The Story Girl - Part 21 | Final Part

Hello there.

Thank you so much for joining me for this final reading of The Story Girl,

The wonderful novel by Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery from 1911.

We've reached the final part and I hope you've enjoyed this book.

I've certainly enjoyed reading it.

If you haven't yet heard the preceding parts,

You can look for the playlist called The Story Girl.

You'll find all the parts there in order.

But for now,

Let's just take a moment here to have a nice,

Deep,

Exhale.

Letting go of the day.

Letting go of any baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment.

For right now,

There's nowhere else we have to be,

Nothing else we have to be doing.

So we can just relax,

Get ourselves comfortable and enjoy the final part of The Story Girl.

Chapter 31,

On the Edge of Light and Dark.

We celebrated the November day when Peter was permitted to rejoin us by a picnic in the orchard.

Sarah Ray was also allowed to come under protest and her joy over being among us once more was almost pathetic.

She and Cecily cried in one another's arms as if they had been parted for years.

We had a beautiful day for our picnic.

November dreamed that it was May.

The air was soft and mellow with pale aerial mists in the valleys and over the leafless beaches on the Western Hill.

The seer stubble fields brooded in glamour and the sky was pearly blue.

The leaves were still thick on the apple trees,

Though they were russet-hued,

And the aftergrowth of grass was richly green,

Unharmed as yet by the nipping frosts of previous nights.

The wind made a sweet,

Drowsy murmur in the boughs as of bees among apple blossoms.

It's just like spring,

Isn't it?

Asked Felicity.

The Story Girl shook her head.

No,

Not quite.

It looks like spring,

But it isn't spring.

It's as if everything was resting,

Getting ready to sleep.

In spring,

They're getting ready to grow.

Can't you feel the difference?

I think it's just like spring,

Insisted Felicity.

In the sun-sweet place before the pulpit stone,

We boys had put up a board table.

Aunt Janet allowed us to cover it with an old tablecloth,

The one places in which the girls artfully concealed with frost-whitened ferns.

We had the kitchen dishes,

And the table was gaily decorated with Cecily's three scarlet geraniums and maple leaves in the cherry vase.

As for the Vians,

They were fit for the gods on high Olympus.

Felicity had spent the whole previous day and the forenoon of the picnic day in concocting them.

Her crowning achievement was a rich little plum cake,

On the white frosting of which the words welcome back were lettered in pink candies.

This was put before Peter's place,

And almost overcame him.

To think that you'd go to so much trouble for me,

He said,

With a glance of adoring gratitude at Felicity.

Felicity got all the gratitude,

Although the story girl had originated the idea and seeded the raisins and beaten the eggs,

While Cecily had trudged all the way to Mrs.

Jameson's little shop below the church to buy the pink candies,

But that is the way of the world.

We ought to have grace,

Said Felicity as we sat down at the festal board.

Will anyone say it?

She looked at me,

But I blushed to the roots of my hair and shook my head sheepishly.

An awkward pause ensued.

It looked as if we would have to proceed without grace,

When Felix suddenly shut his eyes,

Bent his head and said,

A very good grace.

Without any appearance of embarrassment,

We looked at him when it was over with an increase of respect.

Where on earth did you learn that,

Felix?

I asked.

It's the grace Uncle Alex says at every meal,

Answered Felix.

We felt rather ashamed of ourselves.

Was it possible that we had paid so little attention to Uncle Alex's grace that we did not recognise it when we heard it on other lips?

Now,

Said Felicity jubilantly,

Let's eat everything up.

In truth,

It was a merry little feast.

We had gone without our dinners in order to save our appetites,

And we did ample justice to Felicity's good things.

Paddy sat on the pulpit stone and watched us with great yellow eyes,

Knowing that tidbits would come his way later on.

Many witty things were said,

Or at least we thought them witty,

And uproarious was the laughter.

Never had the old King Orchard known a blither merrymaking on lighter hearts.

The picnic over,

We played games until the early falling dusk,

And then we went with Uncle Alec to the backfield to burn the potato stalks,

The crowning delight of the day.

The stalks were in heaps all over the field,

And we were allowed the privilege of setting fire to them.

T'was glorious.

In a few minutes,

The field was alight with blazing bonfires,

Over which rolled great pungent clouds of smoke.

