Rainbow Valley Chapter 13 - The House on the Hill

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Chapter thirteen of Rainbow Valley by Lucy Maud Montgomery. This
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LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Karen Savage,
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Chapter thirteen, The House on the Hill. There was a
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little unfailing spring, always icy cold and crystal pure, in
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a certain birch screened hollow of Rainbow Valley, in the
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lower corner near the marsh. Not a great many people
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knew of its existence. The Manse and Ingleside children knew,
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of course, as they knew everything else about the magic Valley.
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Occasionally they went there to get a drink, and it
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figured in many of their plays as a fountain of
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old romance. Anne knew of it and loved it, because
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somehow it reminded her of the beloved Dryad's bubble at
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Green Gables. Rosemary West knew of it. It was her
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fountain of romance too. Eighteen years ago she had sat
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behind it one spring twilight and heard young Martin Crawford
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stammer out a confession of fervent, boyish love. She had
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whispered her own secret in return, and they had kissed
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and promised by the wild wood spring. They had never
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stood together by it again. Martin had sailed on his
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fatal voyage soon after. But to Rosemary West it was
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always a sacred spot, hallowed by that immortal hour of
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youth and love. Whenever she passed near it, she turned
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aside to hold a secret tryst with an old dream,
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a dream from which the pain had long gone, leaving
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only its unforgettable sweetness. The spring was a hidden thing.
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You might have passed within ten feet of it and
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never have suspected its existence. Two generations passed, a huge
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old pine had fallen almost across it. Nothing was left
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of the tree but its crumbling trunk, out of which
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the ferns grew thickly, making a green roof and a
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lacy screen for the water. A maple tree grew beside it,
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with a curiously gnarled and twisted trunk, creeping along the
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ground for a little way before shooting up into the
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air and so forming a quaint seat and set. Timber
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had flung a scarf of pale smoke blue asters around
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the hollow. John Meredith, taking the cross lots through Rainbow
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Valley on his way home from some pastoral visitations around
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the harbor head one evening, turned aside to drink from
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the little spring. Walter Blythe had shown it to him
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one afternoon only a few days before, and they had
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had a long talk together on the maple seat. John Meredith,
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under all his shyness and aloofness, had the heart of
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a boy. He had been called Jack in his youth,
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though nobody in Glen Saint Mary would ever have believed it.
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Walter and he had taken to each other and had
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talked unreservedly. Mister Meredith found his way into some sealed
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and sacred chambers of the lad's soul, wherein not even
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Die had ever looked. They were to be chums from
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that friendly hour, and Walter knew that he would never
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be frightened of the Minister again. I never believed before
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that it was possible to get really acquainted with the Minister,
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he told his mother. That night, John Meredith drank from
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his slender white hand, whose grip of steel always surprised
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people who were unacquainted with it, and then sat down
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on the maple seat. He was in no hurry to
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go home. This was a beautiful spot, and he was
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mentally weary. After a round of rather uninspiring conversations with
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many good and stupid people, the moon was rising, rainbow
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valley was wind haunted and star sentineled only where he was,
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but afar from the upper end came the gay notes
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of children's laughter and voices. The ethereal beauty of the
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asters in the moonlight, the glimmer of the little spring,
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the soft croon of the brook, the wavering grace of
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the brackens, all wove a white magic round John Meredith.
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He forgot congregational worries and spiritual problems. The years slipped
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away from him. He was a young divinity student again,
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and the roses of June were blooming red and fragrant
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on the dark, queenly head of his cecilia. He sat
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there and dreamed like any boy. And it was at
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this propitious moment that Rosemary West stepped aside from the
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by path and stood beside him in that dangerous, spell
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weaving place. John Meredith came up as she came in,
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and he saw her, really saw her for the first time.
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He had met her in his church once or twice,
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and shaken hands with her abstractedly, as he did with
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any one he happened to encounter on his way down
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the aisle. He had never met her elsewhere, for the
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Wests were Episcopalians with church affinities in Lowbridge, and no
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occasion for calling upon them had ever arisen before tonight.
