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The Story Girl
L >> Lucy Maud Montgomery >> The Story Girl Pages: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 This book has been put on-line as part of the BUILD-A-BOOK
Initiative at the Celebration of Women Writers through the
combined work of Leslee Suttie and Mary Mark Ockerbloom.
http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/
Reformatted by Ben Crowder
http://www.blankslate.net/lang/etexts.php
THE STORY GIRL
By L. M. MONTGOMERY
Author of "Anne of Green Gables," "Anne of Avonlea," "Kilmeny of
the Orchard," etc.
With frontispiece and cover in colour by
GEORGE GIBBS
"She was a form of life and light
That seen, became a part of sight,
And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye,
The morning-star of Memory!" --Byron.
TO MY COUSIN
Frederica E. Campbell
IN REMEMBRANCE OF OLD DAYS, OLD DREAMS,
AND OLD LAUGHTER
CONTENTS
I. The Home of Our Fathers
II. A Queen of Hearts
III. Legends of the Old Orchard
IV. The Wedding Veil of the Proud Princess
V. Peter Goes to Church
VI. The Mystery of Golden Milestone
VII. How Betty Sherman Won a Husband
VIII. A Tragedy of Childhood
IX. Magic Seed
X. A Daughter of Eve
XI. The Story Girl Does Penance
XII. The Blue Chest of Rachel Ward
XIII. An Old Proverb With a New Meaning
XIV. Forbidden Fruit
XV. A Disobedient Brother
XVI. The Ghostly Bell
XVII. The Proof of the Pudding
XVIII. How Kissing Was Discovered
XIX. A Dread Prophecy
XX. The Judgment Sunday
XXI. Dreamers of Dreams
XXII. The Dream Books
XXIII. Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On
XXIV. The Bewitchment of Pat
XXV. A Cup of Failure
XXVI. Peter Makes an Impression
XXVII. The Ordeal of Bitter Apples
XXVIII. The Tale of the Rainbow Bridge
XXIX. The Shadow Feared of Man
XXX. A Compound Letter
XXXI. On the Edge of Light and Dark
XXXII. The Opening of the Blue Chest
THE STORY GIRL
CHAPTER I. THE HOME OF OUR FATHERS
"I do like a road, because you can be always wondering what is at
the end of it."
The Story Girl said that once upon a time. Felix and I, on the
May morning when we left Toronto for Prince Edward Island, had
not then heard her say it, and, indeed, were but barely aware of
the existence of such a person as the Story Girl. We did not
know her at all under that name. We knew only that a cousin,
Sara Stanley, whose mother, our Aunt Felicity, was dead, was
living down on the Island with Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia King,
on a farm adjoining the old King homestead in Carlisle. We
supposed we should get acquainted with her when we reached there,
and we had an idea, from Aunt Olivia's letters to father, that
she would be quite a jolly creature. Further than that we did
not think about her. We were more interested in Felicity and
Cecily and Dan, who lived on the homestead and would therefore be
our roofmates for a season.
But the spirit of the Story Girl's yet unuttered remark was
thrilling in our hearts that morning, as the train pulled out of
Toronto. We were faring forth on a long road; and, though we had
some idea what would be at the end of it, there was enough
glamour of the unknown about it to lend a wonderful charm to our
speculations concerning it.
We were delighted at the thought of seeing father's old home, and
living among the haunts of his boyhood. He had talked so much to
us about it, and described its scenes so often and so minutely,
that he had inspired us with some of his own deep-seated
affection for it--an affection that had never waned in all his
years of exile. We had a vague feeling that we, somehow,
belonged there, in that cradle of our family, though we had never
seen it. We had always looked forward eagerly to the promised
day when father would take us "down home," to the old house with
the spruces behind it and the famous "King orchard" before
it--when we might ramble in "Uncle Stephen's Walk," drink from
the deep well with the Chinese roof over it, stand on "the Pulpit
Stone," and eat apples from our "birthday trees."
The time had come sooner than we had dared to hope; but father
could not take us after all. His firm asked him to go to Rio de
Janeiro that spring to take charge of their new branch there. It
was too good a chance to lose, for father was a poor man and it
meant promotion and increase of salary; but it also meant the
temporary breaking up of our home. Our mother had died before
either of us was old enough to remember her; father could not
take us to Rio de Janeiro. In the end he decided to send us to
Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet down on the homestead; and our
housekeeper, who belonged to the Island and was now returning to
it, took charge of us on the journey. I fear she had an anxious
trip of it, poor woman! She was constantly in a quite
justifiable terror lest we should be lost or killed; she must
have felt great relief when she reached Charlottetown and handed
us over to the keeping of Uncle Alec. Indeed, she said as much.
