Rainbow Valley

by L. M. Montgomery

  CHAPTER XVI. TIT FOR TAT

  With Faith, to decide was to act. She lost no time in carrying out theidea. As soon as she came home from school the next day she left themanse and made her way down the Glen. Walter Blythe joined her as shepassed the post office.

  "I'm going to Mrs. Elliott's on an errand for mother," he said. "Whereare you going, Faith?"

  "I am going somewhere on church business," said Faith loftily. She didnot volunteer any further information and Walter felt rather snubbed.They walked on in silence for a little while. It was a warm, windyevening with a sweet, resinous air. Beyond the sand dunes were grayseas, soft and beautiful. The Glen brook bore down a freight of goldand crimson leaves, like fairy shallops. In Mr. James Reese's buckwheatstubble-land, with its beautiful tones of red and brown, a crowparliament was being held, whereat solemn deliberations regarding thewelfare of crowland were in progress. Faith cruelly broke up the augustassembly by climbing up on the fence and hurling a broken rail at it.Instantly the air was filled with flapping black wings and indignantcaws.

  "Why did you do that?" said Walter reproachfully. "They were having sucha good time."

  "Oh, I hate crows," said Faith airily. "The are so black and sly I feelsure they're hypocrites. They steal little birds' eggs out of theirnests, you know. I saw one do it on our lawn last spring. Walter, whatmakes you so pale to-day? Did you have the toothache again last night?"

  Walter shivered.

  "Yes--a raging one. I couldn't sleep a wink--so I just paced up and downthe floor and imagined I was an early Christian martyr being torturedat the command of Nero. That helped ever so much for a while--and then Igot so bad I couldn't imagine anything."

  "Did you cry?" asked Faith anxiously.

  "No--but I lay down on the floor and groaned," admitted Walter. "Thenthe girls came in and Nan put cayenne pepper in it--and that madeit worse--Di made me hold a swallow of cold water in my mouth--and Icouldn't stand it, so they called Susan. Susan said it served me rightfor sitting up in the cold garret yesterday writing poetry trash. Butshe started up the kitchen fire and got me a hot-water bottle and itstopped the toothache. As soon as I felt better I told Susan my poetrywasn't trash and she wasn't any judge. And she said no, thank goodnessshe was not and she did not know anything about poetry except that itwas mostly a lot of lies. Now you know, Faith, that isn't so. That isone reason why I like writing poetry--you can say so many things in itthat are true in poetry but wouldn't be true in prose. I told Susanso, but she said to stop my jawing and go to sleep before the water gotcold, or she'd leave me to see if rhyming would cure toothache, and shehoped it would be a lesson to me."

  "Why don't you go to the dentist at Lowbridge and get the tooth out?"

  Walter shivered again.

  "They want me to--but I can't. It would hurt so."

  "Are you afraid of a little pain?" asked Faith contemptuously.

  Walter flushed.

  "It would be a BIG pain. I hate being hurt. Father said he wouldn'tinsist on my going--he'd wait until I'd made up my own mind to go."

  "It wouldn't hurt as long as the toothache," argued Faith, "You've hadfive spells of toothache. If you'd just go and have it out there'd be nomore bad nights. _I_ had a tooth out once. I yelled for a moment, but itwas all over then--only the bleeding."

  "The bleeding is worst of all--it's so ugly," cried Walter. "It justmade me sick when Jem cut his foot last summer. Susan said I looked morelike fainting than Jem did. But I couldn't hear to see Jem hurt, either.Somebody is always getting hurt, Faith--and it's awful. I just can'tBEAR to see things hurt. It makes me just want to run--and run--andrun--till I can't hear or see them."

  "There's no use making a fuss over anyone getting hurt," said Faith,tossing her curls. "Of course, if you've hurt yourself very bad, youhave to yell--and blood IS messy--and I don't like seeing other peoplehurt, either. But I don't want to run--I want to go to work and helpthem. Your father HAS to hurt people lots of times to cure them. Whatwould they do if HE ran away?"

