“Oh, but that is unchristian!” protested Mrs. Stapp feebly.
“Perhaps so, but it’s the way I feel. Old Parson Jones used to say that people were marbled good and bad pretty even, but that in everybody there were one or two streaks just pure wicked. I guess Lou Carroll is my wicked streak. I haven’t seen or heard of her for years — ever since she married that worthless Dency Baxter and went away. She may be dead for all I know. I don’t expect ever to have a chance to pay her out. But mark what I say, Theodosia, if I ever have, I will.”
Mrs. March snipped off her thread, as if she challenged the world. Mrs. Stapp felt uncomfortable over the unusual display of feeling she had evoked, and hastened to change the subject.
In three weeks’ time Mrs. March was established in her new home, and the “old Carroll house” blossomed out into renewed splendour. Theodosia Stapp, who had dropped in to see it, was in a rapture of admiration.
“You have a lovely home now, Anna. I used to think it fine enough in the Carrolls’ time, but it wasn’t as grand as this. And that reminds me, I have something to tell you, but I don’t want you to get as excited as you did the last time I mentioned her name. You remember the last day I was to see you we were talking of Lou Carroll? Well, next day I was downtown in a store, and who should sail in but Mrs. Joel Kent, from Oriental. You know Mrs. Joel — Sarah Chapple that was? She and her man keep a little hotel up at Oriental. They’re not very well off. She is a cousin of old Mrs. Carroll, but, lawful heart, the Carrolls didn’t used to make much of the relationship! Well, Mrs. Joel and I had a chat. She told me all her troubles — she always has lots of them. Sarah was always of a grumbling turn, and she had a brand-new stock of them this time. What do you think, Anna March? Lou Carroll — or Mrs. Baxter, I suppose I should say — is up there at Joel Kent’s at Oriental, dying of consumption; leastwise, Mrs. Joel says she is.”
“Lou Carroll dying at Oriental!” cried Mrs. March.
“Yes. She came there from goodness knows where, about a month ago — might as well have dropped from the clouds, Mrs. Joel says, for all she expected of it. Her husband is dead, and I guess he led her a life of it when he was alive, and she’s as poor as second skimmings. She was aiming to come here, Mrs. Joel says, but when she got to Oriental she wasn’t fit to stir a step further, and the Kents had to keep her. I gather from what Mrs. Joel said that she’s rather touched in her mind too, and has an awful hankering to get home here — to this very house. She appears to have the idea that it is hers, and all just the same as it used to be. I guess she is a sight of trouble, and Mrs. Joel ain’t the woman to like that. But there! She has to work most awful hard, and I suppose a sick person doesn’t come handy in a hotel. I guess you’ve got your revenge, Anna, without lifting a finger to get it. Think of Lou Carroll coming to that!”
The next day was cold and raw. The ragged, bare trees in the old Carroll grounds shook and writhed in the gusts of wind. Now and then a drifting scud of rain dashed across the windows. Mrs. March looked out with a shiver, and turned thankfully to her own cosy fireside again.
Presently she thought she heard a low knock at the front door, and went to see. As she opened it a savage swirl of damp wind rushed in, and the shrinking figure leaning against one of the fluted columns of the Grecian porch seemed to cower before its fury. It was a woman who stood there, a woman whose emaciated face wore a piteous expression, as she lifted it to Mrs. March.
“You don’t know me, of course,” she said, with a feeble attempt at dignity. “I am Mrs. Baxter. I — I used to live here long ago. I thought I’d walk over today and see my old home.”
A fit of coughing interrupted her words, and she trembled like a leaf.
“Gracious me!” exclaimed Mrs. March blankly. “You don’t mean to tell me that you have walked over from Oriental today — and you a sick woman! For pity’s sake, come in, quick. And if you’re not wet to the skin!”
She fairly pulled her visitor into the hall, and led her to the sitting-room.
