The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  Wesley Brooke was almost forgotten. People knew, through correspondents of Greene and Cary, that he had prospered and grown rich. The curious old story had crystallized into accepted history.

  A life may go on without ripple or disturbance for so many years that it may seem to have settled into a lasting calm; then a sudden wind of passion may sweep over it and leave behind a wake of tempestuous waters. Such a time came at last to Theodosia.

  One day in August Mrs. Emory Merritt dropped in. Emory Merritt’s sister was Ogden Greene’s wife, and the Merritts kept up an occasional correspondence with her. Hence, Cecilia Merritt always knew what was to be known about Wesley Brooke, and always told Theodosia because she had never been expressly forbidden to do so.

  Today she looked slightly excited. Secretly she was wondering if the news she brought would have any effect whatever on Theodosia’s impassive calm.

  “Do you know, Dosia, Wesley’s real sick? In fact, Phoebe Greene says they have very poor hopes of him. He was kind of ailing all the spring, it seems, and about a month ago he was took down with some kind of slow fever they have out there. Phoebe says they have a hired nurse from the nearest town and a good doctor, but she reckons he won’t get over it. That fever goes awful hard with a man of his years.”

  Cecilia Merritt, who was the fastest talker in Heatherton, had got this out before she was brought up by a queer sound, half gasp, half cry, from Theodosia. The latter looked as if someone had struck her a physical blow.

  “Mercy, Dosia, you ain’t going to faint! I didn’t suppose you’d care. You never seemed to care.”

  “Did you say,” asked Theodosia thickly, “that Wesley was sick — dying?”

  “Well, that’s what Phoebe said. She may be mistaken. Dosia Brooke, you’re a queer woman. I never could make you out and I never expect to. I guess only the Lord who made you can translate you.”

  Theodosia stood up. The sun was getting low, and the valley beneath them, ripening to harvest, was like a river of gold. She folded up her sewing with a steady hand.

  “It’s five o’clock, so I’ll ask you to excuse me, Cecilia. I have a good deal to attend to. You can ask Emory if he’ll drive me to the station in the morning. I’m going out to Wes.”

  “Well, for the land’s sake,” said Cecilia Merritt feebly, as she tied on her gingham sunbonnet. She got up and went home in a daze.

  Theodosia packed her trunk and worked all night, dry-eyed, with agony and fear tearing at her heart. The iron will had snapped at last, like a broken reed, and fierce self-condemnation seized on her. “I’ve been a wicked woman,” she moaned.

  A week from that day Theodosia climbed down from the dusty stage that had brought her from the station over the prairies to the unpretentious little house where Wesley Brooke lived. A young girl, so like what Ogden Greene’s wife had been fifteen years before that Theodosia involuntarily exclaimed, “Phoebe,” came to the door. Beyond her, Theodosia saw the white-capped nurse.

  Her voice trembled.

  “Does — does Wesley Brooke live here?” she asked.

  The girl nodded.

  “Yes. But he is very ill at present. Nobody is allowed to see him.”

  Theodosia put up her hand and loosened her bonnet strings as if they were choking her. She had been sick with the fear that Wesley would be dead before she got to him. The relief was almost overwhelming.

  “But I must see him,” she cried hysterically — she, the calm, easy-going Dosia, hysterical—”I am his wife — and oh, if he had died before I got here!”

  The nurse came forward.

  “In that case I suppose you must,” she conceded. “But he does not expect you. I must prepare him for the surprise.”

  She turned to the door of a room opening off the kitchen, but Theodosia, who had hardly heard her, was before her. She was inside the room before the nurse could prevent her. Then she stood, afraid and trembling, her eyes searching the dim apartment hungrily.

  When they fell on the occupant of the bed Theodosia started in bitter surprise. All unconsciously she had been expecting to find Wesley as he had been when they parted. Could this gaunt, haggard creature, with the unkempt beard and prematurely grey hair and the hollow, beseeching eyes, be the ruddy, boyish-faced husband of her youth? She gave a choking cry of pain and shame, and the sick man turned his head. Their eyes met.

  Amazement, incredulity, hope, dread, all flashed in succession over Wesley Brooke’s lined face. He raised himself feebly up.

