CHAPTER V. THE ADVENT OF MARY VANCE
"This is just the sort of day you feel as if things might happen," saidFaith, responsive to the lure of crystal air and blue hills. She huggedherself with delight and danced a hornpipe on old Hezekiah Pollock'sbench tombstone, much to the horror of two ancient maidens who happenedto be driving past just as Faith hopped on one foot around the stone,waving the other and her arms in the air.
"And that," groaned one ancient maiden, "is our minister's daughter."
"What else could you expect of a widower's family?" groaned the otherancient maiden. And then they both shook their heads.
It was early on Saturday morning and the Merediths were out in thedew-drenched world with a delightful consciousness of the holiday. Theyhad never had anything to do on a holiday. Even Nan and Di Blythe hadcertain household tasks for Saturday mornings, but the daughters of themanse were free to roam from blushing morn to dewy eve if so it pleasedthem. It DID please Faith, but Una felt a secret, bitter humiliationbecause they never learned to do anything. The other girls in her classat school could cook and sew and knit; she only was a little ignoramus.
Jerry suggested that they go exploring; so they went lingeringly throughthe fir grove, picking up Carl on the way, who was on his knees in thedripping grass studying his darling ants. Beyond the grove they came outin Mr. Taylor's pasture field, sprinkled over with the white ghosts ofdandelions; in a remote corner was an old tumbledown barn, where Mr.Taylor sometimes stored his surplus hay crop but which was never usedfor any other purpose. Thither the Meredith children trooped, andprowled about the ground floor for several minutes.
"What was that?" whispered Una suddenly.
They all listened. There was a faint but distinct rustle in the hayloftabove. The Merediths looked at each other.
"There's something up there," breathed Faith.
"I'm going up to see what it is," said Jerry resolutely.
"Oh, don't," begged Una, catching his arm.
"I'm going."
"We'll all go, too, then," said Faith.
The whole four climbed the shaky ladder, Jerry and Faith quitedauntless, Una pale from fright, and Carl rather absent-mindedlyspeculating on the possibility of finding a bat up in the loft. Helonged to see a bat in daylight.
When they stepped off the ladder they saw what had made the rustle andthe sight struck them dumb for a few moments.
In a little nest in the hay a girl was curled up, looking as if she hadjust wakened from sleep. When she saw them she stood up, rather shakily,as it seemed, and in the bright sunlight that streamed through thecobwebbed window behind her, they saw that her thin, sunburned face wasvery pale under its tan. She had two braids of lank, thick, tow-colouredhair and very odd eyes--"white eyes," the manse children thought, as shestared at them half defiantly, half piteously. They were really of sopale a blue that they did seem almost white, especially when contrastedwith the narrow black ring that circled the iris. She was barefooted andbareheaded, and was clad in a faded, ragged, old plaid dress, much tooshort and tight for her. As for years, she might have been almost anyage, judging from her wizened little face, but her height seemed to besomewhere in the neighbourhood of twelve.
"Who are you?" asked Jerry.
The girl looked about her as if seeking a way of escape. Then she seemedto give in with a little shiver of despair.
"I'm Mary Vance," she said.
"Where'd you come from?" pursued Jerry.
Mary, instead of replying, suddenly sat, or fell, down on the hay andbegan to cry. Instantly Faith had flung herself down beside her and puther arm around the thin, shaking shoulders.
"You stop bothering her," she commanded Jerry. Then she hugged the waif."Don't cry, dear. Just tell us what's the matter. WE'RE friends."
"I'm so--so--hungry," wailed Mary. "I--I hain't had a thing to eat sinceThursday morning, 'cept a little water from the brook out there."
The manse children gazed at each other in horror. Faith sprang up.
"You come right up to the manse and get something to eat before you sayanother word."
Mary shrank.
"Oh--I can't. What will your pa and ma say? Besides, they'd send meback."
"We've no mother, and father won't bother about you. Neither will AuntMartha. Come, I say." Faith stamped her foot impatiently. Was this queergirl going to insist on starving to death almost at their very door?
