CHAPTER XXIV. A CHARITABLE IMPULSE
For a fortnight things ran smoothly in the Good-Conduct Club. It seemedto work admirably. Not once was Jem Blythe called in as umpire. Not oncedid any of the manse children set the Glen gossips by the ears. As fortheir minor peccadilloes at home, they kept sharp tabs on each other andgamely underwent their self-imposed punishment--generally a voluntaryabsence from some gay Friday night frolic in Rainbow Valley, or asojourn in bed on some spring evening when all young bones ached to beout and away. Faith, for whispering in Sunday School, condemned herselfto pass a whole day without speaking a single word, unless it wasabsolutely necessary, and accomplished it. It was rather unfortunatethat Mr. Baker from over-harbour should have chosen that evening forcalling at the manse, and that Faith should have happened to go tothe door. Not one word did she reply to his genial greeting, butwent silently away to call her father briefly. Mr. Baker was slightlyoffended and told his wife when he went home that that the biggestMeredith girl seemed a very shy, sulky little thing, without mannersenough to speak when she was spoken to. But nothing worse came of it,and generally their penances did no harm to themselves or anybody else.All of them were beginning to feel quite cocksure that after all, it wasa very easy matter to bring yourself up.
"I guess people will soon see that we can behave ourselves properly aswell as anybody," said Faith jubilantly. "It isn't hard when we put ourminds to it."
She and Una were sitting on the Pollock tombstone. It had been a cold,raw, wet day of spring storm and Rainbow Valley was out of the questionfor girls, though the manse and the Ingleside boys were down therefishing. The rain had held up, but the east wind blew mercilessly infrom the sea, cutting to bone and marrow. Spring was late in spite ofits early promise, and there was even yet a hard drift of old snow andice in the northern corner of the graveyard. Lida Marsh, who had comeup to bring the manse a mess of herring, slipped in through the gateshivering. She belonged to the fishing village at the harbour mouth andher father had, for thirty years, made a practice of sending a mess fromhis first spring catch to the manse. He never darkened a church door;he was a hard drinker and a reckless man, but as long as he sent thoseherring up to the manse every spring, as his father had done before him,he felt comfortably sure that his account with the Powers That Governwas squared for the year. He would not have expected a good mackerelcatch if he had not so sent the first fruits of the season.
Lida was a mite of ten and looked younger, because she was such a small,wizened little creature. To-night, as she sidled boldly enough up tothe manse girls, she looked as if she had never been warm since she wasborn. Her face was purple and her pale-blue, bold little eyes werered and watery. She wore a tattered print dress and a ragged woollencomforter, tied across her thin shoulders and under her arms. She hadwalked the three miles from the harbour mouth barefooted, over a roadwhere there was still snow and slush and mud. Her feet and legs wereas purple as her face. But Lida did not mind this much. She was used tobeing cold, and she had been going barefooted for a month already, likeall the other swarming young fry of the fishing village. There was noself-pity in her heart as she sat down on the tombstone and grinnedcheerfully at Faith and Una. Faith and Una grinned cheerfully back. Theyknew Lida slightly, having met her once or twice the preceding summerwhen they had gone down the harbour with the Blythes.
"Hello!" said Lida, "ain't this a fierce kind of a night? 'T'ain't fitfor a dog to be out, is it?"
"Then why are you out?" asked Faith.
"Pa made me bring you up some herring," returned Lida. She shivered,coughed, and stuck out her bare feet. Lida was not thinking aboutherself or her feet, and was making no bid for sympathy. She heldher feet out instinctively to keep them from the wet grass around thetombstone. But Faith and Una were instantly swamped with a wave of pityfor her. She looked so cold--so miserable.
"Oh, why are you barefooted on such a cold night?" cried Faith. "Yourfeet must be almost frozen."
"Pretty near," said Lida proudly. "I tell you it was fierce walking upthat harbour road."
"Why didn't you put on your shoes and stockings?" asked Una.
