Further Chronicles of Avonlea

by L. M. Montgomery

age, and beautiful - the hair a rich auburn with a

  glistening curl in it, skin very white and warm-tinted,

  eyes small and of a greenish blue, with dilated pupils

  and long lashes. He had a weak chin, and a full, sullen

  mouth.

  The bed was in the corner farthest from the window; on

  it the sick woman, in spite of the pain that was her

  portion continually, was lying as quiet and motionless

  as she had done ever since she had lain down upon it

  for the last time. Naomi Holland never complained; when

  the agony was at its worst, she shut her teeth more

  firmly over her bloodless lip, and her great black eyes

  glared at the blank wall before in a way that gave her

  attendants what they called "the creeps," but no word

  or moan escaped her.

  Between the paroxysms she kept up her keen interest in

  the life that went on about her. Nothing escaped her

  sharp, alert eyes and ears. This evening she lay spent

  on the crumpled pillows; she had had a bad spell in the

  afternoon and it had left her very weak. In the dim

  light her extremely long face looked corpse-like

  already. Her black hair lay in a heavy braid over the

  pillow and down the counterpane. It was all that was

  left of her beauty, and she took a fierce joy in it.

  Those long, glistening, sinuous tresses must be combed

  and braided every day, no matter what came.

  A girl of fourteen was curled up on a chair at the head

  of the bed, with her head resting on the pillow. The

  boy at the window was her half-brother; but, between

  Christopher Holland and Eunice Carr, not the slightest

  resemblance existed.

  Presently the sibilant silence was broken by a low,

  half-strangled sob. The sick woman, who had been

  watching a white evening star through the cherry

  boughs, turned impatiently at the sound.

  "I wish you'd get over that, Eunice," she said sharply.

  "I don't want any one crying over me until I'm dead;

  and then you'll have plenty else to do, most likely. If

  it wasn't for Christopher I wouldn't be anyways

  unwilling to die. When one has had such a life as I've

  had, there isn't much in death to be afraid of. Only, a

  body would like to go right off, and not die by inches,

  like this. 'Tain't fair!"

  She snapped out the last sentence as if addressing some

  unseen, tyrannical presence; her voice, at least, had

  not weakened, but was as clear and incisive as ever.

  The boy at the window stopped whistling, and the girl

  silently wiped her eyes on her faded gingham apron.

  Naomi drew her own hair over her lips, and kissed it.

  "You'll never have hair like that, Eunice," she said.

  "It does seem most too pretty to bury, doesn't it? Mind

  you see that it is fixed nice when I'm laid out. Comb

  it right up on my head and braid it there."

  A sound, such as might be wrung from a suffering

  animal, came from the girl, but at the same moment the

  door opened and a woman entered.

  "Chris," she said sharply, "you get right off for the

  cows, you lazy little scamp! You knew right well you

  had to go for them, and here you've been idling, and me

  looking high and low for you. Make haste now; it's

  ridiculous late."

  The boy pulled in his head and scowled at his aunt, but

  he dared not disobey, and went out slowly with a sulky

  mutter.

  His aunt subdued a movement, that might have developed

  into a sound box on his ears, with a rather frightened

  glance at the bed. Naomi Holland was spent and dying,

  but her temper was still a thing to hold in dread, and

  her sister-in-law did not choose to rouse it by

  slapping Christopher. To her and her co-nurse the

  spasms of rage, which the sick woman sometimes had,

  seemed to partake of the nature of devil possession.

  The last one, only three days before, had been provoked

  by Christopher's complaint of some real or fancied ill-

  treatment from his aunt, and the latter had no mind to

  bring on another. She went over to the bed, and

  straightened the clothes.

  "Sarah and I are going out to milk, Naomi, Eunice will

  stay with you. She can run for us if you feel another

  spell coming on."

  Naomi Holland looked up at her sister-in-law with

  something like malicious enjoyment.

  "I ain't going to have any more spells, Car'line Anne.