Mary yielded. She was so weak that she could hardly climb down theladder, but somehow they got her down and over the field and into themanse kitchen. Aunt Martha, muddling through her Saturday cooking, tookno notice of her. Faith and Una flew to the pantry and ransacked it forsuch eatables as it contained--some "ditto," bread, butter, milk and adoubtful pie. Mary Vance attacked the food ravenously and uncritically,while the manse children stood around and watched her. Jerry noticedthat she had a pretty mouth and very nice, even, white teeth. Faithdecided, with secret horror, that Mary had not one stitch on her exceptthat ragged, faded dress. Una was full of pure pity, Carl of amusedwonder, and all of them of curiosity.
"Now come out to the graveyard and tell us about yourself," orderedFaith, when Mary's appetite showed signs of failing her. Mary was nownothing loath. Food had restored her natural vivacity and unloosed herby no means reluctant tongue.
"You won't tell your pa or anybody if I tell you?" she stipulated, whenshe was enthroned on Mr. Pollock's tombstone. Opposite her the mansechildren lined up on another. Here was spice and mystery and adventure.Something HAD happened.
"No, we won't."
"Cross your hearts?"
"Cross our hearts."
"Well, I've run away. I was living with Mrs. Wiley over-harbour. Do youknow Mrs. Wiley?"
"No."
"Well, you don't want to know her. She's an awful woman. My, how I hateher! She worked me to death and wouldn't give me half enough to eat, andshe used to larrup me 'most every day. Look a-here."
Mary rolled up her ragged sleeves, and held up her scrawny arms andthin hands, chapped almost to rawness. They were black with bruises. Themanse children shivered. Faith flushed crimson with indignation. Una'sblue eyes filled with tears.
"She licked me Wednesday night with a stick," said Mary, indifferently."It was 'cause I let the cow kick over a pail of milk. How'd I know thedarn old cow was going to kick?"
A not unpleasant thrill ran over her listeners. They would never dreamof using such dubious words, but it was rather titivating to hearsomeone else use them--and a girl, at that. Certainly this Mary Vancewas an interesting creature.
"I don't blame you for running away," said Faith.
"Oh, I didn't run away 'cause she licked me. A licking was all in theday's work with me. I was darn well used to it. Nope, I'd meant to runaway for a week 'cause I'd found out that Mrs. Wiley was going to renther farm and go to Lowbridge to live and give me to a cousin of hersup Charlottetown way. I wasn't going to stand for THAT. She was a worsesort than Mrs. Wiley even. Mrs. Wiley lent me to her for a month lastsummer and I'd rather live with the devil himself."
Sensation number two. But Una looked doubtful.
"So I made up my mind I'd beat it. I had seventy cents saved up thatMrs. John Crawford give me in the spring for planting potatoes for her.Mrs. Wiley didn't know about it. She was away visiting her cousin whenI planted them. I thought I'd sneak up here to the Glen and buy a ticketto Charlottetown and try to get work there. I'm a hustler, let me tellyou. There ain't a lazy bone in MY body. So I lit out Thursday morning'fore Mrs. Wiley was up and walked to the Glen--six miles. And when Igot to the station I found I'd lost my money. Dunno how--dunno where.Anyhow, it was gone. I didn't know what to do. If I went back to oldLady Wiley she'd take the hide off me. So I went and hid in that oldbarn."
"And what will you do now?" asked Jerry.
"Dunno. I s'pose I'll have to go back and take my medicine. Now thatI've got some grub in my stomach I guess I can stand it."
But there was fear behind the bravado in Mary's eyes. Un
a suddenlyslipped from the one tombstone to the other and put her arm about Mary.
"Don't go back. Just stay here with us."
"Oh, Mrs. Wiley'll hunt me up," said Mary. "It's likely she's on mytrail before this. I might stay here till she finds me, I s'pose, ifyour folks don't mind. I was a darn fool ever to think of skipping out.She'd run a weasel to earth. But I was so misrebul."
Mary's voice quivered, but she was ashamed of showing her weakness.
"I hain't had the life of a dog for these four years," she explaineddefiantly.
"You've been four years with Mrs. Wiley?"
"Yip. She took me out of the asylum over in Hopetown when I was eight."
"That's the same place Mrs. Blythe came from," exclaimed Faith.
"I was two years in the asylum. I was put there when I was six. My mahad hung herself and my pa had cut his throat."
