contemptuous pity. That woman had no son - nothing but
pale-faced girls. Thyra had never wanted a daughter,
but she pitied and despised all sonless women.
Chester's dog whined suddenly and piercingly on the
doorstep outside. He was tired of the cold stone and
wanted his warm corner behind the stove. Thyra smiled
grimly when she heard him. She had no intention of
letting him in. She said she had always disliked dogs,
but the truth, although she would not glance at it, was
that she hated the animal because Chester loved him.
She could not share his love with even a dumb brute.
She loved no living creature in the world but her son,
and fiercely demanded a like concentrated affection
from him. Hence it pleased her to hear his dog whine.
It was now quite dark; the stars had begun to shine out
over the shorn harvest fields, and Chester had not
come. Across the lane Cynthia White had pulled down her
blind, in despair of out-watching Thyra, and had
lighted a lamp. Lively shadows of little girl-shapes
passed and repassed on the pale oblong of light. They
made Thyra conscious of her exceeding loneliness. She
had just decided that she would walk down the lane and
wait for Chester on the bridge, when a thunderous knock
came at the east kitchen door.
She recognized August Vorst's knock and lighted a lamp
in no great haste, for she did not like him. He was a
gossip and Thyra hated gossip, in man or woman. But
August was privileged.
She carried the lamp in her hand, when she went to the
door, and its upward-striking light gave her face a
ghastly appearance. She did not mean to ask August in,
but he pushed past her cheerfully, not waiting to be
invited. He was a midget of a man, lame of foot and
hunched of back, with a white, boyish face, despite his
middle age and deep-set, malicious black eyes.
He pulled a crumpled newspaper from his pocket and
handed it to Thyra. He was the unofficial mail-carrier
of Avonlea. Most of the people gave him a trifle for
bringing their letters and papers from the office. He
earned small sums in various other ways, and so
contrived to keep the life in his stunted body. There
was always venom in August's gossip. It was said that
he made more mischief in Avonlea in a day than was made
otherwise in a year, but people tolerated him by reason
of his infirmity. To be sure, it was the tolerance they
gave to inferior creatures, and August felt this.
Perhaps it accounted for a good deal of his malignity.
He hated most those who were kindest to him, and, of
these, Thyra Carewe above all. He hated Chester, too,
as he hated strong, shapely creatures. His time had
come at last to wound them both, and his exultation
shone through his crooked body and pinched features
like an illuminating lamp. Thyra perceived it and
vaguely felt something antagonistic in it. She pointed
to the rocking-chair, as she might have pointed out a
mat to a dog.
August crawled into it and smiled. He was going to make
her writhe presently, this woman who looked down upon
him as some venomous creeping thing she disdained to
]crush with her foot.
"
Did you see anything of Chester on the road?" asked
Thyra, giving August the very opening he desired. "He
went to the harbor after tea to see Joe Raymond about
the loan of his boat, but it's the time he should be
back. I can't think what keeps the boy."
"Just what keeps most men - leaving out creatures like
me - at some time or other in their lives. A girl - a
pretty girl, Thyra. It pleases me to look at her. Even
a hunchback can use his eyes, eh? Oh, she's a rare
one!"
"What is the man talking about?" said Thyra
wonderingly.
"Damaris Garland, to be sure. Chester's down at Tom
Blair's now, talking to her - and looking more than his
tongue says, too, of that you may be sure. Well, well,
we were all young once, Thyra - all young once, even
crooked little August Vorst. Eh, now?"
"What do you mean?" said Thyra.
She had sat down in a chair before him, with her hands
folded in her lap. Her face, always pale, had not
changed; but her lips were curiously white. August
Vorst saw this and it pleased him. Also, her eyes were
worth looking at, if you liked to hurt people - and
that was the only pleasure August took in life. He
would drink this delightful cup of revenge for her long
years of disdainful kindness - ah, he would drink it
his long, thin, white hands together - sip by sip,
tasting each mouthful.
"Eh, now? You know well enough, Thyra."
"I know nothing of what you would be at, August Vorst.
You speak of my son and Damaris - was that the name? -
Damaris Garland as if they were something to each
other. I ask you what you mean by it?"
"Tut, tut, Thyra, nothing very terrible. There's no
need to look like that about it. Young men will be young
men to the end of time, and there's no harm in
Chester's liking to look at a lass, eh, now? Or in
talking to her either? The little baggage, with the red
lips of her! She and Chester will make a pretty pair.
He's not so ill-looking for a man, Thyra."
"I am not a very patient woman, August," said Thyra
coldly. "I have asked you what you mean, and I want a
straight answer. Is Chester down at Tom Blair's while I
have been sitting here, alone, waiting for him?"
August nodded. He saw that it would not be wise to
trifle longer with Thyra.
"That he is. I was there before I came here. He and
Damaris were sitting in a corner by themselves, and
very well-satisfied they seemed to be with each other.
