Chronicles of Avonlea by Lucy Maud Montgomery (funny books to read .TXT) đ
- Author: Lucy Maud Montgomery
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The next night the light in Sylviaâs room burned very late, and the Old Lady watched it triumphantly, knowing the meaning of it. Sylvia was reading her fatherâs poems, and the Old Lady in her darkness read them too, murmuring the lines over and over to herself. After all, giving away the book had not mattered so very much. She had the soul of it stillâand the fly-leaf with the name, in Leslieâs writing, by which nobody ever called her now.
The Old Lady was sitting on the Marshall sofa the next Sewing Circle afternoon when Sylvia Gray came and sat down beside her. The Old Ladyâs hands trembled a little, and one side of a handkerchief, which was afterwards given as a Christmas present to a little olive-skinned coolie in Trinidad, was not quite so exquisitely done as the other three sides.
Sylvia at first talked of the Circle, and Mrs. Marshallâs dahlias, and the Old Lady was in the seventh heaven of delight, though she took care not to show it, and was even a little more stately and finely mannered than usual. When she asked Sylvia how she liked living in Spencervale, Sylvia said,
âVery much. Everybody is so kind to me. BesidesââSylvia lowered her voice so that nobody but the Old Lady could hear itââI have a fairy godmother here who does the most beautiful and wonderful things for me.â
Sylvia, being a girl of fine instincts, did not look at Old Lady Lloyd as she said this. But she would not have seen anything if she had looked. The Old Lady was not a Lloyd for nothing.
âHow very interesting,â she said, indifferently.
âIsnât it? I am so grateful to her and I have wished so much she might know how much pleasure she has given me. I have found lovely flowers and delicious berries on my path all summer; I feel sure she sent me my party dress. But the dearest gift came last week on my birthdayâa little volume of my fatherâs poems. I canât express what I felt on receiving them. But I longed to meet my fairy godmother and thank her.â
âQuite a fascinating mystery, isnât it? Have you really no idea who she is?â
The Old Lady asked this dangerous question with marked success. She would not have been so successful if she had not been so sure that Sylvia had no idea of the old romance between her and Leslie Gray. As it was, she had a comfortable conviction that she herself was the very last person Sylvia would be likely to suspect.
Sylvia hesitated for an almost unnoticeable moment. Then she said, âI havenât tried to find out, because I donât think she wants me to know. At first, of course, in the matter of the flowers and dress, I did try to solve the mystery; but, since I received the book, I became convinced that it was my fairy godmother who was doing it all, and I have respected her wish for concealment and always shall. Perhaps some day she will reveal herself to me. I hope so, at least.â
âI wouldnât hope it,â said the Old Lady discouragingly. âFairy godmothersâat least, in all the fairy tales I ever readâ are somewhat apt to be queer, crochety people, much more agreeable when wrapped up in mystery than when met face to face.â
âIâm convinced that mine is the very opposite, and that the better I became acquainted with her, the more charming a personage I should find her,â said Sylvia gaily.
Mrs. Marshall came up at this juncture and entreated Miss Gray to sing for them. Miss Gray consenting sweetly, the Old Lady was left alone and was rather glad of it. She enjoyed her conversation with Sylvia much more in thinking it over after she got home than while it was taking place. When an Old Lady has a guilty conscience, it is apt to make her nervous and distract her thoughts from immediate pleasure. She wondered a little uneasily if Sylvia really did suspect her. Then she concluded that it was out of the question. Who would suspect a mean, unsociable Old Lady, who had no friends, and who gave only five cents to the Sewing Circle when everyone else gave ten or fifteen, to be a fairy godmother, the donor of beautiful party dresses, and the recipient of gifts from romantic, aspiring young poets?
V. The September Chapter
In September the Old Lady looked back on the summer and owned to herself that it had been a strangely happy one, with Sundays and Sewing Circle days standing out like golden punctuation marks in a poem of life. She felt like an utterly different woman; and other people thought her different also. The Sewing Circle women found her so pleasant, and even friendly, that they began to think they had misjudged her, and that perhaps it was eccentricity after all, and not meanness, which accounted for her peculiar mode of living. Sylvia Gray always came and talked to her on Circle afternoons now, and the Old Lady treasured every word she said in her heart and repeated them over and over to her lonely self in the watches of the night.
Sylvia never talked of herself or her plans, unless asked about them; and the Old Ladyâs self-consciousness prevented her from asking any personal questions: so their conversation kept to the surface of things, and it was not from Sylvia, but from the ministerâs wife that the Old Lady finally discovered what her darlingâs dearest ambition was.