“Sit down. Take this big easy-chair right up to the fire — so. Let me take your bonnet and shawl. I must run right out to tell Hannah to get you a hot drink.”
“You are very kind,” whispered the other. “I don’t know you, but you look like a woman I used to know when I was a girl. She was a Mrs. Bennett, and she had a daughter, Anna. Do you know what became of her? I forget. I forget everything now.”
“My name is March,” said Mrs. March briefly, ignoring the question. “I don’t suppose you ever heard it before.”
She wrapped her own warm shawl about the other woman’s thin shoulders. Then she hastened to the kitchen and soon returned, carrying a tray of food and a steaming hot drink. She wheeled a small table up to her visitor’s side and said, very kindly,
“Now, take a bite, my dear, and this raspberry vinegar will warm you right up. It is a dreadful day for you to be out. Why on earth didn’t Joel Kent drive you over?”
“They didn’t know I was coming,” whispered Mrs. Baxter anxiously. “I — I ran away. Sarah wouldn’t have let me come if she had known. But I wanted to come so much. It is so nice to be home again.”
Mrs. March watched her guest as she ate and drank. It was plain enough that her mind, or rather her memory, was affected. She did not realize that this was no longer her home. At moments she seemed to fancy herself back in the past again. Once or twice she called Mrs. March “Mother.”
Presently a sharp knock was heard at the hall door. Mrs. March excused herself and went out. In the porch stood Theodosia Stapp and a woman whom Mrs. March did not at first glance recognize — a tall, aggressive-looking person, whose sharp black eyes darted in past Mrs. March and searched every corner of the hall before anyone had time to speak.
“Lawful heart!” puffed Mrs. Stapp, as she stepped in out of the biting wind. “I’m right out of breath. Mrs. March, allow me to introduce Mrs. Kent. We’re looking for Mrs. Baxter. She has run away, and we thought perhaps she came here. Did she?”
“She is in my sitting-room now,” said Mrs. March quietly.
“Didn’t I say so?” demanded Mrs. Kent, turning to Mrs. Stapp. She spoke in a sharp, high-pitched tone that grated on Mrs. March’s nerves. “Doesn’t she beat all! She slipped away this morning when I was busy in the kitchen. And to think of her walking six miles over here in this wind! I dunno how she did it. I don’t believe she’s half as sick as she pretends. Well, I’ve got my wagon out here, Mrs. March, and I’ll be much obliged if you’ll tell her I’m here to take her home. I s’pose we’ll have a fearful scene.”
“I don’t see that there is any call for a scene,” said Mrs. March firmly. “The poor woman has just got here, and she thinks she has got home. She might as well think so if it is of any comfort to her. You’d better leave her here.”
Theodosia gave a stifled gasp of amazement, but Mrs. March went serenely on.
“I’ll take care of the poor soul as long as she needs it — and that will not be very long in my opinion, for if ever I saw death in a woman’s face, it is looking out of hers. I’ve plenty of time to look after her and make her comfortable.”
Mrs. Joel Kent was voluble in her thanks. It was evident that she was delighted to get the sick woman off her hands. Mrs. March cut her short with an invitation to stay to tea, but Mrs. Kent declined.
“I’ve got to hurry home straight off and get the men’s suppers. Such a scamper to have over that woman! I’m sure I’m thankful you’re willing to let her stay, for she’d never be contented anywhere else. I’ll send over what few things she has tomorrow.”
When Mrs. Kent had gone, Mrs. March and Mrs. Stapp looked at each other.
“And so this is your revenge, Anna March?” said the latter solemnly. “Do you remember what you said to me about her?”
“Yes, I do, Theodosia, and I thought I meant every word of it. But I guess my wicked streak ran out just when I needed it to depend on. Besides, you see, I’ve thought of Lou Carroll all these years as she was when
I knew her — handsome and saucy and proud. But that poor creature in there isn’t any more like the Lou Carroll I knew than you are — not a mite. The old Lou Carroll is dead already, and my spite is dead with her. Will you come in and see her?”
