CHAPTER XXVII. THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH
"I am going away with father when he goes. He is going to spend thewinter in Paris, and I am to go to school there."
The Story Girl told us this one day in the orchard. There was a littleelation in her tone, but more regret. The news was not a great surpriseto us. We had felt it in the air ever since Uncle Blair's arrival. AuntJanet had been very unwilling to let the Story Girl go. But Uncle Blairwas inexorable. It was time, he said, that she should go to a betterschool than the little country one in Carlisle; and besides, he did notwant her to grow into womanhood a stranger to him. So it was finallydecided that she was to go.
"Just think, you are going to Europe," said Sara Ray in an awe-strucktone. "Won't that be splendid!"
"I suppose I'll like it after a while," said the Story Girl slowly,"but I know I'll be dreadfully homesick at first. Of course, it will belovely to be with father, but oh, I'll miss the rest of you so much!"
"Just think how WE'LL miss YOU," sighed Cecily. "It will be so lonesomehere this winter, with you and Peter both gone. Oh, dear, I do wishthings didn't have to change."
Felicity said nothing. She kept looking down at the grass on which shesat, absently pulling at the slender blades. Presently we saw two bigtears roll down over her cheeks. The Story Girl looked surprised.
"Are you crying because I'm going away, Felicity?" she asked.
"Of course I am," answered Felicity, with a big sob. "Do you think I'veno f-f-eeling?"
"I didn't think you'd care much," said the Story Girl frankly. "You'venever seemed to like me very much."
"I d-don't wear my h-heart on my sleeve," said poor Felicity, with anattempt at dignity. "I think you m-might stay. Your father would let yous-stay if you c-coaxed him."
"Well, you see I'd have to go some time," sighed the Story Girl,"and the longer it was put off the harder it would be. But I do feeldreadfully about it. I can't even take poor Paddy. I'll have to leavehim behind, and oh, I want you all to promise to be kind to him for mysake."
We all solemnly assured her that we would.
"I'll g-give him cream every m-morning and n-night," sobbed Felicity,"but I'll never be able to look at him without crying. He'll make methink of you."
"Well, I'm not going right away," said the Story Girl, more cheerfully."Not till the last of October. So we have over a month yet to have agood time in. Let's all just determine to make it a splendid month forthe last. We won't think about my going at all till we have to, and wewon't have any quarrels among us, and we'll just enjoy ourselves all wepossibly can. So don't cry any more, Felicity. I'm awfully glad youdo like me and am sorry I'm going away, but let's all forget it for amonth."
Felicity sighed, and tucked away her damp handkerchief.
"It isn't so easy for me to forget things, but I'll try," she saiddisconsolately, "and if you want any more cooking lessons before you goI'll be real glad to teach you anything I know."
This was a high plane of self-sacrifice for Felicity to attain. But theStory Girl shook her head.
"No, I'm not going to bother my head about cooking lessons this lastmonth. It's too vexing."
"Do you remember the time you made the pudding--" began Peter, andsuddenly stopped.
"Out of sawdust?" finished the Story Girl cheerfully. "You needn't beafraid to mention it to me after this. I don't mind any more. I begin tosee the fun of it now. I should think I do remember it--and the time Ibaked the bread before it was raised enough."
"People have made worse mistakes than that," said Felicity kindly.
"Such as using tooth-powd--" but here Dan stopped abruptly, rememberingthe Story Girl's plea for a beautiful month. Felicity coloured, but saidnothing--did not even LOOK anything.
"We HAVE had lots of fun together one way or another," said Cecily,retrospectively.
"Just think how much we've laughed this last year or so," said the StoryGirl. "We've had good times together; but I think we'll have lots moresplendid years ahead."
"Eden is always behind us--Paradise always before," said UncleBlair, coming up in time to hear her. He said it with a sigh that wasimmediately lost in one of his delightful smiles.
