The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “Mrs. Elliott is very good to you,” said Faith.

  “You bet she is. And I’M good to her, too,” retorted Mary. “I work like a nigger to make it easy for her and have everything just as she likes it. We was made for each other. ’Tisn’t every one could get along with her as well as I do. She’s pizen neat, but so am I, and so we agree fine.”

  “I told you she would never whip you.”

  “So you did. She’s never tried to lay a finger on me and I ain’t never told a lie to her — not one, true’s you live. She combs me down with her tongue sometimes though, but that just slips off ME like water off a duck’s back. Say, Una, why didn’t you hang on to the muff?”

  Una had put it back on the bough.

  “My hands aren’t cold, thank you,” she said stiffly.

  “Well, if you’re satisfied, I am. Say, old Kitty Alec has come back to church as meek as Moses and nobody knows why. But everybody is saying it was Faith brought Norman Douglas out. His housekeeper says you went there and gave him an awful tongue-lashing. Did you?”

  “I went and asked him to come to church,” said Faith uncomfortably.

  “Fancy your spunk!” said Mary admiringly. “I wouldn’t have dared do that and I’m not so slow. Mrs. Wilson says the two of you jawed something scandalous, but you come off best and then he just turned round and like to eat you up. Say, is your father going to preach here to-morrow?”

  “No. He’s going to exchange with Mr. Perry from Charlottetown. Father went to town this morning and Mr. Perry is coming out to-night.”

  “I THOUGHT there was something in the wind, though old Martha wouldn’t give me any satisfaction. But I felt sure she wouldn’t have been killing that rooster for nothing.”

  “What rooster? What do you mean?” cried Faith, turning pale.

  “I don’t know what rooster. I didn’t see it. When she took the butter Mrs. Elliott sent up she said she’d been out to the barn killing a rooster for dinner tomorrow.”

  Faith sprang down from the pine.

  “It’s Adam — we have no other rooster — she has killed Adam.”

  “Now, don’t fly off the handle. Martha said the butcher at the Glen had no meat this week and she had to have something and the hens were all laying and too poor.”

  “If she has killed Adam—” Faith began to run up the hill.

  Mary shrugged her shoulders.

  “She’ll go crazy now. She was so fond of that Adam. He ought to have been in the pot long ago — he’ll be as tough as sole leather. But I wouldn’t like to be in Martha’s shoes. Faith’s just white with rage; Una, you’d better go after her and try to peacify her.”

  Mary had gone a few steps with the Blythe girls when Una suddenly turned and ran after her.

  “Here’s some gum for you, Mary,” she said, with a little repentant catch in her voice, thrusting all her four knots into Mary’s hands, “and I’m glad you have such a pretty muff.”

  “Why, thanks,” said Mary, rather taken by surprise. To the Blythe girls, after Una had gone, she said, “Ain’t she a queer little mite? But I’ve always said she had a good heart.”

  CHAPTER XIX.

  POOR ADAM!

  When Una got home Faith was lying face downwards on her bed, utterly refusing to be comforted. Aunt Martha had killed Adam. He was reposing on a platter in the pantry that very minute, trussed and dressed, encircled by his liver and heart and gizzard. Aunt Martha heeded Faith’s passion of grief and anger not a whit.

  “We had to have something for the strange minister’s dinner,” she said. “You’re too big a girl to make such a fuss over an old rooster. You knew he’d have to be killed sometime.”

  “I’ll tell father when he comes home what you’ve done,” sobbed

  Faith.

  “Don’t you go bothering your poor father. He has troubles enough. And I’M housekeeper here.”

  “Adam was MINE — Mrs. Johnson gave him to me. You had no business to touch him,” stormed Faith.

  “Don’t you get sassy now. The rooster’s killed and there’s an end of it. I ain’t going to set no strange minister down to a dinner of cold b’iled mutton. I was brought up to know better than that, if I have come down in the world.”

  Faith would not go down to supper that night and she would not go to church the next morning. But at dinner time she went to the table, her eyes swollen with crying, her face sullen.