"Holy cats! Why?" said Jerry.
"Booze," said Mary laconically.
"And you've no relations?"
"Not a darn one that I know of. Must have had some once, though. I wascalled after half a dozen of them. My full name is Mary Martha LucillaMoore Ball Vance. Can you beat that? My grandfather was a rich man. I'llbet he was richer than YOUR grandfather. But pa drunk it all up and ma,she did her part. THEY used to beat me, too. Laws, I've been licked somuch I kind of like it."
Mary tossed her head. She divined that the manse children were pityingher for her many stripes and she did not want pity. She wanted to beenvied. She looked gaily about her. Her strange eyes, now that thedullness of famine was removed from them, were brilliant. She would showthese youngsters what a personage she was.
"I've been sick an awful lot," she said proudly. "There's not many kidscould have come through what I have. I've had scarlet fever and measlesand ersipelas and mumps and whooping cough and pewmonia."
"Were you ever fatally sick?" asked Una.
"I don't know," said Mary doubtfully.
"Of course she wasn't," scoffed Jerry. "If you're fatally sick you die."
"Oh, well, I never died exactly," said Mary, "but I come blamed near itonce. They thought I was dead and they were getting ready to lay me outwhen I up and come to."
"What is it like to be half dead?" asked Jerry curiously.
"Like nothing. I didn't know it for days afterwards. It was when I hadthe pewmonia. Mrs. Wiley wouldn't have the doctor--said she wasn'tgoing to no such expense for a home girl. Old Aunt Christina MacAllisternursed me with poultices. She brung me round. But sometimes I wish I'djust died the other half and done with it. I'd been better off."
"If you went to heaven I s'pose you would," said Faith, ratherdoubtfully.
"Well, what other place is there to go to?" demanded Mary in a puzzledvoice.
"There's hell, you know," said Una, dropping her voice and hugging Maryto lessen the awfulness of the suggestion.
"Hell? What's that?"
"Why, it's where the devil lives," said Jerry. "You've heard of him--youspoke about him."
"Oh, yes, but I didn't know he lived anywhere. I thought he just roamedround. Mr. Wiley used to mention hell when he was alive. He was alwaystelling folks to go there. I thought it was some place over in NewBrunswick where he come from."
"Hell is an awful place," said Faith, with the dramatic enjoyment thatis born of telling dreadful things. "Bad people go there when they dieand burn in fire for ever and ever and ever."
"Who told you that?" demanded Mary incredulously.
"It's in the Bible. And Mr. Isaac Crothers at Maywater told us, too, inSunday School. He was an elder and a pillar in the church and knew allabout it. But you needn't worry. If you're good you'll go to heaven andif you're bad I guess you'd rather go to hell."
"I wouldn't," said Mary positively. "No matter how bad I was I wouldn'twant to be burned and burned. _I_ know what it's like. I picked up a redhot poker once by accident. What must you do to be good?"
"You must go to church and Sunday School and read your Bible and prayevery night and give to missions," said Una.
"It sounds like a large order," said Mary. "Anything else?"
"You must ask God to forgive the sins you've committed.
"But I've never com--committed any," said Mary. "What's a sin any way?"
"Oh, Mary, you must have. Everybody does. Did you never tell a lie?"
"Heaps of 'em," said Mary.
"That's a dreadful sin," said Una solemnly.
"Do you mean to tell me," demanded Mary, "that I'd be sent to hell fortelling a lie now and then? Why, I HAD to. Mr. Wiley would have brokenevery bone in my body one time if I hadn't told him a lie. Lies havesaved me many a whack, I can tell you."
Una sighed. Here were too many difficulties for her to solve. Sheshuddered as she thought of being cruelly whipped. Very likely she wouldhave lied too. She squeezed Mary's little calloused hand.
"Is that the only dress you've got?" asked Faith, whose joyous naturerefused to dwell on disagreeable subjects.
"I just put on this dress because it was no good," cried Mary flushing."Mrs. Wiley'd bought my clothes and I wasn't going to be beholden to herfor anything. And I'm honest. If I was going to run away I wasn't goingto take what belong to HER that was worth anything. When I grow upI'm going to have a blue sating dress. Your own clothes don't look sostylish. I thought ministers' children were always dressed up."
