The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  We were all in the orchard, except Felix, who had gone to the post-office. It was the forenoon of an August Saturday. Cecily and Sara Ray, who had come up to spend the day with us — her mother having gone to town — were eating timothy roots. Bertha Lawrence, a Charlottetown girl, who had visited Kitty Marr in June, and had gone to school one day with her, had eaten timothy roots, affecting to consider them great delicacies. The fad was at once taken up by the Carlisle schoolgirls. Timothy roots quite ousted “sours” and young raspberry sprouts, both of which had the real merit of being quite toothsome, while timothy roots were tough and tasteless. But timothy roots were fashionable, therefore timothy roots must be eaten. Pecks of them must have been devoured in Carlisle that summer.

  Pat was there also, padding about from one to the other on his black paws, giving us friendly pokes and rubs. We all made much of him except Felicity, who would not take any notice of him because he was the Story Girl’s cat.

  We boys were sprawling on the grass. Our morning chores were done and the day was before us. We should have been feeling very comfortable and happy, but, as a matter of fact, we were not particularly so.

  The Story Girl was sitting on the mint beside the well-house, weaving herself a wreath of buttercups. Felicity was sipping from the cup of clouded blue with an overdone air of unconcern. Each was acutely and miserably conscious of the other’s presence, and each was desirous of convincing the rest of us that the other was less than nothing to her. Felicity could not succeed. The Story Girl managed it better. If it had not been for the fact that in all our foregatherings she was careful to sit as far from Felicity as possible, we might have been deceived.

  We had not passed a very pleasant week. Felicity and the Story Girl had not been “speaking” to each other, and consequently there had been something rotten in the state of Denmark. An air of restraint was over all our games and conversations.

  On the preceding Monday Felicity and the Story Girl had quarrelled over something. What the cause of the quarrel was I cannot tell because I never knew. It remained a “dead secret” between the parties of the first and second part forever. But it was more bitter than the general run of their tiffs, and the consequences were apparent to all. They had not spoken to each other since.

  This was not because the rancour of either lasted so long. On the contrary it passed speedily away, not even one low descending sun going down on their wrath. But dignity remained to be considered. Neither would “speak first,” and each obstinately declared that she would not speak first, no, not in a hundred years. Neither argument, entreaty, nor expostulation had any effect on those two stubborn girls, nor yet the tears of sweet Cecily, who cried every night about it, and mingled in her pure little prayers fervent petitions that Felicity and the Story Girl might make up.

  “I don’t know where you expect to go when you die, Felicity,” she said tearfully, “if you don’t forgive people.”

  “I have forgiven her,” was Felicity’s answer, “but I am not going to speak first for all that.”

  “It’s very wrong, and, more than that, it’s so uncomfortable,” complained Cecily. “It spoils everything.”

  “Were they ever like this before?” I asked Cecily, as we talked the matter over privately in Uncle Stephen’s Walk.

  “Never for so long,” said Cecily. “They had a spell like this last summer, and one the summer before, but they only lasted a couple of days.”

  “And who spoke first?”

  “Oh, the Story Girl. She got excited about something and spoke to Felicity before she thought, and then it was all right. But I’m afraid it isn’t going to be like that this time. Don’t you notice how careful the Story Girl is not to get excited? That is such a bad sign.”

  “We’ve just got to think up something that will excite her, that’s all,” I said.

  “I’m — I’m praying about it,” said Cecily in a low voice, her tear-wet lashes trembling against her pale, round cheeks. “Do you suppose it will do any good, Bev?”

  “Very likely,” I assured her. “Remember Sara Ray and the money.

  That came from praying.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” said Cecily tremulously. “Dan said it was no use for me to bother praying about it. He said if they COULDN’T speak God might do something, but when they just WOULDN’T it wasn’t likely He would interfere. Dan does say such queer things. I’m so afraid he’s going to grow up just like Uncle Robert Ward, who never goes to church, and doesn’t believe more than half the Bible is true.”

  “Which half does he believe is true?” I inquired with unholy curiosity.

