dreamed him. She had always been sure he could tell
beautiful stories.
"Come up to the house and I'll show you some pretty
things," he said finally.
Then followed a wonderful hour. The little low-
ceilinged room, with its square window, into which he
took her, was filled with the flotsam and jetsam of his
roving life - things beautiful and odd and strange
beyond all telling. The things that pleased Rachel most
were two huge shells on the chimney piece - pale pink
shells with big crimson and purple spots.
"Oh, I didn't know there could be such pretty things in
the world," she exclaimed.
"If you would like," began the big man; then he paused
for a moment. "I'll show you something prettier still."
Rachel felt vaguely that he meant to say something else
when he began; but she forgot to wonder what it was
when she saw what he brought out of a little corner
cupboard. It was a teapot of some fine, glistening
purple ware, coiled over by golden dragons with gilded
claws and scales. The lid looked like a beautiful
golden flower and the handle was a coil of a dragon's
tail. Rachel sat and looked at it rapt-eyed.
"That's the only thing of any value I have in the world
- now," he said.
Rachel knew there was something very sad in his eyes
and voice. She longed to kiss him again and comfort
him. But suddenly he began to laugh, and then he
rummaged out some goodies for her to eat, sweetmeats
more delicious than she had ever imagined. While she
nibbled them he took down an old violin and played
music that made her want to dance and sing. Rachel was
perfectly happy. She wished she might stay forever in
that low, dim room with all its treasures.
"I see your little friends coming around the point," he
said, finally. "I suppose you must go. Put the rest of
the goodies in your pocket."
He took her up in his arms and held her tightly against
his breast for a single moment. She felt him kissing
her hair.
"There, run along, little girl. Good-by," he said
gently.
"Why don't you ask me to come and see you again?" cried
Rachel, half in tears. "I'm coming anyhow."
"If you can come, come," he said. "If you don't come, I
shall know it is because you can't - and that is much
to know. I'm very, very, very glad, little woman, that
you have come once."
Rachel was sitting demurely on the skids when her
companions came back. They had not seen her leaving the
house, and she said not a word to them of her
experiences. She only smiled mysteriously when they
asked her if she had been lonesome.
That night, for the first time, she mentioned her
father's name in her prayers. She never forgot to do so
afterwards. She always said, "bless mother - and
father," with an instinctive pause between the two
names - a pause which indicated new realization of the
tragedy which had sundered them. And the tone in which
she said "father" was softer and more tender than the
one which voiced "mother."
Rachel never visited the Cove again. Isabella Spencer
discovered that the children had been there, and,
although she knew nothing of Rachel's interview with
her father, she told the child that she must never
again go to that part of the shore.
Rachel shed many a bitter tear in secret over this
command; but she obeyed it. Thenceforth there had been
no communication between her and her father, save the
unworded messages of soul to soul across whatever may
divide them.
David Spencer's invitation to his daughter's wedding
was sent with the others, and the remaining days of
Rachel's maidenhood slipped away in a whirl of
preparation and excitement in which her mother reveled,
but which was distasteful to the girl.
The wedding day came at last, breaking softly and
fairly over the great sea in a sheen of silver and
pearl and rose, a September day, as mild and beautiful
as June.
The ceremony was to be performed at eight o'clock in
the evening. At seven Rachel stood in her room, fully
dressed and alone. She had no bridesmaid, and she had
asked her cousins to leave her to herself in this last
solemn hour of girlhood. She looked very fair and sweet
in the sunset-light that showered through the birches.
Her wedding gown was a fine, sheer organdie, simply and
daintily made. In the loose waves of her bright hair
she wore her bridegroom's flowers, roses as white as a
virgin's dream. She was very happy; but her happiness
was faintly threaded with the sorrow inseparable from
all change.
Presently her mother came in, carrying a small basket.
"Here is something for you, Rachel. One of the boys
from the harbor brought it up. He was bound to give it
into your own hands - said that was his orders. I just
took it and sent him to the right-about - told him I'd
give it to you at once, and that that was all that was
necessary."
She spoke coldly. She knew quite well who had sent the
basket, and she resented it; but her resentment was not
quite strong enough to overcome her curiosity. She
stood silently by while Rachel unpacked the basket.
Rachel's hands trembled as she took off the cover. Two
huge pink-spotted shells came first. How well she
remembered them! Beneath them, carefully wrapped up in
a square of foreign-looking, strangely scented silk,
was the dragon teapot. She held it in her hands and
gazed at it with tears gathering thickly in her eyes.
"Your father sent that," said Isabella Spencer with an
odd sound in her voice. "I remember it well. It was
among the things I packed up and sent after him. His
father had brought it home from China fifty years ago,
and he prized it beyond anything. They used to say it
was worth a lot of money."
"Mother, please leave me alone for a little while,"
said Rachel, imploringly. She had caught sight of a
little note at the bottom of the basket, and she felt
that she could not read it under her mother's eyes.
