found Eunice standing by the table, with her hat and
shawl on, tying up a parcel.
"Eunice! Where on earth are you going?"
"Over home," said Eunice. "If Christopher is going to
be ill he must be nursed, and I'm the one to do it. He
ought to be seen to right away."
"Eunice Carr! Have you gone clean out of your senses?
It's the smallpox - the smallpox! If he's got it he'll
have to be taken to the smallpox hospital in town. You
shan't stir a step to go to that house!"
"I will." Eunice faced her excited aunt quietly. The
odd resemblance to her mother, which only came out in
moments of great tension, was plainly visible. "He
shan't go to the hospital - they never get proper
attention there. You needn't try to stop me. It won't
put you or your family in any danger."
Caroline fell helplessly into a chair. She felt that it
would be of no use to argue with a woman so determined.
She wished Charles was there. But Charles had already
gone, post-haste, for the doctor.
With a firm step, Eunice went across the field foot-
path she had not trodden for so long. She felt no fear
- rather a sort of elation. Christopher needed her once
more; the interloper who had come between them was not
there. As she walked through the frosty twilight she
thought of the promise made to Naomi Holland, years
ago.
Christopher saw her coming and waved her back.
"Don't come any nearer, Eunice. Didn't Caroline tell
you? I'm taking smallpox."
Eunice did not pause. She went boldly through the yard
and up the porch steps. He retreated before her and
held the door.
"Eunice, you're crazy, girl! Go home, before it's too
late."
Eunice pushed open the door resolutely and went in.
"It's too late now. I'm here, and I mean to stay and
nurse you, if it's the smallpox you've got. Maybe it's
not. Just now, when a person has a finger-ache, he
thinks it's smallpox. Anyhow, whatever it is, you ought
to be in bed and looked after. You'll catch cold. Let
me get a light and have a look at you."
Christopher had sunk into a chair. His natural
selfishness reasserted itself, and he made no further
effort to dissuade Eunice. She got a lamp and set it on
the table by him, while she scrutinized his face
closely.
"You look feverish. What do you feel like? When did you
take sick?"
"Yesterday afternoon. I have chills and hot spells and
pains in my back. Eunice, do you think it's really
smallpox? And will I die?"
He caught her hands, and looked imploringly up at her,
as a child might have done. Eunice felt a wave of love
and tenderness sweep warmly over her starved heart.
"Don't worry. Lots of people recover from smallpox if
they're properly nursed, and you'll be that, for I'll
see to it. Charles has gone for the doctor, and we'll
know when he comes. You must go straight to bed."
She took off her hat and shawl, and hung them up. She
felt as much at home as if she had never been away. She
had got back to her kingdom, and there was none to
dispute it with her. When Dr. Spencer and old Giles
Blewett, who had had smallpox in his youth, came, two
hours later, they found Eunice in serene charge. the
house was in order and reeking of disinfectants.
Victoria's fine furniture and fixings were being
bundled out of the parlor. There was no bedroom
downstairs, and, if Christopher was going to be ill, he
must be installed there.
The doctor looked grave.
"I don't like it," he said, "but I'm not quite sure
yet. If it is smallpox the eruption will probably by
out by morning. I must admit he has most of the
symptoms. Will you have him taken to the hospital?"
"No," said Eunice, decisively. "I'll nurse him myself.
I'm not afraid and I'm well and strong."
"Very well. You've been vaccinated lately?"
"Yes."
"Well, nothing more can be done at present. You may as
well lie down for a while and save your strength."
But Eunice could not do that. There was too much to
attend to. She went out to the hall and threw up the
window. Down below, at a safe distance, Charles Holland
was waiting. The cold wind blew up to Eunice the odor
of the disinfectants with which he had steeped himself.
"What does the doctor say?" he shouted.
"He thinks it's the smallpox. Have you sent word to
Victoria?"
"Yes, Jim Blewett drove into town and told her. She'll
stay with her sister till it is over. Of course it's
the best thing for her to do. She's terribly frightened."
Eunice's lip curled contemptuously. To her, a wife who
could desert her husband, no matter what disease he
had, was an incomprehensible creature. But it was
better so; she would have Christopher all to herself.
The night was long and wearisome, but the morning came
all too soon for the dread certainty it brought. The
doctor pronounced the case smallpox. Eunice had hoped
against hope, but now, knowing the worst, she was very
calm and resolute.
By noon the fateful yellow flag was flying over the
house, and all arrangements had been made. Caroline was
to do the necessary cooking, and Charles was to bring
the food and leave it in the yard. Old Giles Blewett
was to come every day and attend to the stock, as well
as help Eunice with the sick man; and the long, hard
fight with death began.
It was a hard fight, indeed. Christopher Holland, in
the clutches of the loathsome disease, was an object
from which his nearest and dearest might have been
pardoned for shrinking. But Eunice never faltered; she
never left her post. Sometimes she dozed in a chair by
the bed, but she never lay down. Her endurance was
something wonderful, her patience and tenderness almost
superhuman. To and fro she went, in noiseless ministry,
as the long, dreadful days wore away, with a quiet
smile on her lips, and in her dark, sorrowful eyes the
rapt look of a pictured saint in some dim cathedral
niche. For her there was no world outside the bare room
where lay the repulsive object she loved.
