Part 11 (1/2)
We did not know what a sacrilege meant, but we knew that Mr. Marwood had declared that the picture was not like G.o.d. That was enough for us. We felt as if a terrible weight had been lifted from our minds.
”I could hardly believe the Story Girl, but of course the minister KNOWS,” said Dan happily.
”We've lost fifty cents because of it,” said Felicity gloomily.
We had lost something of infinitely more value than fifty cents, although we did not realize it just then. The minister's words had removed from our minds the bitter belief that G.o.d was like that picture; but on something deeper and more enduring than mind an impression had been made that was never to be removed. The mischief was done. From that day to this the thought or the mention of G.o.d brings up before us involuntarily the vision of a stern, angry, old man. Such was the price we were to pay for the indulgence of a curiosity which each of us, deep in our hearts, had, like Sara Ray, felt ought not to be gratified.
”Mr. Marwood told me to burn it,” said Felix.
”It doesn't seem reverent to do that,” said Cecily. ”Even if it isn't G.o.d's picture, it has His name on it.”
”Bury it,” said the Story Girl.
We did bury it after tea, in the depths of the spruce grove; and then we went into the orchard. It was so nice to have the Story Girl back again.
She had wreathed her hair with Canterbury Bells, and looked like the incarnation of rhyme and story and dream.
”Canterbury Bells is a lovely name for a flower, isn't it?” she said.
”It makes you think of cathedrals and chimes, doesn't it? Let's go over to Uncle Stephen's Walk, and sit on the branches of the big tree. It's too wet on the gra.s.s, and I know a story--a TRUE story, about an old lady I saw in town at Aunt Louisa's. Such a dear old lady, with lovely silvery curls.”
After the rain the air seemed dripping with odours in the warm west wind--the tang of fir balsam, the spice of mint, the wild woodsiness of ferns, the aroma of gra.s.ses steeping in the suns.h.i.+ne,--and with it all a breath of wild sweetness from far hill pastures.
Scattered through the gra.s.s in Uncle Stephen's Walk, were blossoming pale, aerial flowers which had no name that we could ever discover.
n.o.body seemed to know anything about them. They had been there when Great-grandfather King bought the place. I have never seen them elsewhere, or found them described in any floral catalogue. We called them the White Ladies. The Story Girl gave them the name. She said they looked like the souls of good women who had had to suffer much and had been very patient. They were wonderfully dainty, with a strange, faint, aromatic perfume which was only to be detected at a little distance and vanished if you bent over them. They faded soon after they were plucked; and, although strangers, greatly admiring them, often carried away roots and seeds, they could never be coaxed to grow elsewhere.
”My story is about Mrs. Dunbar and the Captain of the f.a.n.n.y,” said the Story Girl, settling herself comfortably on a bough, with her brown head against a gnarled trunk. ”It's sad and beautiful--and true. I do love to tell stories that I know really happened. Mrs. Dunbar lives next door to Aunt Louisa in town. She is so sweet. You wouldn't think to look at her that she had a tragedy in her life, but she has. Aunt Louisa told me the tale. It all happened long, long ago. Interesting things like this all did happen long ago, it seems to me. They never seem to happen now. This was in '49, when people were rus.h.i.+ng to the gold fields in California.
It was just like a fever, Aunt Louisa says. People took it, right here on the Island; and a number of young men determined they would go to California.
”It is easy to go to California now; but it was a very different matter then. There were no railroads across the land, as there are now, and if you wanted to go to California you had to go in a sailing vessel, all the way around Cape Horn. It was a long and dangerous journey; and sometimes it took over six months. When you got there you had no way of sending word home again except by the same plan. It might be over a year before your people at home heard a word about you--and fancy what their feelings would be!
”But these young men didn't think of these things; they were led on by a golden vision. They made all their arrangements, and they chartered the brig _f.a.n.n.y_ to take them to California.
”The captain of the _f.a.n.n.y_ is the hero of my story. His name was Alan Dunbar, and he was young and handsome. Heroes always are, you know, but Aunt Louisa says he really was. And he was in love--wildly in love,--with Margaret Grant. Margaret was as beautiful as a dream, with soft blue eyes and clouds of golden hair; and she loved Alan Dunbar just as much as he loved her. But her parents were bitterly opposed to him, and they had forbidden Margaret to see him or speak to him. They hadn't anything against him as a MAN, but they didn't want her to throw herself away on a sailor.
”Well, when Alan Dunbar knew that he must go to California in the _f.a.n.n.y_ he was in despair. He felt that he could NEVER go so far away for so long and leave his Margaret behind. And Margaret felt that she could never let him go. I know EXACTLY how she felt.”
”How can you know?” interrupted Peter suddenly. ”You ain't old enough to have a beau. How can you know?”
The Story Girl looked at Peter with a frown. She did not like to be interrupted when telling a story.
”Those are not things one KNOWS about,” she said with dignity. ”One FEELS about them.”
Peter, crushed but not convinced, subsided, and the Story Girl went on.
”Finally, Margaret ran away with Alan, and they were married in Charlottetown. Alan intended to take his wife with him to California in the _f.a.n.n.y_. If it was a hard journey for a man it was harder still for a woman, but Margaret would have dared anything for Alan's sake. They had three days--ONLY three days--of happiness, and then the blow fell.
The crew and the pa.s.sengers of the _f.a.n.n.y_ refused to let Captain Dunbar take his wife with him. They told him he must leave her behind. And all his prayers were of no avail. They say he stood on the deck of the _f.a.n.n.y_ and pleaded with the men while the tears ran down his face; but they would not yield, and he had to leave Margaret behind. Oh, what a parting it was!”
There was heartbreak in the Story Girl's voice and tears came into our eyes. There, in the green bower of Uncle Stephen's Walk, we cried over the pathos of a parting whose anguish had been stilled for many years.
”When it was all over, Margaret's father and mother forgave her, and she went back home to wait--to WAIT. Oh, it is so dreadful just to WAIT, and do nothing else. Margaret waited for nearly a year. How long it must have seemed to her! And at last there came a letter--but not from Alan.