"The fat one isn't so bad. He isn't so quick to move and get out
of your sight while you're winking as the thin one. But the only
safe way to travel with those young ones would be to have 'em
both tied to you with a short rope--a MIGHTY short rope."
"The fat one" was Felix, who was very sensitive about his
plumpness. He was always taking exercises to make him thin, with
the dismal result that he became fatter all the time. He vowed
that he didn't care; but he DID care terribly, and he glowered at
Mrs. MacLaren in a most undutiful fashion. He had never liked
her since the day she had told him he would soon be as broad as
he was long.
For my own part, I was rather sorry to see her going; and she
cried over us and wished us well; but we had forgotten all about
her by the time we reached the open country, driving along, one
on either side of Uncle Alec, whom we loved from the moment we
saw him. He was a small man, with thin, delicate features,
close-clipped gray beard, and large, tired, blue eyes--father's
eyes over again. We knew that Uncle Alec was fond of children
and was heart-glad to welcome "Alan's boys." We felt at home
with him, and were not afraid to ask him questions on any subject
that came uppermost in our minds. We became very good friends
with him on that twenty-four mile drive.
Much to our disappointment it was dark when we reached
Carlisle--too dark to see anything very distinctly, as we drove
up the lane of the old King homestead on the hill. Behind us a
young moon was hanging over southwestern meadows of spring-time
peace, but all about us were the soft, moist shadows of a May
night. We peered eagerly through the gloom.
"There's the big willow, Bev," whispered Felix excitedly, as we
turned in at the gate.
There it was, in truth--the tree Grandfather King had planted
when he returned one evening from ploughing in the brook field
and stuck the willow switch he had used all day in the soft soil
by the gate.
It had taken root and grown; our father and our uncles and aunts
had played in its shadow; and now it was a massive thing, with a
huge girth of trunk and great spreading boughs, each of them as
large as a tree in itself.
"I'm going to climb it to-morrow," I said joyfully.
Off to the right was a dim, branching place which we knew was the
orchard; and on our left, among sibilant spruces and firs, was
the old, whitewashed house--from which presently a light gleamed
through an open door, and Aunt Janet, a big, bustling, sonsy
woman, with full-blown peony cheeks, came to welcome us.
Soon after we were at supper in the kitchen, with its low, dark,
raftered ceiling from which substantial hams and flitches of
bacon were hanging. Everything was just as father had described
it. We felt that we had come home, leaving exile behind us.
Felicity, Cecily, and Dan were sitting opposite us, staring at us
when they thought we would be too busy eating to see them. We
tried to stare at them when THEY were eating; and as a result we
were always catching each other at it and feeling cheap and
embarrassed.
Dan was the oldest; he was my age--thirteen. He was a lean,
freckled fellow with rather long, lank, brown hair and the
shapely King nose. We recognized it at once. His mouth was his
own, however, for it was like to no mouth on either the King or
the Ward side; and nobody would have been anxious to claim it,
for it was an undeniably ugly one--long and narrow and twisted.
But it could grin in friendly fashion, and both Felix and I felt
that we were going to like Dan.
Felicity was twelve. She had been called after Aunt Felicity, who
was the twin sister of Uncle Felix. Aunt Felicity and Uncle
Felix, as father had often told us, had died on the same day, far
apart, and were buried side by side in the old Carlisle
graveyard.
We had known from Aunt Olivia's letters, that Felicity was the
beauty of the connection, and we had been curious to see her on
that account. She fully justified our expectations. She was
plump and dimpled, with big, dark-blue, heavy-lidded eyes, soft,
feathery, golden curls, and a pink and white skin--"the King
complexion." The Kings were noted for their noses and
complexion. Felicity had also delightful hands and wrists. At
every turn of them a dimple showed itself. It was a pleasure to
wonder what her elbows must be like.
She was very nicely dressed in a pink print and a frilled muslin
apron; and we understood, from something Dan said, that she had
"dressed up" in honour of our coming. This made us feel quite
important. So far as we knew, no feminine creatures had ever
gone to the pains of dressing up on our account before.