Mrs. Spencer went out with unaccustomed acquiescence,
and Rachel went quickly to the window, where she read
her letter by the fading gleams of twilight. It was
very brief, and the writing was that of a man who holds
a pen but seldom.
"My dear little girl," it ran, "I'm sorry I can't go to
your wedding. It was like you to ask me - for I know it
was your doing. I wish I could see you married, but I
can't go to the house I was turned out of. I hope you
will be very happy. I am sending you the shells and
teapot you liked so much. Do you remember that day we
had such a good time? I would liked to have seen you
a
gain before you were married, but it can't be.
"Your loving father, "David Spencer."
Rachel resolutely blinked away the tears that filled
her eyes. A fierce desire for her father sprang up in
her heart - an insistent hunger that would not be
denied. She must see her father; she must have his
blessing on her new life. A sudden determination took
possession of her whole being - a determination to
sweep aside all conventionalities and objections as if
they had not been.
It was now almost dark. The guests would not be coming
for half an hour yet. It was only fifteen minutes' walk
over the hill to the Cove. Hastily Rachel shrouded
herself in her new raincoat, and drew a dark,
protecting hood over her gay head. She opened the door
and slipped noiselessly downstairs. Mrs. Spencer and
her assistants were all busy in the back part of the
house. In a moment Rachel was out in the dewy garden.
She would go straight over the fields. Nobody would see
her.
It was quite dark when she reached the Cove. In the
crystal cup of the sky over her the stars were
blinking. Flying flakes of foam were scurrying over the
sand like elfin things. A soft little wind was crooning
about the eaves of the little gray house where David
Spencer was sitting, alone in the twilight, his violin
on his knee. He had been trying to play, but could not.
His heart yearned after his daughter - yes, and after a
long-estranged bride of his youth. His love of the sea
was sated forever; his love for wife and child still
cried for its own under all his old anger and
stubbornness.
The door opened suddenly and the very Rachel of whom he
was dreaming came suddenly in, flinging off her wraps
and standing forth in her young beauty and bridal
adornments, a splendid creature, almost lighting up the
gloom with her radiance.
"Father," she cried, brokenly, and her father's eager
arms closed around her.
Back in the house she had left, the guests were coming
to the wedding. There were jests and laughter and
friendly greeting. The bridegroom came, too, a slim,
dark-eyed lad who tiptoed bashfully upstairs to the
spare room, from which he presently emerged to confront
Mrs. Spencer on the landing.
"I want to see Rachel before we go down," he said,
blushing.
Mrs. Spencer deposited a wedding present of linen on
the table which was already laden with gifts, opening
the door of Rachel's room, and called her. There was no
reply; the room was dark and still. In sudden alarm,
Isabella Spencer snatched the lamp from the hall table
and held it up. The little white room was empty. No
blushing, white-clad bride tenanted it. But David
Spencer's letter was lying on the stand. She caught it
up and read it.
"Rachel is gone," she gasped. A flash of intuition had
revealed to her where and why the girl had gone.
"Gone!" echoed Frank, his face blanching. His pallid
dismay recalled Mrs. Spencer to herself. She gave a
bitter, ugly little laugh.
"Oh, you needn't look so scared, Frank. She hasn't run
away from you. Hush; come in here - shut the door.
Nobody must know of this. Nice gossip it would make!
That little fool has gone to the Cove to see her - her
father. I know she has. It's just like what she would
do. He sent her those presents - look - and this
letter. Read it. She has gone to coax him to come and
see her married. She was crazy about it. And the
minister is here and it is half-past seven. She'll ruin
her dress and shoes in the dust and dew. And what if
some one has seen her! Was there ever such a little
fool?"
Frank's presence of mind had returned to him. He knew
all about Rachel and her father. She had told him
everything.
"I'll go after her," he said gently. "Get me my hat and
coat. I'll slip down the back stairs and over to the
Cove."
"You must get out of the pantry window, then," said
Mrs. Spencer firmly, mingling comedy and tragedy after
her characteristic fashion. "The kitchen is full of
women. I won't have this known and talked about if it
can possibly be helped."
The bridegroom, wise beyond his years in the knowledge
that it was well to yield to women in little things,
crawled obediently out of the pantry window and darted
through the birch wood. Mrs. Spencer had stood
quakingly on guard until he had disappeared.
So Rachel had gone to her father! Like had broken the
fetters of years and fled to like.
"It isn't much use fighting against nature, I guess,"
she thought grimly. "I'm beat. He must have thought
something of her, after all, when he sent her that
teapot and letter. And what does he mean about the 'day
they had such a good time'? Well, it just means that
she's been to see him before, sometime, I suppose, and
kept me in ignorance of it all."
Mrs. Spencer shut down the pantry window with a vicious
thud.
"If only she'll come quietly back with Frank in time to
prevent gossip I'll forgive her," she said, as she
turned to the kitchen.