  "I didn't say I WOULD run. I said I WANTED to run. That's a differentthing. I want to help people, too. But oh, I wish there weren't anyugly, dreadful things in the world. I wish everything was glad andbeautiful."

  "Well, don't let's think of what isn't," said Faith. "After all, there'slots of fun in being alive. You wouldn't have toothache if you weredead, but still, wouldn't you lots rather be alive than dead? I would,a hundred times. Oh, here's Dan Reese. He's been down to the harbour forfish."

  "I hate Dan Reese," said Walter.

  "So do I. All us girls do. I'm just going to walk past and never takethe least notice of him. You watch me!"

  Faith accordingly stalked past Dan with her chin out and an expressionof scorn that bit into his soul. He turned and shouted after her.

  "Pig-girl! Pig-girl!! Pig-girl!!!" in a crescendo of insult.

  Faith walked on, seemingly oblivious. But her lip trembled slightly witha sense of outrage. She knew she was no match for Dan Reese when itcame to an exchange of epithets. She wished Jem Blythe had been withher instead of Walter. If Dan Reese had dared to call her a pig-girl inJem's hearing, Jem would have wiped up the dust with him. But it neveroccurred to Faith to expect Walter to do it, or blame him for not doingit. Walter, she knew, never fought other boys. Neither did Charlie Clowof the north road. The strange part was that, while she despised Charliefor a coward, it never occurred to her to disdain Walter. It wassimply that he seemed to her an inhabitant of a world of his own, wheredifferent traditions prevailed. Faith would as soon have expected astarry-eyed young angel to pummel dirty, freckled Dan Reese for her asWalter Blythe. She would not have blamed the angel and she did not blameWalter Blythe. But she wished that sturdy Jem or Jerry had been thereand Dan's insult continued to rankle in her soul.

  Walter was pale no longer. He had flushed crimson and his beautiful eyeswere clouded with shame and anger. He knew that he ought to have avengedFaith. Jem would have sailed right in and made Dan eat his words withbitter sauce. Ritchie Warren would have overwhelmed Dan with worse"names" than Dan had called Faith. But Walter could not--simply couldnot--"call names." He knew he would get the worst of it. He could neverconceive or utter the vulgar, ribald insults of which Dan Reese hadunlimited command. And as for the trial by fist, Walter couldn't fight.He hated the idea. It was rough and painful--and, worst of all, itwas ugly. He never could understand Jem's exultation in an occasionalconflict. But he wished he COULD fight Dan Reese. He was horriblyashamed because Faith Meredith had been insulted in his presence and hehad not tried to punish her insulter. He felt sure she must despise him.She had not even spoken to him since Dan had called her pig-girl. He wasglad when they came to the parting of the ways.

  Faith, too, was relieved, though for a different reason. She wantedto be alone because she suddenly felt rather nervous about her errand.Impulse had cooled, especially since Dan had bruised her self-respect.She must go through with it, but she no longer had enthusiasm to sustainher. She was going to see Norman Douglas and ask him to come back tochurch, and she began to be afraid of him. What had seemed so easy andsimple up at the Glen seemed very different down here. She had heard agood deal about Norman Douglas, and she knew that even the biggest boysin school were afraid of him. Suppose he called her something nasty--shehad heard he was given to that. Faith could not endure being callednames--they subdued her far more quickly than a physical blow. But shewould go on--Faith Meredith always went on. If she did not her fathermight have to leave the Glen.

  At the end of the long lane Faith came to the house--a big,old-fashioned one with a row of soldierly Lombardies marching pastit. On the back veranda Norman Douglas himself was sitting, reading anewspaper. His big dog was beside him. Behind, in the kitchen, wherehis housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, was getting supper, there was a clatter ofdishes--an angry clatter, for Norman Douglas had just had a quarrel withMrs. Wilson, and both were in a very bad temper over it. Consequently,when Faith stepped on the veranda and Norman Douglas lowered hisnewspa
per she found herself looking into the choleric eyes of anirritated man.

