CHAPTER XIII. THE HOUSE ON THE HILL
There was a little unfailing spring, always icy cold and crystal pure,in a certain birch-screened hollow of Rainbow Valley in the lower cornernear the marsh. Not a great many people knew of its existence. The manseand Ingleside children knew, of course, as they knew everything elseabout the magic valley. Occasionally they went there to get a drink,and it figured in many of their plays as a fountain of old romance. Anneknew of it and loved it because it somehow reminded her of the belovedDryad's Bubble at Green Gables. Rosemary West knew of it; it was herfountain of romance, too. Eighteen years ago she had sat behind it onespring twilight and heard young Martin Crawford stammer out a confessionof fervent, boyish love. She had whispered her own secret in return,and they had kissed and promised by the wild wood spring. They had neverstood together by it again--Martin had sailed on his fatal voyage soonafter; but to Rosemary West it was always a sacred spot, hallowed bythat immortal hour of youth and love. Whenever she passed near it sheturned aside to hold a secret tryst with an old dream--a dream fromwhich the pain had long gone, leaving only its unforgettable sweetness.
The spring was a hidden thing. You might have passed within ten feet ofit and never have suspected its existence. Two generations past a hugeold pine had fallen almost across it. Nothing was left of the tree butits crumbling trunk out of which the ferns grew thickly, making a greenroof and a lacy screen for the water. A maple-tree grew beside it witha curiously gnarled and twisted trunk, creeping along the ground fora little way before shooting up into the air, and so forming a quaintseat; and September had flung a scarf of pale smoke-blue asters aroundthe hollow.
John Meredith, taking the cross-lots road through Rainbow Valley onhis way home from some pastoral visitations around the Harbour head oneevening, turned aside to drink of the little spring. Walter Blythe hadshown it to him one afternoon only a few days before, and they had hada long talk together on the maple seat. John Meredith, under all hisshyness and aloofness, had the heart of a boy. He had been called Jackin his youth, though nobody in Glen St. Mary would ever have believedit. Walter and he had taken to each other and had talked unreservedly.Mr. Meredith found his way into some sealed and sacred chambers of thelad's soul wherein not even Di had ever looked. They were to bechums from that friendly hour and Walter knew that he would never befrightened of the minister again.
"I never believed before that it was possible to get really acquaintedwith a minister," he told his mother that night.
John Meredith drank from his slender white hand, whose grip of steelalways surprised people who were unacquainted with it, and then sat downon the maple seat. He was in no hurry to go home; this was a beautifulspot and he was mentally weary after a round of rather uninspiringconversations with many good and stupid people. The moon was rising.Rainbow Valley was wind-haunted and star-sentinelled only where he was,but afar from the upper end came the gay notes of children's laughterand voices.
The ethereal beauty of the asters in the moonlight, the glimmer of thelittle spring, the soft croon of the brook, the wavering grace ofthe brackens all wove a white magic round John Meredith. He forgotcongregational worries and spiritual problems; the years slipped awayfrom him; he was a young divinity student again and the roses of Junewere blooming red and fragrant on the dark, queenly head of his Cecilia.He sat there and dreamed like any boy. And it was at this propitiousmoment that Rosemary West stepped aside from the by-path and stoodbeside him in that dangerous, spell-weaving place. John Meredith stoodup as she came in and saw her--REALLY saw her--for the first time.
He had met her in his church once or twice and shaken hands with herabstractedly as he did with anyone he happened to encounter on hisway down the aisle. He had never met her elsewhere, for the Wests wereEpiscopalians, with church affinities in Lowbridge, and no occasion forcalling upon them had ever arisen. Before to-night, if anyone had askedJohn Meredith what Rosemary West looked like he would not have had theslightest notion. But he was never to forget her, as she appeared to himin the glamour of kind moonlight by the spring.
She was certainly not in the least like Cecilia, who had always beenhis ideal of womanly beauty. Cecilia had been small and dark andvivacious--Rosemary West was tall and fair and placid, yet John Merediththought he had never seen so beautiful a woman.
She was bareheaded and her golden hair--hair of a warm gold, "molassestaffy" colour as Di Blythe had said--was pinned in sleek, close coilsover her head; she had large, tranquil, blue eyes that always seemedfull of friendliness, a high white forehead and a finely shaped face.
Rosemary West was always called a "sweet woman." She was so sweet thateven her high-bred, stately air had never gained for her the reputationof being "stuck-up," which it would inevitably have done in the caseof anyone else in Glen St. Mary. Life had taught her to be brave, tobe patient, to love, to forgive. She had watched the ship on whichher lover went sailing out of Four Winds Harbour into the sunset. But,though she watched long, she had never seen it coming sailing back.That vigil had taken girlhood from her eyes, yet she kept her youth toa marvellous degree. Perhaps this was because she always seemed topreserve that attitude of delighted surprise towards life which most ofus leave behind in childhood--an attitude which not only made Rosemaryherself seem young, but flung a pleasing illusion of youth over theconsciousness of every one who talked to her.