  “Oh, just the nice parts. He says there’s a heaven all right, but no — no — HELL. I don’t want Dan to grow up like that. It isn’t respectable. And you wouldn’t want all kinds of people crowding heaven, now, would you?”

  “Well, no, I suppose not,” I agreed, thinking of Billy Robinson.

  “Of course, I can’t help feeling sorry for those who have to go to THE OTHER PLACE,” said Cecily compassionately. “But I suppose they wouldn’t be very comfortable in heaven either. They wouldn’t feel at home. Andrew Marr said a simply dreadful thing about THE OTHER PLACE one night last fall, when Felicity and I were down to see Kitty, and they were burning the potato stalks. He said he believed THE OTHER PLACE must be lots more interesting than heaven because fires were such jolly things. Now, did you ever hear the like?”

  “I guess it depends a good deal on whether you’re inside or outside the fires,” I said.

  “Oh, Andrew didn’t really mean it, of course. He just said it to sound smart and make us stare. The Marrs are all like that. But anyhow, I’m going to keep on praying that something will happen to excite the Story Girl. I don’t believe there is any use in praying that Felicity will speak first, because I am sure she won’t.”

  “But don’t you suppose God could make her?” I said, feeling that it wasn’t quite fair that the Story Girl should always have to speak first. If she had spoken first the other times it was surely Felicity’s turn this time.

  “Well, I believe it would puzzle Him,” said Cecily, out of the depths of her experience with Felicity.

  Peter, as was to be expected, took Felicity’s part, and said the

  Story Girl ought to speak first because she was the oldest.

  That, he said, had always been his Aunt Jane’s rule.

  Sara Ray thought Felicity should speak first, because the Story

  Girl was half an orphan.

  Felix tried to make peace between them, and met the usual fate of all peacemakers. The Story Girl loftily told him that he was too young to understand, and Felicity said that fat boys should mind their own business. After that, Felix declared it would serve Felicity right if the Story Girl never spoke to her again.

  Dan had no patience with either of the girls, especially

  Felicity.

  “What they both want is a right good spanking,” he said.

  If only a spanking would mend the matter it was not likely it would ever be mended. Both Felicity and the Story Girl were rather too old to be spanked, and, if they had not been, none of the grown-ups would have thought it worth while to administer so desperate a remedy for what they considered so insignificant a trouble. With the usual levity of grown-ups, they regarded the coldness between the girls as a subject of mirth and jest, and recked not that it was freezing the genial current of our youthful souls, and blighting hours that should have been fair pages in our book of days.

  The Story Girl finished her wreath and put it on. The buttercups drooped over her high, white brow and played peep with her glowing eyes. A dreamy smile hovered around her poppy-red mouth — a significant smile which, to those of us skilled in its interpretation, betokened the sentence which soon came.

  “I know a story about a man who always had his own opinion—”

  The Story Girl got no further. We never heard the story of the man who always had his own opinion. Felix came tearing up the lane, with a
newspaper in his hand. When a boy as fat as Felix runs at full speed on a broiling August forenoon, he has something to run for — as Felicity remarked.

  “He must have got some bad news at the office,” said Sara Ray.

  “Oh, I hope nothing has happened to father,” I exclaimed, springing anxiously to my feet, a sick, horrible feeling of fear running over me like a cool, rippling wave.

  “It’s just as likely to be good news he is running for as bad,” said the Story Girl, who was no believer in meeting trouble half way.

  “He wouldn’t be running so fast for good news,” said Dan cynically.

  We were not left long in doubt. The orchard gate flew open and Felix was among us. One glimpse of his face told us that he was no bearer of glad tidings. He had been running hard and should have been rubicund. Instead, he was “as pale as are the dead.” I could not have asked him what was the matter had my life depended on it. It was Felicity who demanded impatiently of my shaking, voiceless brother:

  “Felix King, what has scared you?”

  Felix held out the newspaper — it was the Charlottetown Daily

  Enterprise.

  “It’s there,” he gasped. “Look — read — oh, do you — think it’s — true? The — end of — the world — is coming to-morrow — at two — o’clock — in the afternoon!”