Tut, tut, Thyra, don't take the news so. I thought you
knew. It's no secret that Chester has been going after
Damaris ever since she came here. But what then? You
can't tie him to your apron strings forever, woman.
He'll be finding a mate for himself, as he should.
Seeing that he's straight and well-shaped, no doubt
Damaris will look with favor on him. Old Martha Blair
declares the girl loves him better than her eyes."
Thyra made a sound like a strangled moan in the middle
of August's speech. She heard the rest of it immovably.
When it came to an end she stood and looked down upon
him in a way that silenced him.
"You've told the news you came to tell, and gloated
over it, and now get you gone," she said slowly.
"Now, Thyra," he began, but she interrupted him
threateningly.
"Get you gone, I say! And you need not bring my mail
here any longer. I want no more of your misshapen body
and lying tongue!"
&n
bsp; August went, but at the door he turned for a parting
stab.
"My tongue is not a lying one, Mrs. Carewe. I've told
you the truth, as all Avonlea knows it. Chester is mad
about Damaris Garland. It's no wonder I thought you
knew what all the settlement can see. But you're such a
jealous, odd body, I suppose the boy hid it from you
for fear you'd go into a tantrum. As for me, I'll not
forget that you've turned me from your door because I
chanced to bring you news you'd no fancy for."
Thyra did not answer him. When the door closed behind
him she locked it and blew out the light. Then she
threw herself face downward on the sofa and burst into
wild tears. Her very soul ached. She wept as
tempestuously and unreasoningly as youth weeps,
although she was not young. It seemed as if she was
afraid to stop weeping lest she should go mad thinking.
But, after a time, tears failed her, and she began
bitterly to go over, word by word, what August Vorst
had said.
That her son should ever cast eyes of love on any girl
was something Thyra had never thought about. She would
not believe it possible that he should love any one but
herself, who loved him so much. And now the possibility
invaded her mind as subtly and coldly and remorselessly
as a sea-fog stealing landward.
Chester had been born to her at an age when most women
are letting their children slip from them into the
world, with some natural tears and heartaches, but
content to let them go, after enjoying their sweetest
years. Thyra's late-come motherhood was all the more
intense and passionate because of its very lateness.
She had been very ill when her son was born, and had
lain helpless for long weeks, during which other women
had tended her baby for her. She had never been able to
forgive them for this.
Her husband had died before Chester was a year old. She
had laid their son in his dying arms and received him
back again with a last benediction. To Thyra that
moment had something of a sacrament in it. It was as if
the child had been doubly given to her, with a right to
him solely that nothing could take away or transcend.
Marrying! She had never thought of it in connection
father had been sixty when he had married her, Thyra
Lincoln, likewise well on in life. Few of the Lincolns
or Carewes had married young, many not at all. And, to
her, Chester was her baby still. He belonged solely to
her.
And now another woman had dared to look upon him with
eyes of love. Damaris Garland! Thyra now remembered
seeing her. She was a new-comer in Avonlea, having come
to live with her uncle and aunt after the death of her
mother. Thyra had met her on the bridge one day a month
previously. Yes, a man might think she was pretty - a
low-browed girl, with a wave of reddish-gold hair, and
crimson lips blossoming out against the strange, milk-
whiteness of her skin. Her eyes, too - Thyra recalled
them - hazel in tint, deep, and laughter-brimmed.
The girl had gone past her with a smile that brought
out many dimples. There was a certain insolent quality
in her beauty, as if it flaunted itself somewhat too
defiantly in the beholder's eye. Thyra had turned and
looked after the lithe, young creature, wondering who
she might be.
And to-night, while she, his mother, waited for him in
darkness and loneliness, he was down at Blair's,
talking to this girl! He loved her; and it was past
doubt that she loved him. The thought was more bitter
than death to Thyra. That she should dare! Her anger
was all against the girl. She had laid a snare to get
Chester and he, like a fool, was entangled in it,
thinking, man-fashion, only of her great eyes and red
lips. Thyra thought savagely of Damaris' beauty.
"She shall not have him," she said, with slow emphasis.
"I will never give him up to any other woman, and,
least of all, to her. She would leave me no place in
his heart at all - me, his mother, who almost died to
give him life. He belongs to me! Let her look for the
son of some other woman - some woman who has many sons.
She shall not have my only one!"
She got up, wrapped a shawl about her head, and went
out into the darkly golden evening. The clouds had
cleared away, and the moon was shining. The air was
chill, with a bell-like clearness. The alders by the
river rustled eerily as she walked by them and out upon
the bridge. Here she paced up and down, peering with
troubled eyes along the road beyond, or leaning over
the rail, looking at the sparkling silver ribbon of
moonlight that garlanded the waters. Late travelers
passed her, and wondered at her presence and mien. Carl
White saw her, and told his wife about her when he got
home.
"Striding to and fro over the bridge like mad! At first
I thought it was old, crazy May Blair. What do you
suppose she was doing down there at this hour of the
night?"
