The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “What are you musing over?”

  “There was a little boy here today,” began Edith.

  “Oh, such a dear little boy,” broke in Amy eagerly from the corner, where she was playing with her kitten. “His name was Bertie Ross. He brought up the parcels, and we asked him in to get warm. He had no mittens, and his hands were almost frozen. And, oh, Papa, just think! — he said he never had any Christmas or New Year at all.”

  “Poor little fellow!” said the doctor. “I’ve heard of him; a pretty hard time he has of it, I think.”

  “He was so pretty, Papa. And Edie gave him her blue mittens for William John.”

  “The plot deepens. Who is William John?”

  “Oh, a cousin or something, didn’t he say Edie? Anyway, he is sick, and he wanted to go coasting, and Bertie gave him his mittens. And I suppose he never had any Christmas either.”

  “There are plenty who haven’t,” said the doctor, taking up his paper with a sigh. “Well, girlies, you seem interested in this little fellow so, if you like, you may invite him and his cousin to take dinner with you on New Year’s night.”

  “Oh, Papa!” said Edith, her eyes shining like stars.

  The doctor laughed. “Write him a nice little note of invitation — you are the lady of the house, you know — and I’ll see that he gets it tomorrow.”

  And this was how it came to pass that Bertie received the next day his first invitation to dine out. He read the little note through three times in order fully to take in its contents, and then went around the rest of the day in deep abstraction as though he was trying to decide some very important question. It was with the same expression that he opened the door at home in the evening. His aunt was stirring some oatmeal mush on the stove.

  “Is that you, Bert?” She spoke sharply. She always spoke sharply, even when not intending it; it had grown to be a habit.

  “Yes’m,” said Bertie meekly, as he hung up his cap.

  “I s’pose you’ve only got one day more at the store,” said Mrs. Ross. “Sampson didn’t say anything about keeping you longer, did he?”

  “No. He said he couldn’t — I asked him.”

  “Well, I didn’t expect he would. You’ll have a holiday on New Year’s anyhow; whether you’ll have anything to eat or not is a different question.”

  “I’ve an invitation to dinner,” said Bertie timidly, “me and William John. It’s from Doctor Forbes’s little girls — the ones that gave me the mittens.”

  He handed her the little note, and Mrs. Ross stooped down and read it by the fitful gleam of light which came from the cracked stove.

  “Well, you can please yourself,” she said as she handed it back, “but William John couldn’t go if he had ten invitations. He caught cold coasting yesterday. I told him he would, but he was bound to go, and now he’s laid up for a week. Listen to him barking in the bedroom there.”

  “Well, then, I won’t go either,” said Bertie with a sigh, it might be of relief, or it might be of disappointment. “I wouldn’t go there all alone.”

  “You’re a goose!” said his aunt. “They wouldn’t eat you. But as I said, please yourself. Anyhow, hold your tongue about it to William John, or you’ll have him crying and bawling to go too.”

  The caution came too late. William John had already heard it, and when his mother went in to rub his chest with liniment, she found him with the ragged quilt over his head crying.

  “Come, William John, I want to rub you.”

  “I don’t want to be rubbed — g’way,” sobbed William John. “I heard you out there — you needn’t think I didn’t. Bertie’s going to Doctor Forbes’s to dinner and I can’t go.”

  “Well, you’ve only yourself to thank for it,” returned his mother. “If you hadn’t persisted in going out coasting yesterday when I wanted you to stay in, you’d have been able to go to Doctor Forbes’s. Little boys who won’t do as they’re told always get into trouble. Stop crying, now. I dare say if Bertie goes they’ll send you some candy, or something.”

  But William John refused to be comforted. He cried himself to sleep that night, and when Bertie went in to see him next morning, he found him sitting up in bed with his eyes red and swollen and the faded quilt drawn up around his pinched face.

  “Well, William John, how are you?”

  “I ain’t any better,” replied William John mournfully. “I s’pose you’ll have a great time tomorrow night, Bertie?”

  “Oh, I’m not going since you can’t,” said Bertie cheerily. He thought this would comfort William John, but it had exactly the opposite effect. William John had cried until he could cry no more, but he turned around and sobbed.