From pile to pile,

We ran shrieking with delight to poke each up with a long stick and watch the gush of rose-red sparks stream off into the night.

In what a whirl of smoke and firelight and wild fantastic hurtling shadows we were.

When we grew tired of our sport,

We went to the windward side of the field and perched ourselves on the high pole fence that skirted a dark spruce wood,

Full of strange furtive sounds.

Over us was a great dark sky,

Blossoming with silver stars,

And all around lay dusky,

Mysterious reaches of meadow and wood in the soft,

Impurpled night.

Away to the east,

A shimmering silveryness beneath a palace of aerial cloud foretokened moonrise.

But directly before us,

The potato field,

With its wreathing smoke and sullen flames,

The gigantic shadow of Uncle Alec crossing and recrossing it,

Reminded us of Peter's famous description of the Bad Place,

And probably suggested the Story Girl's remark.

I know a story,

She said,

Infusing just the right shade of weirdness into her voice,

About a man who saw the devil.

Now,

What's the matter,

Felicity?

I can never get used to the I can never get used to the way you mention the.

.

.

That name,

Complained Felicity.

To hear you speak of the old Scratch,

Anyone would think he was just a common person.

Never mind.

Tell us the story,

I said,

Curiously.

It is about Mrs John Martin's uncle at Markdale,

Said the Story Girl.

I heard Uncle Roger telling it the other night.

He didn't know I was sitting on the cellar hatch outside the window,

Or I don't suppose he would have told it.

Mrs Martin's uncle's name was William Cohen,

And he has been dead for 20 years,

But 60 years ago,

He was a young man,

And a very wild,

Wicked young man.

He did everything bad he could think of,

And never went to church,

And he laughed at everything religious,

Even the devil.

He didn't believe there was a devil at all.

At all.

One beautiful summer Sunday evening,

His mother pleaded with him to go to church with her,

But he would not.

He told her that he was going fishing instead,

And when church time came,

He swaggered past the church with his fishing rod over his shoulder,

Singing a godless song.

Halfway between the church and the harbour,

There was a thick spruce wood,

And the path ran through it.

When William Cohen was halfway through it,

Something came out of the wood and walked beside him.

I have never heard anything more horribly suggestive than that innocent word,

Something,

As enunciated by the story girl.

I felt Cecily's hand,

Icy cold,

Clutching mine.

What?

What was it like?

Whispered Felix,

Curiosity getting the better of his terror.

It was tall and black and hairy,

Said the story girl,

Her eyes glowing with uncanny intensity in the red glare of the fires,

And it lifted one great hairy hand with claws on the end of it,

And clapped William Cohen,

First on one shoulder and then on the other,

And said,

Good sport to you,

Brother.

William Cohen gave a horrible scream and fell on his face,

Right there in the wood.

Some of the men around the church door heard the scream and they rushed down to the wood.

They saw nothing but William Cohen lying like a dead man on the path.

They took him up and carried him home,

And when they undressed him to put him to bed,

There,

On each shoulder,

Was the mark of a big hand,

Burned into the flesh.

It was weeks before the burns healed,

And the scars never went away.

Always,

As long as William Cohen lived,

He carried on his shoulders the prints of the devil's hand.

I really do not know how we should ever have got home,

Had we been left to our own devices.

We were cold with fright.

How could we turn our backs on the eerie spruce wood,

Out of which something might pop at any moment?

How cross those long shadowy fields between us and our roof tree?

How venture through the darkly mysterious bracken hollow?

Fortunately,

Uncle Alec came along at this crisis and said he thought we better come home now,

Since the fires were nearly out.

We slid down from the fence and started,

Taking care to keep close together and in front of Uncle Alec.

I don't believe a word of that,

Yarn,

Said Dan,

Trying to speak with his usual incredulity.

I don't see how you can help believing it,

Said Cecily.

It isn't as if it was something we'd read of,

Or that happened far away.

It happened just down at Markdale,

And I've seen that very spruce wood myself.

Oh,

I suppose William Cohen got a fright of some kind,

Conceded Dan,

But I don't believe he saw the devil.

Old Mr.

Morrison,

At Lower Markdale,

Was one of the men who undressed him,

And he remembers seeing the marks,

Said the Story Girl triumphantly.

How did William Cohen behave afterwards?

