“Oh, very well!” returned Mrs. Bowes in an offended tone. “It was for your own good I spoke. You know best, I suppose. If you don’t care, I don’t know that anyone else need.”
Estella went about her work like one in a dream. A great hatred had sprung up in her heart against Vivienne LeMar. The simple-hearted country girl felt almost murderous. The whole day seemed like a nightmare to her. When night came she dressed herself with feverish care, for she could not quell the hope that Spencer would surely come again. But he did not; and when she went up to bed, it did not seem as if she could live through the night. She lay staring wide-eyed through the darkness until dawn. She wished that she might cry, but no tears came to her relief.
Next day she went to work with furious energy. When her usual tasks were done, she ransacked the house for other employment. She was afraid if she stopped work for a moment she would go mad. Mrs. Bowes watched her with a grim pity.
At night she walked to prayer meeting in the schoolhouse a mile away. She always went, and Spencer was generally on hand to see her home. He was not there tonight. She wished she had not come. It was dreadful to have to sit still and think. She did not hear a word the minister said.
She had to walk home with a crowd of girls and nerve herself to answer their merry sallies that no one might suspect. She was tortured by the fear that everyone knew her shame and humiliation and was pitying her. She got hysterically gay, but underneath all she was constantly trying to assign a satisfactory reason for Spencer’s nonappearance. He was often kept away, and of course he was a little cross at her yet, as was natural. If he had come before her then, she could have gone down in the very dust at his feet and implored his forgiveness.
When she reached home she went into the garden and sat down. The calm of the night soothed her. She felt happier and more hopeful. She thought over all that had passed between her and Spencer and all his loving assurances, and the recollection comforted her. She was almost happy when she went in.
Tomorrow is Sunday, she thought when she wakened in the morning. Her step was lighter and her face brighter. Mrs. Bowes seemed to be in a bad humour. Presently she said bluntly:
“Do you know that Spencer Morgan was here last night?”
Estella felt the cold tighten round her heart. Yet underneath it sprang up a wild, sweet hope.
“Spencer here! I suppose he forgot it was prayer meeting night. What did he say? Why didn’t you tell him where I was?”
“I don’t know that he forgot it was prayer meeting night,” returned Mrs. Bowes with measured emphasis. “’Tisn’t likely his memory has failed so all at once. He didn’t ask where you was. He took good care to go before you got home too. Miss LeMar entertained him. I guess she was quite capable of it.”
Estella bent over her dishes in silence. Her face was deadly white.
“I’ll send her away,” said Mrs. Bowes pityingly. “When she’s gone, Spencer will soon come back to you.”
“No, you won’t!” said Estella fiercely. “If you do, she’ll only go over to Barstows’, and it would be worse than ever. I don’t care — I’ll show them both I don’t care! As for Spencer coming back to me, do you think I want her leavings? He’s welcome to go.”
“He’s only just fooled by her pretty face,” persisted Mrs. Bowes in a clumsy effort at consolation. “She’s just turning his head, the hussy, and he isn’t really in his proper senses. You’ll see, he’ll be ashamed of himself when he comes to them again. He knows very well in his heart that you’re worth ten girls like her.”
Estella faced around.
“Aunt,” she said desperately, “you mean well, I know, but you’re killing me! I can’t stand it. For pity’s sake, don’t say another word to me about this, no matter what happens. And don’t keep looking at me as if I were a martyr! She watches us and it would please her to think I cared. I don’t — and I mean she shall see I don’t. I guess I’m well rid of a fellow as fickle as he is, and I’ve sense enough to know it.”
She went upstairs then, tearing off her turquoise engagement ring as she climbed the steps. All sorts of wild ideas flashed through her head. She would go down and confront Vivienne LeMar — she would rush off and find Spencer and throw his ring at him, no matter where he was — she would go away where no one would ever see her again. Why couldn’t she die? Was it possible people could suffer like this and yet go on living?
