“Suppose Cecily goes down with you and coaxes your mother,” suggested the Story Girl. “Perhaps she’d let you go then. She likes Cecily. She doesn’t like either Felicity or me, so it would only make matters worse for us to try.”
“Ma’s gone to town — pa and her went this afternoon — and they’re not coming back till to-morrow. There’s nobody home but Judy Pineau and me.”
“Then,” said the Story Girl, “why don’t you just go to the show anyhow? Your mother won’t ever know, if you coax Judy to hold her tongue.”
“Oh, but that’s wrong,” said Felicity. “You shouldn’t put Sara up to disobeying her mother.”
Now, Felicity for once was undoubtedly right. The Story Girl’s suggestion WAS wrong; and if it had been Cecily who protested, the Story Girl would probably have listened to her, and proceeded no further in the matter. But Felicity was one of those unfortunate people whose protests against wrong-doing serve only to drive the wrong-doer further on her sinful way.
The Story Girl resented Felicity’s superior tone, and proceeded to tempt Sara in right good earnest. The rest of us held our tongues. It was, we told ourselves, Sara’s own lookout.
“I have a good mind to do it,” said Sara. “but I can’t get my good clothes; they’re in the spare room, and ma locked the door, for fear somebody would get at the fruit cake. I haven’t a single thing to wear, except my school gingham.”
“Well, that’s new and pretty,” said the Story Girl. “We’ll lend you some things. You can have my lace collar. That’ll make the gingham quite elegant. And Cecily will lend you her second best hat.”
“But I’ve no shoes or stockings. They’re locked up too.”
“You can have a pair of mine,” said Felicity, who probably thought that since Sara was certain to yield to temptation, she might as well be garbed decently for her transgression.
Sara did yield. When the Story Girl’s voice entreated it was not easy to resist its temptation, even if you wanted to. That evening, when we started for the schoolhouse, Sara Ray was among us, decked out in borrowed plumes.
“Suppose she DOES catch the measles?” Felicity said aside.
“I don’t believe there’ll be anybody there from Markdale. The lecturer is going to Markdale next week. They’ll wait for that,” said the Story Girl airily.
It was a cool, dewy evening, and we walked down the long, red hill in the highest of spirits. Over a valley filled with beech and spruce was a sunset afterglow — creamy yellow and a hue that was not so much red as the dream of red, with a young moon swung low in it. The air was sweet with the breath of mown hayfields where swaths of clover had been steeping in the sun. Wild roses grew pinkly along the fences, and the roadsides were star-dusted with buttercups.
Those of us who had nothing the matter with our consciences enjoyed our walk to the little whitewashed schoolhouse in the valley. Felicity and Cecily were void of offence towards all men. The Story Girl walked uprightly like an incarnate flame in her crimson silk. Her pretty feet were hidden in the tan-coloured, buttoned Paris boots which were the secret envy of every school girl in Carlisle.
But Sara Ray was not happy. Her face was so melancholy that the Story Girl lost patience with her. The Story Girl herself was not altogether at ease. Probably her own conscience was troubling her. But admit it she would not.
“Now, Sara,” she said, “you just take my advice and go into this with all your heart if you go at all. Never mind if it is bad. There’s no use being naughty if you spoil your fun by wishing all the time you were good. You can repent afterwards, but there is no use in mixing the two things together.”
“I’m not repenting,” protested Sara. “I’m only scared of ma finding it out.”
“Oh!” The Story Girl’s voice expressed her scorn. For remorse she had understanding and sympathy; but fear of her fellow creatures was something unknown to her. “Didn’t Judy Pineau promise you solemnly she wouldn’t tell?”
“Yes; but maybe some one who sees me there will mention it to ma.”
“Well, if you’re so scared you’d better not go. It isn’t too late. Here’s your own gate,” said Cecily.
But Sara could not give up the delights of the show. So she walked on, a small, miserable testimony that the way of the transgressor is never easy, even when said transgressor is only a damsel of eleven.
