The Complete Short Stories of Lucy Maud Montgomery. Lucy Maud Montgomery

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СКАЧАТЬ 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!”

      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 with him. He did not come of a marrying race. His 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 newcomer 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 tonight, 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, goodnaturedly. He had been СКАЧАТЬ