I asked.

He was a changed man,

Said the Story Girl solemnly.

Too much changed.

He never was known to laugh again,

Or even smile.

He became a very religious man,

Which was a good thing,

But he was dreadfully gloomy,

And thought everything pleasant sinful.

He wouldn't even eat any more than was actually necessary to keep him alive.

Uncle Roger says that if he had been a Roman Catholic,

He would have become a monk,

But as he was a Presbyterian,

All he could do was to turn into a crank.

Yes,

But your Uncle Roger was never clapped on the shoulder and called brother by the devil,

Said Peter.

If he had,

He mightn't have been so precious jolly afterwards himself.

I do wish to goodness,

Said Felicity in exasperation,

That you'd stop talking of such subjects in the dark.

I'm so scared now that I keep thinking father's steps behind us are some things.

Just think,

My own father.

The Story Girl slipped her arm through Felicity's.

Never mind,

She said soothingly.

I'll tell you another story,

Such a beautiful story,

That you'll forget all about the devil.

She told us one of Hans Anderson's most exquisite tales,

And the magic of her voice charmed away all our fear,

So that when we reached the Bracken Hollow,

A lake of shadow surrounded by the silver shore of moonlit fields,

We all went through it without a thought of his satanic majesty at all.

And beyond us,

On the hill,

The home light was glowing from the farmhouse window like a beacon of old loves.

Chapter 32 The Opening of the Blue Chest November wakened from her dream of May in a bad temper.

The day after the picnic,

A cold autumn rain set in,

And we got up to find our world a drenched wind rhythm place with sodden fields and dour skies.

The rain was weeping on the roof as if it was shedding the tears of old sorrows.

The willow by the gate tossed its gaunt branches wildly as if it were some passionate spectral thing,

Wringing its fleshless hands in agony.

The orchard was haggard and uncomely.

Nothing seemed the same except the staunch,

Trusty old spruces.

It was Friday,

But we were not to begin going to school again until Monday,

So we spent the day in the granary,

Sorting apples and hearing tales.

In the evening,

The rain ceased.

The wind came around to the northwest,

Freezing suddenly,

And a chilly yellow sunset beyond the dark hills seemed to herald a brighter morrow.

Felicity and the story girl and I walked down to the post office for the mail,

Along a road where fallen leaves went eddying fitfully up and down before us in weird,

Uncanny dances of their own.

The evening was full of eerie sounds,

The creaking of fur boughs,

The whistle of the wind in the treetops,

The vibrations of strips of dried bark on the rail fences.

But we carried summer and sunshine in our hearts,

And the bleak unloveliness of the outer world only intensified our inner radiance.

Felicity wore her new velvet hood with a coquettish little collar of white fur about her neck.

Her golden curls framed her lovely face,

And the wind stung the pink of her cheeks to crimson.

On my left hand walked the story girl,

Her red cap on her jaunty brown head.

She scattered her words along the path like the pearls and diamonds of the old fairy tale.

I remember that I strutted along quite insufferably,

For we met several of the Carlisle boys,

And I felt that I was an exceptionally lucky fellow to have such beauty on one side,

And such charm on the other.

There was one of father's thin letters for Felix,

A fat foreign letter for the story girl,

Addressed in her father's minute handwriting,

A drop letter for Cecily from some school friend with in haste written across the corner,

And a letter for Aunt Janet postmarked Montreal.

I can't think who that is from,

Said Felicity.

Nobody in Montreal ever writes to mother.

Cecily's letter is from M.

Fruin.

She always puts in haste on her letters,

No matter what is in them.

When we reached home,

Aunt Janet opened and read her Montreal letter,

Aunt Janet opened and read her Montreal letter,

Then she laid it down and looked about her in astonishment.

Well,

Did ever any mortal,

She said.

What in the world is the matter,

Said Uncle Alec.

This letter is from James Ward's wife in Montreal,

Said Aunt Janet solemnly.

Rachel Ward is dead.

And she told James's wife to write to me and tell me to open the old blue chest.

Hurrah,

Shouted Dan.

Donald King,

Said his mother severely.

Rachel Ward was your relation and she is dead.

What do you mean by such behaviour?

I never was acquainted with her.

Said Dan sulkily.

And I wasn't hurrying because she's dead.