  Crash! Felicity had dropped the cup of clouded blue, which had passed unscathed through so many changing years, and now at last lay shattered on the stone of the well curb. At any other time we should all have been aghast over such a catastrophe, but it passed unnoticed now. What mattered it that all the cups in the world be broken to-day if the crack o’ doom must sound to-morrow?

  “Oh, Sara Stanley, do you believe it? DO you?” gasped Felicity, clutching the Story Girl’s hand. Cecily’s prayer had been answered. Excitement had come with a vengeance, and under its stress Felicity had spoken first. But this, like the breaking of the cup, had no significance for us at the moment.

  The Story Girl snatched the paper and read the announcement to a group on which sudden, tense silence had fallen. Under a sensational headline, “The Last Trump will sound at Two O’clock To-morrow,” was a paragraph to the effect that the leader of a certain noted sect in the United States had predicted that August twelfth would be the Judgment Day, and that all his numerous followers were preparing for the dread event by prayer, fasting, and the making of appropriate white garments for ascension robes.

  I laugh at the remembrance now — until I recall the real horror of fear that enwrapped us in that sunny orchard that August morning of long ago; and then I laugh no more. We were only children, be it remembered, with a very firm and simple faith that grown people knew much more than we did, and a rooted conviction that whatever you read in a newspaper must be true. If the Daily Enterprise said that August twelfth was to be the Judgment Day how were you going to get around it?

  “Do you believe it, Sara Stanley?” persisted Felicity. “DO you?”

  “No — no, I don’t believe a word of it,” said the Story Girl.

  But for once her voice failed to carry conviction — or, rather, it carried conviction of the very opposite kind. It was borne in upon our miserable minds that if the Story Girl did not altogether believe it was true she believed it might be true; and the possibility was almost as dreadful as the certainty.

  “It CAN’T be true,” said Sara Ray, seeking refuge, as usual, in tears. “Why, everything looks just the same. Things COULDN’T look the same if the Judgment Day was going to be to-morrow.”

  “But that’s just the way it’s to come,” I said uncomfortably. “It tells you in the Bible. It’s to come just like a thief in the night.”

  “But it tells you another thing in the Bible, too,” said Cecily eagerly. “It says nobody knows when the Judgment Day is to come — not even the angels in heaven. Now, if the angels in heaven don’t know it, do you suppose the editor of the Enterprise can know it — and him a Grit, too?”

  “I guess he knows as much about it as a Tory would,” retorted the Story Girl. Uncle Roger was a Liberal and Uncle Alec a Conservative, and the girls held fast to the political traditions of their respective households. “But it isn’t really the Enterprise editor at all who is saying it — it’s a man in the States who claims to be a prophet. If he IS a prophet perhaps he has found out somehow.”

  “And it’s in the paper, too, and that’s printed as well as the

  Bible,” said Dan.

  “Well, I’m going to depend on the Bible,” said Cecily. “I don’t believe it’s the Judgment Day to-morrow — but I’m scared, for all that,” she added piteously.

  That was exactly the position of us all. As in the case of the bell-ringing ghost, we did not believe but we trembled.

  “Nobody might have known when the Bible was written,” said Dan, “but maybe somebody knows now. Why, the Bible was written thousands of years ago, and that paper was printed this very morning. There’s been time to find out ever so much more.”

  “I want to do so many things,” said the Story Girl, plucking off her crown of buttercup gold with a tragic gesture, “but if it’s the Judgment Day to-morrow I won’t have time to do any of them.”

  “It can’t be much worse than dying, I s’pose,” said Felix, grasping at any straw of comfort.

  “I’m awful glad I’ve got into the habit of going to church and

  Sunday School this summer,” said Peter very soberly. “I wish I’d

  made up my mind before this whether to be a Presbyterian or a

  Methodist. Do you s’pose it’s too late now?”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter,” said Cecily earnestly. “If — if you’re a Christian, Peter, that is all that’s necessary.”