  The Rev. James Perry was a sleek, rubicund man, with a bristling white moustache, bushy white eyebrows, and a shining bald head. He was certainly not handsome and he was a very tiresome, pompous sort of person. But if he had looked like the Archangel Michael and talked with the tongues of men and angels Faith would still have utterly detested him. He carved Adam up dexterously, showing off his plump white hands and very handsome diamond ring. Also, he made jovial remarks all through the performance. Jerry and Carl giggled, and even Una smiled wanly, because she thought politeness demanded it. But Faith only scowled darkly. The Rev. James thought her manners shockingly bad. Once, when he was delivering himself of an unctuous remark to Jerry, Faith broke in rudely with a flat contradiction. The Rev. James drew his bushy eyebrows together at her.

  “Little girls should not interrupt,” he said, “and they should not contradict people who know far more than they do.”

  This put Faith in a worse temper than ever. To be called “little girl” as if she were no bigger than chubby Rilla Blythe over at Ingleside! It was insufferable. And how that abominable Mr. Perry did eat! He even picked poor Adam’s bones. Neither Faith nor Una would touch a mouthful, and looked upon the boys as little better than cannibals. Faith felt that if that awful repast did not soon come to an end she would wind it up by throwing something at Mr. Perry’s gleaming head. Fortunately, Mr. Perry found Aunt Martha’s leathery apple pie too much even for his powers of mastication and the meal came to an end, after a long grace in which Mr. Perry offered up devout thanks for the food which a kind and beneficent Providence had provided for sustenance and temperate pleasure.

  “God hadn’t a single thing to do with providing Adam for you,” muttered Faith rebelliously under her breath.

  The boys gladly made their escape to outdoors, Una went to help Aunt Martha with the dishes — though that rather grumpy old dame never welcomed her timid assistance — and Faith betook herself to the study where a cheerful wood fire was burning in the grate. She thought she would thereby escape from the hated Mr. Perry, who had announced his intention of taking a nap in his room during the afternoon. But scarcely had Faith settled herself in a corner, with a book, when he walked in and, standing before the fire, proceeded to survey the disorderly study with an air of disapproval.

  “You father’s books seem to be in somewhat deplorable confusion, my little girl,” he said severely.

  Faith darkled in her corner and said not a word. She would NOT talk to this — this creature.

  “You should try to put them in order,” Mr. Perry went on, playing with his handsome watch chain and smiling patronizingly on Faith. “You are quite old enough to attend to such duties. MY little daughter at home is only ten and she is already an excellent little housekeeper and the greatest help and comfort to her mother. She is a very sweet child. I wish you had the privilege of her acquaintance. She could help you in many ways. Of course, you have not had the inestimable privilege of a good mother’s care and training. A sad lack — a very sad lack. I have spoken more than once to your father in this connection and pointed out his duty to him faithfully, but so far with no effect. I trust he may awaken to a realization of his responsibility before it is too late. In the meantime, it is your duty and privilege to endeavour to take your sainted mother’s place. You might exercise a great influence over your brothers and your little sister — you might be a true mother to them. I fear that you do not think of these things as you should. My dear child, allow me to open your eyes in regard to them.”

  Mr. Perry’s oily, complacent voice trickled on. He was in h
is element. Nothing suited him better than to lay down the law, patronize and exhort. He had no idea of stopping, and he did not stop. He stood before the fire, his feet planted firmly on the rug, and poured out a flood of pompous platitudes. Faith heard not a word. She was really not listening to him at all. But she was watching his long black coat-tails with impish delight growing in her brown eyes. Mr. Perry was standing VERY near the fire. His coat-tails began to scorch — his coat-tails began to smoke. He still prosed on, wrapped up in his own eloquence. The coat-tails smoked worse. A tiny spark flew up from the burning wood and alighted in the middle of one. It clung and caught and spread into a smouldering flame. Faith could restrain herself no longer and broke into a stifled giggle.

  Mr. Perry stopped short, angered over this impertinence. Suddenly he became conscious that a reek of burning cloth filled the room. He whirled round and saw nothing. Then he clapped his hands to his coat-tails and brought them around in front of him. There was already quite a hole in one of them — and this was his new suit. Faith shook with helpless laughter over his pose and expression.