  Norman Douglas was rather a fine-looking personage in his way. He hada sweep of long red beard over his broad chest and a mane of red hair,ungrizzled by the years, on his massive head. His high, white foreheadwas unwrinkled and his blue eyes could flash still with all the fire ofhis tempestuous youth. He could be very amiable when he liked, and hecould be very terrible. Poor Faith, so anxiously bent on retrieving thesituation in regard to the church, had caught him in one of his terriblemoods.

  He did not know who she was and he gazed at her with disfavour. NormanDouglas liked girls of spirit and flame and laughter. At this momentFaith was very pale. She was of the type to which colour meanseverything. Lacking her crimson cheeks she seemed meek and eveninsignificant. She looked apologetic and afraid, and the bully in NormanDouglas's heart stirred.

  "Who the dickens are you? And what do you want here?" he demanded in hisgreat resounding voice, with a fierce scowl.

  For once in her life Faith had nothing to say. She had never supposedNorman Douglas was like THIS. She was paralyzed with terror of him. Hesaw it and it made him worse.

  "What's the matter with you?" he boomed. "You look as if you wanted tosay something and was scared to say it. What's troubling you? Confoundit, speak up, can't you?"

  No. Faith could not speak up. No words would come. But her lips began totremble.

  "For heaven's sake, don't cry," shouted Norman. "I can't standsnivelling. If you've anything to say, say it and have done. GreatKitty, is the girl possessed of a dumb spirit? Don't look at me likethat--I'm human--I haven't got a tail! Who are you--who are you, I say?"

  Norman's voice could have been heard at the harbour. Operations in thekitchen were suspended. Mrs. Wilson was listening open-eared and eyed.Norman put his huge brown hands on his knees and leaned forward, staringinto Faith's pallid, shrinking face. He seemed to loom over her likesome evil giant out of a fairy tale. She felt as if he would eat her upnext thing, body and bones.

  "I--am--Faith--Meredith," she said, in little more than a whisper.

  "Meredith, hey? One of the parson's youngsters, hey? I've heard ofyou--I've heard of you! Riding on pigs and breaking the Sabbath! A nicelot! What do you want here, hey? What do you want of the old pagan,hey? _I_ don't ask favours of parsons--and I don't give any. What do youwant, I say?"

  Faith wished herself a thousand miles away. She stammered out herthought in its naked simplicity.

  "I came--to ask you--to go to church--and pay--to the salary."

  Norman glared at her. Then he burst forth again.

  "You impudent hussy--you! Who put you up to it, jade? Who put you up toit?"

  "Nobody," said poor Faith.

  "That's a lie. Don't lie to me! Who sent you here? It wasn't yourfather--he hasn't the smeddum of a flea--but he wouldn't send you to dowhat he dassn't do himself. I suppose it was some of them confounded oldmaids at the Glen, was it--was it, hey?"

  "No--I--I just came myself."

  "Do you take me for a fool?" shouted Norman.

  "No--I thought you were a gentleman," said Faith faintly, and certainlywithout any thought of being sarcastic.

  Norman bounced up.

  "Mind your own business. I don't want to hear another word from you. Ifyou wasn't such a kid I'd teach you to interfere in what doesn't concernyou. When I want parsons or pill-dosers I'll send for them. Till Ido I'll have no truck with them. Do you understand? Now, get out,cheese-face."

  Faith got out. She stumbled blindly down the steps, out of the yard gateand into the lane. Half way up the lane her daze of fear passed away anda reaction of tingling anger possessed her. By the time she reachedthe end of the lane she was in such a furious temper as she had neverexperienced before. Norman Douglas' insults burned in her soul, kindlinga scorching flame. Go home! Not she! She would go straight back andtell that old ogre just what she thought of him--she would show him--oh,wouldn't she! Cheese-face, indeed!

  Unhesitatingly she turned and walked back. The veranda was deserted andthe kitchen door shut. Faith opened the door without knocking, and wentin. Norman Douglas had just sat down at the supper table, but he stillheld his newspaper. Faith walked inflexibly across the room, caught thepaper from his hand, flung it on the floor and stamped on it. Then shefaced him, with her flashing eyes and scarlet cheeks. She was such ahandsome young fury that Norman Douglas hardly recognized her.