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If any one had asked John Meredith what Rosemary West
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looked like, he would not have had the slightest notion.
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But he was never to forget her as she appeared
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to him in the glamor of kind moonlight by the spring.
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She was certainly not in the least like Cecilia, who
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had always been his ideal of womanly beauty. Cecilia had
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been small and dark and vivacious. Rosemary West was tall
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and fair and placid. Yet John Meredith thought he had
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never seen so b beautiful a woman. She was bare headed,
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and her golden hair, hair of a warm gold molasses
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taffy color, as Dye Blithe had said, was pinned in sleek,
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close coils over her head. She had large, tranquil blue
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eyes that always seemed full of friendliness, a high white forehead,
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and a finely shaped face. Rosemary West was always called
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a sweet woman. She was so sweet that even her
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high bred, stately air had never gained for her the
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reputation of being stuck up, which it would inevitably have
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done in the case of any one else. In Glens
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and Mary life had taught her to be brave, to
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be patient, to love, to forgive. She had watched the
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ship on which her lover went sailing out of four
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Winds Harbor into the sunset, But though she watched long,
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she had never seen it coming sailing back. That vigil
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had taken girlhood from her eyes. Yet she kept her
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youth to a marvelous degree. Perhaps this was because she
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always seemed to preserve that attitude of delighted surprise towards
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life which most of us leave behind in childhood, an
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attitude which not only made Rosemary herself seem young, but
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flung a pleasing illusion of youth over the consciousness of
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every one who talked to her. John Meredith was startled
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by her loveliness, and Rosemary was startled by his presence.
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She had never thought she would find any one by
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that remote spring, least of all the recluse of Glens
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and Mary Man's. She almost dropped the heavy armful of
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books she was carrying home from the Glen Lending Library,
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and then, to cover her confusion, she told one of
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those small FIBs which even the best of women do
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tell at times. I I came for a drink, she said,
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stammering a little in answer to mister Meredith's grave good evening,
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Miss West. She felt that she was an unpardonable goose,
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and she longed to shake herself. But John Meredith was
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not a vain man, and he knew she would likely
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have been as much startled had she met old elder
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Klow in that unexpected fashion. Her confusion put him at ease,
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and he forgot to be shy. Besides, even the shyest
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of men can sometimes be quite audacious in moonlight. Let
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me get you a cup, he said, smiling. There was
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a cup near by, if he had only known it,
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a cracked, handleless blue cup secreted under the maple by
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the Rainbow Valley children. But he did not know it.
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So he stepped out to one of the birch trees
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and stripped a bit of its white skin away. Deftly,
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he fashioned this into a three cornered cup, filled it
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from the spring, and handed it to Rosemary. Rosemary took
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it and drank every drop to punish herself for her
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fib for she was not in the least thirsty and
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to drink a fairly large cupful of water when you
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are not thirsty is somewhat of an ordeal. Yet the
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memory of that draft was to be very pleasant to
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Rosemary in after years. It seemed to her that there
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was something sacramental about it. Perhaps this was because of
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what the minister did. When she handed him back the cup.
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He stooped again and filled it and drank of it himself.
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It was only by accident that he put his lips
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just where Rosemary had put hers, and Rosemary knew it. Nevertheless,
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it had a curious significance for her. They too had
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drunk of the same cup. She remembered idly that an
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old aunt of hers used to say that when two
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people did this, their after lives would be linked in
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some fashion, whether for good or ill. John Meredith held
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the cup uncertainly. He did not know what to do
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with it. The logical thing would have been to toss
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it away, but somehow he was disinclined to do this.
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Rosemary held out her hand for it. Will you let
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me have it? She said, you made it so nackily.
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I never saw any one make a birch cup. So
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since my little brother used to make them long ago
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before he died. I learned how to make them when
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I was a boy camping out one summer. An old
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hunter taught me, said, mister Meredith, let me carry your books,
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Miss West. Rosemary was startled into another fib and said, oh,
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they were not heavy. But the minister took them from
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her with quite a masterful air, and they walked away together.