  “Did you see my coat-tails burning?” he demanded angrily.

  “Yes, sir,” said Faith demurely.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, glaring at her.

  “You said it wasn’t good manners to interrupt, sir,” said Faith, more demurely still.

  “If — if I was your father, I would give you a spanking that you would remember all your life, Miss,” said a very angry reverend gentleman, as he stalked out of the study. The coat of Mr. Meredith’s second best suit would not fit Mr. Perry, so he had to go to the evening service with his singed coat-tail. But he did not walk up the aisle with his usual consciousness of the honour he was conferring on the building. He never would agree to an exchange of pulpits with Mr. Meredith again, and he was barely civil to the latter when they met for a few minutes at the station the next morning. But Faith felt a certain gloomy satisfaction. Adam was partially avenged.

  CHAPTER XX.

  FAITH MAKES A FRIEND

  Next day in school was a hard one for Faith. Mary Vance had told the tale of Adam, and all the scholars, except the Blythes, thought it quite a joke. The girls told Faith, between giggles, that it was too bad, and the boys wrote sardonic notes of condolence to her. Poor Faith went home from school feeling her very soul raw and smarting within her.

  “I’m going over to Ingleside to have a talk with Mrs. Blythe,” she sobbed. “SHE won’t laugh at me, as everybody else does. I’ve just GOT to talk to somebody who understands how bad I feel.”

  She ran down through Rainbow Valley. Enchantment had been at work the night before. A light snow had fallen and the powdered firs were dreaming of a spring to come and a joy to be. The long hill beyond was richly purple with leafless beeches. The rosy light of sunset lay over the world like a pink kiss. Of all the airy, fairy places, full of weird, elfin grace, Rainbow Valley that winter evening was the most beautiful. But all its dreamlike loveliness was lost on poor, sore-hearted little Faith.

  By the brook she came suddenly upon Rosemary West, who was sitting on the old pine tree. She was on her way home from Ingleside, where she had been giving the girls their music lesson. She had been lingering in Rainbow Valley quite a little time, looking across its white beauty and roaming some by-ways of dream. Judging from the expression of her face, her thoughts were pleasant ones. Perhaps the faint, occasional tinkle from the bells on the Tree Lovers brought the little lurking smile to her lips. Or perhaps it was occasioned by the consciousness that John Meredith seldom failed to spend Monday evening in the gray house on the white wind-swept hill.

  Into Rosemary’s dreams burst Faith Meredith full of rebellious bitterness. Faith stopped abruptly when she saw Miss West. She did not know her very well — just well enough to speak to when they met. And she did not want to see any one just then — except Mrs. Blythe. She knew her eyes and nose were red and swollen and she hated to have a stranger know she had been crying.

  “Good evening, Miss West,” she said uncomfortably.

  “What is the matter, Faith?” asked Rosemary gently.

  “Nothing,” said Faith rather shortly.

  “Oh!” Rosemary smiled. “You mean nothing that you can tell to outsiders, don’t you?”

  Faith looked at Miss West with sudden interest. Here was a person who understood things. And how pretty she was! How golden her hair was under her plumy hat! How pink her cheeks were over her velvet coat! How blue and companionable her eyes were! Faith felt that Miss West could be a lovely friend — if only she were a friend instead of a stranger!

  “I — I’m going up to tell Mrs. Blythe,” said Faith. “She always understands — she never laughs at us. I always talk things over with her. It helps.”

  “Dear girlie, I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mrs. Blythe isn’t home,” said Miss West, sympathetically. “She went to Avonlea to-day and isn’t coming back till the last of the week.”

  Faith’s lip quivered.

  “Then I might as well go home again,” she said miserably.

  “I suppose so — unless you think you could bring yourself to talk it over with me instead,” said Miss Rosemary gently. “It IS such a help to talk things over. I know. I don’t suppose I can be as good at understanding as Mrs. Blythe — but I promise you that I won’t laugh.”

  “You wouldn’t laugh outside,” hesitated Faith. “But you might — inside.”