The magic lantern show was a splendid one. The views were good and the lecturer witty. We repeated his jokes to each other all the way home. Sara, who had not enjoyed the exhibition at all, seemed to feel more cheerful when it was over and she was going home. The Story Girl on the contrary was gloomy.
“There WERE Markdale people there,” she confided to me, “and the Williamsons live next door to the Cowans, who have measles. I wish I’d never egged Sara on to going — but don’t tell Felicity I said so. If Sara Ray had really enjoyed the show I wouldn’t mind. But she didn’t. I could see that. So I’ve done wrong and made her do wrong — and there’s nothing to show for it.”
The night was scented and mysterious. The wind was playing an eerie fleshless melody in the reeds of the brook hollow. The sky was dark and starry, and across it the Milky Way flung its shimmering misty ribbons.
“There’s four hundred million stars in the Milky Way,” quoth Peter, who frequently astonished us by knowing more than any hired boy could be expected to. He had a retentive memory, and never forgot anything he heard or read. The few books left to him by his oft-referred-to Aunt Jane had stocked his mind with a miscellaneous information which sometimes made Felix and me doubt if we knew as much as Peter after all. Felicity was so impressed by his knowledge of astronomy that she dropped back from the other girls and walked beside him. She had not done so before because he was barefooted. It was permissible for hired boys to go to public meetings — when not held in the church — with bare feet, and no particular disgrace attached to it. But Felicity would not walk with a barefooted companion. It was dark now, so nobody would notice his feet.
“I know a story about the Milky Way,” said the Story Girl, brightening up. “I read it in a book of Aunt Louisa’s in town, and I learned it off by heart. Once there were two archangels in heaven, named Zerah and Zulamith—”
“Have angels names — same as people?” interrupted Peter.
“Yes, of course. They MUST have. They’d be all mixed up if they hadn’t.”
“And when I’m an angel — if I ever get to be one — will my name still be Peter?”
“No. You’ll have a new name up there,” said Cecily gently. “It says so in the Bible.”
“Well, I’m glad of that. Peter would be such a funny name for an angel. And what is the difference between angels and archangels?”
“Oh, archangels are angels that have been angels so long that they’ve had time to grow better and brighter and more beautiful than newer angels,” said the Story Girl, who probably made that explanation up on the spur of the moment, just to pacify Peter.
“How long does it take for an angel to grow into an archangel?” pursued Peter.
“Oh, I don’t know. Millions of years likely. And even then I don’t suppose ALL the angels do. A good many of them must just stay plain angels, I expect.”
“I shall be satisfied just to be a plain angel,” said Felicity modestly.
“Oh, see here, if you’re going to interrupt and argue over everything, we’ll never get the story told,” said Felix. “Dry up, all of you, and let the Story Girl go on.”
We dried up, and the Story Girl went on.
“Zerah and Zulamith loved each other, just as mortals love, and this is forbidden by the laws of the Almighty. And because Zerah and Zulamith had so broken God’s law they were banished from His presence to the uttermost bounds of the universe. If they had been banished TOGETHER it would have been no punishment; so Zerah was exiled to a star on one side of the universe, and Zulamith was sent to a star on the other side of the universe; and between them was a fathomless abyss which thought itse
lf could not cross. Only one thing could cross it — and that was love. Zulamith yearned for Zerah with such fidelity and longing that he began to build up a bridge of light from his star; and Zerah, not knowing this, but loving and longing for him, began to build a similar bridge of light from her star. For a thousand thousand years they both built the bridge of light, and at last they met and sprang into each other’s arms. Their toil and loneliness and suffering were all over and forgotten, and the bridge they had built spanned the gulf between their stars of exile.
“Now, when the other archangels saw what had been done they flew in fear and anger to God’s white throne, and cried to Him,
“‘See what these rebellious ones have done! They have built them a bridge of light across the universe, and set Thy decree of separation at naught. Do Thou, then, stretch forth Thine arm and destroy their impious work.’
“They ceased — and all heaven was hushed. Through the silence sounded the voice of the Almighty.
“‘Nay,’ He said, ‘whatsoever in my universe true love hath builded not even the Almighty can destroy. The bridge must stand forever.’