  "What's brought you back?" he growled, but more in bewilderment thanrage.

  Unquailingly she glared back into the angry eyes against which so fewpeople could hold their own.

  "I have come back to tell you exactly what I think of you," said Faithin clear, ringing tones. "I am not afraid of you. You are a rude,unjust, tyrannical, disagreeable old man. Susan says you are sure to goto hell, and I was sorry for you, but I am not now. Your wife never hada new hat for ten years--no wonder she died. I am going to make faces atyou whenever I see you after this. Every time I am behind you you willknow what is happening. Father has a picture of the devil in a book inhis study, and I mean to go home and write your name under it. You arean old vampire and I hope you'll have the Scotch fiddle!"

  Faith did not know what a vampire meant any more than she knew what theScotch fiddle was. She had heard Susan use the expressions and gatheredfrom her tone that both were dire things. But Norman Douglas knewwhat the latter meant at least. He had listened in absolute silence toFaith's tirade. When she paused for breath, with a stamp of her foot, hesuddenly burst into loud laughter. With a mighty slap of hand on knee heexclaimed,

  "I vow you've got spunk, after all--I like spunk. Come, sit down--sitdown!"

  "I will not." Faith's eyes flashed more passionately. She thought shewas being made fun of--treated contemptuously. She would have enjoyedanother explosion of rage, but this cut deep. "I will not sit down inyour house. I am going home. But I am glad I came back here and told youexactly what my opinion of you is."

  "So am I--so am I," chuckled Norman. "I like you--you're fine--you'regreat. Such roses--such vim! Did I call her cheese-face? Why, she neversmelt a cheese. Sit down. If you'd looked like that at the first, girl!So you'll write my name under the devil's picture, will you? But he'sblack, girl, he's black--and I'm red. It won't do--it won't do! And youhope I'll have the Scotch fiddle, do you? Lord love you, girl, I hadIT when I was a boy. Don't wish it on me again. Sit down--sit in. We'lltak' a cup o' kindness."

  "No, thank you," said Faith haughtily.

  "Oh, yes, you will. Come, come now, I apologize, girl--I apologize. Imade a fool of myself and I'm sorry. Man can't say fairer. Forget andforgive. Shake hands, girl--shake hands. She won't--no, she won't! Butshe must! Look-a-here, girl, if you'll shake hands and break bread withme I'll pay what I used to to the salary and I'll go to church the firstSunday in every month and I'll make Kitty Alec hold her jaw. I'm theonly one in the clan can do it. Is it a bargain, girl?"

  It seemed a bargain. Faith found herself shaking hands with the ogre andthen sitting at his board. Her temper was over--Faith's tempers neverlasted very long--but its excitement still sparkled in her eyes andcrimsoned her cheeks. Norman Douglas looked at her admiringly.

  "Go, get some of your best preserves, Wilson," he ordered, "and stopsulking, woman, stop sulking. What if we did have a quarrel, woman? Agood squall clears the air and briskens things up. But no drizzling andfogging afterwards--no drizzling and fogging, woman. I can't stand that.Temper in a woman but no tears for me. Here, girl, is some messed upmeat and potatoes for you. Begin on that. Wilson has some fancy name forit, but I call lit macanaccady. Anything I can't analyze in theeating line I call macanaccady and anything wet that puzzles me I callshallamagouslem. Wilson's tea is shallamagouslem. I swear she makes itout of burdocks. Don't take any of the ungodly black liquid--here's somemilk for you. What did you say your name was?"

  "Faith."

  "No name that--no name that! I can't stomach such a name. Got anyother?"

  "No, sir."

&nbs
p; "Don't like the name, don't like it. There's no smeddum to it. Besides,it makes me think of my Aunt Jinny. She called her three girls Faith,Hope, and Charity. Faith didn't believe in anything--Hope was a bornpessimist--and Charity was a miser. You ought to be called Red Rose--youlook like one when you're mad. I'LL call you Red Rose. And you've ropedme into promising to go to church? But only once a month, remember--onlyonce a month. Come now, girl, will you let me off? I used to pay ahundred to the salary every year and go to church. If I promise to paytwo hundred a year will you let me off going to church? Come now!"