One day the doctor looked very grave. He had grown
well-hardened to pitiful scenes in his life-time; but
he shrunk from telling Eunice that her brother could
not live. He had never seen such devotion as hers. It
seemed brutal to tell her that it had been in vain.
But Eunice had seen it for herself. She took it very
calmly, the doctor thought. And she had her reward at
last - such as it was. She thought it amply sufficient.
One night Christopher Holland opened his swollen eyes
as she bent over him. They were alone in the old house.
It was raining outside, and the dr
ops rattled noisily
on the panes.
Christopher smiled at his sister with parched lips, and
put out a feeble hand toward her.
"Eunice," he said faintly, "you've been the best sister
ever a man had. I haven't treated you right; but you've
stood by me to the last. Tell Victoria - tell her - to
be good to you - "
His voice died away into an inarticulate murmur. Eunice
Carr was alone with her dead.
They buried Christopher Holland in haste and privacy
the next day. The doctor disinfected the house, and
Eunice was to stay there alone until it might be safe
to make other arrangements. She had not shed a tear;
the doctor thought she was a rather odd person, but he
had a great admiration for her. He told her she was the
best nurse he had ever seen. To Eunice, praise or blame
mattered nothing. Something in her life had snapped -
some vital interest had departed. She wondered how she
could live through the dreary, coming years.
Late that night she went into the room where her mother
and brother had died. The window was open and the cold,
pure air was grateful to her after the drug-laden
atmosphere she had breathed so long. She knelt down by
the stripped bed.
"Mother," she said aloud, "I have kept my promise."
When she tried to rise, long after, she staggered and
fell across the bed, with her hand pressed on her
heart. Old Giles Blewett found her there in the
morning. There was a smile on her face.
Chapter XIII
The Conscience Case Of David Bell
EBEN BELL came in with an armful of wood and banged it
cheerfully down in the box behind the glowing Waterloo
stove, which was coloring the heart of the little
kitchen's gloom with tremulous, rose-red whirls of
light.
"There, sis, that's the last chore on my list. Bob's
milking. Nothing more for me to do but put on my white
collar for meeting. Avonlea is more than lively since
the evangelist came, ain't it, though!"
Mollie Bell nodded. She was curling her hair before the
tiny mirror that hung on the whitewashed wall and
distorted her round, pink-and-white face into a
grotesque caricature.
"Wonder who'll stand up to-night," said Eben
reflectively, sitting down on the edge of the wood-box.
"There ain't many sinners left in Avonlea - only a few
hardened chaps like myself."
"You shouldn't talk like that," said Mollie rebukingly.
"What if father heard you?"
"Father wouldn't hear me if I shouted it in his ear,"
returned Eben. "He goes around, these days, like a man
in a dream and a mighty bad dream at that. Father has
always been a good man. What's the matter with him?"
"I don't know," said Mollie, dropping her voice.
"Mother is dreadfully worried over him. And everybody
is talking, Eb. It just makes me squirm. Flora Jane
Fletcher asked me last night why father never
testified, and him one of the elders. She said the
minister was perplexed about it. I felt my face getting
red."
"Why didn't you tell her it was no business of hers?"
said Eben angrily. "Old Flora Jane had better mind her
own business."
"But all the folks are talking about it, Eb. And mother
is fretting her heart out over it. Father has never
acted like himself since these meetings began. He just
goes there night after night, and sits like a mummy,
with his head down. And almost everybody else in
Avonlea has testified."
"Oh, no, there's lots haven't," said Eben. "Matthew
Cuthbert never has, nor Uncle Elisha, nor any of the
Whites."
"But everybody knows they don't believe in getting up
and testifying, so nobody wonders when they don't.
Besides," Mollie laughed - "Matthew could never get a
word out in public, if he did believe in it. He'd be
too shy. But," she added with a sigh, "it isn't that
way with father. He believes in testimony, so people
wonder why he doesn't get up. Why, even old Josiah
Sloane gets up every night."
"With his whiskers sticking out every which way, and
his hair ditto," interjected the graceless Eben.
"When the minister calls for testimonials and all the
folks look at our pew, I feel ready to sink through the
floor for shame," sighed Mollie. "If father would get
up just once!"
Miriam Bell entered the kitchen. She was ready for the
meeting, to which Major Spencer was to take her. She
was a tall, pale girl, with a serious face, and dark,
thoughtful eyes, totally unlike Mollie. She had "come
under conviction" during the meetings, and had stood up
for prayer and testimony several times. The evangelist
thought her very spiritual. She heard Mollie's
concluding sentence and spoke reprovingly.
"You shouldn't criticize your father, Mollie. It isn't
for you to judge him."