“And,” concluded the Story Girl, her face upturned to the sky and her big eyes filled with starlight, “it stands still. That bridge is the Milky Way.”
“What a lovely story,” sighed Sara Ray, who had been wooed to a temporary forgetfulness of her woes by its charm.
The rest of us came back to earth, feeling that we had been wandering among the hosts of heaven. We were not old enough to appreciate fully the wonderful meaning of the legend; but we felt its beauty and its appeal. To us forevermore the Milky Way would be, not Peter’s overwhelming garland of suns, but the lucent bridge, love-created, on which the banished archangels crossed from star to star.
We had to go up Sara Ray’s lane with her to her very door, for she was afraid Peg Bowen would catch her if she went alone. Then the Story Girl and I walked up the hill together. Peter and Felicity lagged behind. Cecily and Dan and Felix were walking before us, hand in hand, singing a hymn. Cecily had a very sweet voice, and I listened in delight. But the Story Girl sighed.
“What if Sara does take the measles?” she asked miserably.
“Everyone has to have the measles sometime,” I said comfortingly, “and the younger you are the better.”
CHAPTER XI.
THE STORY GIRL DOES PENANCE
Ten days later, Aunt Olivia and Uncle Roger went to town one evening, to remain over night, and the next day. Peter and the Story Girl were to stay at Uncle Alec’s during their absence.
We were in the orchard at sunset, listening to the story of King Cophetua and the beggar maid — all of us, except Peter, who was hoeing turnips, and Felicity, who had gone down the hill on an errand to Mrs. Ray.
The Story Girl impersonated the beggar maid so vividly, and with such an illusion of beauty, that we did not wonder in the least at the king’s love for her. I had read the story before, and it had been my opinion that it was “rot.” No king, I felt certain, would ever marry a beggar maid when he had princesses galore from whom to choose. But now I understood it all.
When Felicity returned we concluded from her expression that she had news. And she had.
“Sara is real sick,” she said, with regret, and something that was not regret mingled in her voice. “She has a cold and sore throat, and she is feverish. Mrs. Ray says if she isn’t better by the morning she’s going to send for the doctor. AND SHE IS AFRAID IT’S THE MEASLES.”
Felicity flung the last sentence at the Story Girl, who turned very pale.
“Oh, do you suppose she caught them at the magic lantern show?” she said miserably.
“Where else could she have caught them?” said Felicity mercilessly. “I didn’t see her, of course — Mrs. Ray met me at the door and told me not to come in. But Mrs. Ray says the measles always go awful hard with the Rays — if they don’t die completely of them it leaves them deaf or half blind, or something like that. Of course,” added Felicity, her heart melting at sight of the misery in the Story Girl’s piteous eyes, “Mrs. Ray always looks on the dark side, and it may not be the measles Sara has after all.”
But Felicity had done her work too thoroughly. The Story Girl was not to be comforted.
“I’d give anything if I’d never put Sara up to going to that show,” she said. “It’s all my fault — but the punishment falls on Sara, and that isn’t fair. I’d go this minute and confess the whole thing to Mrs. Ray; but if I did it might get Sara into more trouble, and I mustn’t do that. I sha’n’t sleep a wink to-night.”
I don’t think she did. She looked very pale and woebegone when she came down to breakfast. But, for all that, there was a certain exhilaration about her.
“I’m going to do penance all day for coaxing Sara to disobey her mother,” she announced with chastened triumph.
“Penance?” we murmured in bewilderment.
“Yes. I’m going to deny myself everything I like, and do everything I can think of that I don’t like, just to punish myself for being so wicked. And if any of you think of anything I don’t, just mention it to me. I thought it out last night. Maybe Sara won’t be so very sick if God sees I’m truly sorry.”
“He can see it anyhow, without you’re doing anything,” said
Cecily.
“Well, my conscience will feel better.”
“I don’t believe Presbyterians ever do penance,” said Felicity dubiously. “I never heard of one doing it.”
But the rest of us rather looked with favour on the Story Girl’s idea. We felt sure that she would do penance as picturesquely and thoroughly as she did everything else.