“Well, no, not just now. She wouldn’t know me, and Mrs. Joel says strangers kind of excite her — a pretty bad place the hotel would be for her at that rate, I should think. I must go and tell Peter about it, and I’ll send up some of my black currant jam for her.”
When Mrs. Stapp had gone, Mrs. March went back to her guest. Lou Baxter had fallen asleep with her head pillowed on the soft plush back of her chair. Mrs. March looked at the hollow, hectic cheeks and the changed, wasted features, and her bright brown eyes softened with tears.
“Poor Lou,” she said softly, as she brushed a loose lock of grey hair back from the sleeping woman’s brow.
Nan
Nan was polishing the tumblers at the pantry window, outside of which John Osborne was leaning among the vines. His arms were folded on the sill and his straw hat was pushed back from his flushed, eager face as he watched Nan’s deft movements.
Beyond them, old Abe Stewart was mowing the grass in the orchard with a scythe and casting uneasy glances at the pair. Old Abe did not approve of John Osborne as a suitor for Nan. John was poor; and old Abe, although he was the wealthiest farmer in Granville, was bent on Nan’s making a good match. He looked upon John Osborne as a mere fortune-hunter, and it was a thorn in the flesh to see him talking to Nan while he, old Abe, was too far away to hear what they were saying. He had a good deal of confidence in Nan, she was a sensible, level-headed girl. Still, there was no knowing what freak even a sensible girl might take into her head, and Nan was so determined when she did make up her mind. She was his own daughter in that.
However, old Abe need not have worried himself. It could not be said that Nan was helping John Osborne on in his wooing at all. Instead, she was teasing and snubbing him by turns.
Nan was very pretty. Moreover, Nan was well aware of the fact. She knew that the way her dark hair curled around her ears and forehead was bewitching; that her complexion was the envy of every girl in Granville; that her long lashes had a trick of drooping over very soft, dark eyes in a fashion calculated to turn masculine heads hopelessly. John Osborne knew all this too, to his cost. He had called to ask Nan to go with him to the Lone Lake picnic the next day. At this request Nan dropped her eyes and murmured that she was sorry, but he was too late — she had promised to go with somebody else. There was no need of Nan’s making such a mystery about it. The somebody else was her only cousin, Ned Bennett, who had had a quarrel with his own girl; the latter lived at Lone Lake, and Ned had coaxed Nan to go over with him and try her hand at patching matters up between him and his offended lady-love. And Nan, who was an amiable creature and tender-hearted where anybody’s lover except her own was concerned, had agreed to go.
But John Osborne at once jumped to the conclusion — as Nan had very possibly meant him to do — that the mysterious somebody was Bryan Lee, and the thought was gall and wormwood to him.
“Whom are you going with?” he asked.
“That would be telling,” Nan said, with maddening indifference.
“Is it Bryan Lee?” demanded John.
“It might be,” said Nan reflectively, “and then again, you know, it mightn’t.”
John was silent; he was no match for Nan when it came to a war of words. He scowled moodily at the shining tumblers.
“Nan, I’m going out west,” he said finally.
Nan stared at him with her last tumbler poised in mid-air, very much as if he had announced his intention of going to the North Pole or Equatorial Africa.
“John Osborne, are you crazy?”
“Not quite. And I’m in earnest, I can tell you that.”
Nan set the glass down with a decided thud. John’s curtness displeased her. He needn’t suppose that it made any difference to her if he took it into his stupid head to go to Afghanistan.
“Oh!” she remarked carelessly. “Well, I suppose if you’ve got the Western fever your case is hopeless. Would it be impertinent to inquire why you are going?”
“There’s nothing else for me to do, Nan,” said John, “Bryan Lee is going to foreclose the mortgage next month and I’ll have to clear out. He says he can’t wait any longer. I’ve worked hard enough and done my best to keep the old place, but it’s been uphill work and I’m beaten at last.”