“I don’t care — I don’t care!” she moaned, telling the lie aloud to herself, as if she hoped that by this means she would come to believe it.
When twilight came she went out to the front steps and leaned her aching head against the honeysuckle trellis. The sun had just set and the whole world swam in dusky golden light. The wonderful beauty frightened her. She felt like a blot on it.
While she stood there, a buggy came driving up the lane and wheeled about at the steps. In it was Spencer Morgan.
Estella saw him and, in spite of the maddening throb of hope that seemed suddenly to transfigure the world for her, her pride rose in arms. Had Spencer come the night before, he would have found her loving and humble. Even now, had she but been sure that he had come to see her, she would have unbent. But was it the other? The torturing doubt stung her to the quick.
She waited, stubbornly resolved that she would not speak first. It was not in her place. Spencer Morgan flicked his horse sharply with his whip. He dared not look at Estella, but he felt her uncompromising attitude. He was miserably ashamed of himself, and he felt angry at Estella for his shame.
“Do you care to come for a drive?” he asked awkwardly, with a covert glance at the parlour windows.
Estella caught the glance and her jealous perception instantly divined its true significance. Her heart died within her. She did not care what she said.
“Oh,” she cried with a toss of her head, “it’s not me you want — it’s Miss LeMar, isn’t it? She’s away at the shore. You’ll find her there, I dare say.”
Still, in spite of all, she perversely hoped. If he would only make any sign, the least in the world, that he was sorry — that he still loved her — she could forgive him everything. When he drove away without another word, she could not believe it again. Surely he would not go — surely he knew she did not mean it — he would turn back before he got to the gate.
But he did not. She saw him disappear around the turn of the road. She could not see if he took the shore lane further on, but she was sure he would. She was furious at herself for acting as she had done. It was all her fault again! Oh, if he would only give her another chance!
She was in her room when she heard the buggy drive up again. She knew it was Spencer and that he had brought Vivienne LeMar home. Acting on a sudden wild impulse, the girl stepped out on the landing and confronted her rival as she came up the stairs.
The latter paused at sight of the white face and anguished eyes. There was a little mocking smile on her lovely face.
“Miss LeMar,” said Estella in a quivering voice, “what do you mean by all this? You know I’m engaged to Spencer Morgan!”
Miss LeMar laughed softly.
“Really? If you are engaged to the young man, my dear Miss Bowes, I would advise you to look after him more sharply. He seems very willing to flirt, I should say.”
She passed on to her room with a malicious smile. Estella shrank back against the wall, humiliated and baffled. When she found herself alone, she crawled back to her room and threw herself face downward on the bed, praying that she might die.
But she had to live through the horrible month that followed — a month so full of agony that she seemed to draw every breath in pain. Spencer never sought her again; he went everywhere with Miss LeMar. His infatuation was the talk of the settlement. Estella knew that her story was in everyone’s mouth, and her pride smarted; but she carried a brave front outwardly. No one should say she cared.
She believed that the actress was merely deluding Spencer for her own amusement and would never dream of marrying him. Bu
t one day the idea occurred to her that she might. Estella had always told herself that even if Spencer wanted to come back to her she would never take him back, but now, by the half-sick horror that came over her, she knew how strong the hope had really been and despised herself more than ever.
One evening she was alone in the parlour. She had lit the lamp and was listlessly arranging the little room. She looked old and worn. Her colour was gone and her eyes were dull. As she worked, the door opened and Vivienne LeMar walked or, rather, reeled into the room.
Estella dropped the book she held and gazed at her as one in a dream. The actress’s face was flushed and her hair was wildly disordered. Her eyes glittered with an unearthly light. She was talking incoherently. The air was heavy with the fumes of brandy.
Estella laughed hysterically. Vivienne LeMar was grossly intoxicated. This woman whom Spencer Morgan worshipped, for whom he had forsaken her, was reeling about the room, laughing idiotically, talking wildly in a thick voice. If he could but see her now!
