CHAPTER XXVI. UNCLE BLAIR COMES HOME
It happened that the Story Girl and I both got up very early on themorning of the Awkward Man's wedding day. Uncle Alec was going toCharlottetown that day, and I, awakened at daybreak by the sounds in thekitchen beneath us, remembered that I had forgotten to ask him to bringme a certain school-book I wanted. So I hurriedly dressed and hasteneddown to tell him before he went. I was joined on the stairs by the StoryGirl, who said she had wakened and, not feeling like going to sleepagain, thought she might as well get up.
"I had such a funny dream last night," she said. "I dreamed that I hearda voice calling me from away down in Uncle Stephen's Walk--'Sara, Sara,Sara,' it kept calling. I didn't know whose it was, and yet it seemedlike a voice I knew. I wakened up while it was calling, and it seemed soreal I could hardly believe it was a dream. It was bright moonlight,and I felt just like getting up and going out to the orchard. But I knewthat would be silly and of course I didn't go. But I kept on wanting toand I couldn't sleep any more. Wasn't it queer?"
When Uncle Alec had gone I proposed a saunter to the farther end of theorchard, where I had left a book the preceding evening. A young mom waswalking rosily on the hills as we passed down Uncle Stephen's Walk,with Paddy trotting before us. High overhead was the spirit-like blue ofpaling skies; the east was a great arc of crystal, smitten through withauroral crimsonings; just above it was one milk-white star of morning,like a pearl on a silver sea. A light wind of dawn was weaving an orientspell.
"It's lovely to be up as early as this, isn't it?" said the Story Girl."The world seems so different just at sunrise, doesn't it? It makes mefeel just like getting up to see the sun rise every morning of mylife after this. But I know I won't. I'll likely sleep later than evertomorrow morning. But I wish I could."
"The Awkward Man and Miss Reade are going to have a lovely day for theirwedding," I said.
"Yes, and I'm so glad. Beautiful Alice deserves everything good. Why,Bev--why, Bev! Who is that in the hammock?"
I looked. The hammock was swung under the two end trees of the Walk. Init a man was lying, asleep, his head pillowed on his overcoat. He wassleeping easily, lightly, and wholesomely. He had a pointed brown beardand thick wavy brown hair. His cheeks were a dusky red and the lashes ofhis closed eyes were as long and dark and silken as a girl's. He wore alight gray suit, and on the slender white hand that hung down over thehammock's edge was a spark of diamond fire.
It seemed to me that I knew his face, although assuredly I had neverseen him before. While I groped among vague speculations the Story Girlgave a queer, choked little cry. The next moment she had sprung over theintervening space, dropped on her knees by the hammock, and flung herarms about the man's neck.
"Father! Father!" she cried, while I stood, rooted to the ground in myamazement.
The sleeper stirred and opened two large, exceedingly brilliant hazeleyes. For a moment he gazed rather blankly at the brown-curled younglady who was embracing him. Then a most delightful smile broke over hisface; he sprang up and caught her to his heart.
"Sara--Sara--my little Sara! To think didn't know you at first glance!But you are almost a woman. And when I saw you last you were just alittle girl of eight. My own little Sara!"
"Father--father--sometimes I've wondered if you were ever coming back tome," I heard the Story Girl say, as I turned and scuttled up the Walk,realizing that I was not wanted there just then and would be littlemissed. Various emotions and speculations possessed my mind in myretreat; but chiefly did I feel a sense of triumph in being the bearerof exciting news.
"Aunt Janet, Uncle Blair is here," I announced breathlessly at thekitchen door.
Aunt Janet, who was kneading her bread, turned round and lifted flouryhands. Felicity and Cecily, who were just entering the kitchen, rosyfrom slumber, stopped still and stared at me.
"Uncle who?" exclaimed Aunt Janet.
"Uncle Blair--the Story Girl's father, you know. He's here."
"WHERE?"
"Down in the orchard. He was asleep in the hammock. We found him there."
"Dear me!" said Aunt Janet, sitting down helplessly. "If that isn'tlike Blair! Of course he couldn't come like anybody else. I wonder," sheadded in a tone unheard by anyone else save myself, "I wonder if he hascome to take the child away."