John Meredith was startled by her loveliness and Rosemary was startledby his presence. She had never thought she would find anyone by thatremote spring, least of all the recluse of Glen St. Mary manse. Shealmost dropped the heavy armful of books she was carrying home from theGlen lending library, and then, to cover her confusion, she told one ofthose small fibs which even the best of women do tell at times.
"I--I came for a drink," she said, stammering a little, in answer toMr. Meredith's grave "good evening, Miss West." She felt that she wasan unpardonable goose and she longed to shake herself. But John Meredithwas not a vain man and he knew she would likely have been as muchstartled had she met old Elder Clow in that unexpected fashion. Herconfusion put him at ease and he forgot to be shy; besides, even theshyest of men can sometimes be quite audacious in moonlight.
"Let me get you a cup," he said smiling. There was a cup near by, ifhe had only known it, a cracked, handleless blue cup secreted underthe maple by the Rainbow Valley children; but he did not know it, so hestepped out to one of the birch-trees and stripped a bit of its whiteskin away. Deftly he fashioned this into a three-cornered cup, filled itfrom the spring, and handed it to Rosemary.
Rosemary took it and drank every drop to punish herself for her fib, forshe was not in the least thirsty, and to drink a fairly large cupful ofwater when you are not thirsty is somewhat of an ordeal. Yet the memoryof that draught was to be very pleasant to Rosemary. In after years itseemed to her that there was something sacramental about it. Perhapsthis was because of what the minister did when she handed him back thecup. He stooped again and filled it and drank of it himself. It was onlyby accident that he put his lips just where Rosemary had put hers, andRosemary knew it. Nevertheless, it had a curious significance for her.They two had drunk of the same cup. She remembered idly that an oldaunt of hers used to say that when two people did this their after-liveswould be linked in some fashion, whether for good or ill.
John Meredith held the cup uncertainly. He did not know what to do withit. The logical thing would have been to toss it away, but somehow hewas disinclined to do this. Rosemary held out her hand for it.
"Will you let me have it?" she said. "You made it so knackily. I neversaw anyone make a birch cup so since my little brother used to make themlong ago--before he died."
"I learned how to make them when _I_ was a boy, camping out one summer.An old hunter taught me," said Mr. Meredith. "Let me carry your books,Miss West."
Rosemary was startled into another fib and said oh, they were not heavy.But the minister took them from her with quite a masterful air and theywalked away together. It was the first time Rosema
ry had stood by thevalley spring without thinking of Martin Crawford. The mystic tryst hadbeen broken.
The little by-path wound around the marsh and then struck up the longwooded hill on the top of which Rosemary lived. Beyond, through thetrees, they could see the moonlight shining across the level summerfields. But the little path was shadowy and narrow. Trees crowdedover it, and trees are never quite as friendly to human beings afternightfall as they are in daylight. They wrap themselves away from us.They whisper and plot furtively. If they reach out a hand to us it hasa hostile, tentative touch. People walking amid trees after nightalways draw closer together instinctively and involuntarily, making analliance, physical and mental, against certain alien powers around them.Rosemary's dress brushed against John Meredith as they walked. Not evenan absent-minded minister, who was after all a young man still, thoughhe firmly believed he had outlived romance, could be insensible to thecharm of the night and the path and the companion.
It is never quite safe to think we have done with life. When we imaginewe have finished our story fate has a trick of turning the page andshowing us yet another chapter. These two people each thought theirhearts belonged irrevocably to the past; but they both found their walkup that hill very pleasant. Rosemary thought the Glen minister was byno means as shy and tongue-tied as he had been represented. He seemed tofind no difficulty in talking easily and freely. Glen housewives wouldhave been amazed had they heard him. But then so many Glen housewivestalked only gossip and the price of eggs, and John Meredith was notinterested in either. He talked to Rosemary of books and music andwide-world doings and something of his own history, and found that shecould understand and respond. Rosemary, it appeared, possessed a bookwhich Mr. Meredith had not read and wished to read. She offered to lendit to him and when they reached the old homestead on the hill he went into get it.
The house itself was an old-fashioned gray one, hung with vines, throughwhich the light in the sitting-room winked in friendly fashion. Itlooked down the Glen, over the harbour, silvered in the moonlight, tothe sand-dunes and the moaning ocean. They walked in through a gardenthat always seemed to smell of roses, even when no roses were in bloom.There was a sisterhood of lilies at the gate and a ribbon of asters oneither side of the broad walk, and a lacery of fir trees on the hill'sedge beyond the house.
"You have the whole world at your doorstep here," said John Meredith,with a long breath. "What a view--what an outlook! At times I feelstifled down there in the Glen. You can breathe up here."
"It is calm to-night," said Rosemary laughing. "If there were a wind itwould blow your breath away. We get 'a' the airts the wind can blow' uphere. This place should be called Four Winds instead of the Harbour."