Nan sat blankly down on the stool by the window. Her face was a study which John Osborne, watching old Abe’s movements, missed.
“Well, I never!” she gasped. “John Osborne, do you mean to tell me that Bryan Lee is going to do that? How did he come to get your mortgage?”
“Bought it from old Townsend,” answered John briefly. “Oh, he’s within his rights, I’ll admit. I’ve even got behind with the interest this past year. I’ll go out west and begin over again.”
“It’s a burning shame!” said Nan violently.
John looked around in time to see two very red spots on her cheeks.
“You don’t care though, Nan.”
“I don’t like to see anyone unjustly treated,” declared Nan, “and that is what you’ve been. You’ve never had half a chance. And after the way you’ve slaved, too!”
“If Lee would wait a little I might do something yet, now that Aunt Alice is gone,” said John bitterly. “I’m not afraid of work. But he won’t; he means to take his spite out at last.”
Nan hesitated.
“Surely Bryan isn’t so mean as that,” she stammered. “Perhaps he’ll change his mind if — if—”
Osborne wheeled about with face aflame.
“Don’t you say a word to him about it, Nan!” he cried. “Don’t you go interceding with him for me. I’ve got some pride left. He can take the farm from me, and he can take you maybe, but he can’t take my self-respect. I won’t beg him for mercy. Don’t you dare to say a word to him about it.”
Nan’s eyes flashed. She was offended to find her sympathy flung back in her face.
“Don’t be alarmed,” she said tartly. “I shan’t bother myself about your concerns. I’ve no doubt you’re able to look out for them yourself.”
Osborne turned away. As he did so he saw Bryan Lee driving up the lane. Perhaps Nan saw it too. At any rate, she leaned out of the window.
“John! John!” Osborne half turned. “You’ll be up again soon, won’t you?”
His face hardened. “I’ll come to say goodbye before I go, of course,” he answered shortly.
He came face to face with Lee at the gate, where the latter was tying his sleek chestnut to a poplar. He acknowledged his rival’s condescending nod with a scowl. Lee looked after him with a satisfied smile.
“Poor beggar!” he muttered. “He feels pretty cheap I reckon. I’ve spoiled his chances in this quarter. Old Abe doesn’t want any poverty-stricken hangers-on about his place and Nan won’t dream of taking him when she knows he hasn’t a roof over his head.”
He stopped for a chat with old Abe. Old Abe approved of Bryan Lee. He was a son-in-law after old Abe’s heart.
Meanwhile, Nan had seated herself at the pantry window and was ostentatiously hemming towels in apparent oblivion of suitor No. 2. Nevertheless, when Bryan came up she greeted him with an unusually sweet smile and at once plunged into an animated conversation. Bryan had not come to ask her to go to the picnic — business prevented him from going. But he meant to find out if she were going with John Osborne. As Nan was serenely impervious to all hints, he was finally forced to ask her bluntly if she was going to the picnic.
Well, yes, she expected to.
Oh! Might he ask with whom?
Nan didn’t know that it was a question of public interest at all.
“It isn’t with that Osborne fellow, is it?” demanded Bryan incautiously.
Nan tossed her head. “Well, why not?” she asked.
“Look here, Nan,” said Le
e angrily, “if you’re going to the picnic with John Osborne I’m surprised at you. What do you mean by encouraging him so? He’s as poor as Job’s turkey. I suppose you’ve heard that I’ve been compelled to foreclose the mortgage on his farm.”
Nan kept her temper sweetly — a dangerous sign, had Bryan but known it.
“Yes; he was telling me so this morning,” she answered slowly.
“Oh, was he? I suppose he gave me my character?”
“No; he didn’t say very much about it at all. He said of course you were within your rights. But do you really mean to do it, Bryan?”
“Of course I do,” said Bryan promptly. “I can’t wait any longer for my money, and I’d never get it if I did. Osborne can’t even pay the interest.”
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 651