  “There now!” he said in tearless despair. “That’s just what I expected. I did s’pose if I couldn’t go you would, and tell me about it. You’re mean as mean can be.”

  “Come now, William John, don’t be so cross. I thought you’d rather have me home, but I’ll go, if you want me to.”

  “Honest, now?”

  “Yes, honest. I’ll go anywhere to please you. I must be off to the store now. Goodbye.”

  Thus committed, Bertie took his courage in both hands and went. The next evening at dusk found him standing at Doctor Forbes’s door with a very violently beating heart. He was carefully dressed in his well-worn best suit and a neat white collar. The frosty air had crimsoned his cheeks and his hair was curling round his face.

  Caroline opened the door and showed him into the parlour, where Edith and Amy were eagerly awaiting him.

  “Happy New Year, Bertie,” cried Amy. “And — but, why, where is William John?”

  “He couldn’t come,” answered Bertie anxiously — he was afraid he might not be welcome without William John. “He’s real sick. He caught cold and has to stay in bed; but he wanted to come awful bad.”

  “Oh, dear me! Poor William John!” said Amy in a disappointed tone. But all further remarks were cut short by the entrance of Doctor Forbes.

  “How do you do?” he said, giving Bertie’s hand a hearty shake. “But where is the other little fellow my girls were expecting?”

  Bertie patiently reaccounted for William John’s non-appearance.

  “It’s a bad time for colds,” said the doctor, sitting down and attacking the fire. “I dare say, though, you have to run so fast these days that a cold couldn’t catch you. I suppose you’ll soon be leaving Sampson’s. He told me he didn’t need you after the holiday season was over. What are you going at next? Have you anything in view?”

  Bertie shook his head sorrowfully.

  “No, sir; but,” he added more cheerfully, “I guess I’ll find something if I hunt around lively. I almost always do.”

  He forgot his shyness; his face flushed hopefully, and he looked straight at the doctor with his bright, earnest eyes. The doctor poked the fire energetically and looked very wise. But just then the girls came up and carried Bertie off to display their holiday gifts. And there was a fur cap and a pair of mittens for him! He wondered whether he was dreaming.

  “And here’s a picture-book for William John,” said Amy, “and there is a sled out in the kitchen for him. Oh, there’s the dinner-bell. I’m awfully hungry. Papa says that is my ‘normal condition,’ but I don’t know what that means.”

  As for that dinner — Bertie might sometimes have seen such a repast in delightful dreams, but certainly never out of them. It was a feast to be dated from.

  When the plum pudding came on, the doctor, who had been notably silent, leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and looked critically at Bertie.

  “So Mr. Sampson can’t keep you?”

  Bertie’s face sobered at once. He had almost forgotten his responsibilities.

  “No, sir. He says I’m too small for the heavy work.”

  “Well, you are rather small — but no doubt you will grow. Boys have a queer habit of doing that. I think you know how to make yourself useful. I need a boy here to run errands and look after my ho
rse. If you like, I’ll try you. You can live here, and go to school. I sometimes hear of places for boys in my rounds, and the first good one that will suit you, I’ll bespeak for you. How will that do?”

  “Oh, sir, you are too good,” said Bertie with a choke in his voice.

  “Well, that is settled,” said the doctor genially. “Come on Monday then. And perhaps we can do something for that other little chap, William, or John, or whatever his name is. Will you have some more pudding, Bertie?”

  “No, thank you,” said Bertie. Pudding, indeed! He could not have eaten another mouthful after such wonderful and unexpected good fortune.

  After dinner they played games, and cracked nuts, and roasted apples, until the clock struck nine; then Bertie got up to go.

  “Off, are you?” said the doctor, looking up from his paper. “Well, I’ll expect you on Monday, remember.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bertie happily. He was not likely to forget.

  As he went out Amy came through the hall with a red sled.

  “Here is William John’s present. I’ve tied all the other things on so that they can’t fall off.”

  Edith was at the door-with a parcel. “Here are some nuts and candies for William John,” she said. “And tell him we all wish him a ‘Happy New Year.’”