"I like wind," he said. "A day when there is no wind seems to me DEAD. Awindy day wakes me up." He gave a conscious laugh. "On a calm day I fallinto day dreams. No doubt you know my reputation, Miss West. If I cutyou dead the next time we meet don't put it down to bad manners. Pleaseunderstand that it is only abstraction and forgive me--and speak to me."
They found Ellen West in the sitting room when they went in. She laidher glasses down on the book she had been reading and looked at themin amazement tinctured with something else. But she shook hands amiablywith Mr. Meredith and he sat down and talked to her, while Rosemaryhunted out his book.
Ellen West was ten years older than Rosemary, and so different from herthat it was hard to believe they were sisters. She was dark and massive,with black hair, thick, black eyebrows and eyes of the clear, slaty blueof the gulf water in a north wind. She had a rather stern, forbiddinglook, but she was in reality very jolly, with a hearty, gurgling laughand a deep, mellow, pleasant voice with a suggestion of masculinityabout it. She had once remarked to Rosemary that she would really liketo have a talk with that Presbyterian minister at the Glen, to see ifhe could find a word to say to a woman when he was cornered. She had herchance now and she tackled him on world politics. Miss Ellen, who wasa great reader, had been devouring a book on the Kaiser of Germany, andshe demanded Mr. Meredith's opinion of him.
"A dangerous man," was his answer.
"I believe you!" Miss Ellen nodded. "Mark my words, Mr. Meredith, thatman is going to fight somebody yet. He's ACHING to. He is going to setthe world on fire."
"If you mean that he will wantonly precipitate a great war I hardlythink so," said Mr. Meredith. "The day has gone by for that sort ofthing."
"Bless you, it hasn't," rumbled Ellen. "The day never goes by for menand nations to make asses of themselves and take to the fists. Themillenniun isn't THAT near, Mr. Meredith, and YOU don't think it is anymore than I do. As for this Kaiser, mark my words, he is going to make aheap of trouble"--and Miss Ellen prodded her book emphatically withher long finger. "Yes, if he isn't nipped in the bud he's going tomake trouble. WE'LL live to see it--you and I will live to see it, Mr.Meredith. And who is going to nip him? England should, but she won't.WHO is going to nip him? Tell me that, Mr. Meredith."
Mr. Meredith couldn't tell her, but they plunged into a discussion ofGerman militarism that lasted long after Rosemary had found the book.Rosemary said nothing, but sat in a little rocker behind Ellen andstroked an important black cat meditatively. John Meredith hunted biggame in Europe with Ellen, but he looked oftener at Rosemary than atEllen, and Ellen noticed it. After Rosemary had gone to the door withhim and come back Ellen rose and looked at her accusingly.
"Rosemary West, that man has a notion of courting you."
Rosemary quivered. Ellen's speech was like a blow to her. It rubbed allthe bloom off the pleasant evening. But she would not let Ellen see howit hurt her.
"Nonsense," she said, and laughed, a little too carelessly. "You seea beau for me in every bush, Ellen. Why he told me all about his wifeto-night--how much she was to him--how empty her death had left theworld."
"Well, that may be HIS way of courting," retorted Ellen. "Men have allkinds of ways, I understand. But don't forget your promise, Rosemary."
"There is no need of my either forgetting or remembering it," saidRosemary, a little wearily. "YOU forget that I'm an old maid, Ellen. Itis only your sisterly delusion that I am still young and blooming anddangerous. Mr. Meredith merely wants to be a friend--if he wants thatmuch itself. He'll forget us both long before he gets back to themanse."
"I've no objection to your being friends with him," conceded Ellen,"but it musn't go beyond friendship, remember. I'm always suspicious ofwidowers. They are not given to romantic ideas about friendship. They'reapt to mean business. As for this Presbyterian man, what do they callhim shy for? He's not a bit shy, though he may be absent-minded--soabsent-minded that he forgot to say goodnight to ME when you started togo to the door with him. He's got brains, too. There's so few men roundhere that can talk sense to a body. I've enjoyed the evening. I wouldn'tmind seeing more of him. But no philandering, Rosemary, mind you--nophilandering."
Rosemary was quite used to being warned by Ellen from philandering ifshe so much as talked five minutes to any marriageable man under eightyor over eighteen. She had always laughed at the warning with unfeignedamusement. This time it did not amuse her--it irritated her a little.Who wanted to philander?
"Don't be such a goose, Ellen," she said with unaccustomed shortness asshe took her lamp. She went upstairs without saying goodnight.
Ellen shook her head dubiously and looked at the black cat.
"What is she so cross about, St. George?" she asked. "When you howlyou're hit, I've always heard, George. But she promised, Saint--shepromised, and we Wests always keep our word. So it won't matter if hedoes want to philander, George. She promised. I won't worry."
Upstairs, in her room, Rosemary sat for a long while looking out of thewindow across the moonlit garden to the distant, shining harbour. Shefelt vaguely upset and unsettled. She was suddenly tired of outworndreams. And in the garden the petals of the last red rose were scatteredby a sudden little wind. Summer was over--it was autumn.
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