During those golden autumn months, the spirit of chivalry had been manifesting itself in other parts of Forest Glen beside the schoolroom. That in which the grown-up part of the community shared centered round Sandy McLachlan's little clearing.
The lawyers had made a bad mess of poor Sandy's affairs, the country declared. He had virtually lost his farm, as far as the law went, and all because of some technicality regarding the lack of a fence on all sides, one which the rural mind considered highly absurd. And not only that, but the place had been sold to Jake Martin, who had given Sandy notice to leave early in October.
But the old man was hard to move. Sure of his rights, and convinced of the injustice of all legal proceedings, he clung tenaciously to his little property. It was not a place anyone need grieve over losing, an observer might say—a few acres of stumpy, cleared land, an indefinite piece of forest, and an old log cabin. But it was Sandy's home—the only one he had known since he left his father's fisher-hut on the wind-swept shore of Islay. And every stone and tree on the rough little place, and the very birds that sang in the evening from the dark circle of forest were very dear to the old man's heart. From the doorway he could see down the leafy lane to the church and beyond it into the grassy graveyard with its leaning headstones. There was one there, an old moss-grown, wooden slab, once painted white. It marked two graves, those of Sandy's wife and his daughter, their only child, who had been Eppie's mother.
Yes, it was hard to think of leaving it all, and he was fiercely determined to stay.
His friends did their best to help him. Mr. Coulson took the liberty of writing to Mrs. Jarvis, the owner of the property, begging her to notice Sandy's claim. But there came no answer, and Mr. Huntley, the lawyer, laughed at him, saying by the time he had done business with that lady as long as he had he'd know better. Mr. MacAllister offered Sandy work in the mill, with pay commuted the long way. Noah Clegg invited both him and Eppie to share his home until such time as he could look about him for a new place. For, though the two Sunday-school superintendents were wont to sit up all night arguing fiercely on points of doctrine, in the day of affliction all differences were forgotten. Jake Martin even loudly declared himself powerful sorry, but then business was business, and he supposed there would always be shiftless folk like Sandy in the world who could never get on.
Wully Johnstone came next. He strolled over through the woods one afternoon and casually remarked that that old house of his by the spring was just fair totterin' for lack of care, and he wished to peace some obleegin' body would move intil it an' save him all the worry.
But Sandy would accept no man's hospitality, however delicately offered. He was proud, even for a Highlander, and not Noah Clegg himself, who was his closest friend, might extend to him charity.
Besides, as time went on, it would appear that he stood in little need of it. When the Jarvis property had been put up for sale, Mr. Martin had looked with a longing eye upon the Teeter farm, where The Dale stood. But Tom's claim had been safely established, and great was his wrath when he heard of his neighbor's machinations. Oro's Orator was a fighter in other beside forensic fields. He had a true Irish resentment against the law, and understood that somehow Jake Martin, in league with the lawyers, had outraged justice; therefore, he, Mr. Teeter, would ignore the lawyers and settle Jake, see if he wouldn't. Mr. Martin had voted Tory at the last election anyhow, and was badly in need of being settled.
So there broke out a war in Forest Glen which raged all autumn. When Jake Martin finally appeared at Sandy's door to formally assert his ownership, Mr. Teeter met him. He carried an ancient piece of firearms that had not been loaded since the day, some thirty years before, when the last bruin of Forest Glen had come ambling up out of Wully Johnstone's swamp.
Mr. Martin, not knowing how harmful the weapon might be, but being only too well aware that the man behind the gun was always to be feared, retired precipitately, and the whole countryside laughed long and loud over the victory.
He returned to the farm many times, but Tom seemed always to be on hand. Finally Mr. Martin declared, after they had come to blows the second time, that he would have the law. Mr. Teeter joyfully invited him to have all he could get of it; but the enemy hesitated. He knew his case was not looked upon with favor by his neighbors, and he dreaded to fly in the face of public opinion. For a lawsuit, as everyone in the countryside knew, was held as a disgrace, no matter how righteous one's case might be. And besides, the lawyers were apt to take so much money that a thrifty man like Jake naturally hesitated before approaching them.
So all autumn he went on making ineffectual efforts to remove the obstructions from his property, and times were very lively indeed; so lively that Auntie Jinit McKerracher, who led public opinion, declared it was clean scand'lus to have such goin's on in a Christian land; and Granny Teeter wrung her hands and said "Wirra wurra" many times a day over the Orator's waywardness.
At last, to save his reputation, Mr. Martin compromised. He would graciously allow Sandy to remain on his lawful property, he announced, till springtime. But, just as soon as the snow was gone, Tom Teeter had better watch out. For it was a penitentiary job he'd been at, and if there was any law in Canada, Mr. Martin was going to have the benefit of it.
So the countryside settled down for the winter, and as Christmas approached the Martin-Teeter conflict ceased to occupy the public mind. Even in the schoolroom it was soon forgotten, and this was a great relief to Elizabeth. For, of course, Eppie's trouble could not but directly affect her. Elizabeth and Rosie had both stood loyally by Eppie, declaring it was a dreadful shame the way Jake Martin and the lawyers acted. But this loyalty entailed an estrangement from poor, hard-working Susie; and Elizabeth's tender heart was torn between her two friends. She realized that Susie was right in taking her father's side. For, of course, one must stand by a father, no matter how bad he was, she argued. Elizabeth's position was a difficult one, and she was vastly relieved when the matter was dropped, and she and Rosie, with Eppie and Susie as their opponents, played puzzle during school hours and tag during recess, as of yore.
But all outside affairs of whatever moment would soon have been forgotten in any case. Every other interest was speedily swallowed up in the excitement over the Christmas concert Forest Glen was to have at the closing of school.