“You might put peas in your shoes, you know,” suggested Peter.
“The very thing! I never thought of that. I’ll get some after breakfast. I’m not going to eat a single thing all day, except bread and water — and not much of that!”
This, we felt, was a heroic measure indeed. To sit down to one of Aunt Janet’s meals, in ordinary health and appetite, and eat nothing but bread and water — that would be penance with a vengeance! We felt WE could never do it. But the Story Girl did it. We admired and pitied her. But now I do not think that she either needed our pity or deserved our admiration. Her ascetic fare was really sweeter to her than honey of Hymettus. She was, though quite unconsciously, acting a part, and tasting all the subtle joy of the artist, which is so much more exquisite than any material pleasure.
Aunt Janet, of course, noticed the Story Girl’s abstinence and asked if she was sick.
“No. I am just doing penance, Aunt Janet, for a sin I committed. I can’t confess it, because that would bring trouble on another person. So I’m going to do penance all day. You don’t mind, do you?”
Aunt Janet was in a very good humour that morning, so she merely laughed.
“Not if you don’t go too far with your nonsense,” she said tolerantly.
“Thank you. And will you give me a handful of hard peas after breakfast, Aunt Janet? I want to put them in my shoes.”
“There isn’t any; I used the last in the soup yesterday.”
“Oh!” The Story Girl was much disappointed. “Then I suppose
I’ll have to do without. The new peas wouldn’t hurt enough.
They’re so soft they’d just squash flat.”
“I’ll tell you,” said Peter, “I’ll pick up a lot of those little round pebbles on Mr. King’s front walk. They’ll be just as good as peas.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Aunt Janet. “Sara must not do penance in that way. She would wear holes in her stockings, and might seriously bruise her feet.”
“What would you say if I took a whip and whipped my bare shoulders till the blood came?” demanded the Story Girl aggrieved.
“I wouldn’t SAY anything,” retorted Aunt Janet. “I’d simply turn you over my knee and give you a sound, solid spanking, Miss Sara. You’d find that penance enough.”
The Story Girl was crimson wi
th indignation. To have such a remark made to you — when you were fourteen and a half — and before the boys, too! Really, Aunt Janet could be very dreadful.
It was vacation, and there was not much to do that day; we were soon free to seek the orchard. But the Story Girl would not come. She had seated herself in the darkest, hottest corner of the kitchen, with a piece of old cotton in her hand.
“I am not going to play to-day,” she said, “and I’m not going to tell a single story. Aunt Janet won’t let me put pebbles in my shoes, but I’ve put a thistle next my skin on my back and it sticks into me if I lean back the least bit. And I’m going to work buttonholes all over this cotton. I hate working buttonholes worse than anything in the world, so I’m going to work them all day.”
“What’s the good of working buttonholes on an old rag?” asked
Felicity.
“It isn’t any good. The beauty of penance is that it makes you feel uncomfortable. So it doesn’t matter what you do, whether it’s useful or not, so long as it’s nasty. Oh, I wonder how Sara is this morning.”
“Mother’s going down this afternoon,” said Felicity. “She says none of us must go near the place till we know whether it is the measles or not.”
“I’ve thought of a great penance,” said Cecily eagerly. “Don’t go to the missionary meeting to-night.”
The Story Girl looked piteous.
“I thought of that myself — but I CAN’T stay home, Cecily. It would be more than flesh and blood could endure. I MUST hear that missionary speak. They say he was all but eaten by cannibals once. Just think how many new stories I’d have to tell after I’d heard him! No, I must go, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll wear my school dress and hat. THAT will be penance. Felicity, when you set the table for dinner, put the broken-handled knife for me. I hate it so. And I’m going to take a dose of Mexican Tea every two hours. It’s such dreadful tasting stuff — but it’s a good blood purifier, so Aunt Janet can’t object to it.”
The Story Girl carried out her self-imposed penance fully. All day she sat in the kitchen and worked buttonholes, subsisting on bread and water and Mexican Tea.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 377