  “No, I wouldn’t laugh inside, either. Why should I? Something has hurt you — it never amuses me to see anybody hurt, no matter what hurts them. If you feel that you’d like to tell me what has hurt you I’ll be glad to listen. But if you think you’d rather not — that’s all right, too, dear.”

  Faith took another long, earnest look into Miss West’s eyes. They were very serious — there was no laughter in them, not even far, far back. With a little sigh she sat down on the old pine beside her new friend and told her all about Adam and his cruel fate.

  Rosemary did not laugh or feel like laughing. She understood and sympathized — really, she was almost as good as Mrs. Blythe — yes, quite as good.

  “Mr. Perry is a minister, but he should have been a BUTCHER,” said Faith bitterly. “He is so fond of carving things up. He ENJOYED cutting poor Adam to pieces. He just sliced into him as if he were any common rooster.”

  “Between you and me, Faith, I don’t like Mr. Perry very well myself,” said Rosemary, laughing a little — but at Mr. Perry, not at Adam, as Faith clearly understood. “I never did like him. I went to school with him — he was a Glen boy, you know — and he was a most detestable little prig even then. Oh, how we girls used to hate holding his fat, clammy hands in the ring-around games. But we must remember, dear, that he didn’t know that Adam had been a pet of yours. He thought he WAS just a common rooster. We must be just, even when we are terribly hurt.”

  “I suppose so,” admitted Faith. “But why does everybody seem to think it funny that I should have loved Adam so much, Miss West? If it had been a horrid old cat nobody would have thought it queer. When Lottie Warren’s kitten had its legs cut off by the binder everybody was sorry for her. She cried two days in school and nobody laughed at her, not even Dan Reese. And all her chums went to the kitten’s funeral and helped her bury it — only they couldn’t bury its poor little paws with it, because they couldn’t find them. It was a horrid thing to have happen, of course, but I don’t think it was as dreadful as seeing your pet EATEN UP. Yet everybody laughs at ME.”

  “I think it is because the name ‘rooster’ seems rather a funny one,” said Rosemary gravely. “There IS something in it that is comical. Now, ‘chicken’ is different. It doesn’t sound so funny to talk of loving a chicken.”

  “Adam was the dearest little chicken, Miss West. He was just a little golden ball. He would run up to me and peck out of my hand. And he was handsome when he grew up, too — white as snow, with such a beautiful curving white tail, though Mary Vance said it was too
short. He knew his name and always came when I called him — he was a very intelligent rooster. And Aunt Martha had no right to kill him. He was mine. It wasn’t fair, was it, Miss West?”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Rosemary decidedly. “Not a bit fair. I remember I had a pet hen when I was a little girl. She was such a pretty little thing — all golden brown and speckly. I loved her as much as I ever loved any pet. She was never killed — she died of old age. Mother wouldn’t have her killed because she was my pet.”

  “If MY mother had been living she wouldn’t have let Adam be killed,” said Faith. “For that matter, father wouldn’t have either, if he’d been home and known of it. I’m SURE he wouldn’t, Miss West.”

  “I’m sure, too,” said Rosemary. There was a little added flush on her face. She looked rather conscious but Faith noticed nothing.

  “Was it VERY wicked of me not to tell Mr. Perry his coat-tails were scorching?” she asked anxiously.

  “Oh, terribly wicked,” answered Rosemary, with dancing eyes. “But I would have been just as naughty, Faith — I wouldn’t have told him they were scorching — and I don’t believe I would ever have been a bit sorry for my wickedness, either.”

  “Una thought I should have told him because he was a minister.”

  “Dearest, if a minister doesn’t behave as a gentleman we are not bound to respect his coat-tails. I know I would just have loved to see Jimmy Perry’s coat-tails burning up. It must have been fun.”

  Both laughed; but Faith ended with a bitter little sigh.

  “Well, anyway, Adam is dead and I am NEVER going to love anything again.”

  “Don’t say that, dear. We miss so much out of life if we don’t love. The more we love the richer life is — even if it is only some little furry or feathery pet. Would you like a canary, Faith — a little golden bit of a canary? If you would I’ll give you one. We have two up home.”