CHAPTER XXI. THE IMPOSSIBLE WORD
John Meredith walked meditatively through the clear crispness of awinter night in Rainbow Valley. The hills beyond glistened with thechill splendid lustre of moonlight on snow. Every little fir tree in thelong valley sang its own wild song to the harp of wind and frost. Hischildren and the Blythe lads and lasses were coasting down the easternslope and whizzing over the glassy pond. They were having a glorioustime and their gay voices and gayer laughter echoed up and down thevalley, dying away in elfin cadences among the trees. On the right thelights of Ingleside gleamed through the maple grove with the genial lureand invitation which seems always to glow in the beacons of a home wherewe know there is love and good-cheer and a welcome for all kin, whetherof flesh or spirit. Mr. Meredith liked very well on occasion to spend anevening arguing with the doctor by the drift wood fire, where the famouschina dogs of Ingleside kept ceaseless watch and ward, as became deitiesof the hearth, but to-night he did not look that way. Far on the westernhill gleamed a paler but more alluring star. Mr. Meredith was on his wayto see Rosemary West, and he meant to tell her something which had beenslowly blossoming in his heart since their first meeting and had sprunginto full flower on the evening when Faith had so warmly voiced heradmiration for Rosemary.
He had come to realize that he had learned to care for Rosemary. Not ashe had cared for Cecilia, of course. THAT was entirely different. Thatlove of romance and dream and glamour could never, he thought, return.But Rosemary was beautiful and sweet and dear--very dear. She was thebest of companions. He was happier in her company than he had everexpected to be again. She would be an ideal mistress for his home, agood mother to his children.
During the years of his widowhood Mr. Meredith had received innumerablehints from brother members of Presbytery and from many parishioners whocould not be suspected of any ulterior motive, as well as from somewho could, that he ought to marry again: But these hints never made anyimpression on him. It was commonly thought he was never aware of them.But he was quite acutely aware of them. And in his own occasionalvisitations of common sense he knew that the common sensible thing forhim to do was to marry. But common sense was not the strong point ofJohn Meredith, and to choose out, deliberately and cold-bloodedly,some "suitable" woman, as one might choose a housekeeper or a businesspartner, was something he was quite incapable of doing. How he hatedthat word "suitable." It reminded him so strongly of James Perry. "ASUIT able woman of SUIT able age," that unctuous brother of the clothhad said, in his far from subtle hint. For the moment John Meredithhad had a perfectly unbelievable desire to rush madly away and proposemarriage to the youngest, most unsuitable woman it was possible todiscover.
Mrs. Marshall Elliott was his good friend and he liked her. But when shehad bluntly told him he should marry again he felt as if she had tornaway the veil that hung before some sacred shrine of his innermost life,and he had been more or less afraid of her ever since. He knew therewere women in his congregation "of suitable age" who would marry himquite readily. That fact had seeped through all his abstraction veryearly in his ministry in Glen St. Mary. They were good, substantial,uninteresting women, one or two fairly comely, the others not exactly soand John Meredith would as soon have thought of marrying any one of themas of hanging himself. He had some ideals to which no seeming necessitycould make him false. He could ask no woman to fill Cecilia's place inhis home unless he could offer her at least some of the affection andhomage he had given to his girlish bride. And where, in his limitedfeminine acquaintance, was such a woman to be found?
Rosemary West had come into his life on that autumn evening bringingwith her an atmosphere in which his spirit recognized native air. Acrossthe gulf of strangerhood they clasped hands of friendship. He knew herbetter in that ten minutes by the hidden spring than he knew EmmelineDrew or Elizabeth Kirk or Amy Annetta Douglas in a year, or could knowthem, in a century. He had fled to her for comfort when Mrs. Alec Davishad outraged his mind and soul and had found it. Since then he had goneoften to the house on the hill, slipping through the shadowy paths ofnight in Rainbow Valley so astutely that Glen gossip could never beabsolutely certain that he DID go to see Rosemary West. Once or twice hehad been caught in the West living room by other visitors; that was allthe Ladies' Aid had to go by. But when Elizabeth Kirk heard it she putaway a secret hope she had allowed herself to cherish, without a changeof expression on her kind plain face, and Emmeline Drew resolved thatthe next time she saw a certain old bachelor of Lowbridge she would notsnub him as she had done at a previous meeting. Of course, if RosemaryWest was out to catch the minister she would catch him; she lookedyounger than she was and MEN thought her pretty; besides, the West girlshad money!
"It is to be hoped that he won't be so absent-minded as to propose toEllen by mistake," was the only malicious thing she allowed herselfto say to a sympathetic sister Drew. Emmeline bore no further grudgetowards Rosemary. When all was said and done, an unencumbered bachelorwas far better than a widower with four children. It had been only theglamour of the manse that had temporarily blinded Emmeline's eyes to thebetter part.
A sled with three shrieking occupants sped past Mr. Meredith to thepond. Faith's long curls streamed in the wind and her laughter rangabove that of the others. John Meredith looked after them kindlyand longingly. He was glad that his children had such chums as theBlythes--glad that they had so wise and gay and tender a friend as Mrs.Blythe. But they needed something more, and that something would besupplied when he brought Rosemary West as a bride to the old manse.There was in her a quality essentially maternal.