It was Jean Gordon and Wully Johnstone's Bella who imported this newest fad, bringing it all the way from Cheemaun High School. They generally kept Forest Glen posted as to what was the latest school fashion; and about the beginning of winter it appeared that concerts in which one took part were necessary to one's intellectual existence. Forest Glen at once decided it must have one, and Lottie Price, seeing a chance to distinguish herself as a reciter, once more took at the flood the tide that would sweep her on to glory, and boldly proffered a request for public closing exercises.
Miss Hillary graciously consented. Indeed, Miss Hillary was in a gracious mood almost all the time now. For, since sleighing had come, a smart, red cutter, the successor of the top-buggy, came out from Cheemaun with such regularity and frequency that the schoolroom was a place of peace and idleness.
As soon as preparations for the concert were set on foot, Elizabeth and Rosie became completely absorbed in them. The former became so busy she had scarcely time to draw pictures. They were both in a dialogue, and Rosie was to sing a solo besides. So how could one find time to worry over vulgar fractions?
The Dale contingent were all honored by being each given a special part in the performance. Archie, of course, was too young to participate; but Mary was to sing "Little drops of water, little grains of sand," in company with Wully Johnstone's Betty. John was to give a reading, and Charles Stuart and Teenie Johnstone were in Elizabeth's dialogue.
The Martins alone were not amongst the artists, and Elizabeth's heart ached for Susie. As soon as the dismissal bell rang, and everyone else ran to his or her allotted corner to be "trained," the poor Martins sadly made their way to the pegs where hung coats and dinner-pails, and hurried away home to work. No wonder they did not succeed at school. Mr. Coulson had always said the no-play rule of Jake Martin was making dullards of his children, just when he was over-anxious that they should be made very sharp and so be great money-makers.
There had been Christmas concerts in Forest Glen before, but never one like this. Other times one had to get up one's own programme, but now the teacher drilled and trained the performers until they became overwhelmed with the thought of their own importance. Besides, several young ladies of the place, Martha Ellen Robertson amongst them, came down to the school every afternoon and helped, and Elizabeth found an especial joy in being "trained" by her Sunday-school teacher and noting her daily change of finery.
Sometimes, as the date of the concert approached, groups would meet in the evenings for practice, and one night the half-dozen who were in Elizabeth's dialogue assembled at The Dale.
Miss Gordon would never have consented to such an irregularity as late hours for her family, but that the occasion served to heal a slight breach between them and the Wully Johnstones.
Since the first snowfall, her neighbors had been driving their two High School pupils into Cheemaun, and, of course, had taken Malcolm and Jean with them. The Wully Johnstones had not heretofore shown any leanings towards education, but, since Miss Gordon had set the pace by sending her nephew and niece to the High School, learning became highly fashionable about The Dale. Wully Johnstone declared his boys and girls were as smart as any Gordons living and they would show the truth of the same.
Such sturdy young Canadians as these High School pupils were, thought little of a few miles' walk morning and evening. But the girls were developing into lengthening skirts, and Miss Gordon thankfully accepted the ride through the deep snow for Jean. Nevertheless, she was troubled over receiving constant favors from even such good neighbors as the Johnstones, for she had not yet learned that in the Scottish-Canadian countryside a horse and vehicle on the highway is practically common property.
So one evening, when Miss Gordon took tea at Mrs. Johnstone's, she had politely hinted that she and her brother would like to offer some remuneration for the kindness shown the children. Mrs. Johnstone's hospitable feelings were very badly hurt indeed, but she said nothing, being a peaceable body. But her sister-in-law, Mrs. Janet McKerracher, known all over the neighborhood as "Auntie Jinit," was the real head of the Johnstone household. And, being a lady of no little spirit, she declared, when Miss Gordon had gone, that the mistress of The Dale was an uppish bit buddie, and it was jist fair scand'lus to treat a neebor yon fashion.
Miss Gordon was very much grieved when she discovered her lack of tact, and, seeing a chance to make amends, she relaxed her rigid laws for one evening and permitted the gathering at The Dale. And a few evenings earlier she sent Malcolm with a graciously worded note, asking Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone and Mrs. McKerracher to accompany the young people.
The invitation was as graciously accepted. The elder folk came and sat around the fire and watched the young folk fill the house with noise and merriment, and the breach was healed. The MacAllisters were there; and Miss Hillary and all those from Forest Glen who were taking part were driven up in the Robertsons' sleigh.
It was like a magic evening out of a fairy tale to Elizabeth. There was a roaring fire in both the parlor and dining-room; all doors between the rooms were opened, giving a spacious effect, and every lamp and candle in the place was alight. The big, bare house seemed like some great festive palace to Elizabeth, and, as she sat on the stairs watching their guests file in, she felt sure she could realize exactly how Lady Evelina felt when she stood in her father's banqueting hall and received a glittering array of lords and dukes and earls. But surely no Lady Evelina of song or story ever experienced the rapture felt by Elizabeth when Rosie came dancing up the steps.
To Miss Gordon the evening proved highly satisfactory. The atmosphere of festivity made her feel young again, and the reconciliation with the Johnstones, common folk though they undoubtedly were, was very grateful to her warm heart, and above all she was vouchsafed a surprising revelation. Elizabeth proved to be the vision revealed. There was hope that Elizabeth was not stupid after all.
The dialogue in which she figured was one Martha Ellen Robertson had chosen from the "Complete Temperance Reciter," and was intended to inculcate a lesson of a highly moral character, namely, the folly of marrying a drunkard. Martha Ellen had indulgently chosen her pet pupil as heroine. Elizabeth was a haughty belle who persisted in the face of all opposition in marrying Charles Stuart, who staggered through the whole three acts with a big, green catsup bottle in each pocket. Rosie Carrick and Teenie Johnstone did their best to dissuade the mistaken one from her strange infatuation, even setting the good example of choosing Willie Carrick and Johnny Johnstone, exemplary young men, as their sweethearts, but all in vain. The haughty belle would listen to no one, and at the end of act three, now a weeping drudge, she trailed off the stage, with the maudlin owner of the catsup bottles staggering ahead. Then Rosie and Teenie, holding the hands of their two virtuous youths, recited in unison a little verse bearing upon the unwisdom of being a haughty belle and marrying the victim of a catsup bottle.
