CHAPTER VIII. MISS CORNELIA INTERVENES
Miss Cornelia descended upon the manse the next day and cross-questionedMary, who, being a young person of considerable discernment andastuteness, told her story simple and truthfully, with an entire absenceof complaint or bravado. Miss Cornelia was more favourably impressedthan she had expected to be, but deemed it her duty to be severe.
"Do you think," she said sternly, "that you showed your gratitude tothis family, who have been far too kind to you, by insulting and chasingone of their little friends as you did yesterday?"
"Say, it was rotten mean of me," admitted Mary easily. "I dunno whatpossessed me. That old codfish seemed to come in so blamed handy. But Iwas awful sorry--I cried last night after I went to bed about it, honestI did. You ask Una if I didn't. I wouldn't tell her what for 'causeI was ashamed of it, and then she cried, too, because she was afraidsomeone had hurt my feelings. Laws, _I_ ain't got any feelings to hurtworth speaking of. What worries me is why Mrs. Wiley hain't been huntingfor me. It ain't like her."
Miss Cornelia herself thought it rather peculiar, but she merelyadmonished Mary sharply not to take any further liberties with theminister's codfish, and went to report progress at Ingleside.
"If the child's story is true the matter ought to be looked into," shesaid. "I know something about that Wiley woman, believe ME. Marshallused to be well acquainted with her when he lived over-harbour. I heardhim say something last summer about her and a home child she had--likelythis very Mary-creature. He said some one told him she was working thechild to death and not half feeding and clothing it. You know, Annedearie, it has always been my habit neither to make nor meddle withthose over-harbour folks. But I shall send Marshall over to-morrowto find out the rights of this if he can. And THEN I'll speak to theminister. Mind you, Anne dearie, the Merediths found this girl literallystarving in James Taylor's old hay barn. She had been there all night,cold and hungry and alone. And us sleeping warm in our beds after goodsuppers."
"The poor little thing," said Anne, picturing one of her own dearbabies, cold and hungry and alone in such circumstances. "If she hasbeen ill-used, Miss Cornelia, she mustn't be taken back to such a place._I_ was an orphan once in a very similar situation."
"We'll have to consult the Hopetown asylum folks," said Miss Cornelia."Anyway, she can't be left at the manse. Dear knows what those poorchildren might learn from her. I understand that she has been known toswear. But just think of her being there two whole weeks and Mr Meredithnever waking up to it! What business has a man like that to have afamily? Why, Anne dearie, he ought to be a monk."
Two evenings later Miss Cornelia was back at Ingleside.
"It's the most amazing thing!" she said. "Mrs. Wiley was found dead inher bed the very morning after this Mary-creature ran away. She has hada bad heart for years and the doctor had warned her it might happen atany time. She had sent away her hired man and there was nobody in thehouse. Some neighbours found her the next day. They missed the child,it seems, but supposed Mrs. Wiley had sent her to her cousin nearCharlottetown as she had said she was going to do. The cousin didn'tcome to the funeral and so nobody ever knew that Mary wasn't with her.The people Marshall talked to told him some things about the way Mrs.Wiley used this Mary that made his blood boil, so he declares. You know,it puts Marshall in a regular fury to hear of a child being ill-used.They said she whipped her mercilessly for every little fault or mistake.Some folks talked of writing to the asylum authorities but everybody'sbusiness is nobody's business and it was never done."
"I am sorry that Wiley person is dead," said Susan fiercely. "I shouldlike to go over-harbour and give her a piece of my mind. Starvingand beating a child, Mrs. Dr. dear! As you know, I hold with lawfulspanking, but I go no further. And what is to become of this poor childnow, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?"
"I suppose she must be sent back to Hopetown," said Miss Cornelia. "Ithink every one hereabouts who wants a home child has one. I'll see Mr.Meredith to-morrow and tell him my opinion of the whole affair."
"And no doubt she will, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, after Miss Corneliahad gone. "She would stick at nothing, not even at shingling the churchspire if she took it into her head. But I cannot understand how evenCornelia Bryant can talk to a minister as she does. You would think hewas just any common person."