Cecily, who was eleven, was pretty also--or would have been had
Felicity not been there. Felicity rather took the colour from
other girls. Cecily looked pale and thin beside her; but she had
dainty little features, smooth brown hair of satin sheen, and
mild brown eyes, with just a hint of demureness in them now and
again. We remembered that Aunt Olivia had written to father that
Cecily was a true Ward--she had no sense of humour. We did not
know what this meant, but we thought it was not exactly
complimentary.
Still, we were both inclined to think we would like Cecily better
than Felicity. To be sure, Felicity was a stunning beauty. But,
with the swift and unerring intuition of childhood, which feels
in a moment what it sometimes takes maturity much time to
perceive, we realized that she was rather too well aware of her
good looks. In brief, we saw that Felicity was vain.
"It's a wonder the Story Girl isn't over to see you," said Uncle
Alec. "She's been quite wild with excitement about your coming."
"She hasn't been very well all day," explained Cecily, "and Aunt
Olivia wouldn't let her come out in the night air. She made her
go to bed instead. The Story Girl was awfully disappointed."
"Who is the Story Girl?" asked Felix.
"Oh, Sara--Sara Stanley. We call her the Story Girl partly
because she's such a hand to tell stories--oh, I can't begin to
describe it--and partly because Sara Ray, who lives at the foot
of the hill, often comes up to play with us, and it is awkward to
have two girls of the same name in the same crowd. Besides, Sara
Stanley doesn't like her name and she'd rather be called the
Story Girl."
Dan speaking for the first time, rather sheepishly volunteered
the information that Peter had also been intending to come over
but had to go home to take some flour to his mother instead.
"Peter?" I questioned. I had never heard of any Peter.
"He is your Uncle Roger's handy boy," said Uncle Alec. "His name
is Peter Craig, and he is a real smart little chap. But he's got
his share of mischief, that same lad."
"He wants to be Felicity's beau," said Dan slyly.
"Don't talk silly nonsense, Dan," said Aunt Janet severely.
Felicity tossed her golden head and shot an unsisterly glance at
Dan.
"I wouldn't be very likely to have a hired boy for a beau," she
observed.
We saw that her anger was real, not affected. Evidently Peter
was not an admirer of whom Felicity was proud.
We were very hungry boys; and when we had eaten all we could--and
oh, what suppers Aunt Janet always spread!--we discovered that we
were very tired also--too tired to go out and explore our
ancestral domains, as we would have liked to do, despite the
dark.
We were quite willing to go to bed; and presently we found
ourselves tucked away upstairs in the very room, looking out
eastward into the spruce grove, which father had once occupied.
Dan shared it with us, sleeping in a bed of his own in the
opposite corner. The sheets and pillow-slips were fragrant with
lavender, and one of Grandmother King's noted patchwork quilts
was over us. The window was open and we heard the frogs singing
down in the swamp of the brook meadow. We had heard frogs sing
in Ontario, of course; but certainly Prince Edward Island frogs
were more tuneful and mellow. Or was it simply the glamour of
old family traditions and tales which was over us, lending its
magic to all sights and sounds around us? This was home--
father's home--OUR home! We had never lived long enough in any
one house to develop a feeling of affection for it; but here,
under the roof-tree built by Great-Grandfather King ninety years
ago, that feeling swept into our boyish hearts and souls like a
flood of living sweetness and tenderness.
"Just think, those are the very frogs father listened to when he
was a little boy," whispered Felix.
"They can hardly be the SAME frogs," I objected doubtfully, not
feeling very certain about the possible longevity of frogs.
"It's twenty years since father left home."
"Well, they're the descendants of the frogs he heard," said
Felix, "and they're singing in the same swamp. That's near
enough."
Our door was open and in their room across the narrow hall the
girls were preparing for bed, and talking rather more loudly than
they might have done had they realized how far their sweet,
shrill voices carried.
"What do you think of the boys?" asked Cecily.
"Beverley is handsome, but Felix is too fat," answered Felicity
promptly.
Felix twitched the quilt rather viciously and grunted. But I
began to think I would like Felicity. It might not be altogether
her fault that she was vain. How could she help it when she
looked in the mirror?
"I think they're both nice and nice looking," said Cecily.
Dear little soul!
"I wonder what the Story Girl will think of them," said Felicity,
as if, after all, that was the main thing.
Somehow, we, too, felt that it was. We felt that if the Story
Girl did not approve of us it made little difference who else did
or did not.
"I wonder if the Story Girl is pretty," said Felix aloud.
"No, she isn't," said Dan instantly, from across the room. "But
you'll think she is while she's talking to you. Everybody does.
It's only when you go away from her that you find out she isn't a
bit pretty after all."