Though the little scene was well-meant, and held within its simple story a deep truth, the incongruities of it, chiefly those contributed by the childish actors, might have made the dialogue extremely laughable had it not been for the acting of the leading lady. Elizabeth proved a star from the moment she set foot upon the stage. She was radiantly happy there. All unconsciously she had found a method of complete self-expression that was not forbidden, and the joy and relief of it lifted her to brilliant success. She was playing at something in a legitimate fashion at last; pretending, when it was the right and proper thing to pretend, with one's father and aunt and teacher looking on with approval. It was next best thing to being Joan of Arc. From the day of her power, when she haughtily turned away the virtuous William and the exemplary John, who severally came seeking her hand, to that of her humiliation, when she knelt before Charles Stuart and besought him with tears to give up catsup bottles, her whole course was one of complete triumph. Teenie Johnstone forgot her lines three times in watching her, and Charles Stuart said he wished she wouldn't go at it quite so hard, she made him feel queer all over. And at the end of one stormy scene, Rosie ran to her and said: "Oh, Lizzie, it was awful! I thought you must be really, truly crying!" And Elizabeth did not confess that she had been really and truly crying, and was now rather ashamed and quite amazed at herself.
Mrs. Wully Johnstone was quite overcome, and Auntie Jinit declared it jist garred her greet to look at the bairn, she did it jist too well. And Miss Hillary turned to Miss Gordon and said, "She will make a great actress some day, perhaps," and Miss Gordon held up her shapely hands in horror and answered: "An actress! I'd rather see her in her grave."
Elizabeth noticed that Mother MacAllister was the only one who did not praise her; she who was always so ready with commendation whenever it could be truthfully expressed. So she slipped up to her and whispered, "Do you like it?" and Mother MacAllister looked rather wistfully at the crimson cheeks and shining eyes. She stroked the little girl's hair gently. "It would be a very pretty little piece, hinny," she said softly. "But you must not be letting yourself get too much excited over it, little Lizzie. It'll make you forget your sums."
But otherwise Elizabeth's triumph was complete. She noticed her aunt's approving looks, and overheard her saying to Martha Ellen Robertson that the child really had talent.
But such a condition of affairs could not last long with Elizabeth. An atmosphere of approval was not for her to dwell in long. Her downfall came speedily.
When the practice was over, they all sat around the room and Miss Gordon bade Sarah Emily and the two older girls pass the grape cordial and the Johnny-cake, which were all in readiness. It was at this moment that Miss Hillary turned to Mr. Gordon.
"You must be chairman at the concert," she said engagingly. "It will be so fitting, as you are secretary-treasurer."
Mr. Gordon, who had been sitting at a table with Mr. MacAllister, intent on reducing the Long Way, looked up, ran his fingers through his long hair, and laughed.
"What, what?" he said. "Me for chairman! Never, never. I'd forget what night it was on. Thank you very much for the honor, Miss Hillary, but you can do better than that. Here's Mr. Johnstone, now, he's just the man."
Mr. Johnstone spat at great length into the stove damper, to cover his embarrassment.
"Hut tut, sic like havers!" was all he said, and motioned with his thumb over his shoulder towards his next-door neighbor.
Mr. MacAllister, just emerged from the depths of the Long Way, looked at her in a dazed fashion.
"For peety's sake," he said, "can ye no dae better than ask all the auld buddies in the countryside; an' the place jist swarmin' wi' young callants. There's Tom Teeter, now, he'd jump at the chance, only ye'd hae to gag him atween pieces."
"It's too great a risk to run," laughed Miss Hillary. She knit her pretty brows in perplexity. "Perhaps Mr. Clegg will take pity on me."
"There's yon gay chiel that comes oot frae toon," resumed Mr. MacAllister slyly. "Mebby ye'd hae mair influence ower him."
The young schoolmistress blushed and tried not to smile; Sarah Emily ducked her head into her apron and giggled, and a titter went round the room. And then Elizabeth, quite unconscious of any joke, spoke up eagerly.
"Oh, Miss Hillary, won't you ask that lovely gentleman that comes to see you to bring Mr. Coulson out and let him be chairman!"
Miss Hillary blushed harder than ever and laughed; so did Annie Gordon and Martha Ellen Robertson. Mr. MacAllister laughed, too, and slapped his knee, and said yon was a fine idea, and all the younger folk exclaimed in delight. And so it was promptly settled there and then, and Elizabeth understood when Annie passed her the Johnny-cake again.
But she did not understand why she was sternly ordered to bed by her aunt just the moment the company was gone; and wondered drearily why it was that this one day of triumph should end in tears.
The next morning she found matters no better, for the day had scarcely begun before Aunt Margaret singled her out to be talked to solemnly on the sin of being bold and forward, and speaking up when older people were present. Elizabeth partially brought the rebuke upon herself. Remembering only the joys of the night before, she arose early and in the exuberance of her spirits pulled Mary out of bed and tickled her until she was seized with a fit of coughing; and Mary's cough was a serious affair. Next she visited the boys' room and started a pillow-fight with John.
The noise brought Miss Gordon from her room. It was a chill winter morning, and the lady's temper was not any too sweet. Elizabeth fled to her room and began dressing madly. Her aunt slowly entered, seated herself on the little bench by the window, and, while her niece dressed and combed her hair, she gave her a long and aggrieved dissertation upon genteel conduct for little girls.
"And now," she concluded, as Elizabeth gave way to tears and showed signs of collapsing upon the bed, "I want you to learn two extra verses of your psalm before you come down to breakfast. And I do hope and trust it may lead you to be a better girl." She arose with a sigh, which said her hopes were but feeble and, bidding Mary follow her, descended the stairs.