  “But it’s too late for that,” said Peter miserably. “I can’t turn into a Christian between this and two o’clock to-morrow. I’ll just have to be satisfied with making up my mind to be a Presbyterian or a Methodist. I wanted to wait till I got old enough to make out what was the difference between them, but I’ll have to chance it now. I guess I’ll be a Presbyterian, ‘cause I want to be like the rest of you. Yes, I’ll be a Presbyterian.”

  “I know a story about Judy Pineau and the word Presbyterian,” said the Story Girl, “but I can’t tell it now. If to-morrow isn’t the Judgment Day I’ll tell it Monday.”

  “If I had known that to-morrow might be the Judgment Day I wouldn’t have quarrelled with you last Monday, Sara Stanley, or been so horrid and sulky all the week. Indeed I wouldn’t,” said Felicity, with very unusual humility.

  Ah, Felicity! We were all, in the depths of our pitiful little souls, reviewing the innumerable things we would or would not have done “if we had known.” What a black and endless list they made — those sins of omission and commission that rushed accusingly across our young memories! For us the leaves of the Book of Judgment were already opened; and we stood at the bar of our own consciences, than which for youth or eld, there can be no more dread tribunal. I thought of all the evil deeds of my short life — of pinching Felix to make him cry out at family prayers, of playing truant from Sunday School and going fishing one day, of a certain fib — no, no away from this awful hour with all such euphonious evasions — of a LIE I had once told, of many a selfish and unkind word and thought and action. And to-morrow might be the great and terrible day of the last accounting! Oh, if I had only been a better boy!

  “The quarrel was as much my fault as yours, Felicity,” said the Story Girl, putting her arm around Felicity. “We can’t undo it now. But if to-morrow isn’t the Judgment Day we must be careful never to quarrel again. Oh, I wish father was here.”

  “He will be,” said Cecily. “If it’s the Judgment Day for Prince

  Edward Island it will be for Europe, too.”

  “I wish we could just KNOW whether what the paper says is true or not,” said Felix desperately. “It seems to me I could brace up if I just KNEW.”

  But to whom could we appeal? Uncle Alec
was away and would not be back until late that night. Neither Aunt Janet nor Uncle Roger were people to whom we cared to apply in such a crisis. We were afraid of the Judgment Day; but we were almost equally afraid of being laughed at. How about Aunt Olivia?

  “No, Aunt Olivia has gone to bed with a sick headache and mustn’t be disturbed,” said the Story Girl. “She said I must get dinner ready, because there was plenty of cold meat, and nothing to do but boil the potatoes and peas, and set the table. I don’t know how I can put my thoughts into it when the Judgment Day may be to-morrow. Besides, what is the good of asking the grown-ups? They don’t know anything more about this than we do.”

  “But if they’d just SAY they didn’t believe it, it would be a sort of comfort,” said Cecily.

  “I suppose the minister would know, but he’s away on his vacation” said Felicity. “Anyhow, I’ll go and ask mother what she thinks of it.”

  Felicity picked up the Enterprise and betook herself to the house. We awaited her return in dire suspense.

  “Well, what does she say?” asked Cecily tremulously.

  “She said, ‘Run away and don’t bother me. I haven’t any time for your nonsense.’” responded Felicity in an injured tone. “And I said, ‘But, ma, the paper SAYS to-morrow is the Judgment Day,’ and ma just said ‘Judgment Fiddlesticks!’”

  “Well, that’s kind of comforting,” said Peter. “She can’t put any faith in it, or she’d be more worked up.”

  “If it only wasn’t PRINTED!” said Dan gloomily.

  “Let’s all go over and ask Uncle Roger,” said Felix desperately.

  That we should make Uncle Roger a court of last resort indicated all too clearly the state of our minds. But we went. Uncle Roger was in his barn-yard, hitching his black mare into the buggy. His copy of the Enterprise was sticking out of his pocket. He looked, as we saw with sinking hearts, unusually grave and preoccupied. There was not a glimmer of a smile about his face.

  “You ask him,” said Felicity, nudging the Story Girl.

  “Uncle Roger,” said the Story Girl, the golden notes of her voice threaded with fear and appeal. “the Enterprise says that to-morrow is the Judgment Day? IS it? Do YOU think it is?”