  “Thank you,” said Bertie. “I’ve had a splendid time. I’ll tell William John. Goodnight.”

  He stepped out. It was frostier than ever. The snow crackled and snapped, the stars were keen and bright, but to Bertie, running down the street with William John’s sled thumping merrily behind him, the world was aglow with rosy hope and promise. He was quite sure he could never forget this wonderful New Year.

  Between the Hill and the Valley

  It was one of the moist, pleasantly odorous nights of early spring. There was a chill in the evening air, but the grass was growing green in sheltered spots, and Jeffrey Miller had found purple-petalled violets and pink arbutus on the hill that day. Across a valley filled with beech and fir, there was a sunset afterglow, creamy yellow and pale red, with a new moon swung above it. It was a night for a man to walk alone and dream of his love, which was perhaps why Jeffrey Miller came so loiteringly across the springy hill pasture, with his hands full of the mayflowers.

  He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of forty, and looking no younger, with dark grey eyes and a tanned, clean-cut face, clean-shaven save for a drooping moustache. Jeffrey Miller was considered a handsome man, and Bayside people had periodical fits of wondering why he had never married. They pitied him for the lonely life he must lead alone there at the Valley Farm, with only a deaf old housekeeper as a companion, for it did not occur to the Bayside people in general that a couple of shaggy dogs could be called companions, and they did not know that books make very excellent comrades for people who know how to treat them.

  One of Jeffrey’s dogs was with him now — the oldest one, with white breast and paws and a tawny coat. He was so old that he was half-blind and rather deaf, but, with one exception, he was the dearest of living creatures to Jeffrey Miller, for Sara Stuart had given him the sprawly, chubby little pup years ago.

  They came down the hill together. A group of men were standing on the bridge in the hollow, discussing Colonel Stuart’s funeral of the day before. Jeffrey caught Sara’s name and paused on the outskirts of the group to listen. Sometimes he thought that if he were lying dead under six feet of turf and Sara Stuart’s name were pronounced above him, his heart would give a bound of life.

  “Yes, the old kunnel’s gone at last,” Christopher Jackson was saying. “He took his time dyin’, that’s sartain. Must be a kind of relief for Sara — she’s had to wait on him, hand and foot, for years. But no doubt she’ll feel pretty lonesome. Wonder what she’ll do?”

  “Is there any particular reason for her to do anything?” asked Alec Churchill.

  “Well, she’ll have to leave Pinehurst. The estate’s entailed and goes to her cousin, Charles Stuart.”

  There were exclamations of surprise from the other men on hearing this. Jeffrey drew nearer, absently patting his dog’s head. He had not known it either.

  “Oh, yes,” said Christopher, enjoying all the importance of exclusive information. “I thought everybody knew that. Pinehurst goes to the oldest male heir. The old kunnel felt it keen that he hadn’t a son. Of course, there’s plenty of money and Sara’ll get that. But I guess she’ll feel pretty bad at leaving her old home. Sara ain’t as young as she used to be, neither. Let me see — she must be thirty-eight. Well, she’s left pretty lonesome.”

  “Maybe she’ll stay on at Pinehurst,” said Job Crowe. “It’d only be right for her cousin to give her a home there.”

  Christopher shook his head.

  “No, I understand they’re not on very good terms. Sara don’t like Charles Stuart or his wife — and I don’t blame her. She won’t stay there, not likely. Probably she’ll go and live in town. Strange she never married. She was reckoned handsome, and had plenty of beaus at one time.”

  Jeffrey swung out of the group and started homeward with his dog. To stand by and hear Sara Stuart discussed after this fashion was more than he could endure. The men idly watched his tall, erect figure as he went along the valley.

  “Queer chap, Jeff,” said Alec Churchill reflectively.

  “Jeff’s all right,” said Christopher in a patronizing way. “There ain’t a better man or neighbour alive. I’ve lived next farm to him for thirty years, so I ought to know. But he’s queer sartainly — not like other people — kind of unsociable. He don’t care for a thing ‘cept dogs and reading and mooning round woods and fields. That ain’t natural, you know. But I must say he’s a good farmer. He’s got the best farm in Bayside, and that’s a real nice house he put up on it. Ain’t it an odd thing he never married? Never seemed to have no notion of it. I can’t recollect of Jeff Miller’s ever courting anybody. That’s another unnatural thing about him.”