When they were gone, Elizabeth got out her Bible, and sat by the frosty window, looking out drearily at the red morning sunshine. She wished with all her might that she had never been born. Likely she would die of grief soon anyway, she reflected, and never act in the dialogue after all. Yes, she would get sick and go to bed and be in a raging fever. And, just like the little girl in her latest Sunday-school book, who had been so badly used, she would cry out in her ravings that Aunt Margaret was killing her because she wasn't genteel.
Somewhat solaced by these gloomy reflections, she took the hairpin Annie had loaned her to pin up a lock of her heavy hair, and began tracing out pictures on the window-pane. There was already a magic tapestry there, woven by the frost-fairies; ferns, and sea-weed and tropical flowers of fantastic shapes, and wonderful palm branches all exquisitely intertwined. To these Elizabeth added the product of her imagination. Lords and ladies rode through the sea-weed, and Joan of Arc stood surrounded by palms. She had almost forgotten her woes in their icy beauty, and had quite forgotten the task her aunt had set, when Annie came flitting into the room. Annie's step was lighter than ever and her eyes were radiant. "Come down to breakfast, Lizzie," she whispered. "We're nearly through, and I've saved some toast for you. Aunt said if you said the verses before school-time it would do."
Elizabeth sprang up joyously, and hand-in-hand the two ran downstairs.
"Annie," said her little sister, gazing up at the glowing countenance, "you make me think of a girl in a story book. You look like Lady Evelina."
Annie laughed. "Why?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't know. But I guess it's because your eyes are so shiny. It says in that story in theChroniclethat Lady Evelina's lover rode past, and she looked out of her something or other, casement, I think, but I guess it was just a window, and it says her face flushed like a wild rose and her eyes shined like twin stars. Say, what are twin stars, Annie?"
"Oh, Lizzie," whispered her sister, her face flushing deeper than a wild rose, "for pity's sake don't let aunt hear you saying things like that. You know she doesn't like you to read that continued story." With which wise counsel, and an appreciative pat of her little sister's arm, Annie led the way to breakfast.
The night before the concert Elizabeth and Mary could scarcely go to sleep. There was another source of insomnia beside the prospect ahead. They had both cajoled Annie into putting their hair up in curl papers, because all the girls, even to Becky Davis, were going to do something new and wonderful with their hair. So the two victims of fashion slept in half-wakeful discomfort, until Elizabeth's heavy locks overcame their bounds and gave her relief and rest. But there was great disappointment in the morning, for while Mary's short, flaxen hair stood out round her head in a very halo of frizzly curls, Elizabeth's hung heavy, straight, and limp, and had to be braided in the usual old fashion.
However, she was never prone to think much of her personal appearance, and merely gave a sigh as Mary stood before the glass looking quite like a fairy.
"My, but your hair is so nice," said Elizabeth.
"Well," said Mary, as with a smile of satisfaction she surveyed what was visible of her small self in the little mirror on the wall, "I suppose I do look awful grand. But I must try and not think about it," she added piously; "aunt says so."
Since the night the practice had been held at The Dale, Miss Gordon, strange to say, had displayed a growing disinclination to attend the concert. And when the evening finally came she decided to remain at home. It was only for children, after all, she remarked at the tea-table, and she and Annie would just stay at home together by the fire; adding that she didn't suppose even Malcolm and Jean would care to go to anything so childish. But even the quiet Malcolm protested mildly, and his sister did the same vigorously. Such an expedition as going from home after dark was too rare to be missed. "Why, Aunt Margaret!" she cried, for Miss Jean was an independent young lady, by virtue of being the cleverest of the family. "Why, Aunt Margaret, I never dreamed we'd have to stay home, and I'd just love to go—and Annie wants to go, too; don't you, Ann?"
One glance at Annie's despairing face was enough to convince anyone that to miss the concert would be a more bitter disappointment than it would be even to Elizabeth, who was fidgeting about in her chair, with scarlet cheeks and shining eyes, scarcely eating anything. Miss Gordon glanced at her eldest niece apprehensively, and hesitated. Then her brother spoke up.
"Well, well," he said indulgently, "you must just all go. Archie and Jamie and I will keep house, and you'll tell us all about it when you get home."
Miss Gordon was too genteel to oppose her brother publicly, and accepted the situation with much chagrin. She determined, however, that she would keep Miss Annie close to her side all evening. And after all, she argued, probably the young man had forgotten all about her by this time. It was a way young men had, she reflected, with a sigh for a dream of her youth to which she never referred. She sighed again as she looked at Annie's bright face, and wondered if she had done wrong in separating these two. Annie never by the slightest hint let her know her real feelings. And herein lay the great misfortune of Miss Gordon's life. She loved the girl passionately, and would have made any sacrifice she felt was for her good, but Annie lived by her side day after day, and gave her not the smallest confidence. Her aunt, in her mistaken worldly ambition, had forever shut between them the door of true companionship.
They were all ready, in various stages of excitement, when the MacAllister sleigh came jingling up to the door. In the winter, sleighs generally took the sawlog road along the short-cut to Forest Glen, and the Wully Johnstones had promised to come round that way, too, and pick up anybody who was left.
To Elizabeth, this driving abroad after nightfall was like taking a voyage to a new planet. It was so wonderful and mysterious, this new, white, moon-lit world. Away in the vast blue dome the stars smiled faintly, outshone by the glory of the big, round moon that rode high above the black tree-tops. The billowing drifts along the road blazed under a veil of diamonds, and the strip of ice on the pond, where Elizabeth and John had swept away the snow for a slide, shone like polished silver. The fields melted away gray and mysterious into the darkness of the woods. Here and there a light twinkled from the farm-houses of the valley. The sleigh-bells jingled merrily, and the company joined their own joyous notes to them and sang the songs that were to be given at the concert. The woods rang with their gay voices as they passed old Sandy McLachlan's place. Sandy still held possession, and was looking forward hopefully to some providential interference in the springtime.
The old man and Eppie were plunging down the snowy lane. The horses were pulled up and they were hauled joyously aboard; and in a few minutes the happy sleighload dashed up to the schoolhouse, which stood there looking twice its usual size and importance, with the light blazing from every window.