It was Saturday night and he did not often go calling on Saturday night,which was supposed to be dedicated to a thoughtful revision of Sunday'ssermon. But he had chosen this night because he had learned that EllenWest was going to be away and Rosemary would be alone. Often as he hadspent pleasant evenings in the house on the hill he had never, sincethat first meeting at the spring, seen Rosemary alone. Ellen had alwaysbeen there.
He did not precisely object to Ellen being there. He liked EllenWest very much and they were the best of friends. Ellen had an almostmasculine understanding and a sense of humour which his own shy, hiddenappreciation of fun found very agreeable. He liked her interest inpolitics and world events. There was no man in the Glen, not evenexcepting Dr. Blythe, who had a better grasp of such things.
"I think it is just as well to be interested in things as long as youlive," she had said. "If you're not, it doesn't seem to me that there'smuch difference between the quick and the dead."
He liked her pleasant, deep, rumbly voice; he liked the hearty laughwith which she always ended up some jolly and well-told story. She nevergave him digs about his children as other Glen women did; she neverbored him with local gossip; she had no malice and no pettiness. Shewas always splendidly sincere. Mr. Meredith, who had picked up MissCornelia's way of classifying people, considered that Ellen belonged tothe race of Joseph. Altogether, an admirable woman for a sister-in-law.Nevertheless, a man did not want even the most admirable of women aroundwhen he was proposing to another woman. And Ellen was always around. Shedid not insist on talking to Mr. Meredith herself all the time. She letRosemary have a fair share of him. Many evenings, indeed, Ellen effacedherself almost totally, sitting back in the corner with St. George inher lap, and letting Mr. Meredith and Rosemary talk and sing and readbooks together. Sometimes they quite forgot her presence. But if theirconversation or choice of duets ever betrayed the least tendency to whatEllen considered philandering, Ellen promptly nipped that tendency inthe bud and blotted Rosemary out for the rest of the evening. But noteven the grimmest of amiable dragons can altogether prevent a certainsubtle language of eye and smile and eloquent silence; and so theminister's courtship progressed after a fashion.
But if it was ever to reach a climax that climax must come when Ellenwas away. And Ellen was so seldom away, especially in winter. She foundher own fireside the pleasantest place in the world, she vowed. Gaddinghad no attraction for her. She was
fond of company but she wanted it athome. Mr. Meredith had almost been driven to the conclusion that he mustwrite to Rosemary what he wanted to say, when Ellen casually announcedone evening that she was going to a silver wedding next Saturday night.She had been bridesmaid when the principals were married. Only oldguests were invited, so Rosemary was not included. Mr. Meredith prickedup his ears a trifle and a gleam flashed into his dreamy dark eyes.Both Ellen and Rosemary saw it; and both Ellen and Rosemary felt, with atingling shock, that Mr. Meredith would certainly come up the hill nextSaturday night.
"Might as well have it over with, St. George," Ellen sternly told theblack cat, after Mr. Meredith had gone home and Rosemary had silentlygone upstairs. "He means to ask her, St. George--I'm perfectly sure ofthat. So he might as well have his chance to do it and find out he can'tget her, George. She'd rather like to take him, Saint. I know that--butshe promised, and she's got to keep her promise. I'm rather sorry insome ways, St. George. I don't know of a man I'd sooner have for abrother-in-law if a brother-in-law was convenient. I haven't a thingagainst him, Saint--not a thing except that he won't see and can't bemade to see that the Kaiser is a menace to the peace of Europe. That'sHIS blind spot. But he's good company and I like him. A woman can sayanything she likes to a man with a mouth like John Meredith's andbe sure of not being misunderstood. Such a man is more precious thanrubies, Saint--and much rarer, George. But he can't have Rosemary--andI suppose when he finds out he can't have her he'll drop us both. Andwe'll miss him, Saint--we'll miss him something scandalous, George. Butshe promised, and I'll see that she keeps her promise!"
Ellen's face looked almost ugly in its lowering resolution. UpstairsRosemary was crying into her pillow.
So Mr. Meredith found his lady alone and looking very beautiful.Rosemary had not made any special toilet for the occasion; she wantedto, but she thought it would be absurd to dress up for a man you meantto refuse. So she wore her plain dark afternoon dress and looked like aqueen in it. Her suppressed excitement coloured her face to brilliancy,her great blue eyes were pools of light less placid than usual.