  "No, no, sir," said Faith, dimpling roguishly. "I want you to go tochurch, too."

  "Well, a bargain is a bargain. I reckon I can stand it twelve times ayear. What a sensation it'll make the first Sunday I go! And old SusanBaker says I'm going to hell, hey? Do you believe I'll go there--come,now, do you?"

  "I hope not, sir," stammered Faith in some confusion.

  "WHY do you hope not? Come, now, WHY do you hope not? Give us a reason,girl--give us a reason."

  "It--it must be a very--uncomfortable place, sir."

  "Uncomfortable? All depends on your taste in comfortable, girl. I'd soonget tired of angels. Fancy old Susan in a halo, now!"

  Faith did fancy it, and it tickled her so much that she had to laugh.Norman eyed her approvingly.

  "See the fun of it, hey? Oh, I like you--you're great. About this churchbusiness, now--can your father preach?"

  "He is a splendid preacher," said loyal Faith.

  "He is, hey? I'll see--I'll watch out for flaws. He'd better be carefulwhat he says before ME. I'll catch him--I'll trip him up--I'll keep tabson his arguments. I'm bound to have some fun out of this church goingbusiness. Does he ever preach hell?"

  "No--o--o--I don't think so."

  "Too bad. I like sermons on that subject. You tell him that if he wantsto keep me in good humour to preach a good rip-roaring sermon on hellonce every six months--and the more brimstone the better. I like 'emsmoking. And think of all the pleasure he'd give the old maids, too.They'd all keep looking at old Norman Douglas and thinking, 'That's foryou, you old reprobate. That's what's in store for YOU!' I'll give anextra ten dollars every time you get your father to preach on hell.Here's Wilson and the jam. Like that, hey? IT isn't macanaccady. Taste!"

  Faith obediently swallowed the big spoonful Norman held out to her.Luckily it WAS good.

  "Best plum jam in the world," said Norman, filling a large saucer andplumping it down before her. "Glad you like it. I'll give you a coupleof jars to take home with you. There's nothing mean about me--never was.The devil can't catch me at THAT corner, anyhow. It wasn't my fault thatHester didn't have a new hat for ten years. It was her own--she pinchedon hats to save money to give yellow fellows over in China. _I_ nevergave a cent to missions in my life--never will. Never you try tobamboozle me into that! A hundred a year to the salary and church once amonth--but no spoiling good heathens to make poor Christians! Why,girl, they wouldn't be fit for heaven or hell--clean spoiled for eitherplace--clean spoiled. Hey, Wilson, haven't you got a smile on yet? Beatsall how you women can sulk! _I_ never sulked in my life--it's just onebig flash and crash with me and then--pouf--the squall's over and thesun is out and you could eat out of my hand."

  Norman insisted on driving Faith home after supper and he filled thebuggy up with apples, cabbages, potatoes and pumpkins and jars of jam.

  "There's a nice little tom-pussy out in the barn. I'll give you thattoo, if you'd like it. Say the word," he said.

  "No, thank you," said Faith decidedly. "I don't like cats, and besides,I have a rooster."

  "Listen to her. You can't cuddle a rooster as you can a kitten. Who everheard of petting a rooster? Better take little Tom. I want to find agood home for him."

  "No. Aunt Martha has a cat and he would kill a strange kitten."

  Norman yielded the point rather reluctantly. He gave Faith an excitingdrive home, behind his wild two-year old, and when he had let her out atthe kitchen door of the manse and dumped his cargo on the back verandahe drove away shouting,

  "It's only once a month--only once a month, mind!"

  Faith went up to bed, feeling a little dizzy and breathless, as if shehad just escaped from the grasp of a genial whirlwind. She was happyand thankful. No fear now that they would have to leave the Glen andthe graveyard and Rainbow Valley. But she fell asleep troubled by adisagreeable subconsciousness that Dan Reese had called her pig-girl andthat, having stumbled on such a congenial epithet, he would continue tocall her so whenever opportunity offered.