They found the schoolhouse already rapidly filling. To Elizabeth, the little room presented a scene of dazzling splendor. The place was indeed transformed. It was decorated with festoons of evergreens and wreaths of paper flowers; and lamps twinkled from every window-sill. Across the platform was stretched a white curtain, constructed from Mrs. Robertson's and Mrs. Clegg's sheets, while from behind this magic screen—hiding one could not guess what wonders—shone all the lanterns owned by the population of Forest Glen, and across its glowing surface flitted gigantic shadows.
Martha Ellen Robertson, in a brilliant pink satin waist, and all her jewelry; and Miss Hillary in a new white dress, were already hurrying up and down the aisle marshaling their forces. As the artists appeared they arranged them on the row of improvised benches at the front, charging them to sit there quietly until their turn came for stepping behind the magic curtain.
Elizabeth and Rosie found each other immediately, and sat close together on the very front row. Rosie was a perfect vision in a white dress, with a string of beads around her neck and her curls tied up by a broad pink ribbon. Elizabeth, in her Sunday pinafore, starched a little stiffer than usual, gazed at her in boundless admiration. She had supposed, before leaving home, that Mary would be the most beautiful creature present; but Mary's pale flaxen curls and colorless pinafore were lost in the gorgeous display on all sides. Katie and Lottie Price were the grandest. They fairly bristled with ribbons and lace; but indeed all the girls were so gayly dressed that the Gordons looked like little gray sparrows in a flock of birds of Paradise. Mary sighed and looked around miserably at the gay throng; but little did Elizabeth care. She sat on the front bench, with Rosie on one side and Eppie on the other, and rapturously swung her feet and laughed and talked, all oblivious of her dun-colored clothes. It was quite impossible not to be wildly happy at such a grand festive gathering. The schoolroom seemed some wonderful place she had never seen before. The middle section of the sheets was drawn back, displaying the platform with the teacher's desk and the blackboard, all fairly smothered in cedar and balsam boughs and tissue-paper roses, and smelling as sweet as the swamp behind the school. It was such a bower of beauty that Elizabeth could scarcely believe she had stood there only yesterday, striving desperately to make a complex fraction turn simple.
The crowd was steadily gathering, and the noise steadily increasing. Right at the back a group of boys were bunched together, laughing, talking, and whistling. Elizabeth was ashamed to see that John and Charles Stuart were amongst those whom Miss Hillary was vainly striving to bring up to the performers' seats of honor.
In the midst of the pleasant hum and stir there arose a commotion near the door. A group of strangers was entering. At the sight of them, Miss Hillary plunged behind the curtains, and Rosie and Elizabeth could see her through a division in the sheets, anxiously arranging her hair before the little mirror. Then the wise old Rosie nodded her head significantly, and standing up, peered between the rows of people's heads. "I knew it was him!" she cried triumphantly. "I knew just by the way Miss Hillary jumped,"—and so it was—the owner of the red cutter! Then Elizabeth, forgetting her aunt's eye, jumped up too, and almost cried out with joy, for the man with him, the tall one with the handsome fur collar and cap, was none other than Mr. Coulson! There were two ladies with him, too—but she did not notice them in her delight. He was recognized at once by his old pupils, and they all set up a storm of clapping. The older people, gathered around the stove, crowded about him, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back. Then the Red Cutter came with him up to the curtains and introduced him to Miss Hillary. And all the other young ladies who were helping in the concert shook hands with the old teacher, and Martha Ellen laughed and talked so loud that Elizabeth was delighted and wondered what had pleased her so. Next, Mr. Coulson spied the row of little girls gazing up at him with eager eyes, and he pulled Rosie's curls and Elizabeth's braid, and kissed Mary and pinched Katie and patted all the others on the head. Then he boxed the boys' ears, and told Miss Hillary they were a bad lot, and he didn't see how she put up with them, and altogether behaved so funnily that they fairly shouted with delight. Suddenly he turned abruptly, and, marching up to the platform, took his place at the desk.
Elizabeth was greatly disappointed. She had expected he would at least shake hands with Annie. She curled round Rosie and peeped through the rows of people to catch a sight of her sister. Annie, strange to say, did not look in the least disappointed. She was laughing and chatting with Jean and Bella Johnstone, and looking just as gay and happy as possible. Elizabeth gave up the problem. It was really no use trying to understand the queer ways of grown-up folks.
Mr. Coulson stood up to make his chairman's speech and to tell them he was very glad to come back to Forest Glen. Elizabeth thought his address was wonderfully clever, her partial eyes failing to notice that he was big and awkward, that he did not know what to do with his hands, and that he was more than usually nervous. There was another pair of eyes, besides Elizabeth's, that, when they dared lift themselves, looked upon his blundering performance with tender pride. But Miss Gordon gazed at him coldly, thanking herself that she had put an end to all nonsense between him and Annie before it was too late. The grandson of a tavern-keeper, though he might rise to have good morals, could never reach the height of genteel manners.
At last the chairman's halting remarks were concluded, and the programme fairly started. First came a chorus by all the girls of the school, and such of the boys as could be coaxed or driven to the platform; the masculine portion of the artists having suddenly developed an overwhelming modesty. But the girls were all eager to perform; and they sang "Flow gently, sweet Afton" with great vigor, and, as Mr. Coulson said afterwards, "just like the robins in springtime."
As they burst into the second verse, Elizabeth, who stood directly behind Mary, and had to view the audience through the halo, was surprised to see a boy down near the stove making vigorous signs to attract her attention. She stared in amazement, and almost stopped singing. It was Horace! There he was in a brand new velvet suit, smiling at her with the greatest glee, and pointing her out to his companions. He sat between two ladies, the very two Elizabeth had seen enter with Mr. Coulson. One was a tall, thin lady in a sealskin coat, probably Horace's mamma, as he called her. The other lady was very stout and wonderfully dressed. Elizabeth could scarcely see her face for the enormous plumed hat she wore. She seemed to be a very grand lady, indeed, for, every time she moved, jewels glittered on her hat or at her throat.