The girls' door shut with a bang. Silence fell over the house.
We drifted into the land of sleep, wondering if the Story Girl
would like us.
CHAPTER II. A QUEEN OF HEARTS
I wakened shortly after sunrise. The pale May sunshine was
showering through the spruces, and a chill, inspiring wind was
tossing the boughs about.
"Felix, wake up," I whispered, shaking him.
"What's the matter?" he murmured reluctantly.
"It's morning. Let's get up and go down and out. I can't wait
another minute to see the places father has told us of."
We slipped out of bed and dressed, without arousing Dan, who was
still slumbering soundly, his mouth wide open, and his
bed-clothes kicked off on the floor. I had hard work to keep
Felix from trying to see if he could "shy" a marble into that
tempting open mouth. I told him it would waken Dan, who would
then likely insist on getting up and accompanying us, and it
would be so much nicer to go by ourselves for the first time.
Everything was very still as we crept downstairs. Out in the
kitchen we heard some one, presumably Uncle Alec, lighting the
fire; but the heart of house had not yet begun to beat for the
day.
We paused a moment in the hall to look at the big "Grandfather"
clock. It was not going, but it seemed like an old, familiar
acquaintance to us, with the gilt balls on its three peaks; the
little dial and pointer which would indicate the changes of the
moon, and the very dent in its wooden door which father had made
when he was a boy, by kicking it in a fit of naughtiness.
Then we opened the front door and stepped out, rapture swelling
in our bosoms. There was a rare breeze from the south blowing to
meet us; the shadows of the spruces were long and clear-cut; the
exquisite skies of early morning, blue and wind-winnowed, were
over us; away to the west, beyond the brook field, was a long
valley and a hill purple with firs and laced with still leafless
beeches and maples.
Behind the house was a grove of fir and spruce, a dim, cool place
where the winds were fond of purring and where there was always a
resinous, woodsy odour. On the further side of it was a thick
plantation of slender silver birches and whispering poplars; and
beyond it was Uncle Roger's house.
Right before us, girt about with its trim spruce hedge, was the
famous King orchard, the history of which was woven into our
earliest recollections. We knew all about it, from father's
descriptions, and in fancy we had roamed in it many a time and
oft.
It was now nearly sixty years since it had had its beginning,
when Grandfather King brought his bride home. Before the wedding
he had fenced off the big south meadow that sloped to the sun; it
was the finest, most fertile field on the farm, and the
neighbours told young Abraham King that he would raise many a
fine crop of wheat in that meadow. Abraham King smiled and,
being a man of few words, said nothing; but in his mind he had a
vision of the years to be, and in that vision he saw, not
rippling acres of harvest gold, but great, leafy avenues of
wide-spreading trees laden with fruit to gladden the eyes of
children and grandchildren yet unborn.
It was a vision to develop slowly into fulfilment. Grandfather
King was in no hurry. He did not set his whole orchard out at
once, for he wished it to grow with his life and history, and be
bound up with all of good and joy that should come to his
household. So the morning after he had brought his young wife
home they went together to the south meadow and planted their
bridal trees. These trees were no longer living; but they had
been when father was a boy, and every spring bedecked themselves
in blossom as delicately tinted as Elizabeth King's face when she
walked through the old south meadow in the morn of her life and
love.
When a son was born to Abraham and Elizabeth a tree was planted
in the orchard for him. They had fourteen children in all, and
each child had its "birth tree." Every family festival was
commemorated in like fashion, and every beloved visitor who spent
a night under their roof was expected to plant a tree in the
orchard. So it came to pass that every tree in it was a fair
green monument to some love or delight of the vanished years.
And each grandchild had its tree, there, also, set out by
grandfather when the tidings of its birth reached him; not always
an apple tree--perhaps it was a plum, or cherry or pear. But it
was always known by the name of the person for whom, or by whom,
it was planted; and Felix and I knew as much about "Aunt
Felicity's pears," and "Aunt Julia's cherries," and "Uncle Alec's
apples," and the "Rev. Mr. Scott's plums," as if we had been born
and bred among them.
And now we had come to the orchard; it was before us; we had only
to open that little whitewashed gate in the hedge and we might
find ourselves in its storied domain. But before we reached the
gate we glanced to our left, along the grassy, spruce-bordered
lane which led over to Uncle Roger's; and at the entrance of that
lane we saw a girl standing, with a gray cat at her feet. She
lifted her hand and beckoned blithely to us; and, the orchard
forgotten, we followed her summons. For we knew that this must
be the Story Girl; and in that gay and graceful gesture was an
allurement not to be gainsaid or denied.