Estella turned white with the passion of the wild idea that had come to her. Spencer Morgan should see this woman in her true colours.
She lost no time. Swiftly she left the room and locked the door behind her on the maudlin, babbling creature inside. Then she flung a shawl over her head and ran from the house. It was not far to the Morgan homestead. She ran all the way, hardly knowing what she was doing. Mrs. Morgan answered her knock. She gazed in bewilderment at Estella’s wild face.
“I want Spencer,” said the girl through her white lips.
The elder woman stepped back in dumb amazement. She knew and rued her son’s folly. What could Estella want with him?
The young man appeared in the doorway. Estella caught him by the arm and pulled him outside.
“Miss LeMar wants you at once,” she said hoarsely. “At once — you are to come at once!”
“Has anything happened to her?” cried Spencer savagely. “Is she ill — is she — what is the matter?”
“No, she is not ill. But she wants you. Come at once.”
He started off bareheaded. Estella followed him up the road breathlessly. Surely it was the strangest walk ever a girl had, she told herself with mirthless laughter. She pushed the key into his hand at the porch.
“She’s in the parlour,” she said wildly. “Go in and look at her, Spencer.”
Spencer snatched the key and fitted it into the door. He was full of fear. Had Estella gone out of her mind? Had she done anything to Vivienne? Had she —
As he entered, the actress reeled to her feet and came to meet him. He stood and gazed at her stupidly. This could not be Vivienne, this creature reeking with brandy, uttering such foolish words! What fiend was this in her likeness?
He grew sick at heart and brain; she had her arms about him. He tried to push her away, but she clung closer, and her senseless laughter echoed through the room. He flung her from him with an effort and rushed out through the hall and down the road like a madman. Estella, watching him, felt that she was avenged. She was glad with a joy more pitiful than grief.
Vivienne LeMar left the cottage the next day. Mrs. Bowes, suspecting some mystery, questioned Estella sharply, but could find out nothing. The girl kept her own counsel stubbornly. The interest and curiosity of the village centred around Spencer Morgan, and his case was well discussed. Gossip said that the actress had jilted him and that he was breaking his heart about it. Then came the rumour that he was going West.
Estella heard it apathetically. Life seemed ended for her. There was nothing to look forward to. She could not even look back. All the past was embittered. She had never met Spencer since the night she went after him. She sometimes wondered what he must think of her for what she had done. Did he think her unwomanly and revengeful? She did not care. It was rather a relief to hear that he was going away. She would not be tortured by the fear of meeting him then. She was sure he would never come back to her. If he did, she would never forgive him.
One evening in early harvest Estella was lingering by the lane gate at twilight. She had worked slavishly all day and was very tired, but she was loath to go into the house, where her trouble always seemed to weigh on her more heavily. The dusk, sweet night seemed to soothe her as it always did.
She leaned her head against the poplar by the gate. How long Spencer Morgan had been standing by her she did not know, but when she looked up he was there. In the dim light she could see how haggard and hollow-eyed he had grown. He had changed almost as much as herself.
The girl’s first proud impulse was to turn coldly away and leave him. But some strange tumult in her heart kept her still. What had he come to say?
There was a moment’s fateful silence. Then Spencer spoke in a muffled voice.
“I couldn’t go away without seeing you once more, Estella, to say good-bye. Perhaps you won’t speak to me. You must hate me. I deserve it.”
He paused, but she said no word. She could not. After a space, he went wistfully on.
“I know you can never forgive me — no girl could. I’ve behaved like a fool. There isn’t any excuse to be made for me. I don’t think I could have been in my right senses, Estella. It all seems like some bad dream now. When I saw her that night, I came to my right mind, and I’ve been the most miserable man alive ever since. Not for her — but because I’d lost you. I can’t bear to live here any longer, so I am going away. Will you say good-bye, Estella?”
Still she did not speak. There were a hundred things she wanted to say but she could not say them. Did he mean that he loved her still? If she were sure of that, she could forgive him anything, but her doubt rendered her mute.
