The Complete Short Stories of Lucy Maud Montgomery. Lucy Maud Montgomery
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into it. But David had not come; he gave no sign of knowing or caring that his once longed-for child had been born.
When Isabella was able to be about again, her pale face was harder than ever; and, had there been about her any one discerning enough to notice it, there was a subtle change in her bearing and manner. A certain nervous expectancy, a fluttering restlessness was gone. Isabella had ceased to hope secretly that her husband would yet come back. She had in her secret soul thought he would; and she had meant to forgive him when she had humbled him sufficiently, and when he had abased himself as she considered he should. But now she knew that he did not mean to sue for her forgiveness; and the hate that sprang out of her old love was a rank and speedy and persistent growth.
Rachel, from her earliest recollection, had been vaguely conscious of a difference between her own life and the lives of her playmates. For a long time it puzzled her childish brain. Finally, she reasoned it out that the difference consisted in the fact that they had fathers and she, Rachel Spencer, had none — not even in the graveyard, as Carrie Bell and Lilian Boulter had. Why was this? Rachel went straight to her mother, put one little dimpled hand on Isabella Spencer’s knee, looked up with great searching blue eyes, and said gravely,
“Mother, why haven’t I got a father like the other little girls?”
Isabella Spencer laid aside her work, took the seven year old child on her lap, and told her the whole story in a few direct and bitter words that imprinted themselves indelibly on Rachel’s remembrance. She understood clearly and hopelessly that she could never have a father — that, in this respect, she must always be unlike other people.
“Your father cares nothing for you,” said Isabella Spencer in conclusion. “He never did care. You must never speak of him to anybody again.”
Rachel slipped silently from her mother’s knee and ran out to the Springtime garden with a full heart. There she cried passionately over her mother’s last words. It seemed to her a terrible thing that her father should not love her, and a cruel thing that she must never talk of him.
Oddly enough, Rachel’s sympathies were all with her father, in as far as she could understand the old quarrel. She did not dream of disobeying her mother and she did not disobey her. Never again did the child speak of her father; but Isabella had not forbidden her to think of him, and thenceforth Rachel thought of him constantly — so constantly that, in some strange way, he seemed to become an unguessed-of part of her inner life — the unseen, ever-present companion in all her experiences.
She was an imaginative child, and in fancy she made the acquaintance of her father. She had never seen him, but he was more real to her than most of the people she had seen. He played and talked with her as her mother never did; he walked with her in the orchard and field and garden; he sat by her pillow in the twilight; to him she whispered secrets she told to none other.
Once her mother asked her impatiently why she talked so much to herself.
“I am not talking to myself. I am talking to a very dear friend of mine,” Rachel answered gravely.
“Silly child,” laughed her mother, half tolerantly, half disapprovingly.
Two years later something wonderful had happened to Rachel. One summer afternoon she had gone to the harbor with several of her little playmates. Such a jaunt was a rare treat to the child, for Isabella Spencer seldom allowed her to go from home with anybody but herself. And Isabella was not an entertaining companion. Rachel never particularly enjoyed an outing with her mother.
The children wandered far along the shore; at last they came to a place that Rachel had never seen before. It was a shallow cove where the waters purred on the yellow sands. Beyond it, the sea was laughing and flashing and preening and alluring, like a beautiful, coquettish woman. Outside, the wind was boisterous and rollicking; here, it was reverent and gentle. A white boat was hauled up on the skids, and there was a queer little house close down to the sands, like a big shell tossed up by the waves. Rachel looked on it all with secret delight; she, too, loved the lonely places of sea and shore, as her father had done. She wanted to linger awhile in this dear spot and revel in it.
“I’m tired, girls,” she announced. “I’m going to stay here and rest for a spell. I don’t want to go to Gull Point. You go on yourselves; I’ll wait for you here.”
“All alone?” asked Carrie Bell, wonderingly.
“I’m not so afraid of being alone as some people are,” said
Rachel, with dignity.
The other girls went on, leaving Rachel sitting on the skids, in the shadow of the big white boat. She sat there for a time dreaming happily, with her blue eyes on the far, pearly horizon, and her golden head leaning against the boat.
Suddenly she heard a step behind her. When she turned her head a man was standing beside her, looking down at her with big, merry, blue eyes. Rachel was quite sure that she had never seen him before; yet those eyes seemed to her to have a strangely familiar look. She liked him. She felt no shyness nor timidity, such as usually afflicted her in the presence of strangers.
He was a tall, stout man, dressed in a rough fishing suit, and wearing an oilskin cap on his head. His hair was very thick and curly and fair; his cheeks were tanned and red; his teeth, when he smiled, were very even and white. Rachel thought he must be quite old, because there was a good deal of gray mixed with his fair hair.
“Are you watching for the mermaids?” he said.
Rachel nodded gravely. From any one else she would have scrupulously hidden such a thought.
“Yes, I am,” she said. “Mother says there is no such thing as a mermaid, but I like to think there is. Have you ever seen one?”
The big man sat down on a bleached log of driftwood and smiled at her.
“No, I’m sorry to say that I haven’t. But I have seen many other very wonderful things. I might tell you about some of them, if you would come over here and sit by me.”
Rachel went unhesitatingly. When she reached him he pulled her down on his knee, and she liked it.
“What a nice little craft you are,” he said. “Do you suppose, now, that you could give me a kiss?”
As a rule, Rachel hated kissing. She could seldom be prevailed upon to kiss even her uncles — who knew it and liked to tease her for kisses until they aggravated her so terribly that she told them she couldn’t bear men. But now she promptly put her arms about this strange man’s neck and gave him a hearty smack.
“I like you,” she said frankly.
She felt his arms tighten suddenly about her. The blue eyes looking into hers grew misty and very tender. Then, all at once, Rachel knew who he was. He was her father. She did not say anything, but she laid her curly head down on his shoulder and felt a great happiness, as of one who had come into some longed-for haven.
If David Spencer realized that she understood he said nothing. Instead, he began to tell her fascinating stories of far lands he had visited, and strange things he had seen. Rachel listened entranced, as if she were hearkening to a fairy tale. Yes, he was just as she had dreamed him. She had always been sure he could tell beautiful stories.
“Come up to the house and I’ll show you some pretty things,” he said finally.
Then followed a wonderful hour. The little low-ceilinged room, with its square window, into which he took her, was filled with the flotsam and jetsam of his roving life — things beautiful and odd and strange beyond all telling. The things that pleased Rachel most were two huge shells on the chimney piece — pale pink shells with big crimson and purple spots.
“Oh, I didn’t know there could be such pretty things in the world,” she exclaimed.
“If you would like,” began the big man; then he paused for a moment. “I’ll show you something prettier still.”
Rachel felt vaguely that he meant to say something else