  “I’ve always thought that Jeff thought himself a cut or two above the rest of us,” said Tom Scovel with a sneer. “Maybe he thinks the Bayside girls ain’t good enough for him.”

  “There ain’t no such dirty pride about Jeff,” pronounced Christopher conclusively. “And the Millers are the best family hereabouts, leaving the kunnel’s out. And Jeff’s well off — nobody knows how well, I reckon, but I can guess, being his land neighbour. Jeff ain’t no fool nor loafer, if he is a bit queer.”

  Meanwhile, the object of these remarks was striding homeward and thinking, not of the men behind him, but of Sara Stuart. He must go to her at once. He had not intruded on her since her father’s death, thinking her sorrow too great for him to meddle with. But this was different. Perhaps she needed the advice or assistance only he could give. To whom else in Bayside could she turn for it but to him, her old friend? Was it possible that she must leave Pinehurst? The thought struck cold dismay to his soul. How could he bear his life if she went away?

  He had loved Sara Stuart from childhood. He remembered vividly the day he had first seen her — a spring day, much like this one had been; he, a boy of eight, had gone with his father to the big, sunshiny hill field and he had searched for birds’ nests in the little fir copses along the crest while his father plowed. He had so come upon her, sitting on the fence under the pines at the back of Pinehurst — a child of six in a dress of purple cloth. Her long, light brown curls fell over her shoulders and rippled sleekly back from her calm little brow; her eyes were large and greyish blue, straight-gazing and steadfast. To the end of his life the boy was to carry in his heart the picture she made there under the pines.

  “Little boy,” she had said, with a friendly smile, “will you show me where the mayflowers grow?”

  Shyly enough he had assented, and they set out together for the barrens beyond the field, where the arbutus trailed its stars of sweetness under the dusty dead grasses and withered leaves of the old year. The boy was thrilled with delight. She was a fairy queen who thus graciously smiled on
him and chattered blithely as they searched for mayflowers in the fresh spring sunshine. He thought it a wonderful thing that it had so chanced. It overjoyed him to give the choicest dusters he found into her slim, waxen little fingers, and watch her eyes grow round with pleasure in them. When the sun began to lower over the beeches she had gone home with her arms full of arbutus, but she had turned at the edge of the pineland and waved her hand at him.

  That night, when he told his mother of the little girl he had met on the hill, she had hoped anxiously that he had been “very polite,” for the little girl was a daughter of Colonel Stuart, newly come to Pinehurst. Jeffrey, reflecting, had not been certain that he had been polite; “But I am sure she liked me,” he said gravely.

  A few days later a message came from Mrs. Stuart on the hill to Mrs. Miller in the valley. Would she let her little boy go up now and then to play with Sara? Sara was very lonely because she had no playmates. So Jeff, overjoyed, had gone to his divinity’s very home, where the two children played together many a day. All through their childhood they had been fast friends. Sara’s parents placed no bar to their intimacy. They had soon concluded that little Jeff Miller was a very good playmate for Sara. He was gentle, well-behaved, and manly.

  Sara never went to the district school which Jeff attended; she had her governess at home. With no other boy or girl in Bayside did she form any friendship, but her loyalty to Jeff never wavered. As for Jeff, he worshipped her and would have done anything she commanded. He belonged to her from the day they had hunted arbutus on the hill.

  When Sara was fifteen she had gone away to school. Jeff had missed her sorely. For four years he saw her only in the summers, and each year she had seemed taller, statelier, further from him. When she graduated her father took her abroad for two years; then she came home, a lovely, high-bred girl, dimpling on the threshold of womanhood; and Jeffrey Miller was face to face with two bitter facts. One was that he loved her — not with the boy-and-girl love of long ago, but with the love of a man for the one woman in the world; and the other was that she was as far beyond his reach as one of those sunset stars of which she had always reminded him in her pure, clear-shining loveliness.