I hurrahed because that blue chest is to be opened at last.

So poor Rachel is gone,

Said Uncle Alec.

She must have been an old woman,

75 I suppose.

I remember her as a fine,

Blooming young woman.

Well,

Well,

And so the old chest is to be opened at last.

At last.

What is to be done with its contents?

Rachel left instructions about them,

Answered Aunt Janet,

Referring to the letter.

The wedding dress and veil and letters are to be burned.

And there are two jugs in it which are to be sent to James's wife.

The rest of the things are to be given around among the connection.

Each member's is to have one to remember her by.

Oh,

Can't we open it right away,

This very night,

Said Felicity eagerly.

No,

Indeed.

Aunt Janet folded up the letter decidedly.

That chest has been locked up for 50 years.

Years.

And it'll stand being locked up one more night.

You children wouldn't sleep a wink tonight if we opened it now.

You'd go wild with excitement.

I'm sure I won't sleep anyhow,

Said Felicity.

Well,

At least you'll open it the first thing in the morning,

Won't you,

Ma?

No.

I'll do nothing of the sort,

Was Aunt Janet's pitiless decree.

I want to get the work out of the way first.

And Roger and Olivia will want to be here,

Too.

We'll say 10 o'clock tomorrow,

Fortnoon.

That's 16 whole hours yet,

Sighed Felicity.

I'm going right over to tell the story,

Girl,

Said Cecily.

Won't she be excited?

We were all excited.

We spent the evening speculating on the possible contents of the chest.

And Cecily dreamed miserably that night that the moths had eaten everything in it.

The morning dawned on a beautiful world.

A very slight fall of snow had come in the night,

Just enough to look like a filmy veil of lace flung over the dark evergreens and the hard frozen ground.

A new blossom time seemed to have revisited the orchard.

The spruce wood behind the house appeared to be woven out of enchantment.

There is nothing more beautiful than a thickly growing wood of firs,

Lightly powdered with new fallen snow.

As the sun remained hidden by grey clouds,

This fairy beauty lasted all day.

The story,

Girl,

Came over early in the morning,

And Sarah Ray,

To whom faithful Cecily had sent word,

Was also on hand.

Felicity did not approve of this.

Sarah Ray isn't any relation to our family,

She scolded to Cecily,

And she has no right has no right to be present.

She's a particular friend of mine,

Said Cecily with dignity.

We have her in everything,

And it would hurt her feelings dreadfully to be left out of this.

Peter is no relation either,

But he is going to be here when we open it,

So why shouldn't Sarah?

Peter ain't a member of the family yet,

But maybe he will be someday,

Eh,

Felicity,

Said Dan.

You're awful smart,

Aren't you,

Dan King,

Said Felicity,

Reddening.

Perhaps you'd like to send for Kitty Marr,

Too,

Though she does laugh at your big mouth.

It seems as if ten o'clock would never come,

Sighed the story girl.

The work is all done,

And Aunt Olivia and Uncle Roger are here,

And the chest might just as well be opened right away.

Mother said ten o'clock,

And she'll stick to it,

Said Felicity,

Crossly.

It's only nine now.

Let us put the clock on half an hour,

Said the story girl.

The clock in the hall isn't going,

So no one will know the difference.

We all looked at each other.

I wouldn't dare,

Said Felicity,

Irresolutely.

Oh,

If that's all,

I'll do it.

Said the story girl.

When ten o'clock struck,

Aunt Janet came into the kitchen,

Remarking innocently that it hadn't seemed any time since nine.

We must have looked horribly guilty,

But none of the grown-ups suspected anything.

Uncle Alec brought in the axe and pried off the cover of the old blue chest,

While everybody stood around in silence.

Then came the unpacking.

It was certainly an interesting performance.

Aunt Janet and Aunt Olivia took everything out and laid it on the kitchen table.

We children were forbidden to touch anything.

But fortunately,

We were not forbidden the use of our eyes and tongues.

There are the pink and gold vases Grandmother King gave her,

Said Felicity,

As Aunt Olivia unwrapped from their tissue-paper swathings a pair of slender,

Old-fashioned,

Twisted vases of pink glass,

Over which little gold leaves were scattered.

Aren't they handsome?

And,

Oh,

Exclaimed Cecily in delight,

There's the china fruit basket with the apple on the handle.