  I'm going to die to-night. But you needn't hurry

  milking for that, at all. I'll take my time."

  She liked to see the alarm that came over the other

  woman's face. It was richly worth while to scare

  Caroline Holland like that.

  "Are you feeling worse, Naomi?" asked the latter

  shakily. "If you are I'll send for Charles to go for

  the doctor."

  "No, you won't. What good can the doctor do me? I don't

  want either his or Charles' permission to die. You can

  go and milk at your ease. I won't die till you're done

  - I won't deprive you of the pleasure of seeing me."

  Mrs. Holland shut her lips and went out of the room

  with a martyr-like expression. In some ways Naomi

  Holland was not an exacting patient, but she took her

  satisfaction out in the biting, malicious speeches she

  never failed to make. Even on her death-bed her

  hostility to her sister-in-law had to find vent.

  Outside, at the steps, Sarah Spencer was waiting, with

  the milk pails over her arm. Sarah Spencer had no fixed

  abiding place, but was always to be found where there

  was illness. Her experience, and an utter lack of

  nerves, made her a good nurse. She was a tall, homely

  woman with iron gray hair and a lined face. Beside her,

  the trim little Caroline Anne, with her light step and

  round, apple-red face, looked almost girlish.

  The two women walked to the barnyard, discussing Naomi

  in undertones as they went. The house they had left

  behind grew very still.

  In Naomi Holland's room the shadows were gathering.

  Eunice timidly bent over her mother.

  "Ma, do you want the light lit?"

  "No, I'm watching that star just below the big cherry

  bough. I'll see it set behind the hill. I've seen it

  there, off and on, for twelve years, and now I'm taking

  a good-by look at it. I want you to keep still, too.

  I've got a few things to think over, and I don't want

  to be disturbed."

  The girl lifted herself about noiselessly and locked

  her hands over the bed-post. Then she laid her face

  down on them, biting at them silently until the marks

  of her teeth showed white against their red roughness.

  Naomi Holland did not notice her. She was looking

  steadfastly at the great, pearl-like sparkle in the

  faint-hued sky. When it finally disappeared from her

  vision she struck her long, thin hands together twice,

  and a terrible expression came over her face for a

&
nbsp; moment. But, when she spoke, her voice was quite calm.

  "You can light the candle now, Eunice. Put it up on the

  shelf here, where it won't shine in my eyes. And then

  sit down on the foot of the bed where I can see you.

  I've got something to say to you."

  Eunice obeyed her noiselessly. As the pallid light shot

  up, it revealed the child plainly. She was thin and

  ill-formed - one shoulder being slightly higher than

  the other. She was dark, like her mother, but her

  features were irregular, and her hair fell in

  straggling, dim locks about her face. Her eyes were a

  dark brown, and over one was the slanting red scar of a

  birth mark.

  Naomi Holland looked at her with the contempt she had

  never made any pretense of concealing. The girl was

  bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, but she had

  never loved her; all the mother love in her had been

  lavished on her son.

  When Eunice had placed the candle on the shelf and

  drawn down the ugly blue paper blinds, shutting out the

  strips of violet sky where a score of glimmering points

  were now visible, she sat down on the foot of the bed,

  facing her mother.

  "The door is shut, is it, Eunice?"

  Eunice nodded.

  "Because I don't want Car'line or any one else peeking

  and harking to what I've got to say. She's out milking

  now, and I must make the most of the chance. Eunice,

  I'm going to die, and . . ."

  "Ma!"

  "There now, no taking on! You knew it had to come

  sometime soon. I haven't the strength to talk much, so

  I want you just to be quiet and listen. I ain't feeling

  any pain now, so I can think and talk pretty clear. Are

  you listening, Eunice?"

  "Yes, ma."

  "Mind you are. It's about Christopher. It hasn't been

  out of my mind since I laid down here. I've fought for

  a year to live, on his account, and it ain't any use. I

  must just die and leave him, and I don't know what

  he'll do. It's dreadful to think of."