"I like Uncle Blair so much better than I expected to," Felicityconfided to me. "Mother says he's a rolling stone, but there really issomething very nice about him, although he says a great many things Idon't understand. I suppose the Story Girl will have a very gay time inParis."
"She's going to school and she'll have to study hard," I said.
"She says she's going to study for the stage," said Felicity. "UncleRoger thinks it is all right, and says she'll be very famous some day.But mother thinks it's dreadful, and so do I."
"Aunt Julia is a concert singer," I said.
"Oh, that's very different. But I hope poor Sara will get on all right,"sighed Felicity. "You never know what may happen to a person in thoseforeign countries. And everybody says Paris is such a wicked place. Butwe must hope for the best," she concluded in a resigned tone.
That evening the Story Girl and I drove the cows to pasture aftermilking, and when we came home we sought out Uncle Blair in the orchard.He was sauntering up and down Uncle Stephen's Walk, his hands claspedbehind him and his beautiful, youthful face uplifted to the western skywhere waves of night were breaking on a dim primrose shore of sunset.
"See that star over there in the south-west?" he said, as we joined him."The one just above that pine? An evening star shining over a darkpine tree is the whitest thing in the universe--because it is LIVINGwhiteness--whiteness possessing a soul. How full this old orchard is oftwilight! Do you know, I have been trysting here with ghosts."
"The Family Ghost?" I asked, very stupidly.
"No, not the Family Ghost. I never saw beautiful, broken-hearted Emilyyet. Your mother saw her once, Sara--that was a strange thing," he addedabsently, as if to himself.
"Did mother really see her?" whispered the Story Girl.
"Well, she always believed she did. Who knows?"
"Do you think there are such things as ghosts, Uncle Blair?" I askedcuriously.
"I never saw any, Beverley."
"But you said you were trysting with ghosts here this evening," said theStory Girl.
"Oh, yes--the ghosts of the old years. I love this orchard because ofits many ghosts. We are good comrades, those ghosts and I; we walk andtalk--we even laugh together--sorrowful laughter that has sorrow's ownsweetness. And always there comes to me one dear phantom and wandershand in hand with me--a lost lady of the old years."
"My mother?" said the Story Girl very softly.
"Yes, your mother. Here, in her old haunts, it is impossible for me tobelieve that she can be dead--that her LAUGHTER can be dead. She was thegayest, sweetest thing--and so young--only three years older than you,Sara. Yonder old house had been glad because of her for eighteen yearswhen I met her first."
"I wish I could remember her," said the Story Girl, with a little sigh."I haven't even a picture of her. Why didn't you paint one, father?"
"She would never let me. She had some queer, funny, half-playful,half-earnest superstition about it. But I always meant to when she wouldbecome willing to let me. And then--she died. Her twin brother Felixdied the same day. There was something strange about that, too. I washolding her in my arms and she was looking up at me; suddenly she lookedpast me and gave a little start. 'Felix!' she said. For a momentshe trembled and then she smiled and looked up at me again a littlebeseechingly. 'Felix has come for me, dear,' she said. 'We were alwaystogether before you came--you must not mind--you must be glad I do nothave to go alone.' Well, who knows? But she left me, Sara--she left me."
There was that in Uncle Blair's voice that kept us silent for a time.Then the Story Girl said, still very softly:
"What did mother look like, father? I don't look the least little bitlike her, do I?"
"No, I wish you did, you brown thing. Your mother's face was as white asa wood-lily, with only a faint dream of rose in her cheeks. She
had theeyes of one who always had a song in her heart--blue as a mist, thoseeyes were. She had dark lashes, and a little red mouth that quiveredwhen she was very sad or very happy like a crimson rose too rudelyshaken by the wind. She was as slim and lithe as a young, white-stemmedbirch tree. How I loved her! How happy we were! But he who accepts humanlove must bind it to his soul with pain, and she is not lost to me.Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it."
Uncle Blair looked up at the evening star. We saw that he had forgottenus, and we slipped away, hand in hand, leaving him alone in thememory-haunted shadows of the old orchard.