her aunts. She knew quite well that they had been
discussing her, for Mrs. Jonas, who carried her
conscience in her face, looked guilty, and Mrs. Eben
had not been able wholly to banish her aggrieved
expression.
Sara put away her books, kissed Mrs. Jonas' rosy cheek,
and sat down at the table. Mrs. Eben brought her some
fresh tea, some hot rolls, and a little jelly-pot of
the apricot preserves Sara liked, and she cut some more
fruit cake for her in moist plummy slices. She might be
out of patience with Sara's "contrariness," but she
spoiled and petted her for all that, for the girl was
the very core of her childless heart.
Sara Andrews was not, strictly speaking, pretty; but
there was that about her which made people look at her
twice. She was very dark, with a rich, dusky sort of
darkness, her deep eyes were velvety brown, and her
lips and cheeks were crimson.
She ate her rolls and preserves with a healthy
appetite, sharpened by her long walk from Newbridge,
and told amusing little stories of her day's work that
made the two older women shake with laughter, and
exchange shy glances of pride over her cleverness.
When tea was over she poured the remaining contents of
the cream jug into a saucer.
"I must feed my pussy," she said as she left the room.
"That girl beats me," said Mrs. Eben with a sigh of
perplexity. "You know that black cat we've had for two
years? Eben and I have always made a lot of him, but
Sara seemed to have a dislike to him. Never a peaceful
nap under the stove could he have when Sara was home -
out he must go. Well, a little spell ago he got his leg
broke accidentally and we thought he'd have to be
killed. But Sara wouldn't hear of it. She got splints
and set his leg just as knacky, and bandaged it up, and
she has tended him like a sick baby ever since. He's
just about well now, and he lives in clover, that cat
does. It's just her way. There's them sick chickens
she's been doctoring for a week, giving them pills and
things!
"And she thinks more of that wretched-looking calf that
got poisoned with paris green than of all the other
stock on the place."
As the summer wore away, Mrs. Eben tried to reconcile
herself to the destruction of her air castles. But she
scolded Sara considerably.
"Sara, why don't you like Lige? I'm sure he is a model
young man."
"I don't like model young men," answered Sara
impatiently. "And I really think I hate Lige Baxter. He
has always been held up to me as such a paragon. I'm
tired of hearing about all his perfections. I know them
all off by heart. He doesn't drink, he doesn't smoke,
he doesn't steal, he doesn't tell fibs, he never loses
his temper, he doesn't swear, and he goes to church
regularly. Such a faultless creature as that would
certainly get on my nerves. No, no, you'll have to pick
out another mistress for your new house at the Bridge,
Aunt Louisa."
When the apple trees, that had been pink and white in
June, were russet and bronze in October, Mrs. Eben had
a quilting. The quilt was of the "Rising Star" pattern,
which was considered in Avonlea to be very handsome.
Mrs. Eben had intended it for part of Sara's "setting
out," and, while she sewed the red-and-white diamonds
together, she had regaled her fancy by imagining she
saw it spread out on the spare-room bed of the house at
Newbridge, with herself laying her bonnet and shawl on
it when she went to see Sara. Those bright visions had
faded with the apple blossoms, and Mrs. Eben hardly had
the heart to finish the quilt at all.
The quilting came off on Saturday afternoon, when Sara
could be home from school. All Mrs. Eben's particular
friends were ranged around the quilt, and tongues and
fingers flew. Sara flitted about, helping her aunt with
the supper preparations. She was in the room, getting
the custard dishes out of the cupboard, when Mrs.
George Pye arrived.
Mrs. George had a genius for being late. She was later
than usual to-day, and she looked excited. Every woman
around the "Rising Star" felt that Mrs. George had some
news worth listening to, and there was an expectant
silence while she pulled out her chair and settled
herself at the quilt.
She was a tall, thin woman with a long pale face and
liquid green eyes. As she looked around the circle she
had the air of a cat daintily licking its chops over
some titbit.