When Miss Cornelia had gone, Nan Blythe uncurled herself from thehammock where she had been studying her lessons and slipped away toRainbow Valley. The others were already there. Jem and Jerry wereplaying quoits with old horseshoes borrowed from the Glen blacksmith.Carl was stalking ants on a sunny hillock. Walter, lying on his stomachamong the fern, was reading aloud to Mary and Di and Faith and Una froma wonderful book of myths wherein were fascinating accounts of PresterJohn and the Wandering Jew, divining rods and tailed men, of Schamir,the worm that split rocks and opened the way to golden treasure, ofFortunate Isles and swan-maidens. It was a great shock to Walter tolearn that William Tell and Gelert were myths also; and the story ofBishop Hatto was to keep him awake all that night; but best of all heloved the stories of the Pied Piper and the San Greal. He read themthrillingly, while the bells on the Tree Lovers tinkled in the summerwind and the coolness of the evening shadows crept across the valley.
"Say, ain't them in'resting lies?" said Mary admiringly when Walter hadclosed the book.
"They aren't lies," said Di indignantly.
"You don't mean they're true?" asked Mary incredulously.
"No--not exactly. They're like those ghost-stories of yours. Theyweren't true--but you didn't expect us to believe them, so they weren'tlies."
"That yarn about the divining rod is no lie, anyhow," said Mary."Old Jake Crawford over-harbour can work it. They send for him fromeverywhere when they want to dig a well. And I believe I know theWandering Jew."
"Oh, Mary," said Una, awe-struck.
"I do--true's you're alive. There was an old man at Mrs. Wiley's one daylast fall. He looked old enough to be ANYTHING. She was asking him aboutcedar posts, if he thought they'd last well. And he said, 'Last well?They'll last a thousand years. I know, for I've tried them twice.' Now,if he was two thousand years old who was he but your Wandering Jew?"
"I don't believe the Wandering Jew would associate with a person likeMrs. Wiley," said Faith decidedly.
"I love the Pied Piper story," said Di, "and so does mother. I alwaysfeel so sorry for the poor little lame boy who couldn't keep up withthe others and got shut out of the mountain. He must have been sodisappointed. I think all the rest of his life he'd be wondering whatwonderful thing he had missed and wishing he could have got in with theothers."
"But how glad his mother must have been," said Una softly. "I think shehad been sorry all her life that he was lame. Perhaps she even used tocry about it. But she would never be sorry again--never. She would beglad he was lame because that was why she hadn't lost him."
"Some day," said Walter dreamily, looking afar into the sky, "the PiedPiper will come over the hill up there and down Rainbow Valley, pipingmerrily and sweetly. And I will follow him--follow him down to theshore--down to the sea--away from you all. I don't think I'll want togo--Jem will want to go--it will be such an adventure--but I won't.Only I'll HAVE to--the music will call and call and call me until I MUSTfollow."
"We'll all go," cried Di, catching fire at the flame of Walter's fancy,and half-believing she could see the mocking, retreating figure of themystic piper in the far, dim end of the valley.
"No. You'll sit here and wait," said Walter, his great, splendid eyesfull of strange glamour. "You'll wait for us to come back. And we maynot come--for we cannot come as long as the Piper plays. He may pipe usround the world. And still you'll sit here and wait--and WAIT."
"Oh, dry up," said Mary, shivering. "Don't look like that, WalterBlythe. You give me the creeps. Do you want to set me bawling? I couldjust see that horrid old Piper going away on, and you boys followinghim, and us girls sitting here waiting all alone. I dunno why it is--Inever was one of the blubberi
ng kind--but as soon as you start yourspieling I always want to cry."
Walter smiled in triumph. He liked to exercise this power of his overhis companions--to play on their feelings, waken their fears, thrilltheir souls. It satisfied some dramatic instinct in him. But under histriumph was a queer little chill of some mysterious dread. The PiedPiper had seemed very real to him--as if the fluttering veil that hidthe future had for a moment been blown aside in the starlit dusk ofRainbow Valley and some dim glimpse of coming years granted to him.