"Watching for Ches, no doubt," said Cynthia. "He ain't
home yet. Likely he's snug at Blairs'. I do wonder if
Thyra suspicions that he goes after Damaris. I've never
dared to hint it to her. She'd be as liable to fly at
me, tooth and claw, as not."
"Well, she picks out a precious queer night for moon-
gazing," said Carl, who was a jolly soul and took life
as he found it. "It's bitter cold - there'll be a hard
frost. It's a pity she can't get it grained into her
that the boy is grown up and must have his fling like
the other lads. She'll go out of her mind yet, like her
old grandmother Lincoln, if she doesn't ease up. I've a
notion to go down to the bridge and reason a bit with
her."
"Indeed, and you'll do no such thing!" cried Cynthia.
"Thyra Carewe is best left alone, if she is in a
tantrum. She's like no other woman in Avonlea - or out
of it. I'd as soon meddle with a tiger as her, if she's
rampaging about Chester. I don't envy Damaris Garland
her life if she goes in there. Thyra'd sooner strangle
her than not, I guess."
"You women are all terrible hard on Thyra," said Carl,
good-naturedly. He had been in love with Thyra,
himself, long ago, and he still liked her in a friendly
fashion. He always stood up for her when the Avonlea
women ran her down. He felt troubled about her all
night, recalling her as she paced the bridge. He wished
he had gone back, in spite of Cynthia.
When Chester came home he met his mother on the bridge.
In the faint, yet penetrating, moonlight they looked
curiously alike, but Chester had the milder face. He
was very handsome. Even in the seething of h
er pain and
liked to put up her hands and caress his face, but her
voice was very hard when she asked him where he had
been so late.
"I called in at Tom Blair's on my way home from the
harbor," he answered, trying to walk on. But she held
him back by his arm.
"Did you go there to see Damaris?" she demanded
fiercely.
Chester was uncomfortable. Much as he loved his mother,
he felt, and always had felt, an awe of her and an
impatient dislike of her dramatic ways of speaking and
acting. He reflected, resentfully, that no other young
man in Avonlea, who had been paying a friendly call,
would be met by his mother at midnight and held up in
such tragic fashion to account for himself. He tried
vainly to loosen her hold upon his arm, but he
understood quite well that he must give her an answer.
Being strictly straight-forward by nature and
upbringing, he told the truth, albeit with more anger
in his tone than he had ever shown to his mother
before.
"Yes," he said shortly.
Thyra released his arm, and struck her hands together
with a sharp cry. There was a savage note in it. She
could have slain Damaris Garland at that moment.
"Don't go on so, mother," said Chester, impatiently.
"Come in out of the cold. It isn't fit for you to be
here. Who has been tampering with you? What if I did go
to see Damaris?"
"Oh - oh - oh!" cried Thyra. "I was waiting for you -
alone - and you were thinking only of her! Chester,
answer me - do you love her?"
The blood rolled rapidly over the boy's face. He
muttered something and tried to pass on, but she caught
him again. He forced himself to speak gently.
"What if I do, mother?" It wouldn't be such a dreadful
thing, would it?"
"And me? And me?" cried Thyra. "What am I to you,
then?"
"You are my mother. I wouldn't love you any the less
because I cared for another, too."
"I won't have you love another," she cried. "I want all
your love - all! What's that baby-face to you, compared
to your mother? I have the best right to you. I won't
give you up."
Chester realized that there was no arguing with such a
mood. He walked on, resolved to set the matter aside
until she might be more reasonable. But Thyra would not
have it so. She followed on after him, under the alders
that crowded over the lane.
"Promise me that you'll not go there again," she
entreated. "Promise me that you'll give her up."
"I can't promise such a thing," he cried angrily.
His anger hurt her worse than a blow, but she did not
flinch.
"You're not engaged to her?" she cried out.
"Now, mother, be quiet. All the settlement will hear
you. Why do you object to Damaris? You don't know how
sweet she is. When you know her - "
"I will never know her!" cried Thyra furiously. "And
she shall not have you! She shall not, Chester!"
He made no answer. She suddenly broke into tears and
loud sobs. Touched with remorse, he stopped and put his
arms about her.
"Mother, mother, don't! I can't bear to see you cry so.
But, indeed, you are unreasonable. Didn't you ever
think the time would come when I would want to marry,
like other men?"
"No, no! And I will not have it - I cannot bear it,
Chester. You must promise not to go to see her again. I
won't go into the house this night until you do. I'll
stay out here in the bitter cold until you promise to
put her out of your thoughts."
"That's beyond my power, mother. Oh, mother, you're
making it hard for me. Come in, come in! You're
shivering with cold now. You'll be sick."
"Not a step will I stir till you promise. Say you won't
go to see that girl any more, and there's nothing I
won't do for you. But if you put her before me, I'll
not go in - I never will go in."
With most women this would have been an empty threat;
but it was not so with Thyra, and Chester knew it. He
knew she would keep her word. And he feared more than
that. In this frenzy of hers what might she not do? She