The ministerâs wife had dropped in at the old Lloyd place one evening late in September, when a chilly wind was blowing up from the northeast and moaning about the eaves of the house, as if the burden of its lay were âharvest is ended and summer is gone.â The Old Lady had been listening to it, as she plaited a little basket of sweet grass for Sylvia. She had walked all the way to Avonlea sand-hills for it the day before, and she was very tired. And her heart was sad. This summer, which had so enriched her life, was almost over; and she knew that Sylvia Gray talked of leaving Spencervale at the end of October. The Old Ladyâs heart felt like very lead within her at the thought, and she almost welcomed the advent of the ministerâs wife as a distraction, although she was desperately afraid that the ministerâs wife had called to ask for a subscription for the new vestry carpet, and the Old Lady simply could not afford to give one cent.
But the ministerâs wife had merely dropped in on her way home from the Spencersâ and she did not make any embarrassing requests. Instead, she talked about Sylvia Gray, and her words fell on the Old Ladyâs ears like separate pearl notes of unutterably sweet music. The ministerâs wife had nothing but praise for Sylviaâshe was so sweet and beautiful and winning.
âAnd with SUCH a voice,â said the ministerâs wife enthusiastically, adding with a sigh, âItâs such a shame she canât have it properly trained. She would certainly become a great singerâ competent critics have told her so. But she is so poor she doesnât think she can ever possibly manage itâunless she can get one of the Cameron scholarships, as they are called; and she has very little hope of that, although the professor of music who taught her has sent her name in.â
âWhat are the Cameron scholarships?â asked the Old Lady.
âWell, I suppose you have heard of Andrew Cameron, the millionaire?â said the ministerâs wife, serenely unconscious that she was causing the very bones of the Old Ladyâs family skeleton to jangle in their closet.
Into the Old Ladyâs white face came a sudden faint stain of colour, as if a rough hand had struck her cheek.
âYes, Iâve heard of him,â she said.
âWell, it seems that he had a daughter, who was a very beautiful girl, and whom he idolized. She had a fine voice, and he was going to send her abroad to have it trained. And she died. It nearly broke his heart, I understand. But ever since, he sends one young girl away to Europe every year for a thorough musical education under the best teachersâ in memory of his daughter. He has sent nine or ten already; but I fear there isnât much chance for Sylvia Gray, and she doesnât think there is herself.â
âWhy not?â asked the Old Lady spiritedly. âI am sure that there can be few voices equal to Miss Grayâs.â
âVery true. But you see, these so-called scholarships are private affairs, dependent solely on the whim and choice of Andrew Cameron himself. Of course, when a girl has friends who use their influence with him, he will often send her on their recommendation. They say he sent a girl last year who hadnât much of a voice at all just because her father had been an old business crony of his. But Sylvia doesnât know anyone at all who would, to use a slang term, have any âpullâ with Andrew Cameron, and she is not acquainted with him herself. Well, I must be going; weâll see you at the Manse on Saturday, I hope, Miss Lloyd. The Circle meets there, you know.â
âYes, I know,â said the Old Lady absently. When the ministerâs wife had gone, she dropped her sweetgrass basket and sat for a long, long time with her hands lying idly in her lap, and her big black eyes staring unseeingly at the wall before her.
Old Lady Lloyd, so pitifully poor that she had to eat six crackers the less a week to pay her fee to the Sewing Circle, knew that it was in her powerâHERSâto send Leslie Grayâs daughter to Europe for her musical education! If she chose to use her âpullâ with Andrew Cameronâ if she went to him and asked him to send Sylvia Gray abroad the next yearâ she had no doubt whatever that it would be done. It all lay with herâ ifâifâIF she could so far crush and conquer her pride as to stoop to ask a favour of the man who had wronged her and hers so bitterly.
Years ago, her father, acting under the advice and urgency of Andrew Cameron, had invested all his little fortune in an enterprise that had turned out a failure. Abraham Lloyd lost every dollar he possessed, and his family were reduced to utter poverty. Andrew Cameron might have been forgiven for a mistake; but there was a strong suspicion, amounting to almost certainty, that he had been guilty of something far worse than a mistake in regard to his uncleâs investment. Nothing could be legally proved; but it was certain that Andrew Cameron, already noted for his âsharp practices,â emerged with improved finances from an entanglement that had ruined many better men; and old Doctor Lloyd had died brokenhearted, believing that his nephew had deliberately victimized him.
Andrew Cameron had not quite done this; he had meant well enough by his uncle at first, and what he had finally done he tried to justify to himself by the doctrine that a man must look out for Number One.
Margaret Lloyd made no such excuses for him; she held
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