Elizabeth quite forgot the words of the song watching her, and was absently singing:
"There oft as mild evening weeps over the Tea,There daily I wander as noon rises high,"
when Rosie poked her back to consciousness.
When they had come down from the platform and the stir of preparation for the next number was going on behind the billowing sheets, Elizabeth felt herself pulled vigorously from behind. She whirled about; Horace was beside her, all smiles.
"Hello," he cried cordially. "Say, you sang just jolly, Lizzie."
"Hello!" responded Elizabeth, forgetting in her delight that this was not a genteel salutation. "I'm awful glad to see you, Horace." This was quite true; since he did not appear in the role of beau any more, she was genuinely pleased at the sight of her old playmate. Rosie expressed the same sentiment rapturously. Susie and Katie followed, and even Eppie faltered out some words of welcome.
"How did you come to be here?" Elizabeth asked.
"Mr. Coulson told me there was a concert, and I just coaxed mamma to let me come until she was nearly crazy and just had to let me. I can manage her all right. Papa's different, though. He wouldn't let me come with Mr. Coulson alone, and I wanted to!" His handsome face curled up in a pout. "They always tag round after me as if I was a kid. But Mr. Coulson fixed it up. Say, he's a dandy. He came over and coaxed papa to let me come, and he got Aunt Jarvis to come, too. That's Aunt Jarvis next the stove. She likes Mr. Coulson awful well and said she'd come to oblige him, and then mamma said she'd come, too. Madeline intended to come, too, but she was going to a party. She goes to one 'most every night. I wish I could, but I always get sick. Say, Lizzie, I've got a new dog, and I hitch him to my sleigh, and oh, say, he's the dandiest fun——"
But Elizabeth was not listening. She was too much overcome by the wonderful news. Mrs. Jarvis, the fairy god-mother, who had always seemed unreal, was really and truly there in the flesh! She could scarcely believe it.
Horace, finding his audience inattentive, moved away, chatting volubly to all his old friends, and the next moment Jean came crushing her way through the crowd to Elizabeth's side, her eyes shining with excitement.
"Lizzie, aunt sent me to tell you to do your very, very best. Mrs. Jarvis is really and truly down there," she whispered excitedly. "And she says to be sure and smooth your hair just before your dialogue, and don't for the world let your boot laces come untied. And when it's all over, aunt says you're to come down with her and be introduced."
Elizabeth did not hear a word of her sister's admonitions. She realized only that Mrs. Jarvis was there to watch her act in a dialogue! Her heart stood still at the thought, and then went on again madly.
Meanwhile, Mary had spread the news of the town visitors, and all the girls were in a flutter.
"It's too bad," Katie Price whispered to Rosie, "that Lizzie Gordon's got that awful lookin' pinny on. Mrs. Jarvis 'll be ashamed of her. And her hair ain't curled even."
"She can beat anybody in the school at speakin' a dialogue, anyhow," declared Rosie loyally. "And Martha Ellen's goin' to dress her up in long clothes anyway, so it don't matter."
The concert was going steadily on, each performer showing signs of the epidemic of excitement that the arrival of the town visitors had produced. Lottie Price stopped short three times in reciting "Curfew must not ring to-night," and had to be helped from behind the sheets by Miss Hillary. No one felt very sorry, for, as Teenie Robertson said, "Lottie Price was just showing off, anyhow, and it served her right." But everyone else seemed to go wrong from the moment the strangers were announced, and to Elizabeth's dismay even poor Rosie did not escape.
The programme partook largely of a temperance sentiment, and Rosie's song was "Father, dear father, come home with me now," a selection which at the practices had almost moved the spectators to tears. Joel Davis, because he was the biggest boy in the school, and hadn't anything to do but sit still, acted the part of Rosie's father. He sat at a table with three or four companions, all arrayed in rags, and drank cold tea from a vinegar jar. Rosie came in, and taking Joel by the sleeve, sang:
"Father, dear father, come home with me now,The clock in the steeple strikes one,You said you were coming right home from the shop,As soon as your day's work was done."
Then from behind the curtain some of the bigger girls, led by Martha Ellen Robertson, sang softly:
"Come home, come home,Please, father, dear father, come home."
Rosie sang another verse at two o'clock, and still another at three, singing the hands right round to twelve, and still the obdurate Joel sat immovable and still drank tea.
It had been considered, even by Miss Hillary, one of the best pieces on the programme, and Elizabeth was almost as excited over it as she was over her dialogue. And to-night Rosie looked so beautiful in her white dress and pink bow that Elizabeth felt sure Mrs. Jarvis would think her the sweetest, dearest girl in the whole wide world.
But what was the dismay of all the singer's friends, and the rage and humiliation of the singer's mother, when she emerged from Miss Hillary's hands and stood before the audience! All her glory of sash and beads and frills was swallowed up in Mrs. Robertson's shawl—the old, ragged "Paisley" she wore only when she went to milk the cows or feed the chickens! Miss Hillary had even taken the pink ribbon out of the poor little singer's curls; and Rosie confided to Elizabeth afterwards, with sobs, she had actually bidden her take off her boots and stockings and go barefoot! Rosie had been almost overwhelmed by this stripping of her ornaments, but she found spirit enough remaining to rebel at this last sacrifice. And, as Elizabeth indignantly declared, even a worm would turn at being commanded to take off its boots, when they were a brand new copper-toed pair with a lovely loud squeak! But even the copper toes were concealed by the trailing ends of Mrs. Robertson's barnyard shawl, and the poor little worm was none the better for her turning.
The song was a melancholy failure. Rosie sang in such a dismayed, quavering voice that no one could hear her, and everyone was relieved when she finally broke down and had to leave before the clock in the steeple had a chance to strike more than ten.