  She paused, and struck her shrunken hand sharply

  against the table.

  "If he was bigger and could look out for himself it

  wouldn't be so bad. But he is only a little fellow, and

  Car'line hates him. You'll both have to live with her

  until you're grown up. She'll put on him and abuse him.

  He's like his father in some ways; he's got a temper

  and he is stubborn. He'll never get on with Car'line.

  Now, Eunice, I'm going to get you to promise to take my

  place with Christopher when I'm dead, as far as you

  can. You've got to; it's your duty. But I want you to

  promise."

  "I will, ma," whispered the girl solemnly.

  "You haven't much force - you never had. If you was

  smart, you could do a lot for him. But you'll have to

  do your best. I want you to promise me faithfully that

  you'll stand by him and protect him - that you won't

  let people impose on him; that you'll never desert him

  as long as he needs you, no matter what comes. Eunice,

  promise me this!"

  In her excitement the sick woman raised herself up in

  the bed, and clutched the girl's thin arm. Her eyes

  were blazing and two scarlet spots glowed in her thin

  cheeks.

  Eunice's face was white and tense. She clasped her

  hands as one in prayer.

  "Mother, I promise it!"

  Naomi relaxed her grip on the girl's arm and sank back

  exhausted on the pillow. A death-like look came over

  her face as the excitement faded.

  "My mind is easier now. But if I could only have lived

  another year or two! And I hate Car'line - hate her!

  Eunice, don't you ever let her abuse my boy! If she

  did, or if you neglected him, I'd come back from my

  grave to you! As for the property, things will be

  pretty straight. I've seen to that. There'll be no

  squabbling and doing Christopher out of his rights.

  He's to have the farm as soon as he's old enough to

  work it, and he's to provide for you. And, Eunice,

  remember what you've promised!"

  Outside, in the thickly gathering dusk, Caroline

  Holland and Sarah Spencer were at the dairy, straining

  the milk into creamers, for which Christopher was

  sullenly pumping water. The house was far from the

  road, up to which a long red lane led; across the field

  was the old Holland homestead where Caroline lived; her

  unmarried sister-in-law, Electa Holland, kept house for

  her while she waited on Naomi.

  It was her night to go home and sleep, but Naomi's

  words haunted her, although she believed they were born

  of pure "cantankerousness."

  "You'd better go in and look at her, Sarah," she said,

  as she rinsed out the pails. "If you think I'd better

  stay here to-night, I will. If the woman was like

  anybody else a body would know what to do; but, if she

  thought she could scare us by saying she was going to

  die, she'd say it."

  When Sarah went in, the sick room was very quiet. In

  her opinion, Naomi was no worse than usual, and she

  told Caroline so; but the latter felt vaguely uneasy

  and concluded to stay.

  Naomi was as cool and defiant as customary. She made

  them bring Christopher in to say good-night and had him

  lifted up on the bed to kiss her. Then she held him

  back and looked at him admiringly - at the bright curls

  and rosy cheeks and round, firm limbs. The boy was

  uncomfortable under her gaze and squirmed hastily down.

  Her eyes followed him greedily, as he went out. When

  the door closed behind him, she groaned. Sarah Spencer

  was startled. She had never heard Naomi Holland groan

  since she had come to wait on her.

  "Are you feeling any worse, Naomi? Is the pain coming

  back?"

  "No. Go and tell Car'line to give Christopher some of

  that grape jelly on his bread before he goes to bed.

  She'll find it in the cupboard under the stairs."

  Presently the house grew very still. Caroline had

  dropped asleep on the sitting-room lounge, across the

  hall. Sarah Spencer nodded over her knitting by the

  table in the sick room. She had told Eunice to go to

  bed, but the child refused. She still sat huddled up on

  the foot of the bed, watching her mother's face

  intently. Naomi appeared to sleep. The candle burned

  long, and the wick was crowned by a little cap of fiery

  red that seemed to watch Eunice like some impish

  goblin. The wavering light cast grotesque shadows of

  Sarah Spencer's head on the wall. The thin curtains at

  the window wavered to and fro, as if shaken by ghostly

  hands.