My elation went out like a snuffed candle. I had never thought of this.If Uncle Blair took the Story Girl away would not life become rathersavourless on the hill farm? I turned and followed Felicity and Cecilyout in a very subdued mood.
Uncle Blair and the Story Girl were just coming out of the orchard. Hisarm was about her and hers was on his shoulder. Laughter and tears werecontending in her eyes. Only once before--when Peter had come back fromthe Valley of the Shadow--had I seen the Story Girl cry. Emotion had togo very deep with her ere it touched the source of tears. I had alwaysknown that she loved her father passionately, though she rarely talkedof him, understanding that her uncles and aunts were not whole-heartedlyhis friends.
But Aunt Janet's welcome was cordial enough, though a trifle flustered.Whatever thrifty, hard-working farmer folk might think of gay, BohemianBlair Stanley in his absence, in his presence even they liked him, bythe grace of some winsome, lovable quality in the soul of him. He had"a way with him"--revealed even in the manner with which he caught staidAunt Janet in his arms, swung her matronly form around as though she hadbeen a slim schoolgirl, and kissed her rosy cheek.
"Sister o' mine, are you never going to grow old?" he said. "Here youare at forty-five with the roses of sixteen--and not a gray hair, I'llwager."
"Blair, Blair, it is you who are always young," laughed Aunt Janet, notill pleased. "Where in the world did you come from? And what is this Ihear of your sleeping all night in the hammock?"
"I've been painting in the Lake District all summer, as you know,"answered Uncle Blair, "and one day I just got homesick to see my littlegirl. So I sailed for Montreal without further delay. I got here ateleven last night--the station-master's son drove me down. Nice boy. Theold house was in darkness and I thought it would be a shame to rouse youall out of bed after a hard day's work. So I decided that I would spendthe night in the orchard. It was moonlight, you know, and moonlight inan old orchard is one of the few things left over from the Golden Age."
"It was very foolish of you," said practical Aunt Janet. "TheseSeptember nights are real chilly. You might have caught your death ofcold--or a bad dose of rheumatism."
"So I might. No doubt it was foolish of me," agreed Uncle Blair gaily."It must have been the fault, of the moonlight. Moonlight, you know,Sister Janet, has an intoxicating quality. It is a fine, airy, silverwine, such as fairies may drink at their revels, unharmed of it; butwhen a mere mortal sips of it, it mounts straightway to his brain, tothe undoing of his daylight common sense. However, I have got neithercold nor rheumatism, as a sensible person would have done had he everbeen lured into doing such a non-sensible thing; there is a specialProvidence for us foolish folk. I enjoyed my night in the orchard; fora time I was companioned by sweet old memories; and then I fell asleeplistening to the murmurs of the wind in those old trees yonder. And Ihad a beautiful dream, Janet. I dreamed that the old orchard blossomedagain, as it did that spring eighteen years ago. I dreamed that itssunshine was the sunshine of spring, not autumn. There was newness oflife in my dream, Janet, and the sweetness of forgotten words."
"Wasn't it strange about MY dream?" whispered the Story Girl to me.
"Well, you'd better come in and have some breakfast," said Aunt Janet."These are my little girls--Felicity and Cecily."
"I remember them as two most adorable tots," said Uncle Blair, shakinghands. "They haven't changed quite so much as my own baby-child. Why,she's a woman, Janet--she's a woman."
"She's child enough still," said Aunt Janet hastily.
The Story Girl shook her long brown curls.
"I'm fifteen," she said. "And you ought to see me in my long dress,father."
"We must not be separ
ated any longer, dear heart," I heard Uncle Blairsay tenderly. I hoped that he meant he would stay in Canada--not that hewould take the Story Girl away.
Apart from this we had a gay day with Uncle Blair. He evidently likedour society better than that of the grown-ups, for he was a childhimself at heart, gay, irresponsible, always acting on the impulse ofthe moment. We all found him a delightful companion. There was noschool that day, as Mr. Perkins was absent, attending a meeting ofthe Teachers' Convention, so we spent most of its golden hours in theorchard with Uncle Blair, listening to his fascinating accounts offoreign wanderings. He also drew all our pictures for us, and this wasespecially delightful, for the day of the camera was only just dawningand none of us had ever had even our photographs taken. Sara Ray'spleasure was, as usual, quite spoiled by wondering what her motherwould say of it, for Mrs. Ray had, so it appeared, some very peculiarprejudices against the taking or making of any kind of picturewhatsoever, owing to an exceedingly strict interpretation of the secondcommandment. Dan suggested that she need not tell her mother anythingabout it; but Sara shook her head.