The young man turned away despairingly from her rigid attitude. So be it — he had brought his fate on himself.
He had gone but a few steps when Estella suddenly found her voice with a gasp.
“Spencer!” He came swiftly back. “Oh, Spencer — do — you — do you love me still?”
He caught her hands in his.
“Love you — oh, Estella, yes, yes! I always have. That other wasn’t love — it was just madness. When it passed I hated life because I’d lost you. I know you can’t forgive me, but, oh—”
He broke down. Estella flung her arms around his neck and put her face up to his. She felt as if her heart must break with its great happiness. He understood her mute pardon. In their kiss the past was put aside. Estella’s martyrdom was ended.
The Old Chest at Wyther Grange
When I was a child I always thought a visit to Wyther Grange was a great treat. It was a big, quiet, old-fashioned house where Grandmother Laurance and Mrs. DeLisle, my Aunt Winnifred, lived. I was a favourite with them, yet I could never overcome a certain awe of them both. Grandmother was a tall, dignified old lady with keen black eyes that seemed veritably to bore through one. She always wore stiffly-rustling gowns of rich silk made in the fashion of her youth. I suppose she must have changed her dress occasionally, but the impression on my mind was always the same, as she went trailing about the house with a big bunch of keys at her belt — keys that opened a score of wonderful old chests and boxes and drawers. It was one of my dearest delights to attend Grandmother in her peregrinations and watch the unfolding and examining of all those old treasures and heirlooms of bygone Laurances.
Of Aunt Winnifred I was less in awe, possibly because she dressed in a modern way and so looked to my small eyes more human and natural. As Winnifred Laurance she had been the beauty of the family and was a handsome woman still, with brilliant dark eyes and cameo-like features. She always looked very sad, spoke in a low sweet voice, and was my childish ideal of all that was high-bred and graceful.
I had many beloved haunts at the Grange, but I liked the garret best. It was a roomy old place, big enough to have comfortably housed a family in itself, and was filled with cast-off furniture and old trunks and boxes of discarded finery. I was never tired of playing there, dressing up in the old-fashioned gowns and hats and practising old-time danc
e steps before the high, cracked mirror that hung at one end. That old garret was a veritable fairyland to me.
There was one old chest which I could not explore and, like all forbidden things, it possessed a great attraction for me. It stood away back in a dusty, cobwebbed corner, a strong, high wooden box, painted blue. From some words which I had heard Grandmother let fall I was sure it had a history; it was the one thing she never explored in her periodical overhaulings. When I grew tired of playing I liked to creep up on it and sit there, picturing out my own fancies concerning it — of which my favourite one was that some day I should solve the riddle and open the chest to find it full of gold and jewels with which I might restore the fortune of the Laurances and all the traditionary splendours of the old Grange.
I was sitting there one day when Aunt Winnifred and Grandmother Laurance came up the narrow dark staircase, the latter jingling her keys and peering into the dusty corners as she came along the room. When they came to the old chest, Grandmother rapped the top smartly with her keys.
“I wonder what is in this old chest,” she said. “I believe it really should be opened. The moths may have got into it through that crack in the lid.”
“Why don’t you open it, Mother?” said Mrs. DeLisle. “I am sure that key of Robert’s would fit the lock.”
“No,” said Grandmother in the tone that nobody, not even Aunt Winnifred, ever dreamed of disputing. “I will not open that chest without Eliza’s permission. She confided it to my care when she went away, and I promised that it should never be opened until she came for it.”
“Poor Eliza,” said Mrs. DeLisle thoughtfully. “I wonder what she is like now. Very much changed, like all the rest of us, I suppose. It is almost thirty years since she was here. How pretty she was!”
“I never approved of her,” said Grandmother brusquely. “She was a sentimental, fanciful creature. She might have married well but she preferred to waste her life pining over the memory of a man who was not worthy to untie the shoelace of a Laurance.”
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 635