“You know nothing could make father hate us.
Don’t be silly, Una. I dare say there’s
nothing to worry over. Likely if we run our
club right and bring ourselves up properly father won’t
think of marrying any one. And if he does, I
know Miss West will be lovely to us.”
But Una had no such conviction and she cried herself
to sleep.
For a fortnight things ran smoothly in the Good-Conduct
Club. It seemed to work admirably. Not
once was Jem Blythe called in as umpire. Not
once did any of the manse children set the Glen gossips
by the ears. As for their minor peccadilloes
at home, they kept sharp tabs on each other and gamely
underwent their self-imposed punishment—generally
a voluntary absence from some gay Friday night frolic
in Rainbow Valley, or a sojourn in bed on some spring
evening when all young bones ached to be out and away.
Faith, for whispering in Sunday School, condemned
herself to pass a whole day without speaking a single
word, unless it was absolutely necessary, and accomplished
it. It was rather unfortunate that Mr. Baker
from over-harbour should have chosen that evening
for calling at the manse, and that Faith should have
happened to go to the door. Not one word did
she reply to his genial greeting, but went silently
away to call her father briefly. Mr. Baker was
slightly offended and told his wife when he went home
that that the biggest Meredith girl seemed a very
shy, sulky little thing, without manners enough to
speak when she was spoken to. But nothing worse
came of it, and generally their penances did no harm
to themselves or anybody else. All of them were
beginning to feel quite cocksure that after all, it
was a very easy matter to bring yourself up.
“I guess people will soon see that we can behave
ourselves properly as well as anybody,” said
Faith jubilantly. “It isn’t hard
when we put our minds to it.”
She and Una were sitting on the Pollock tombstone.
It had been a cold, raw, wet day of spring storm
and Rainbow Valley was out of the question for girls,
though the manse and the Ingleside boys were down
there fishing. The rain had held up, but the
east wind blew mercilessly in from the sea, cutting
to bone and marrow. Spring was late in spite
of its early promise, and there was even yet a hard
drift of old snow and ice in the northern corner of
the graveyard. Lida Marsh, who had come up to
bring the manse a mess of herring, slipped in through
the gate shivering. She belonged to the fishing
village at the harbour mouth and her father had, for
thirty years, made a practice of sending a mess from
his first spring catch to the manse. He never
darkened a church door; he was a hard drinker and
a reckless man, but as long as he sent those herring
up to the manse every spring, as his father had done
before him, he felt comfortably sure that his account
with the Powers That Govern was squared for the year.
He would not have expected a good mackerel catch
if he had not so sent the first fruits of the season.