"I suppose," she said, "that you have heard the news?"
She knew perfectly well that they had not. Every other
woman at the frame stopped quilting. Mrs. Eben came to
the door with a pan of puffy, smoking-hot soda biscuits
in her hand. Sara stopped counting the custard dishes,
and turned her ripely-colored face over her shoulder.
Even the black cat, at her feet, ceased preening his
fur. Mrs. George felt that the undivided attention of
her audience was hers.
"Baxter Brothers have failed," she said, her green eyes
shooting out flashes of light. "Failed disgracefully! "
She paused for a moment; but, since her hearers were as
yet speechless from surprise, she went on.
"George came home from Newbridge, just before I left,
with the news. You could have knocked me down with a
feather. I should have thought that firm was as steady
as the Rock of Gibraltar! But they're ruined -
absolutely ruined. Louisa, dear, can you find me a good
needle?"
"Louisa, dear," had set her biscuits down with a sharp
thud, reckless of results. A sharp, metallic tinkle
sounded at the closet where Sara had struck the edge of
her tray against a shelf. The sound seemed to loosen
the paralyzed tongues, and everybody began talking and
exclaiming at once. Clear and shrill above the
confusion rose Mrs. George Pye's voice.
"Yes, indeed, you may well say so. It is disgraceful.
And to think how everybody trusted them! George will
lose considerable by the crash, and so will a good many
folks. Everything will have to go - Peter Baxter's farm
and Lige's grand new house. Mrs. Peter won't carry her
head so high after this, I'll be bound. George saw Lige
at the Bridge, and he said he looked dreadful cut up
and ashamed."
"Who, or what's to blame for the failure?" asked Mrs.
Rachel Lynde sharply. She did not like Mrs. George Pye.
"There are a dozen different stories on the go," was
the reply. "As far as George could make out, Peter
Baxter has been speculating with other folks' money,
and this is the result. Everybody always suspected that
Peter was crooked; but you'd have thought that Lige
would have kept him straight. He had alwa
ys such a
reputation for saintliness."
"I don't suppose Lige knew anything about it," said
Mrs. Rachel indignantly.
"Well, he'd ought to, then. If he isn't a knave he's a
fool," said Mrs. Harmon Andrews, who had formerly been
among his warmest partisans. "He should have kept watch
on Peter and found out how the business was being run.
Well, Sara, you were the level-headest of us all - I'll
admit that now. A nice mess it would be if you were
married or engaged to Lige, and him left without a cent
- even if he can clear his character!"
"There is a good deal of talk about Peter, and
swindling, and a lawsuit," said Mrs. George Pye,
quilting industriously. "Most of the Newbridge folks
think it's all Peter's fault, and that Lige isn't to
blame. But you can't tell. I dare say Lige is as deep
in the mire as Peter. He was always a little too good
to be wholesome, I thought."
There was a clink of glass at the cupboard, as Sara set
the tray down. She came forward and stood behind Mrs.
Rachel Lynde's chair, resting her shapely hands on that
lady's broad shoulders. Her face was very pale, but her
flashing eyes sought and faced defiantly Mrs. George
Pye's cat-like orbs. Her voice quivered with passion
and contempt.
"You'll all have a fling at Lige Baxter, now that he's
down. You couldn't say enough in his praise, once. I'll
not stand by and hear it hinted that Lige Baxter is a
swindler. You all know perfectly well that Lige is as
honest as the day, if he is so unfortunate as to have
an unprincipled brother. You, Mrs. Pye, know it better
than any one, yet you come here and run him down the
minute he's in trouble. If there's another word said
here against Lige Baxter I'll leave the room and the
house till you're gone, every one of you."
She flashed a glance around the quilt that cowed the
gossips. Even Mrs. George Pye's eyes flickered and
waned and quailed. Nothing more was said until Sara had
picked up her glasses and marched from the room. Even
then they dared not speak above a whisper. Mrs. Pye,
alone, smarting from snub, ventured to ejaculate, "Pity
save us!" as Sara slammed the door.