It was plain that Mary had a temper and was sensitive on some points.But there was a queer, wild charm about her which captivated them all.She was taken to Rainbow Valley that afternoon and introduced to theBlythes as "a friend of ours from over-harbour who is visiting us." TheBlythes accepted her unquestioningly, perhaps because she was fairlyrespectable now. After dinner--through which Aunt Martha had mumbled andMr. Meredith had been in a state of semi-unconsciousness while broodinghis Sunday sermon--Faith had prevailed on Mary to put on one of herdresses, as well as certain other articles of clothing. With her hairneatly braided Mary passed muster tolerably well. She was an acceptableplaymate, for she knew several new and exciting games, and herconversation lacked not spice. In fact, some of her expressions made Nanand Di look at her rather askance. They were not quite sure what theirmother would have thought of her, but they knew quite well what Susanwould. However, she was a visitor at the manse, so she must be allright.
When bedtime came there was the problem of where Mary should sleep.
"We can't put her in the spare room, you know," said Faith perplexedlyto Una.
"I haven't got anything in my head," cried Mary in an injured tone.
"Oh, I didn't mean THAT," protested Faith. "The spare room is all tornup. The mice have gnawed a big hole in the feather tick and made a nestin it. We never found it out till Aunt Martha put the Rev. Mr. Fisherfrom Charlottetown there to sleep last week. HE soon found it out.Then father had to give him his bed and sleep on the study lounge. AuntMartha hasn't had time to fix the spare room bed up yet, so she says;so NOBODY can sleep there, no matter how clean their heads are. And ourroom is so small, and the bed so small you can't sleep with us."
"I can go back to the hay in the old barn for the night if you'll lendme a quilt," said Mary philosophically. "It was kind of chilly lastnight, but 'cept for that I've had worse beds."
"Oh, no, no, you mustn't do that," said Una. "I've thought of a plan,Faith. You know that little trestle bed in the garret room, with theold mattress on it, that the last minister left there? Let's take up thespare room bedclothes and make Mary a bed there. You won't mind sleepingin the garret, will you, Mary? It's just above our room."
"Any place'll do me. Laws, I never had a decent place to sleep in mylife. I slept in the loft over the kitchen at Mrs. Wiley's. The roofleaked rain in the summer and the snow druv in in winter. My bed was astraw tick on the floor. You won't find me a mite huffy about where _I_sleep."
The manse garret was a long, low, shadowy place, with one gableend partitioned off. Here a bed was made up for Mary of the daintyhemstitched sheets and embroidered spread which Cecili
a Meredith hadonce so proudly made for her spare-room, and which still survived AuntMartha's uncertain washings. The good nights were said and silence fellover the manse. Una was just falling asleep when she heard a sound inthe room just above that made her sit up suddenly.
"Listen, Faith--Mary's crying," she whispered. Faith replied not, beingalready asleep. Una slipped out of bed, and made her way in her littlewhite gown down the hall and up the garret stairs. The creaking floorgave ample notice of her coming, and when she reached the corner roomall was moonlit silence and the trestle bed showed only a hump in themiddle.
"Mary," whispered Una.
There was no response.
Una crept close to the bed and pulled at the spread. "Mary, I know youare crying. I heard you. Are you lonesome?"
Mary suddenly appeared to view but said nothing.
"Let me in beside you. I'm cold," said Una shivering in the chilly air,for the little garret window was open and the keen breath of the northshore at night blew in.
Mary moved over and Una snuggled down beside her.
"NOW you won't be lonesome. We shouldn't have left you here alone thefirst night."
"I wasn't lonesome," sniffed Mary.
"What were you crying for then?"
"Oh, I just got to thinking of things when I was here alone. I thoughtof having to go back to Mrs. Wiley--and of being licked for runningaway--and--and--and of going to hell for telling lies. It all worried mesomething scandalous."
"Oh, Mary," said poor Una in distress. "I don't believe God will sendyou to hell for telling lies when you didn't know it was wrong. HeCOULDN'T. Why, He's kind and good. Of course, you mustn't tell any morenow that you know it's wrong."