  “Dosia,” he murmured.

  Theodosia staggered across the room and fell on her knees by the bed. She clasped his head to her breast and kissed him again and again.

  “Oh, Wes, Wes, can you forgive me? I’ve been a wicked, stubborn woman — and I’ve spoiled our lives. Forgive me.”

  He held his thin trembling arms around her and devoured her face with his eyes.

  “Dosia, when did you come? Did you know I was sick?”

  “Wes, I can’t talk till you say you’ve forgiven me.”

  “Oh, Dosia, you have just as much to forgive. We were both too set. I should have been more considerate.”

  “Just say, I forgive you, Dosia,’” she entreated.

  “I forgive you, Dosia,” he said gently, “and oh, it’s so good to see you once more, darling. There hasn’t been an hour since I left you that I haven’t longed for your sweet face. If I had thought you really cared I’d have gone back. But I thought you didn’t. It broke my heart. You did though, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes,” she said, holding him more closely, with her tears falling.

  When the young doctor from Red Butte came that evening he found a great improvement in his patient. Joy and happiness, those world-old physicians, had done what drugs and medicines had failed to do.

  “I’m going to get better, Doc,” said Wesley. “My wife has come and she’s going to stay. You didn’t know I was married, did you? I’ll tell you the story some day. I proposed going back east, but Dosia says she’d rather stay here. I’m the happiest man in Red Butte, Doc.”

  He squeezed Theodosia’s hand as he had used to do long ago in Heatherton church, and Dosia smiled down at him. There were no dimples now, but her smile was very sweet. The ghostly finger of old Henry Ford, pointing down through the generations, had lost its power to brand with its malediction the life of these, his descendants. Wesley and Theodosia had joined hands with their long-lost happiness.

  The Story of an Invitation

  Bertha Sutherland hurried home from the post office and climbed the stairs of her boarding-house to her room on the third floor. Her roommate, Grace Maxwell, was sitting on the divan by the window, looking out into the twilight.

  A year ago Bertha and Grace had come to Dartmouth to attend the Academy, and found themselves roommates. Bertha was bright, pretty and popular, the favourite of her classmates and teachers; Grace was a grave, quiet girl, dressed in mourning. She was quite alone in the world, the aunt who had brought her up having recently died. At first she had felt shy with bright and brilliant Bertha; but they soon became friends, and the year that followed was a very pleasant one. It was almost ended now, for the terminal exams had begun, and in a week’s time the school would close for the holidays.

  “Have some chocolates, Grace,” said Bertha gaily. “I got such good news in my letter tonight that I felt I must celebrate it fittingly. So I went into Carter’s and invested all my spare cash in caramels. It’s really fortunate the term is almost out, for I’m nearly bankrupt. I have just enough left to furnish a ‘tuck-out’ for commencement night, and no more.”

  “What is your good news, may I ask?” said Grace.

  “You know I have an Aunt Margaret — commonly called Aunt Meg — out at Riversdale, don’t you? There never was such a dear, sweet, jolly aunty in the world. I had a letter from her tonight. Listen, I’ll read you what she says.”

  I want you to spend your holidays with me, my dear. Mary Fairweather and Louise Fyshe and Lily D
ennis are coming, too. So there is just room for one more, and that one must be yourself. Come to Riversdale when school closes, and I’ll feed you on strawberries and cream and pound cake and doughnuts and mince pies, and all the delicious, indigestible things that school girls love and careful mothers condemn. Mary and Lou and Lil are girls after your own heart, I know, and you shall all do just as you like, and we’ll have picnics and parties and merry doings galore.

  “There,” said Bertha, looking up with a laugh. “Isn’t that lovely?”

  “How delightful it must be to have friends like that to love you and plan for you,” said Grace wistfully. “I am sure you will have a pleasant vacation, Bertie. As for me, I am going into Clarkman’s bookstore until school reopens. I saw Mr. Clarkman today and he agreed to take me.”

  Bertha looked surprised. She had not known what Grace’s vacation plans were.

  “I don’t think you ought to do that, Grace,” she said thoughtfully. “You are not strong, and you need a good rest. It will be awfully trying to work at Clarkman’s all summer.”