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It was the first time Rosemary had stood by the
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valley spring without thinking of Martin Crawford. The mystic tryst
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had been broken. The little by path wound around the
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marsh and then struck up the long wooded hill on
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the top of which Rosemary lived. Beyond. Through the trees,
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they could see the moonlight shining across the level summer fields,
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but the little path was shadowy and narrow. Trees crowded
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over it, and trees are never quite as friendly to
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human beings after nightfall as they are in daylight. They
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wrapped themselves away from us. They whisper and plot furtively.
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If they reach out a hand to us, it has
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a hostile tentative touch. People walking amid trees after night
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always draw closer together, instinctively and involuntarily, making an alliance,
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physical and mental against certain alien powers around them. Rosemary's
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dress brushed against John Meredith as they walked. Not even
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an absent minded minister, who was after all a young
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man still, though he firmly believed he had outlived Romance,
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could be insensible to the charm of the night, and
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the path and the companion. It is never quite safe
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to think we have done with life when we imagine
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we have finished our story. Fate has a trick of
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turning the page and showing us yet another chapter. These
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two people each thought their hearts belonged irrevocably to the past,
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but they both found their walk up that hill very pleasant.
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Rosemary thought the Glen Minister was by no means as
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shy and tongue tied as he had been represented. He
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seemed to find no difficulty in talking easily and freely.
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Glen housewives would have been amazed had they heard him,
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But then so many Glen housewives talked only gossip and
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the price of eggs, and John Meredith was not interested
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in either. He talked to Rosemary of books and music
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and wide world doings and something of his own history,
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and found that she could understand and respond Rosemary, it appeared,
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possessed a book which mister Meredith had not read and
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wished to read. She offered to lend it to him,
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and when they reached the old homestead on the hill,
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he went in to get it. The house itself was
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an old fashioned gray one hung with vines, through which
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the light in the sitting room winked in friendly fashion.
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It looked down the glen over the harbor, silvered in
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the moonlight, to the sand dunes and the moaning ocean.
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They walked in through a garden that always seemed to
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smell of roses, even when no roses were in bloom.
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There was a sisterhood of lilies at the gate, and
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a ribbon of asters on either side of the broad walk,
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and a lacery of fir trees on the hill's edge.
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Beyond the house. You have the whole world at your doorstep. Here,
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said John Meredith, with a long breath. What a view,
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What an outlook. At times I feel stifled down there
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in the glen. You can breathe up here. It is
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calm to night, said Rosemary, laughing. If there were a wind,
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it would blow your breath away. We get ah the arts.
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The wind can blow up here. This place should be
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called four winds instead of the Harbor. I like wind,
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he said. A day when there is no wind seems
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to meet dead. A windy day wakes me up, he
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gave a conscious laugh. On a calm day, I fall
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into day dreams. No doubt you know my reputation, Miss West.
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If I cut you dead the next time we meet,
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don't put it down to bad manners. Please understand that
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it is only abstraction, and forgive me and speak to me.
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They found Ellen West in the sitting room. When they
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went in, she laid her glasses down on the books
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she had been reading and looked at them in amazement,
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tinctured with something else. But she shook hands amiably with
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mister Meridith, and he sat down and talked to her
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while Rosemary hunted out his book. Ellen West was ten
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years older than Rosemary, and so different from her that
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it was hard to believe they were sisters. She was
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dark and massive, with black hair, thick black eyebrows, and
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eyes of the clear salty blue of the gulf water
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in a north wind. She had a rather stern forbidding look,
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but she was in reality very jolly, with a hearty,
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gurgling laugh and a deep, mellow, pleasant voice with a
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suggestion of masculinity about it. She had once remarked to
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Rosemary that she would really like to have a talk
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with that Presbyterian minister at the Glen to see if
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he could find a word to say to a woman
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when he was cornered. She had her chance now, and
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she tackled him on world politics. Miss Ellen, who was
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a great reader, had been devouring a book on the
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Kaiser of Germany, and she demanded mister Meredith's opinion of him.
