The Complete Short Stories of Lucy Maud Montgomery. Lucy Maud Montgomery
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rope of drenched hair that fell from her bare head. She looked wild enough.
“Jerome Carey was shot in a quarrel at Joe Esquint’s tonight,” she said. “He is dying — he wants you — I have come for you.”
Elinor gave a little cry, and steadied herself on Tom’s shoulder. Tom said he knew he made some exclamation of horror. He had never approved of Carey’s attentions to Elinor, but such news was enough to shock anybody. He was determined, however, that Elinor should not go out in such a night and to such a scene, and told Tannis so in no uncertain terms.
“I came through the storm,” said Tannis, contemptuously. “Cannot she do as much for him as I can?”
The good, old Island blood in Elinor’s veins showed to some purpose. “Yes,” she answered firmly. “No, Tom, don’t object — I must go. Get my horse — and your own.”
Ten minutes later three riders galloped down the bluff road and took the river trail. Fortunately the wind was at their backs and the worst of the storm was over. Still, it was a wild, black ride enough. Tom rode, cursing softly under his breath. He did not like the whole thing — Carey done to death in some low half-breed shack, this handsome, sullen girl coming as his messenger, this nightmare ride, through wind and rain. It all savored too much of melodrama, even for the Northland, where people still did things in a primitive way. He heartily wished Elinor had never left Avonlea.
It was past twelve when they reached the Flats. Tannis was the only one who seemed to be able to think coherently. It was she who told Tom where to take the horses and then led Elinor to the room where Carey was dying. The doctor was sitting by the bedside and Mrs. Joe was curled up in a corner, sniffling to herself. Tannis took her by the shoulder and turned her, none too gently, out of the room. The doctor, understanding, left at once. As Tannis shut the door she saw Elinor sink on her knees by the bed, and Carey’s trembling hand go out to her head.
Tannis sat down on the floor outside of the door and wrapped herself up in a shawl Marie Esquint had dropped. In that attitude she looked exactly like a squaw, and all comers and goers, even old Auguste, who was hunting for her, thought she was one, and left her undisturbed. She watched there until dawn came whitely up over the prairies and Jerome Carey died. She knew when it happened by Elinor’s cry.
Tannis sprang up and rushed in. She was too late for even a parting look.
The girl took Carey’s hand in hers, and turned to the weeping
Elinor with a cold dignity.
“Now go,” she said. “You had him in life to the very last. He is mine now.”
“There must be some arrangements made,” faltered Elinor.
“My father and brother will make all arrangements, as you call them,” said Tannis steadily. “He had no near relatives in the world — none at all in Canada — he told me so. You may send out a Protestant minister from town, if you like; but he will be buried here at the Flats and his grave with be mine — all mine! Go!”
And Elinor, reluctant, sorrowful, yet swayed by a will and an emotion stronger than her own, went slowly out, leaving Tannis of the Flats alone with her dead.
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