"Hain't none to put on. All I had was wore out by the time winter wasover," said Lida indifferently.
For a moment Faith stated in horror. This was terrible. Here was alittle girl, almost a neighbour, half frozen because she had no shoesor stockings in this cruel spring weather. Impulsive Faith thought ofnothing but the dreadfulness of it. In a moment she was pulling off herown shoes and stockings.
"Here, take these and put them right on," she said, forcing them intothe hands of the astonished Lida. "Quick now. You'll catch your death ofcold. I've got others. Put them right on."
Lida, recovering her wits, snatched at the offered gift, with a sparklein her dull eyes. Sure she would put them on, and that mighty quick,before any one appeared with authority to recall them. In a minuteshe had pulled the stockings over her scrawny little legs and slippedFaith's shoes over her thick little ankles.
"I'm obliged to you," she said, "but won't your folks be cross?"
"No--and I don't care if they are," said Faith. "Do you think I couldsee any one freezing to death without helping them if I could? Itwouldn't be right, especially when my father's a minister."
"Will you want them back? It's awful cold down at the harbourmouth--long after it's warm up here," said Lida slyly.
"No, you're to keep them, of course. That is what I meant when I gavethem. I have another pair of shoes and plenty of stockings."
Lida had meant to stay awhile and talk to the girls about many things.But now she thought she had better get away before somebody came andmade her yield up her booty. So she shuffled off through the bittertwilight, in the noiseless, shadowy way she had slipped in. As soon asshe was out of sight of the manse she sat down, took off the shoes andstockings, and put them in her herring basket. She had no intention ofkeeping them on down that dirty harbour road. They were to be kept goodfor gala occasions. Not another little girl down at the harbour mouthhad such fine black cashmere stockings and such smart, almost newshoes. Lida was furnished forth for the summer. She had no qualms in thematter. In her eyes the manse people were quite fabulously rich, andno doubt those girls had slathers of shoes and stockings. Then Lida randown to the Glen village and played for an hour with the boys before Mr.Flagg's store, splashing about in a pool of slush with the maddest ofthem, until Mrs. Elliott came along and bade her begone home.
"I don't think, Faith, that you should have done that," said Una, alittle reproachfully, after Lida had gone. "You'll have to wear yourgood boots every day now and they'll soon scuff out."
"I don't care," cried Faith, still in the fine glow of having done akindness to a fellow creature. "It isn't fair that I should have twopairs of shoes and poor little Lida Marsh not have any. NOW we both havea pair. You know perfectly well, Una, that father said in his sermonlast Sunday that there was no real happiness in getting or having--onlyin giving. And it's true. I feel FAR happier now than I ever did in mywhole life before. Just think of Lida walking home this very minute withher poor little feet all nice and warm and comfy."
"You know you haven't another pair of black cashmere stockings," saidUna. "Your other pair were so full of holes that Aunt Martha said shecouldn't darn them any more and she cut the legs up for stove dusters.You've nothing but those two pairs of striped stockings you hate so."
All the glow and uplift went out of Faith. Her gladness collapsed like apricked balloon. She sat for a few dismal minutes in silence, facing theconsequences of her rash act.
"Oh, Una, I never thought of that," she said dolefully. "I didn't stopto think at all."
The striped stockings were thick, heavy, coarse, ribbed stockings ofblue and red which Aunt Martha had knit for Faith in the winter. Theywere undoubtedly hideous. Faith loathed them as she had never loathedanything before. Wear them she certainly would not. They were stillunworn in her bureau drawer.
"You'll have to wear the striped stockings a
fter this," said Una. "Justthink how the boys in school will laugh at you. You know how they laughat Mamie Warren for her striped stockings and call her barber pole andyours are far worse."
"I won't wear them," said Faith. "I'll go barefooted first, cold as itis."
"You can't go barefooted to church to-morrow. Think what people wouldsay."
"Then I'll stay home."