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A dangerous man? Was his answer, I believe you, Miss Ellen, nodded.
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Mark my words, mister Meredith. That man is going to
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fight somebody, yet he's aching to he is going to
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set the world on fire. If you mean that he
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will wantonly precipitate a great war. I hardly think so,
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said mister Meredith. The day has gone by for that
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sort of thing, bless you. It hasn't rumbled Ellen. The
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day never goes by from men and nations to make
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asses of themselves and take to the fists. The millennium
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isn't that near, mister Meredith. And you don't think it
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is any more than I do as for this kaiser,
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mark my words, he is going to make a heap
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of trouble. And miss Ellen prodded her book emphatically with
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her long finger. Yes, if he isn't nipped in the bud,
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he is going to make trouble. We'll live to see it.
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You and I will live to see it, mister Meredith.
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And who is going to nip him? England should but
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she won't. Who is going to nip him? Tell me that,
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mister Meredith. Mister Meredith couldn't tell her. But they plunged
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into a discussion of German militaries that lasted long after
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Rosemary had found the book. Rosemary said nothing, but sat
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in a little rocker behind Ellen and stroked an important
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black cat meditatively. John Meredith hunted big game in Europe
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with Ellen, but he looked oftener at Rosemary than at Ellen,
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and Ellen noticed it. After Rosemary had gone to the
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door with him and come back, Ellen rose and looked
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at her accusingly. Rosemary West, that man has a notion
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of courting you, Rosemary quivered. Ellen's speech was like a
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blow to her. It rubbed all the bloom off the pleasure.
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But she would not let Ellen, see how it hurt her. Nonsense,
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she said, and laughed a little too carelessly. You see
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a beau for me in every bush, Ellen, Why he
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told me all about his wife to night, how much
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she was to him, how empty her death had left
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the world. Well, that may be his way of courting,
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retorted Ellen. Men have all kinds of ways, I understand.
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But don't forget your promise, Rosemary. There is no need
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of my either forgetting or remembering it, said Rosemary a
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little wearily. You forget that I'm an old maid, Ellen.
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It's only your sisterly delusion that I am still young
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and blooming and dangerous. Mister Meredith merely wants to be
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a friend. If he wants that much itself, he'll forget
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us both long before he gets back to the manse.
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I've no objection to your being friends with him, conceded Ellen.
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But it mustn't go beyond friendship. Remember, I'm always suspicious
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of widowers. They are not given to romantic ideas about friendship.
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They are apt to mean business. As for this Presbyterian man,
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what do they call him shy for? He's not a
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bit shy, though he may be absent minded. So absent
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minded that he forgot to say good night to me
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when you started to go to the door with him.
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He's got brains too. There's so few men around here
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that can talk sense to a body. I've enjoyed the evening.
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I wouldn't mind seeing more of him. But no philandering, Rosemary,
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mind you, no philandering. Rosemary was quite used to being
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warned by Ellen from philandering if she so much as
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talked five minutes to any marriageable man under eighty or
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over eighteen. She had always laughed at the warning with
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unfeigned amusement. This time it did not amuse her. It
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irritated her a little. Who wanted to philander? Don't be
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such a goose, Ellen, she said, with unaccustomed shortness. As
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she took her lamp. She went upstairs without saying good night.
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Ellen shook her head dubiously and looked at the black cat.
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What is she so cross about, Saint George, she asked,
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when you'll your hit? I've always heard George, but she promised.
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Saint she promised, And we wests always keep our word,
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so it won't matter if he does want to philander George,
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she promised, I won't worry up stairs. In her room,
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Rosemary sat for a long while, looking out of the
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window across the moonlit garden to the distant shining harbor.
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She felt vaguely upset and unsettled. She was suddenly tired
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of outworn dreams. And in the garden the petals of
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the last red rose were scattered by a sudden little wind.
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Summer was over. It was autumn, end of chapter thirteen.