Further Chronicles of Avonlea

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