Rainbow Valley (Unabridged) - Lucy Maud Montgomery

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I had. When I was all sore from being licked I’d watch it and forget about the places that hurt. I’d think of the ships sailing away and away from it and wish I was on one of them sailing far away too — away from everything. On winter nights when it didn’t shine, I just felt real lonesome. Say, Una, what makes all you folks so kind to me when I’m just a stranger?”

      “Because it’s right to be. The bible tells us to be kind to everybody.”

      “Does it? Well, I guess most folks don’t mind it much then. I never remember of any one being kind to me before — true’s you live I don’t. Say, Una, ain’t them shadows on the walls pretty? They look just like a flock of little dancing birds. And say, Una, I like all you folks and them Blythe boys and Di, but I don’t like that Nan. She’s a proud one.”

      “Oh, no, Mary, she isn’t a bit proud,” said Una eagerly. “Not a single bit.”

      “Don’t tell me. Any one that holds her head like that IS proud.

       I don’t like her.”

      “WE all like her very much.”

      “Oh, I s’pose you like her better’n me?” said Mary jealously.

       “Do you?”

      “Why, Mary — we’ve known her for weeks and we’ve only known you a few hours,” stammered Una.

      “So you do like her better then?” said Mary in a rage. “All right! Like her all you want to. I don’t care. I can get along without you.”

      She flung herself over against the wall of the garret with a slam.

      “Oh, Mary,” said Una, pushing a tender arm over Mary’s uncompromising back, “don’t talk like that. I DO like you ever so much. And you make me feel so bad.”

      No answer. Presently Una gave a sob. Instantly Mary squirmed around again and engulfed Una in a bear’s hug.

      “Hush up,” she ordered. “Don’t go crying over what I said. I was as mean as the devil to talk that way. I orter to be skinned alive — and you all so good to me. I should think you WOULD like any one better’n me. I deserve every licking I ever got. Hush, now. If you cry any more I’ll go and walk right down to the harbour in this nightdress and drown myself.”

      This terrible threat made Una choke back her sobs. Her tears were wiped away by Mary with the lace frill of the spare-room pillow and forgiver and forgiven cuddled down together again, harmony restored, to watch the shadows of the vine leaves on the moonlit wall until they fell asleep.

      And in the study below Rev. John Meredith walked the floor with rapt face and shining eyes, thinking out his message of the morrow, and knew not that under his own roof there was a little forlorn soul, stumbling in darkness and ignorance, beset by terror and compassed about with difficulties too great for it to grapple in its unequal struggle with a big indifferent world.

      VI. Mary Stays at the Manse

       Table of Contents

      The manse children took Mary Vance to church with them the next day. At first Mary objected to the idea.

      “Didn’t you go to church over-harbour?” asked Una.

      “You bet. Mrs. Wiley never troubled church much, but I went every Sunday I could get off. I was mighty thankful to go to some place where I could sit down for a spell. But I can’t go to church in this old ragged dress.”

      This difficulty was removed by Faith offering the loan of her second best dress.

      “It’s faded a little and two of the buttons are off, but I guess it’ll do.”

      “I’ll sew the buttons on in a jiffy,” said Mary.

      “Not on Sunday,” said Una, shocked.

      “Sure. The better the day the better the deed. You just gimme a needle and thread and look the other way if you’re squeamish.”

      Faith’s school boots, and an old black velvet cap that had once been Cecilia Meredith’s, completed Mary’s costume, and to church she went. Her behaviour was quite conventional, and though some wondered who the shabby little girl with the manse children was she did not attract much attention. She listened to the sermon with outward decorum and joined lustily in the singing. She had, it appeared, a clear, strong voice and a good ear.

      “His blood can make the VIOLETS clean,” carolled Mary blithely. Mrs. Jimmy Milgrave, whose pew was just in front of the manse pew, turned suddenly and looked the child over from top to toe. Mary, in a mere superfluity of naughtiness, stuck out her tongue at Mrs. Milgrave, much to Una’s horror.

      “I couldn’t help it,” she declared after church. “What’d she want to stare at me like that for? Such manners! I’m GLAD stuck my tongue out at her. I wish I’d stuck it farther out. Say, I saw Rob MacAllister from over-harbour there. Wonder if he’ll tell Mrs. Wiley on me.”

      No Mrs. Wiley appeared, however, and in a few day the children forgot to look for her. Mary was apparently a fixture at the manse. But she refused to go to school with the others.

      “Nope. I’ve finished my education,” she said, when Faith urged her to go. “I went to school four winters since I come to Mrs. Wiley’s and I’ve had all I want of THAT. I’m sick and tired of being everlastingly jawed at ‘cause I didn’t get my home-lessons done. I’D no time to do home-lessons.”

      “Our teacher won’t jaw you. He is awfully nice,” said Faith.

      “Well, I ain’t going. I can read and write and cipher up to fractions. That’s all I want. You fellows go and I’ll stay home. You needn’t be scared I’ll steal anything. I swear I’m honest.”

      Mary employed herself while the others were at school in cleaning up the manse. In a few days it was a different place. Floors were swept, furniture dusted, everything straightened out. She mended the spare-room bedtick, she sewed on missing buttons, she patched clothes neatly, she even invaded the study with broom and dustpan and ordered Mr. Meredith out while she put it to rights. But there was one department with which Aunt Martha refused to let her interfere. Aunt Martha might be deaf and half blind and very childish, but she was resolved to keep the commissariat in her own hands, in spite of all Mary’s wiles and stratagems.

      “I can tell you if old Martha’d let ME cook you’d have some decent meals,” she told the manse children indignantly. “There’d be no more ‘ditto’ — and no more lumpy porridge and blue milk either. What DOES she do with all the cream?”

      “She gives it to the cat. He’s hers, you know,” said Faith.

      “I’d like to CAT her, “exclaimed Mary bitterly. “I’ve no use for cats anyhow. They belong to the old Nick. You can tell that by their eyes. Well, if old Martha won’t, she won’t, I s’pose. But it gits on my nerves to see good vittles spoiled.”

      When school came out they always went to Rainbow Valley. Mary refused to play in the graveyard. She declared she was afraid of ghosts.

      “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” declared Jem Blythe.

      “Oh, ain’t there?”

      “Did you ever see any?”

      “Hundreds of ‘em,” said Mary promptly.

      “What are they like?” said Carl.

      “Awful-looking. Dressed all in white with skellington hands and heads,” said Mary.

      “What did you do?” asked Una.

      “Run like the devil,” said Mary. Then she caught Walter’s eyes and blushed. Mary was a good deal in awe of Walter. She declared to the manse girls that his eyes made her nervous.

      “I think of all the lies

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