She wished the interview were over. She had looked forward to it all daywith dread. She felt quite sure that John Meredith cared a great dealfor her after a fashion--and she felt just as sure that he did not carefor her as he had cared for his first love. She felt that her refusalwould disappoint him considerably, but she did not think it wouldaltogether overwhelm him. Yet she hated to make it; hated for his sakeand--Rosemary was quite honest with herself--for her own. She knew shecould have loved John Meredith if--if it had been permissible. Sheknew that life would be a blank thing if, rejected as lover, he refusedlonger to be a friend. She knew that she could be very happy with himand that she could make him happy. But between her and happiness stoodthe prison gate of the promise she had made to Ellen years ago. Rosemarycould not remember her father. He had died when she was only three yearsold. Ellen, who had been thirteen, remembered him, but with no specialtenderness. He had been a stern, reserved man many years older than hisfair, pretty wife. Five years later their brother of twelve died also;since his death the two girls had always lived alone with their mother.They had never mingled very freely in the social life of the Glen orLowbridge, though where they went the wit and spirit of Ellen and thesweetness and beauty of Rosemary made them welcome guests. Both had whatwas called "a disappointment" in their girlhood. The sea had not givenup Rosemary's lover; and Norman Douglas, then a handsome, red-hairedyoung giant, noted for wild driving and noisy though harmless escapades,had quarrelled with Ellen and left her in a fit of pique.
There were not lacking candidates for both Martin's and Norman's places,but none seemed to find favour in the eyes of the West girls, whodrifted slowly out of youth and bellehood without any seeming regret.They were devoted to their mother, who was a chronic invalid. The threehad a little circle of home interests--books and pets and flowers--whichmade them happy and contented.
Mrs. West's death, which occurred on Rosemary's twenty-fifth birthday,was a bitter grief to them. At first they were intolerably lonely.Ellen, especially, continued to grieve and brood, her long, moodymusings broken only by fits of stormy, passionate weeping. The oldLowbridge doctor told Rosemary that he feared permanent melancholy orworse.
Once, when Ellen had sat all day, refusing either to speak or eat,Rosemary had flung herself on her knees by her sister's side.
"Oh, Ellen, you have me yet," she said imploringly. "Am I nothing toyou? We have always loved each other so."
"I won't have you always," Ellen had said, breaking her silence withharsh intensity. "You will marry and leave me. I shall be left allalone. I cannot bear the thought--I CANNOT. I would rather die."
"I will never marry," said Rosemary, "never, Ellen."
Ellen bent forward and looked searchingly into Rosemary's eyes.
"Will you promise me that solemnly?" she said. "Promise it on mother'sBible."
Rosemary assented at once, quite willing to humour Ellen. What did itmatter? She knew quite well she would never want to marry any one. Herlove had gone down with Martin Crawford to the deeps of the sea; andwithout love she could not marry any one. So she promised readily,though Ellen made rather a fearsome rite of it. They clasped hands overthe Bible, in their mother's vacant room, and both vowed to each otherthat they would never marry and would always live together.
Ellen's condition improved from that hour. She soon regained her normalcheery poise. For ten years she and Rosemary lived in the old househappily, undisturbed by any thought of marrying or giving in marriage.Their promise sat very lightly on them. Ellen never failed to remind hersister of it whenever any eligible male creature crossed their paths,but she had never been really alarmed until John Meredith came home thatnight with Rosemary. As for Rosemary, Ellen's obsession regarding thatpromise had always been a little matter of mirth to her--until lately.Now, it was a merciless fetter, self-imposed but never to be shaken off.Because of it to-night she must turn her face from happiness.
It was true that the shy, sweet, rosebud love she had given to herboy-lover she could never give to another. But she knew now that shecould give to John Meredith a love richer and more womanly. She knewthat he touched deeps in her nature that Martin had never touched--thathad not, perhaps, been in the girl of seventeen to touch. And she mustsend him away to-night--send him back to his lonely hearth and his emptylife and his heart-breaking problems, because she had promised Ellen,ten years before, on their mother's Bible, that she would never marry.
John Meredith did not immediately grasp his opportunity. On thecontrary, he talked for two good hours on the least lover-like ofsubjects. He even tried politics, though politics always bored Rosemary.The later began to think that she had been altogether mistaken, and herfears and expectations suddenly seemed to her grotesque. She felt flatand foolish. The glow went out of her face and the lustre out of hereyes. John Meredith had not the slightest intention of asking her tomarry him.
And then, quite suddenly, he rose, came across the room, and standingby her chair, he asked it. The room had grown terribly still. Even St.George ceased to purr. Rosemary heard her own heart beating and was sureJohn Meredith must hear it too.
Now was the time for her to say no, gently but firmly. She had beenready for days with her stilted, regretful little formula. And nowthe words of it had completely vanished from her mind. She had to sayno--and she suddenly found she could not say it. It was the impossibleword. She knew now that it was not that she COULD have loved JohnMeredith, but that she DID love him. The thought of putting him from herlife was agony.
She must say SOMETHING; she lifted her bowed golden head and asked himstammeringly to give her a few days for--for consideration.
John Meredith was a little surprised. He was not vainer than any man hasa right to be, but he had expected that Rosemary West would say yes.He had been tolerably sure she cared for him. Then why this doubt--thishesitation? She was not a school girl to be uncertain as to her ownmind. He felt an ugly sho
ck of disappointment and dismay. But heassented to her request with his unfailing gentle courtesy and went awayat once.
"I will tell you in a few days," said Rosemary, with downcast eyes andburning face.
When the door shut behind him she went back into the room and wrung herhands.