Doesn't it look real?

I've thought so much about it.

Oh,

Mother,

Please let me hold it for a minute.

I'll be as careful as careful.

There comes the china set Grandfather King gave her,

Said the story girl wistfully.

Oh,

It makes me feel sad.

I think of all the hopes that Rachel Ward must have put away in this chest with all her pretty things.

Following these came a quaint little candlestick of blue china and the two jugs which were to be sent to James's wife.

They are handsome,

Said Aunt Janet rather enviously.

They must be a hundred years old.

Aunt Sarah Ward gave them to Rachel,

And she had them for at least fifty years.

I should have thought one would have been enough for James's wife.

But,

Of course,

We must do just as Rachel wished.

I declare,

Here's a dozen tin patty pans.

Tin patty pans aren't very romantic,

Said the story girl discontentedly.

I notice that you are as fond as anyone of what is baked in them,

Said Aunt Janet.

I've heard of those patty pans.

An old servant Grandmother King had gave them to Rachel.

Now we're coming to the linen.

That was Uncle Edward Ward's present.

How yellow it has grown.

We children were not greatly interested in the sheets and tablecloths and pillowcases which now came out of the capacious depths of the old blue chest.

But Aunt Olivia was quite enraptured over them.

What sewing,

She said.

Look,

Janet,

You'd almost need a magnifying glass to see the stitches.

And the dear old-fashioned pillow slips with buttons on them.

Here are a dozen handkerchiefs,

Said Aunt Janet.

Look at the initial in the corner of each.

Rachel learned that stitch from a nun in Montreal.

It looks as if it was woven into the material.

Here are her quilts,

Said Aunt Olivia.

Yes.

Yes.

There is the blue and white counterpane Grandmother Ward gave her.

And the rising sun quilt her Aunt Nancy made for her.

And the braided rug.

The colours are not faded one bit.

I want that rug,

Janet.

And underneath the linen were Rachel Ward's wedding clothes.

The excitement of the girls waxed red hot over these.

There was a paisley shawl in the wrappings in which it had come from the store,

And a wide scarf of some yellowed lace.

There was the embroidered petticoat,

Which had cost Felicity such painful blushes,

And a dozen beautifully worked sets of the fine muslin undersleeves,

Which had been the fashion in Rachel Ward's youth.

This was to have been her appearing-out dress,

Said Aunt Olivia,

Lifting out a shot green silk.

It is all cut to pieces,

But what a pretty soft shade it was.

Look at the skirt,

Janet.

How many yards must it measure around?

Hoop skirts were in then,

Said Aunt Janet.

I don't see her wedding hat here.

I was always told that she packed it away too.

So was I.

But she couldn't have.

It certainly isn't here.

I have heard that the white plume on it cost a small fortune.

Here is her black silk mantle.

It seems like sacrilege to meddle with these clothes.

Don't be foolish,

Olivia.

They must be unpacked at least.

And they must all be burned,

Since they have cut so badly.

This purple cloth dress is quite good,

However.

It can be made over nicely.

And it would become you very well,

Olivia.

No,

Thank you,

Said Aunt Olivia,

With a little shudder.

I should feel like a ghost.

Make it over for yourself,

Janet.

Well,

I will,

If you don't want it.

I'm not troubled with fancies.

That seems to be all,

Except this box.

I suppose the wedding dress is in it.

Oh,

Breathed the girls,

Crowding about Aunt Olivia,

As she lifted out the box and cut the cord around it.

Inside was lying a dress of soft silk that had once been white,

But was now yellowed with age,

And enfolding it like a mist,

A long white bridal veil,

Redolent with some strange old-time perfume that had kept its sweetness through all the years.

Poor Rachel Ward,

Said Aunt Olivia,

Softly.

Here is her point lace handkerchief.

She made it herself.

It is like a spider's web.

Here are the letters Will Montague wrote her.

And here,

She said,

Taking up a crimson velvet case with a tarnished gilt clasp,

Are their photographs,

His and hers.

We looked eagerly at the daguerreotypes in the old case.

Why,

Rachel Ward wasn't a bit pretty,

Exclaimed the story girl,

In poignant disappointment.

No,

Rachel Ward was not pretty.

That had to be admitted.