Rachel was sitting on her father's knee, with both her
white arms around his neck, when Frank came in. She
sprang up, her face flushed and appealing, her eyes
bright and dewy with tears. Frank thought he had never
seen her look so lovely.
"Oh, Frank, is it very late? Oh, are you angry?" she
exclaimed timidly.
"No, no, dear. Of course I'm not angry. But don't you
think you'd better come back now? It's nearly eight and
everybody is waiting."
"I've been trying to coax father to come up and see me
married," said Rachel. "Help me, Frank."
"You'd better come, sir," said Frank, heartily, "I'd
like it as much as Rachel would."
David Spencer shook his head stubbornly.
"No, I can't go to that house. I was locked out of it.
Never mind me. I've had my happiness in this half hour
with my little girl. I'd like to see her married, but
it isn't to be."
"Yes, it is to be - it shall be," said Rachel
resolutely. "You shall see me married. Frank, I'm going
to be married here in my father's house! That is the
right place for a girl to be married. Go back and tell
the guests so, and bring them all down."
Frank looked rather dismayed. David Spencer said
deprecatingly: "Little girl, don't you think it would
be - "
"I'm going to have my own way in this," said Rachel,
with a sort of tender finality. "Go, Frank. I'll obey
you all my life after, but you must do this for me. Try
to understand," she added beseechingly.
"Oh, I understand," Frank reassured her. "Besides
, I
think you are right. But I was thinking of your mother.
She won't come."
"Then you tell her that if she doesn't come I shan't be
married at all," said Rachel. She was betraying
unsuspected ability to manage people. She knew that
ultimatum would urge Frank to his best endeavors.
Frank, much to Mrs. Spencer's dismay, marched boldly in
at the front door upon his return. She pounced on him
and whisked him out of sight into the supper room.
"Where's Rachel? What made you come that way? Everybody
saw you!"
"It makes no difference. They will all have to know,
anyway. Rachel says she is going to be married from her
father's house, or not at all. I've come back to tell
you so."
Isabella's face turned crimson.
"Rachel has gone crazy. I wash my hands of this affair.
Do as you please. Take the guests - the supper, too, if
you can carry it."
"We'll all come back here for supper," said Frank,
ignoring the sarcasm. "Come, Mrs. Spencer, let's make
the best of it."
"Do you suppose that I am going to David Spencer's
house?" said Isabella Spencer violently.
"Oh you must come, Mrs. Spencer," cried poor Frank
desperately. He began to fear that he would lose his
bride past all finding in this maze of triple
stubbornness. "Rachel says she won't be married at all
if you don't go, too. Think what a talk it will make.
You know she will keep her word."
Isabella Spencer knew it. Amid all the conflict of
anger and revolt in her soul was a strong desire not to
make a worse scandal than must of necessity be made.
The desire subdued and tamed her, as nothing else could
have done.
"I will go, since I have to," she said icily. "What
can't be cured must be endured. Go and tell them."
Five minutes later the sixty wedding guests were all
walking over the fields to the Cove, with the minister
and the bridegroom in the front of the procession. They
were too amazed even to talk about the strange
happening. Isabella Spencer walked behind, fiercely
alone.
They all crowded into the little room of the house at
the Cove, and a solemn hush fell over it, broken only
by the purr of the sea-wind around it and the croon of
the waves on the shore. David Spencer gave his daughter
away; but, when the ceremony was concluded, Isabella
was the first to take the girl in her arms. She clasped
her and kissed her, with tears streaming down her pale
face, all her nature melted in a mother's tenderness.
"Rachel! Rachel! My child, I hope and pray that you may
be happy," she said brokenly.
In the surge of the suddenly merry crowd of well-
wishers around the bride and groom, Isabella was pushed
back into a shadowy corner behind a heap of sails and
ropes. Looking up, she found herself crushed against
David Spencer. For the first time in twenty years the
eyes of husband and wife met. A strange thrill shot to
Isabella's heart; she felt herself trembling.
"Isabella." It was David's voice in her ear a voice
full of tenderness and pleading - the voice of the
young wooer of her girlhood - "Is it too late to ask
you to forgive me? I've been a stubborn fool - but
there hasn't been an hour in all these years that I
haven't thought about you and our baby and longed for
you."
Isabella Spencer had hated this man; yet her hate had
been but a parasite growth on a nobler stem, with no
abiding roots of its own. It withered under his words,
and lo, there was the old love, fair and strong and
beautiful as ever.
"Oh - David - I - was - all - to - blame," she murmured
brokenly.
Further words were lost on her husband's lips.
When the hubbub of handshaking and congratulating had
subsided, Isabella Spencer stepped out before the
company. She looked almost girlish and bridal herself,
with her flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
"Let's go back now and have supper, and be sensible,"
she said crisply. "Rachel, your father is coming, too.
He is coming to stay," - with a defiant glance around
Further Chronicles of Avonlea Page 5