"If I can't tell lies what's to become of me?" said Mary with a sob."YOU don't understand. You don't know anything about it. You've got ahome and a kind father--though it does seem to me that he isn't more'nabout half there. But anyway he doesn't lick you, and you get enough toeat such as it is--though that old aunt of yours doesn't know ANYTHINGabout cooking. Why, this is the first day I ever remember of feeling'sif I'd enough to eat. I've been knocked about all of my life, 'ceptfor the two years I was at the asylum. They didn't lick me there and itwasn't too bad, though the matron was cross. She always looked ready tobite my head off a nail. But Mrs. Wiley is a holy terror, that's whatSHE is, and I'm just scared stiff when I think of going back to her."
"Perhaps you won't have to. Perhaps we'll be able to think of a way out.Let's both ask God to keep you from having to go back to Mrs. Wiley. Yousay your prayers, don't you Mary?"
"Oh, yes, I always go over an old rhyme 'fore I get into bed," said Maryindifferently. "I never thought of asking for anything in particularthough. Nobody in this world ever bothered themselves about me so Ididn't s'pose God would. He MIGHT take more trouble for you, seeingyou're a minister's daughter."
"He'd take every bit as much trouble for you, Mary, I'm sure," said Una."It doesn't matter whose child you are. You just ask Him--and I will,too."
"All right," agreed Mary. "It won't do any harm if it doesn't do muchgood. If you knew Mrs. Wiley as well as I do you wouldn't think Godwould want to meddle with her. Anyhow, I won't cry any more about it.This is a big sight better'n last night down in that old barn, with themice running about. Look at the Four Winds light. Ain't it pretty?"
"This is the only window we can see it from," said Una. "I love to watchit."
"Do you? So do I. I could see it from the Wiley loft and it was the onlycomfort I had. When I was all sore from being licked I'd watch it andforget about the places that hurt. I'd think of the ships sailingaway and away from it and wish I was on one of them sailing far awaytoo--away from everything. On winter nights when it didn't shine, I justfelt real lonesome. Say, Una, what makes all you folks so kind to mewhen I'm just a stranger?"
"Because it's right to be. The bible tells us to be kind to everybody."
"Does it? Well, I guess most folks don't mind it much then. I neverremember of any one being kind to me before--true's you live I don't.Say, Una, ain't them shadows on the walls pretty? They look just likea flock of little dancing birds. And say, Una, I like all you folks andthem Blythe boys and Di, but I don't like that Nan. She's a proud one."
"Oh, no, Mary, she isn't a bit proud," said Una eagerly. "Not a singlebit."
"Don't tell me. Any one that holds her head like that IS proud. I don'tlike her."
"WE all like her very much."
"Oh, I s'pose you like her better'n me?" said Mary jealously. "Do you?"
"Why, Mary--we've known her for weeks and we've only known you a fewhours," stammered Una.
"So you do like her better then?" said Mary in a rage. "All right! Likeher all you want to. _I_ don't care. _I_ can get along without you."
She flung herself over against the wall of the garret with a slam.
"Oh, Mary," said Una, pushing a tender arm over Mary's uncompromisingback, "don't talk like that. I DO like you ever so much. And you make mefeel so bad."
No answer. Presently Una gave a sob. Instantly Mary squirmed aroundagain and engulfed Una in a bear's hug.
"Hush up," she ordered. "Don't go crying over what I said. I was as meanas the devil to talk that way. I orter to be skinned alive--and youall so good to me. I should think you WOULD like any one better'n me. Ideserve every licking I ever got. Hush, now. If you cry any more I'llgo and walk right down to the harbour in this night-dress and drownmyself."
This terrible threat made Una choke back her sobs. Her tears were wipedaway by Mary with the lace frill of the spare-room pillow and forgiverand forgiven cuddled down together again, harmony restored, to watch theshadows of the vine leaves on the moonlit wall until they fell asleep.
And in the study below Rev. John Meredith walked the floor with raptface and shining eyes, thinking out his message of the morrow, and knewnot that under his own roof there was a little forlorn soul, stumblingin darkness and ignorance, beset by terror and compassed about withdifficulties too great for it to grapple in its unequal struggle with abig indifferent world.