For the next fortnight gossip and rumor held high
carnival in Avonlea and Newbridge, and Mrs. Eben grew
to dread the sight of a visitor.
"They're bound to talk about the Baxter failure and
criticize Lige," she deplored to Mrs. Jonas. "And it
riles Sara up so terrible. She used to declare that she
hated Lige, and now she won't listen to a word against
him. Not that I say any, myself. I'm sorry for him, and
I believe he's done his best. But I can't stop other
people from talking."
One evening Harmon Andrews came in with a fresh budget
of news.
"The Baxter business is pretty near wound up at last,"
he said, as he lighted his pipe. "Peter has got his
lawsuits settled and has hushed up the talk about
swindling, somehow. Trust him for slipping out of a
scrape clean and clever. He don't seem to worry any,
but Lige looks like a walking skeleton. Some folks pity
him, but I say he should have kept the run of things
better and not have trusted everything to Peter. I hear
he's going out West in the Spring, to take up land in
Alberta and try his hand at farming. Best thing he can
do, I guess. Folks hereabouts have had enough of the
Baxter breed. Newbridge will be well rid of them."
Sara, who had been sitting in the dark corner by the
stove, suddenly stood up, letting the black cat slip
from her lap to the floor. Mrs. Eben glanced at her
apprehensively, for she was afraid the girl was going
to break out in a tirade against the complacent Harmon.
But Sara only walked fiercely out of the kitchen, with
a sound as if she were struggling for breath. In the
hall she snatched a scarf from the wall, flung open the
front door, and rushed down the lane in the chill, pure
air of the autumn twilight. Her heart was throbbing
with the pity she always felt for bruised and baited
creatures.
On and on she went heedlessly, intent only on walking
away her pain, over gray, brooding fields and winding
slopes, and along the skirts of ruinous, dusky pine
woods, curtained with fine spun purple gloom. Her dress
brushed against the brittle grasses and sere ferns, and
the moist night wind, loosed from wild places far away,
blew her hair about her face.
At last she came to a little rustic gate, leading into
a shadowy wood-lane. The gate was bound with willow
withes, and, as Sara fumbled vainly at them with her
chilled hands, a man's firm step came up behind her,
and Lige Baxter's hand closed over her's.
"Oh, Lige!" she said, with something like a sob.
He opened the gate and drew her through. She left her
hand in his, as they walked through the lane where
lissome boughs of young saplings flicked against their
heads, and the air was wildly sweet with the woodsy
odors.
"It's a long while since I've seen you, Lige," Sara
said at last.
Lige looked wistfully down at her through the gloom.
"Yes, it seems very long to me, Sara. But I didn't
think you'd care to see me, after what you said last
spring. And you know things have been going against me.
People have said hard things. I've been unfortunate,
Sara, and may be too easy-going, but I've been honest.
Don't believe folks if they tell you I wasn't."
"Indeed, I never did - not for a minute!" fired Sara.
"I'm glad of that. I'm going away, later on. I felt bad
enough when you refused to marry me, Sara; but it's
well that you didn't. I'm man enough to be thankful my
troubles don't fall on you."
Sara stopped and turned to him. Beyond them the lane
opened into a field and a clear lake of crocus sky cast
a dim light into the shadow where they stood. Above it
was a new moon, like a gleaming silver scimitar. Sara
saw it was over her left shoulder, and she saw Lige's
face above her, tender and troubled.
"Lige," she said softly, "do you love me still?"
"You know I do," said Lige sadly.
That was all Sara wanted. With a quick movement she
nestled into his arms, and laid her warm, tear-wet
cheek against his cold one.