The picture showed a fresh young face with strongly marked,

Irregular features,

Large black eyes and black curls hanging around the shoulders,

In old-time style.

Rachel wasn't pretty,

Said Uncle Alec,

But she had a lovely colour and a beautiful smile.

She looks far too sober in that picture.

She has a beautiful neck and bust,

Said Aunt Olivia,

Critically.

Anyhow,

Will Montague was really handsome,

Said the story girl.

A handsome,

Rogue,

Growled Uncle Alec.

I never liked him.

I was only a little chap of ten,

But I saw through him.

Rachel Ward was far too good for him.

Far too good for him.

We would dearly have liked to get a peep into the letters,

Too,

But Aunt Olivia would not allow that.

They must be burned,

Unread,

She declared.

She took the wedding dress and veil,

The picture case,

And the letters,

Away with her.

The rest of the things were put back into the chest,

Pending their ultimate distribution.

Aunt Janet gave each of us boys a handkerchief.

The story girl got the blue candlestick,

And Felicity and Cecily each got a pink and gold vase.

Even Sarah Ray was made happy by the gift of a little china plate with a loudly coloured picture of Moses and Aaron before Pharaoh in the middle of it.

Moses wore a scarlet cloak while Aaron disported himself in bright blue.

Pharaoh was arrayed in yellow.

The plate had a scalloped border with a wreath of green leaves around it.

I shall never use it to eat off,

Said Sarah rapturously.

I'll put it up on the parliamental piece.

I don't see much use in having a plate just for ornament,

Said Felicity.

It's nice to have something interesting to look at,

Retorted Sarah,

Who felt that the soul must have food as well as the body.

I'm going to get a candle for my candlestick and use it every night to go to bed with,

Said the story girl,

And I'll never light it without thinking of poor Rachel Ward.

But I do wish she had been pretty.

Well,

Said Felicity with a glance at the clock,

It's all over and it has been very interesting,

But that clock has got to be put back to the right time sometime through the day.

I don't want bedtime coming a whole half hour before it ought to.

In the afternoon,

When Aunt Janet was over at Uncle Roger's,

Seeing him and Aunt Olivia off to town,

The clock was righted.

The story girl and Peter came over to stay all night with us,

And we made taffy in the kitchen,

Which the grown-ups kindly gave over to us for that purpose.

Of course,

It was very interesting to see the old chest unpacked,

Said the story girl,

As she stirred the contents of a saucepan vigorously.

But now that it is over,

I believe I am sorry that it is opened.

It isn't mysterious any longer.

We know all about it now,

And we can never imagine what things are in it anymore.

It's better to know than to imagine,

Said Felicity.

Oh,

No it isn't,

Said the story girl quickly.

When you know things,

You have to go by facts,

But when you just dream about things,

There's nothing to hold you down.

You're letting the taffy scorch,

And that's a fact you'd better go by,

Said Felicity,

Sniffing.

Haven't you got a nose?

When we went to bed,

That wonderful white enchantress,

The moon,

Was making an elf-land of the snow-misted world outside.

From where I lay,

I could see the sharp tops of the spruces against the silvery sky.

The frost was abroad,

And the winds were still,

And the land lay in glamour.

Across the hall,

The story girl was telling Felicity and Cecily the old,

Old tale of Argive Helen and Evil-Hearted Paris.

But that's a bad story,

Said Felicity when the tale was ended.

She left her husband and ran away with another man.

I suppose it was bad four thousand years ago,

Admitted the story girl,

But by this time,

The bad must have all gone out of it.

It's only the good that could last.

So long.

Our summer was over.

It had been a beautiful one.

We had known the sweetness of common joys,

The delight of dawns,

The dream and glamour of noontides,

The long purple peace of carefree nights.

We had had the pleasure of birdsong,

Of silver rain on greening fields,

Of storm among the trees,

Of blossoming meadows,

And of the converse of whispering leaves.

We had had brotherhood with wind and star,

With books and tales,

And hearth fires of autumn.

Ours had been the little loving tasks of everyday blithe companionship,

Shared thoughts and adventuring.

Rich we were in the memory of those opulent months that had gone from us.

Richer than we then knew or suspected.

And before us was the dream of spring.

It is always safe to dream of spring,

For it is sure to come.

And if it be not just as we have pictured it,

It will be infinitely sweeter.

The End