"I'll have to tell her. I've made it a rule to tell ma everything I doever since the Judgment Day."
"Besides," added Cecily seriously, "the Family Guide says one ought totell one's mother everything."
"It's pretty hard sometimes, though," sighed Sara. "Ma scolds so muchwhen I do tell her things, that it sort of discourages me. But when Ithink of how dreadful I felt the time of the Judgment Day over deceivingher in some things it nerves me up. I'd do almost anything rather thanfeel like that the next time the Judgment Day comes."
"Fe, fi, fo, fum, I smell a story," said Uncle Blair. "What do you meanby speaking of the Judgment Day in the past tense?"
The Story Girl told him the tale of that dreadful Sunday in thepreceding summer and we all laughed with him at ourselves.
"All the same," muttered Peter, "I don't want to have another experiencelike that. I hope I'll be dead the next time the Judgment Day comes."
"But you'll be raised up for it," said Felix.
"Oh, that'll be all right. I won't mind that. I won't know anythingabout it till it really happens. It's the expecting it that's theworst."
"I don't think you ought to talk of such things," said Felicity.
When evening came we all went to Golden Milestone. We knew the AwkwardMan and his bride were expected home at sunset, and we meant to scatterflowers on the path by which she must enter her new home. It was theStory Girl's idea, but I don't think Aunt Janet would have let us go ifUncle Blair had not pleaded for us. He asked to be taken along, too, andwe agreed, if he would stand out of sight when the newly married paircame home.
"You see, father, the Awkward Man won't mind us, because we're onlychildren and he knows us well," explained the Story Girl, "but ifhe sees you, a stranger, it might confuse him and we might spoil thehomecoming, and that would be such a pity."
So we went to Golden Milestone, laden with all the flowery spoil wecould plunder from both gardens. It was a clear amber-tinted Septemberevening and far away, over Markdale Harbour, a great round red moonwas rising as we waited. Uncle Blair was hidden behind the wind-blowntassels of the pines at the gate, but he and the Story Girl kept wavingtheir hands at each other and calling out gay, mirthful jests.
"Do you really feel acquainted with your father?" whispered Sara Raywonderingly. "It's long since you saw him."
"If I hadn't seen him for a hundred years it wouldn't make anydifference that way," laughed the Story Girl.
"S-s-h-s-s-h--they're coming," whispered Felicity excitedly.
And then they came--Beautiful Alice blushing and lovely, in theprettiest of pretty blue dresses, and the Awkward Man, so ferventlyhappy that he quite forgot to be awkward. He lifted her out of the buggygallantly and led her forward to us, smiling. We retreated before them,scattering our flowers lavishly on the path, and Alice Dale walked tothe very doorstep of her new home over a carpet of blossoms. On thestep they both paused and turned towards us, and we shyly did the properthing in the way of congratulations and good wishes.
"It was so sweet of you to do this," said the smiling bride.
"It was lovely to be able to do it for you, dearest," whispered theStory Girl, "and oh, Miss Reade--Mrs. Dale, I mean--we all hope you'llbe so, so happy for ever."
"I am sure I shall," said Alice Dale, turning to her husband. He lookeddown into her eyes--and we were quite forgotten by both of them. We sawit, and slipped away, while Jasper Dale drew his wife into their homeand shut the world out.
We scampered joyously away through the moonlit dusk. Uncle Blair joinedus at the gate and the Story Girl asked him what he thought of thebride.
"When she dies white violets will grow out of her dust," he answered.
"Uncle Blair says even queerer things than the Story Girl," Felicitywhispered to me.
And so that beautiful day went away from us, slipping through ourfingers as we tried to hold it. It hooded itself in shadows and faredforth on the road that is lighted by the white stars of evening. It hadbeen a gift of Paradise. Its hours had all been fair and beloved. Fromdawn flush to fall of night there had been naught to mar it. It tookwith it its smiles and laughter. But it left the boon of memory.