When the amazing rumor that Sara was going to marry
Lige Baxter, and go out West with him, circulated
through the Andrews clan, hands were lifted and heads
were shaken. Mrs. Jonas puffed and panted up the hill
to learn if it were true. She found Mrs. Eben stitching
for dear life on an "Irish Chain" quilt, while Sara was
sewing the diamonds on another "Rising Star" with a
martyr-like expression on her face. Sara hated
patchwork above everything else, but Mrs. Eben was
mistress up to a certain point.
"You'll have to make that quilt, Sara Andrews. If
you're going to live out on those prairies, you'll need
piles of quilts, and you shall have them if I sew my
fingers to the bone. But you'll have to help make
them."
And Sara had to.
When Mrs. Jonas came, Mrs. Eben sent Sara off to the
post-office to get her out of the way.
"I suppose it's true, this time?" said Mrs. Jonas.
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Eben briskly. "Sara is set on
it. There is no use trying to move her - you know that
- so I've just concluded to make the best of it. I'm no
turn-coat. Lige Baxter is Lige Baxter still, neither
more nor less. I've always said he's a fine young man,
and I say so still. After all, he and Sara won't be any
poorer than Eben and I were when we started out."
Mrs. Jonas heaved a sigh of relief.
"I'm real glad you take that view of it, Louisa. I'm
not displeased, either, although Mrs. Harmon would take
my head off if she heard me say so. I always liked
Lige. But I must say I'm amazed, too, after the way
Sara used to rail at him."
"Well, we might have expected it," said Mrs. Eben
sagely. "It was always Sara's way. When any creature
got sick or unfortunate she seemed to take it right
into her heart. So you may say Lige Baxter's failure
was a success after all."
Chapter X
The Son Of His Mother
THYRA CAREWE was waiting for Chester to come home. She
sat by the west window of the kitchen, looking out into
the gathering of the shadows with the expectant
immovability that characterized her. She never twitched
or fidgeted. Into whatever she did she put the whole
force of her nature. If it was sitting still, she sat
still.
"A stone image would be twitchedly beside Thyra," said
Mrs. Cynthia White, her neighbor across the lane. "It
gets on my nerves, the way she sits at that window
sometimes, with no more motion than a statue and her
great eyes burning down the lane. When I read the
commandment, 'Thou shalt have no other gods before me,'
I declare I always think of Thyra. She worships that
son of hers far ahead of her Creator. She'll be
punished for it yet."
Mrs. White was watching Thyra now, knitting furiously,
as she watched, in order to lose no time. Thyra's hands
were folded idly in her lap. She had not moved a muscle
since she sat down. Mrs. White complained it gave her
the weeps.
"It doesn't seem natural to see a woman sit so still,"
she said. "Sometimes the thought comes to me, 'what if
she's had a stroke, like her old Uncle Horatio, and is
sitting there stone dead!' "
The evening was cold and autumnal. There was a fiery
red spot out at sea, where the sun had set, and, above
it, over a chill, clear, saffron sky, were reefs of
purple-black clouds. The river, below the Carewe
homestead, was livid. Beyond it, the sea was dark and
brooding. It was an evening to make most people shiver
and forebode an early winter; but Thyra loved it, as
she loved all stern, harshly beautiful things. She
would not light a lamp because it would blot out the
savage grandeur of sea and sky. It was better to wait
in the darkness until Chester came home.
He was late to-night. She thought he had been detained
over-time at the harbor, but she was not anxious. He
would come straight home to her as soon as his business
was completed - of that she felt sure. Her thoughts
went out along the bleak harbor road to meet him. She
could see him plainly, coming with his free stride
through the sandy hollows and over the windy hills, in
the harsh, cold light of that forbidding sunset, strong
and handsome in his comely youth, with her own deeply
cleft chin and his father's dark gray, straightforward
eyes. No other woman in Avonlea had a son like hers -
her only one. In his brief absences she yearned after
him with a maternal passion that had in it something of
physical pain, so intense was it. She thought of
Cynthia White, knitting across the road, with