“Sure. The better the day the better the deed. You just gimme a needle
and thread and look the other way if you’re squeamish.”
Faith’s school boots, and an old black velvet cap that had once been
Cecilia Meredith’s, completed Mary’s costume, and to church she went.
Her behaviour was quite conventional, and though some wondered who the
shabby little girl with the manse children was she did not attract much
attention. She listened to the sermon with outward decorum and joined
lustily in the singing. She had, it appeared, a clear, strong voice and
a good ear.
“His blood can make the _violets_ clean,” carolled Mary blithely. Mrs.
Jimmy Milgrave, whose pew was just in front of the manse pew, turned
suddenly and looked the child over from top to toe. Mary, in a mere
superfluity of naughtiness, stuck out her tongue at Mrs. Milgrave, much
to Una’s horror.
“I couldn’t help it,” she declared after church. “What’d she want to
stare at me like that for? Such manners! I’m _glad_ I stuck my tongue
out at her. I wish I’d stuck it farther out. Say, I saw Rob MacAllister
from over-harbour there. Wonder if he’ll tell Mrs. Wiley on me.”
No Mrs. Wiley appeared, however, and in a few days the children forgot
to look for her. Mary was apparently a fixture at the manse. But she
refused to go to school with the others.
“Nope. I’ve finished my education,” she said, when Faith urged her to
go. “I went to school four winters since I come to Mrs. Wiley’s and
I’ve had all I want of _that_. I’m sick and tired of being
everlastingly jawed at ‘cause I didn’t get my home-lessons done. _I’d_
no time to do home-lessons.”
“Our teacher won’t jaw you. He is awfully nice,” said Faith.
“Well, I ain’t going. I can read and write and cipher up to fractions.
That’s all I want. You fellows go and I’ll stay home. You needn’t be
scared I’ll steal anything. I swear I’m honest.”
Mary employed herself while the others were at school in cleaning up