Eben had hastily slipped out. He was afraid Miriam
would begin talking religion to him if he stayed. He
had with difficulty escaped from an exhortation by
Robert in the cow-stable. There was no peace in Avonlea
for the unregenerate, he reflected. Robert and Miriam
had both "come out," and Mollie was hovering on the
brink.
"Dad and I are the black sheep of the family," he said,
with a laugh, for which he at once felt guilty. Eben
had been brought up with a strict reverence for all
religious matters. On the surface he might sometimes
laugh at them, but the deeps troubled him whenever he
did so.
Indoors, Miriam touched her younger sister's shoulder
and looked at her affectionately.
"Won't you decide to-night, Mollie?" she asked, in a
voice tremulous with emotion.
Mollie crimsoned and turned her face away
uncomfortably. She did not know what answer to make,
and was glad that a jingle of bells outside saved her
the necessity of replying.
"There's your beau, Miriam," she said, as she darted
into the sitting room.
Soon after, Eben brought the family pung and his chubby
red mare to the door for Mollie. He had not as yet
attained to the dignity of a cutter of his own. That
was for his elder brother, Robert, who presently came
out in his new fur coat and drove dashingly away with
bells and glitter.
"Thinks he's the people," remarked Eben, with a
fraternal grin.
The rich winter twilight was purpling over the white
world as they drove down the lane under the over-
arching wild cherry trees that glittered with gemmy
hoar-frost. The snow creaked and crisped under the
runners. A shrill wind was keening in the leafless
dogwoods. Over the trees the sky was a dome of silver,
with a lucent star or two on the slope of the west.
Earth-stars gleamed warmly out here and there, where
homesteads were tucked snugly away in their orchards or
groves of birch.
"The church will be jammed to-night," said Eben. "It's
so fine that folks will come from near and far. Guess
it'll be exciting."
"If only father would testify!" sighed Mollie, from the
bottom of the pung, where she was snuggled amid furs
and straw. "Miriam can say what she likes, but I do
feels as if we were all disgraced. It sends a creep all
over me to hear Mr. Bentley say, 'Now, isn't there one
more to say a word for Jesus?' and look right over at
father."
Eben flicked his mare with his whip, and she broke into
a trot. The silence was filled with a faint, fairy-like
melody from afar down the road where a pungful of young
folks from White Sands were singing hymns on their way
to meeting.
"Look here, Mollie," said Eben awkwardly at last, "are
you going to stand up for prayers to-night?"
"I - I can't as long as father acts this way," answered
Mollie, in a choked voice. "I - I want to, Eb, and
Mirry and Bob want me to, but I can't. I do hope that
the evangelist won't come and talk to me special to-
night. I always feels as if I was being pulled two
different ways, when he does."
Back in the kitchen at home Mrs. Bell was waiting for
her husband to bring the horse to the door. She was a
slight, dark-eyed little woman, with thin, vivid-red
cheeks. From out of the swathings in which she had
wrapped her bonnet, her face gleamed sad and troubled.
Now and then she sighed heavily.
The cat came to her from under the stove, languidly
stretching himself, and yawning until all the red
cavern of his mouth and throat was revealed. At the
moment he had an uncanny resemblance to Elder Joseph
Blewett of White Sands - Roaring Joe, the irreverent
boys called him - when he grew excited and shouted.
Mrs. Bell saw it - and then reproached herself for the
sacrilege.
"But it's no wonder I've wicked thoughts," she said,
wearily. "I'm that worried I ain't rightly myself. If
he would only tell me what the trouble is, maybe I
could help him. At any rate, I'd know. It hurts me so
to see him going about, day after day, with his head
hanging and that look on his face, as if he had
something fearful on his conscience - him that never
harmed a living soul. And then the way he groans and
mutters in his sleep! He has always lived a just,
upright life. He hasn't no right to go on like this,
disgracing his family."
Mrs. Bell's angry sob was cut short by the sleigh at
the door. Her husband poked in his busy, iron-gray head
and said, "Now, mother." He helped her into the sleigh,
tucked the rugs warmly around her, and put a hot brick
at her feet. His solicitude hurt her. It was all for
her material comfort. It did not matter to him what
mental agony she might suffer over his strange
attitude. For the first time in their married life Mary
Bell felt resentment against her husband.
They drove along in silence, past the snow-powdered
hedges of spruce, and under the arches of the forest
roadways. They were late, and a great stillness was
over all the land. David Bell never spoke. All his
usual cheerful talkativeness had disappeared since the
revival meetings had begun in Avonlea. From the first
he had gone about as a man over whom some strange doom
is impending, seemingly oblivious to all that might be
said or thought of him in his own family or in the
church. Mary Bell thought she would go out of her mind
if her husband continued to act in this way. Her
reflections were bitter and rebellious as they sped
along through the glittering night of the winter's
prime.
"I don't get one bit of good out of the meetings," she
thought resentfully. "There ain't any peace or joy for
me, not even in testifying myself, when David sits
there like a stick or stone. If he'd been opposed to the
revivalist coming here, like old Uncle Jerry, or if
he didn't believe in public testimony, I wouldn't mind.