  “There is nothing else for me to do,” said Grace, trying to speak cheerfully. “You know I’m as poor as the proverbial church mouse, Bertie, and the simple truth is that I can’t afford to pay my board all summer and get my winter outfit unless I do something to earn it. I shall be too busy to be lonesome, and I shall expect long, newsy letters from you, telling me all your fun — passing your vacation on to me at second-hand, you see. Well, I must set to work at those algebra problems. I tried them before dark, but I couldn’t solve them. My head ached and I felt so stupid. How glad I shall be when exams are over.”

  “I suppose I must revise that senior English this evening,” said Bertha absently.

  But she made no move to do so. She was studying her friend’s face. How very pale and thin Grace looked — surely much paler and thinner than when she had come to the Academy, and she had not by any means been plump and rosy then.

  I believe she could not stand two months at Clarkman’s, thought Bertha. If I were not going to Aunt Meg’s, I would ask her to go home with me. Or even if Aunt Meg had room for another guest, I’d just write her all about Grace and ask if I could bring her with me. Aunt Meg would understand — she always understands. But she hasn’t, so it can’t be.

  Just then a thought darted into Bertha’s brain.

  “What nonsense!” she said aloud so suddenly and forcibly that Grace fairly jumped.

  “What is?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” said Bertha, getting up briskly. “See here, I’m going to get to work. I’ve wasted enough time.”

  She curled herself up on the divan and tried to study her senior English. But her thoughts wandered hopelessly, and finally she gave it up in despair and went to bed. There she could not sleep; she lay awake and wrestled with herself. It was after midnight when she sat up in bed and said solemnly, “I will do it.”

  Next day Bertha wrote a confidential letter to Aunt Meg. She thanked her for her invitation and then told her all about Grace.

  “And what I want to ask, Aunt Meg, is that you will let me transfer my invitation to Grace, and ask her to go to Riversdale this summer in my place. Don’t think me ungrateful. No, I’m sure you won’t, you always understand things. But you can’t have us both, and I’d rather Grace should go. It will do her so much good, and I have a lovely home of my own to go to, and she has none.”

  Aunt Meg understood, as usual, and was perfectly willing. So she wrote to Bertha and enclosed a note of invitation for Grace.

  I shall have to manage this affair very carefully, reflected Bertha. Grace must never suspect that I did it on purpose. I will tell her that circumstances have prevented me from accepting Aunt Meg’s invitation. That is true enough — no need to say that the circumstances are hers, not mine. And I’ll say I just asked Aunt Meg to invite her in my place and that she has done so.

  When Grace came home from her history examination that day, Bertha told her story and gave her Aunt Meg’s cordial note.

  “You must come to me in Bertha’s place,” wrote the latter. “I feel as if I knew you from her letters, and I will consider you as a sort of honorary niece, and I’ll treat you as if you were Bertha herself.”

  “Isn’t it splendid of Aunt Meg?” said Bertha diplomatically. “Of course you’ll go, Gracie.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Grace in bewilderment. “Are you sure you don’t want to go, Bertha?”

  “Indeed, I do want to go, dreadfully,” said Bertha frankly. “But as I’ve told you, it is impossible. But if I am disappointed, Aunt Meg musn’t be. You must go, Grace, and that is all there is about it.”

  In the end, Grace did go, a little puzzled and doubtful still, but thankful beyond words to escape the drudgery of the counter and the noise and heat of the city. Bertha went home, feeling a little bit blue in secret, it cannot be denied, but also feeling quite sure that if she had to do it all over again, she would do just the same.

  The summer slipped quickly by, and finally two letters came to Bertha, one from Aunt Meg and one from Grace.

  “I’ve had a lovely time,” wrote the latter, “and, oh, Bertie, what do you think? I am to stay here always. Oh, of course I am going back to school next month, but this is to be my home after this. Aunt Meg — she makes me call her that — says I must stay with her for good.”