We looked at her as we drew near with such interest that we
forgot to feel shy. No, she was not pretty. She was tall for
her fourteen years, slim and straight; around her long, white
face--rather too long and too white--fell sleek, dark-brown
curls, tied above either ear with rosettes of scarlet ribbon.
Her large, curving mouth was as red as a poppy, and she had
brilliant, almond-shaped, hazel eyes; but we did not think her
pretty.
Then she spoke; she said,
"Good morning."
Never had we heard a voice like hers. Never, in all my life
since, have I heard such a voice. I cannot describe it. I might
say it was clear; I might say it was sweet; I might say it was
vibrant and far-reaching and bell-like; all this would be true,
but it would give you no real idea of the peculiar quality which
made the Story Girl's voice what it was.
If voices had colour, hers would have been like a rainbow. It
made words LIVE. Whatever she said became a breathing entity,
not a mere verbal statement or utterance. Felix and I were too
young to understand or analyze the impression it made upon us;
but we instantly felt at her greeting that it WAS a good
morning--a surpassingly good morning -- the very best morning
that had ever happened in this most excellent of worlds.
"You are Felix and Beverley," she went on, shaking our hands with
an air of frank comradeship, which was very different from the
shy, feminine advances of Felicity and Cecily. From that moment
we were as good friends as if we had known each other for a
hundred years. "I am glad to see you. I was so disappointed I
couldn't go over last night. I got up early this morning,
though, for I felt sure you would be up early, too, and that
you'd like to have me tell you about things. I can tell things
so much better than Felicity or Cecily. Do you think Felicity is
VERY pretty?"
"She's the prettiest girl I ever saw," I said enthusiastically,
remembering that Felicity had called me handsome.
"The boys all think so," said the Story Girl, not, I fancied,
quite well pleased. "And I suppose she is. She is a splendid
cook, too, though she is only twelve. I can't cook. I am trying
to learn, but I don't make much progress. Aunt Olivia says I
haven't enough natural gumption ever to be a cook; but I'd love
to be able to make as good cakes and pies as Felicity can make.
But then, Felicity is stupid. It's not ill-natured of me to say
that. It's just the truth, and you'd soon find it out for
yourselves. I like Felicity very well, but she IS stupid.
Cecily is ever so much cleverer. Cecily's a dear. So is Uncle
Alec; and Aunt Janet is pretty nice, too."
"What is Aunt Olivia like?" asked Felix.
"Aunt Olivia is very pretty. She is just like a pansy--all
velvety and purply and goldy."
Felix and I SAW, somewhere inside of our heads, a velvet and
purple and gold pansy-woman, just as the Story Girl spoke.
"But is she NICE?" I asked. That was the main question about
grown-ups. Their looks mattered little to us.
"She is lovely. But she is twenty-nine, you know. That's pretty
old. She doesn't bother me much. Aunt Janet says that I'd have
no bringing up at all, if it wasn't for her. Aunt Olivia says
children should just be let COME up--that everything else is
settled for them long before they are born. I don't understand
that. Do you?"
No, we did not. But it was our experience that grown-ups had a
habit of saying things hard to understand.
"What is Uncle Roger like?" was our next question.
"Well, I like Uncle Roger," said the Story Girl meditatively.
"He is big and jolly. But he teases people too much. You ask
him a serious question and you get a ridiculous answer. He
hardly ever scolds or gets cross, though, and THAT is something.
He is an old bachelor."
"Doesn't he ever mean to get married?" asked Felix.
"I don't know. Aunt Olivia wishes he would, because she's tired
keeping house for him, and she wants to go to Aunt Julia in
California. But she says he'll never get married, because he is
looking for perfection, and when he finds her she won't have
HIM."
By this time we were all sitting down on the gnarled roots of the
spruces, and the big gray cat came over and made friends with us.
He was a lordly animal, with a silver-gray coat beautifully
marked with darker stripes. With such colouring most cats would
have had white or silver feet; but he had four black paws and a
black nose. Such points gave him an air of distinction, and
marked him out as quite different from the common or garden
variety of cats. He seemed to be a cat with a tolerably good
opinion of himself, and his response to our advances was slightly
tinged with condescension.
"This isn't Topsy, is it?" I asked. I knew at once that the
question was a foolish one. Topsy, the cat of which father had
talked, had flourished thirty years before, and all her nine
lives could scarcely have lasted so long.
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