Rosie's mother had sat through the pitiful performance, fairly boiling over with indignation, and as soon as the Paisley shawl, heaving with sobs, had disappeared behind the sheets, she followed it and "had it out" violently with Miss Hillary. Wasn't her girl as good as anybody else's girl, was what she wanted to know, that she had to be dressed up like a tinker's youngster before all those people from town? Miss Hillary tried to explain that the play's the thing, and the artist must make sacrifices to her art, but all in vain. Mrs. Carrick took Rosie away weeping, before the concert was over, and Miss Hillary sat down behind the sheets and cried until the Red Cutter had to come up and make her stop.
One disaster was followed by another. Elizabeth suffered even more agony in the next number, for this was a reading by John. Why he should have been chosen for an elocutionary performance no one could divine, except that he flatly refused to do anything else in public, and his teacher was determined he should do something. With Elizabeth's help, John had faithfully practiced in the privacy of his room, but had never once got through his selection without breaking down with laughter. It was certainly the funniest story in the world, Elizabeth was sure—so funny they had not submitted it to Aunt Margaret. It was about a monkey named Daniel that had been trained to wait upon his master's table, and Elizabeth would dance about and scream over the most comical passages, and had been of little assistance to her brother in his efforts at self-control.
At first the elocutionist did fairly well, reading straight ahead in his low monotone, and, hoping all would be well, Elizabeth ceased to squirm and twist her braid. But as John approached the funniest part, he forgot even the elegant strangers. Daniel grew more enchanting every moment; grew irresistible at last, and the droning voice of his exponent stopped short—lost in a spasm of silent laughter. He recovered, read a little further, and collapsed again. Once more he started, his face twisted in agony, his voice husky, but again he fell before the side-splitting antics of Daniel.
The audience had not caught any of the monkey's jokes as yet, but they fully appreciated the joke of the performance; and as the elocutionist labored on, striving desperately to overcome his laughter and always being overcome by it, the schoolhouse fairly rocked with merriment. Elizabeth, who had begun to fear no one would hear all Daniel's accomplishments, was greatly relieved, and laughed louder than anyone else. John was enjoying himself, and the audience was enjoying itself, and she was so proud of him and so glad everyone was having such a good time!
But, as the reader finally choked completely and had to retire amidst thunderous applause before Daniel's last escapade was finished, she was brought to a realization of the real state of affairs by glancing back at her aunt. Miss Gordon was sitting up very straight, with crimson checks, and an air of awful dignity which Elizabeth's dismayed senses told her belonged only to occasions of terrible calamity. Annie, too, was looking very much distressed, and Jean and Malcolm wore expressions of anger and disgust. Elizabeth's heart sank. Evidently John had disgraced the family, poor John, and she thought he had made such a hit! This was awful! First Rosie and then John! There came over her a chill of terror, a premonition of disaster. When those two stars had fallen from the firmament, how could she expect to shine with Mrs. Jarvis sitting there in front of her?
Had she guessed how much her aunt was depending upon her, she would have been even more terrified. Miss Gordon was keenly alive to the fact that this evening might make or mar Elizabeth's fortune. Mrs. Jarvis had from time to time recognized her namesake by a birthday gift and had often intimated that she should like to see the little girl. Miss Gordon had dreams of her adopting Elizabeth, and making the whole family rich. And now she was to see the child for the first time, and under favorable auspices. Elizabeth certainly showed talent in her acting. The others were like wooden images in comparison to her.
As the curtains were drawn back for the dialogue in which she figured, Miss Gordon drew a great breath. If Mrs. Jarvis didn't feel that she must give that child an education after seeing how she could perform, then all the stories of that lady's generosity, which she had heard, must be untrue.
But, alas, for any hopes centered upon Elizabeth! Miss Gordon told herself bitterly, when the dialogue was over, that she might have known better. The vivacious actress, who had thrown herself into her part at home, making it seem real, came stumbling out upon the little stage, hampered by Annie's long skirts, and mumbled over her lines in a tone inaudible beyond the front row of seats. Poor Elizabeth, the honor of performing before Mrs. Jarvis had been too much for her. She did her part as badly as it was possible to do it, growing more scared and white each moment, and finally forgetting it altogether. Miss Gordon hung her proud head, and Mrs. Oliver exclaimed quite audibly, "Dear me, how did that poor child ever come to be chosen to take part?"
Elizabeth had not awakened from her stage-struck condition when the concert was over, and her aunt, with set face, came to straighten her pinafore, smooth her hair, and get her ready for presentation to the ladies from town.
Many, many times had Elizabeth pictured this meeting, each time planning with greater elaboration the part she should act. But when at last she stood before the lady in the sealskin coat, realizing only what a miserable failure she had been, she could think of not one of the clever speeches she had prepared, but hung her head in a most ungenteel manner and said nothing.
Her aunt's voice sounded like a forlorn hope as she presented her.
"This is your namesake, Mrs. Jarvis," she said.
Mrs. Jarvis was a tall, stately lady, with a sallow, discontented face. Her melancholy, dark eyes had a kindly light in them, however, and occasionally her face was lit up with a pleasant smile. She was richly but quietly dressed, and in every way perfectly met Miss Gordon's ideal. Her companion was something of a shock, however. Mrs. Oliver was stout and red-faced, and was dressed to play the part of twenty when Manager Time had cast her for approaching fifty. Miss Gordon would have pronounced any other woman, with such an appearance and a less illustrious relative, not only ungenteel but quite common, and the sort of person Lady Gordon would never have recognized on the streets of Edinburgh.
But Mrs. Jarvis was Mrs. Jarvis, and whoever was related to her must surely be above the ordinary in spite of appearances.
Mrs. Jarvis was looking down at Elizabeth with a smile illuminating her sad face. "So this is the little baby with the big eyes my dear husband used to talk so much about." She heaved a great sigh. "Ah, Miss Gordon, you cannot understand what a lonely life I have led since my dear husband was taken from me."