"You can't. You know very well Aunt Martha will make you go."
Faith did know this. The one thing on which Aunt Martha troubled herselfto insist was that they must all go to church, rain or shine. How theywere dressed, or if they were dressed at all, never concerned her. Butgo they must. That was how Aunt Martha had been brought up seventy yearsago, and that was how she meant to bring them up.
"Haven't you got a pair you can lend me, Una?" said poor Faithpiteously.
Una shook her head. "No, you know I only have the one black pair. Andthey're so tight I can hardly get them on. They wouldn't go on you.Neither would my gray ones. Besides, the legs of THEM are all darned ANDdarned."
"I won't wear those striped stockings," said Faith stubbornly. "The feelof them is even worse than the looks. They make me feel as if my legswere as big as barrels and they're so SCRATCHY."
"Well, I don't know what you're going to do."
"If father was home I'd go and ask him to get me a new pair beforethe store closes. But he won't be home till too late. I'll ask himMonday--and I won't go to church tomorrow. I'll pretend I'm sick andAunt Martha'll HAVE to let me stay home."
"That would be acting a lie, Faith," cried Una. "You CAN'T do that. Youknow it would be dreadful. What would father say if he knew? Don'tyou remember how he talked to us after mother died and told us we mustalways be TRUE, no matter what else we failed in. He said we must nevertell or act a lie--he said he'd TRUST us not to. You CAN'T do it, Faith.Just wear the striped stockings. It'll only be for once. Nobody willnotice them in church. It isn't like school. And your new brown dress isso long they won't show much. Wasn't it lucky Aunt Martha made it big,so you'd have room to grow in it, for all you hated it so when shefinished it?"
"I won't wear those stockings," repeated Faith. She uncoiled her bare,white legs from the tombstone and deliberately walked through the wet,cold grass to the bank of snow. Setting her teeth, she stepped upon itand stood there.
"What are you doing?" cried Una aghast. "You'll catch your death ofcold, Faith Meredith."
"I'm trying to," answered Faith. "I hope I'll catch a fearful cold andbe AWFUL sick to-morrow. Then I won't be acting a lie. I'm going tostand here as long as I can bear it."
"But, Faith, you might really die. You might get pneumonia. Please,Faith don't. Let's go into the house and get SOMETHING for your feet.Oh, here's Jerry. I'm so thankful. Jerry, MAKE Faith get off that snow.Look at her feet."
"Holy cats! Faith, what ARE you doing?" demanded Jerry. "Are you crazy?"
"No. Go away!" snapped Faith.
"Then are you punishing yourself for something? It isn't right, if youare. You'll be sick."
"I want to be sick. I'm not punishing myself. Go away."
"Where's her shoes and stockings?" asked Jerry of Una.
"She gave them to Lida Marsh."
"Lida Marsh? What for?"
"Because Lida had none--and her feet were so cold. And now she wants tobe sick so that she won't have to go to church to-morrow and wear herstriped stockings. But, Jerry, she may die."
"Faith," said Jerry, "get off that ice-bank or I'll pull you off."
"Pull away," dared Faith.
Jerry sprang at her and caught her arms. He pulled one way and Faithpulled another. Una ran behind Faith and pushed. Faith stormed at Jerryto leave her alone. Jerry stormed back at her not to be a dizzy idiot;and Una cried. They made no end of noise and they were close to the roadfence of the graveyard. Henry Warren and his wife drove by and heardand saw them. Very soon the Glen heard that the manse children had beenhaving an awful fight in the graveyard and using most improper language.Meanwhile, Faith had allowed herself to be pulled off the ice becauseher feet were aching so sharply that she was ready to get off any way.They all went in amiably and went to bed. Faith slept like a cheruband woke in the morning without a trace of a cold. She felt that shecouldn't feign sickness and act a lie, after remembering that long-agotalk with her father. But she was still as fully determined as ever thatshe would not wear those abominable stockings to church.