The Complete Short Stories of Lucy Maud Montgomery. Lucy Maud Montgomery
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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 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 her pain and jealousy Thyra yearned over his beauty. She would have 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 straightforward 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,”