Miss Gordon expressed warm sympathy. She was a little surprised at the expression of grief, nevertheless, for she had always understood that, as far as the companionship of her husband went, Mrs. Jarvis had always led a lonely life.
"Mr. Jarvis was always very much interested in Elizabeth," she said diplomatically. "I understand it was he who named her."
"She doesn't seem to have inherited your talent for the stage, Aunt Jarvis," said the stout lady, laughing. "Horace, did you hear me telling you to put on your overcoat? We must go at once."
Miss Gordon looked alarmed. It would be fatal if they left without some further word.
"I am sure Elizabeth would like to express her pleasure at meeting you, Mrs. Jarvis," she said, suggestively. "She has been wanting an opportunity to thank you for your many kind remembrances."
She glanced down at her niece, and Elizabeth realized with agony that this was the signal for her to speak. She thought desperately, but not a gleam of one of those stately speeches she had prepared showed itself. She was on the verge of disgracing her aunt again when Mrs. Oliver mercifully interposed.
"Aunt Jarvis," she cried sharply, "we really must be going. The horses are ready. Come, Horace, put on your overcoat this instant, sir."
But Master Horace was not to be ordered about by a mere mother. He jerked himself away from her and caught his aunt's hand.
"Aunt Jarvis," he said in a wheedling tone, "we're coming out here to visit Lizzie's place some day, ain't we? You promised now, don't you remember?"
Mrs. Jarvis patted his hand.
"Well, I believe I did, boy," she said, "and we'll come some day," she added graciously, "provided the owners of The Dale would like to have us."
Miss Gordon hastened to reply. "The owners of The Dale." That sounded like the reprieve of a sentence. "Indeed we should all be very much pleased," she said, striving to hide her excitement. "Just tell me when it would be most convenient for you to come. You see, since leaving my old associations in Edinburgh, I have dropped all social duties. You can understand, of course, that one in my position would be quite without congenial companionship in a rural community. So I shall look forward to your visit with much pleasure."
Mrs. Jarvis appeared visibly impressed. Evidently Miss Gordon was not of common clay. "Now let me see," she said, "perhaps Horace and I might drive out."
"I don't see how you can possibly find time, Aunt Jarvis," cried Mrs. Oliver, who was forcing her unwilling son into his overcoat. "We have engagements for three months ahead, I am sure!"
Miss Gordon drew herself up rigidly. She had heard enough of Horace's artless chatter the summer before, to understand his mother's jealousy. Mrs. Oliver lived in a panic of fear lest the money that should be her children's might stray elsewhere.
There was further enlightenment waiting. Mrs. Jarvis deliberately turned her back upon her niece.
"You are so kind," she said to Miss Gordon with elaborate emphasis, "and indeed I shall be exceedingly glad to accept. Horace and I shall come, you may be sure, provided he has not too many engagements; and then," her words became more emphatic and distinct, "we shall have more opportunity to discuss what is to be done with little Elizabeth." She turned to where her namesake was standing, her kindly smile illuminating her face.
"What do you want most in the world, little Elizabeth?" she asked alluringly.
Miss Gordon held her breath. This surpassed even her brightest dreams!
"Elizabeth," she said, her voice trembling. "Do you hear what Mrs. Jarvis is asking you?"
Yes, Elizabeth had heard, and was looking up with shining eyes, her answer ready. But as usual she was busy exercising that special talent she possessed for doing the unexpected.
She had been glancing about her for some means of escape from her embarrassing position, when she had espied Eppie. The little girl, muffled in her grandfather's old tartan plaid, for the cold drive homeward, was slipping past, glancing wistfully at Elizabeth, the center of the grand group from town. Elizabeth instantly forgot her own troubles in a sudden impulse to do Eppie a good turn. This was an opportunity not to be lost. She caught her little friend by the hand and drew her near.
"Oh, Mrs. Jarvis!" she cried, grown quite eloquent now that she had found a subject so near her heart, "I'd rather have Eppie stay on the farm than anything else in the wide, wide world!"
"Elizabeth!" cried her aunt in dismay, "what are you saying?"
Mrs. Jarvis looked down with a puzzled expression at the quaint little figure wrapped in the old plaid. But she smiled in a very kindly way.
"What is she talking about?" she inquired.
Elizabeth hung her head, speechless again. She had been importuned to speak only a moment before, but, now that she had found her tongue, apparently she had made a wrong use of it.
Horace came to the rescue. He spoke just whenever he pleased, and he knew all about this matter. He had not been Elizabeth's and Rosie's chum for two weeks without hearing much of poor Eppie's wrongs.
"That's Eppie, auntie, Eppie Turner, and that's her grandpa over there," he explained, nodding to where old Sandy stood with a group of men. "Mr. Huntley sold his farm, and he won't leave it."
Mrs. Jarvis glanced at the bent figure of the old Highlander, and then at the shy face of his little granddaughter; those two whose lives could be made or marred by a word from her. But this was not the sort of charity that appealed to Mrs. Jarvis. It meant interfering in business affairs and endless trouble with lawyers. She remembered that romantic young Mr. Coulson had bothered her about either this or some affair like it not so long ago.
"Horace, my dear," she said wearily, "don't you know by this time that the very mention of lawyers and all their business gives your poor auntie a headache?" She patted Eppie's cheek with her gloved fingers. "A sweet little face," she murmured. "Good-by, Miss Gordon. I shall see you and your charming family very soon, I hope."
She shook hands most cordially, but Miss Gordon was scarcely able to hide her chagrin. Elizabeth had let the great chance of her life slip through her fingers! The good-bys were said, even Mrs. Oliver, now that her aunt had for the moment escaped temptation, bidding the lady of The Dale a gracious farewell.
And not until Miss Gordon had collected her family and was seated in Wully Johnstone's sleigh, ready for the homeward drive, did she remember that in her anxiety over Elizabeth she had not once within the last dangerous half-hour given a glance towards Annie!