Carl, coming up to their group with a report of the doings in ant-land,brought them all back to the realm of facts.
"Ants ARE darned in'resting," exclaimed Mary, glad to escape the shadowyPiper's thrall. "Carl and me watched that bed in the graveyard allSaturday afternoon. I never thought there was so much in bugs. Say, butthey're quarrelsome little cusses--some of 'em like to start a fight'thout any reason, far's we could see. And some of 'em are cowards. Theygot so scared they just doubled theirselves up into a ball and let theother fellows bang 'em. They wouldn't put up a fight at all. Some of 'emare lazy and won't work. We watched 'em shirking. And there was one antdied of grief 'cause another ant got killed--wouldn't work--wouldn'teat--just died--it did, honest to Go--oodness."
A shocked silence prevailed. Every one knew that Mary had not startedout to say "goodness." Faith and Di exchanged glances that wouldhave done credit to Miss Cornelia herself. Walter and Carl lookeduncomfortable and Una's lip trembled.
Mary squirmed uncomfortably.
"That slipped out 'fore I thought--it did, honest to--I mean, true'syou live, and I swallowed half of it. You folks over here are mightysqueamish seems to me. Wish you could have heard the Wileys when theyhad a fight."
"Ladies don't say such things," said Faith, very primly for her.
"It isn't right," whispered Una.
"I ain't a lady," said Mary. "What chance've I ever had of being a lady?But I won't say that again if I can help it. I promise you."
"Besides," said Una, "you can't expect God to answer your prayers if youtake His name in vain, Mary."
"I don't expect Him to answer 'em anyhow," said Mary of little faith."I've been asking Him for a week to clear up this Wiley affair and Hehasn't done a thing. I'm going to give up."
At this juncture Nan arrived breathless.
"Oh, Mary, I've news for you. Mrs. Elliott has been over-harbour andwhat do you think she found out? Mrs. Wiley is dead--she was found deadin bed the morning after you ran away. So you'll never have to go backto her."
"Dead!" said Mary stupefied. Then she shivered.
"Do you s'pose my praying had anything to do with that?" she criedimploringly to Una. "If it had I'll never pray again as long as I live.Why, she may come back and ha'nt me."
"No, no, Mary," said Una comfortingly, "it hadn't. Why, Mrs. Wiley diedlong before you ever began to pray about it at all."
"That's so," said Mary recovering from her panic. "But I tell you itgave me a start. I wouldn't like to think I'd prayed anybody to death.I never thought of such a thing as her dying when I was praying. Shedidn't seem much like the dying kind. Did Mrs. Elliott say anythingabout me?"
"She said you would likely have to go back to the asylum."
"I thought as much," said Mary drearily. "And then they'll give me outagain--likely to some one just like Mrs. Wiley. Well, I s'pose I canstand it. I'm tough."
"I'm going to pray that you won't have to go back," whispered Una, asshe and Mary walked home to the manse.
"You can do as you like," said Mary decidedly, "but I vow _I_ won't. I'mgood and scared of this praying business. See what's come of it. If Mrs.Wiley HAD died after I started praying it would have been my doings."
"Oh, no, it wouldn't," said Una. "I wish I could explain thingsbetter--father could, I know, if you'd talk to him, Mary."
"Catch me! I don't know what to make of your father, that's the long andshort of it. He goes by me and never sees me in broad daylight. I ain'tproud--but I ain't a door-mat, neither!"
"Oh, Mary, it's just father's way. Most of the time he never sees us,either. He is thinking deeply, that is all. And I AM going to pray thatGod will keep you in Four Winds--because I like you, Mary."
"All right. Only don't let me hear of any more people dying on accountof it," said Mary. "I'd like to stay in Four Winds fine. I like it andI like the harbour and the light house--and you and the Blythes. You'rethe only friends I ever had and I'd hate to leave you."