  At midnight Naomi Holland opened her eyes. The child

  she had never loved was the only one to go with her to

  the brink of the Unseen.

  "Eunice - remember!"

  It was the faintest whisper. The soul, passing over the <
br />
  threshold of another life, strained back to its only

  earthly tie. A quiver passed over the long, pallid

  face.

  A horrible scream rang through the silent house. Sarah

  Spencer sprang out of her doze in consternation, and

  gazed blankly at the shrieking child. Caroline came

  hurrying in with distended eyes. On the bed Naomi

  Holland lay dead.

  In the room where she had died Naomi Holland lay in her

  coffin. It was dim and hushed; but, in the rest of the

  house, the preparations for the funeral were being

  hurried on. Through it all Eunice moved, calm and

  silent. Since her one wild spasm of screaming by her

  mother's death-bed she had shed no tear, given no sign

  of grief. Perhaps, as her mother had said, she had no

  time. There was Christopher to be looked after. The

  boy's grief was stormy and uncontrolled. He had cried

  until he was utterly exhausted. It was Eunice who

  soothed him, coaxed him to eat, kept him constantly by

  her. At night she took him to her own room and watched

  over him while he slept.

  When the funeral was over the household furniture was

  packed away or sold. The house was locked up and the

  farm rented. There was nowhere for the children to go,

  save to their uncle's. Caroline Holland did not want

  them, but, having to take them, she grimly made up her

  mind to do what she considered her duty by them. She

  had five children of her own and between them and

  Christopher a standing feud had existed from the time

  he could walk.

  She had never liked Naomi. Few people did. Benjamin

  Holland had not married until late in life, and his

  wife had declared war on his family at sight. She was a

  stranger in Avonlea, - a widow, with a three year-old

  child. She made few friends, as some people always

  asserted that she was not in her right mind.

  Within a year of her second marriage Christopher was

  born, and from the hour of his birth his mother had

  worshiped him blindly. He was her only solace. For him

  she toiled and pinched and saved. Benjamin Holland had

  not been "fore-handed" when she married him; but, when

  he died, six years after his marriage, he was a well-

  to-do man.

  Naomi made no pretense of mourning for him. It was an

  open secret that they had quarreled like the proverbial

  cat and dog. Charles Holland and his wife had naturally

  sided with Benjamin, and Naomi fought her battles

  single-handed. After her husband's death, she managed

  to farm alone, and made it pay. When the mysterious

  malady which was to end her life first seized on her

  she fought against it with all the strength and

  stubbornness of her strong and stubborn nature. Her

  will won for her an added year of life, and then she

  had to yield. She tasted all the bitterness of death

  the day on which she lay down on her bed, and saw her

  enemy come in to rule her house.

  But Caroline Holland was not a bad or unkind woman.

  True, she did not love Naomi or her children; but the

  woman was dying and must be looked after for the sake

  of common humanity. Caroline thought she had done well

  by her sister-in-law.

  When the red clay was heaped over Naomi's grave in the

  Avonlea burying ground, Caroline took Eunice and

  Christopher home with her. Christopher did not want to

  go; it was Eunice who reconciled him. He clung to her

  with an exacting affection born of loneliness and

  grief.

  In the days that followed Caroline Holland was obliged

  to confess to herself that there would have been no

  doing anything with Christopher had it not been for

  Eunice. The boy was sullen and obstinate, but his

  sister had an unfailing influence over him.

  In Charles Holland's household no one was allowed to

  eat the bread of idleness. His own children were all

  girls, and Christopher came in handy as a chore boy. He

  was made to work - perhaps too hard. But Eunice helped

  him, and did half his work for him when nobody knew.

  When he quarreled with his cousins, she took his part;

  whenever possible she took on herself the blame and

  punishment of his misdeeds.