  In Aunt Meg’s letter was this paragraph:

  Grace is writing to you, and will have told you that I intend to keep her here. You know I have always wanted a daughter of my own, but my greedy brothers and sisters would never give me one of theirs. So I intend to adopt Grace. She is the sweetest girl in the world, and I am very grateful to you for sending her here. You will not know her when you see her. She has grown plump and rosy.

  Bertha folded her letters up with a smile. “I have a vague, delightful feeling that I am the good angel in a storybook,” she said.

  The Touch of Fate

  Mrs. Major Hill was in her element. This did not often happen, for in the remote prairie town of the Canadian Northwest, where her husband was stationed, there were few opportunities for match-making. And Mrs. Hill was — or believed herself to be — a born matchmaker.

  Major Hill was in command of the detachment of Northwest Mounted Police at Dufferin Bluff. Mrs. Hill was wont to declare that it was the most forsaken place to be found in Canada or out of it; but she did her very best to brighten it up, and it is only fair to say that the N.W.M.P., officers and men, seconded her efforts.

  When Violet Thayer came west to pay a long-promised visit to her old schoolfellow, Mrs. Hill’s cup of happiness bubbled over. In her secret soul she vowed that Violet should never go back east unless it were post-haste to prepare a wedding trousseau. There were at least half a dozen eligibles among the M.P.s, and Mrs. Hill, after some reflection, settled on Ned Madison as the flower of the flock.

  “He and Violet are simply made for each other,” she told Major Hill the evening before Miss Thayer’s arrival. “He has enough money and he is handsome and fascinating. And Violet is a beauty and a clever woman into the bargain. They can’t help falling in love, I’m sure; it’s fate!”

  “Perhaps Miss Thayer may be booked elsewhere already,” suggested Major Hill. He had seen more than one of his wife’s card castles fall into heartbreaking ruin.

  “Oh, no; Violet would have told me if that were the case. It’s really quite time for her to think of settling down. She is twenty-five, you know. The men all go crazy over her, but she’s dreadfully hard to please. However, she can’t help liking Ned. He hasn’t a single fault. I firmly believe it is foreordained.”

  And in this belief Mrs. Hill rested securely, but nevertheless did not fail to concoct several feminine artifices for the helping on of foreordination. It was a working belief with her that it was always well to have the gods in your debt.

  Violet Thayer came, saw, and conquered. Within thirty-six hours of her arrival at Dufferin Bluff she had every one of the h
alf-dozen eligibles at her feet, not to mention a score or more ineligibles. She would have been surprised indeed had it been otherwise. Miss Thayer knew her power, and was somewhat unduly fond of exercising it. But she was a very nice girl into the bargain, and so thought one and all of the young men who frequented Mrs. Hill’s drawing-room and counted it richly worth while merely to look at Miss Thayer after having seen nothing for weeks except flabby half-breed girls and blue-haired squaws.

  Madison was foremost in the field, of course. Madison was really a nice fellow, and quite deserved all Mrs. Hill’s encomiums. He was good-looking and well groomed — could sing and dance divinely and play the violin to perfection. The other M.P.s were all jealous of him, and more so than ever when Violet Thayer came. They did not consider that any one of them had the ghost of a chance if Madison entered the lists against them.

  Violet liked Madison, and was very chummy with him after her own fashion. She thought all the M.P.s were nice boys, and they amused her, for which she was grateful. She had expected Dufferin Bluff to be very dull, and doubtless it would pall after a time, but for a change it was delightful.

  The sixth evening after her arrival found Mrs. Hill’s room crowded, as usual, with M.P.s. Violet was looking her best in a distracting new gown — Sergeant Fox afterwards described it to a brother officer as a “stunning sort of rig between a cream and a blue and a brown”; she flirted impartially with all the members of her circle at first, but gradually narrowed down to Ned Madison, much to the delight of Mrs. Hill, who was hovering around like a small, brilliant butterfly.

  Violet was talking to Madison and watching John Spencer out of the tail of her eye. Spencer was not an M.P. He had some government post at Dufferin Bluff, and this was his first call at Lone Poplar Villa since Miss Thayer’s arrival. He did not seem to be dazzled by her at all, and after his introduction had promptly retired to a corner with Major Hill, where they talked the whole evening about the trouble on the Indian reservation at Loon Lake.