Stella had decided on a project to occupy her idle time in the first of the long, hazy days of summer—not that she had very much free time, really. She had ever so much to do—she must feed the chickens in the morning and weed the garden-patch each forenoon—she must be ready to run errands in the afternoon whenever she was called—it was her sole responsibility to wash the supper dishes, and to pour the tea every night when they retired to the parlour after the meal. Less and less people were drinking tea nowdays—but Aunt Elizabeth was determined that her niece should learn to pour correctly and gracefully. It was, she told Stella, sternly (and Mother repeated later, eyes twinkling) a Murray tradition.
Other children would have chafed under such a regimine, but Stella found that she did not mind it. She liked feeling useful. She reflected that she had had so many days with nothing to do, before she had come to New Moon. She remembered the hot, stifling feeling of those days—and Mother's old saying, "Get leave to work—in this world tis the best you get at all." She remembered the queer bitterness of Mother's voice, sometimes, when she had said it—the pleading look as she knelt at Father's knee—and the look of staunch determination that had come across his features. It was a memory that made Stella feel coldly weird and creepy—she did not like it—and so she was glad to work. She was remembering more and more things like that, lately—and the work helped her to forget, for a little while.
Mother—speaking of Mother—there were whole days when Stella saw very little of her. She had supposed that Mother must need a rest after those long months of caring for Father—she had heard Aunt Laura say that 'Emily is overtired'—but it was not resting that Mother was doing in her little room. No—Stella had gone past once, expected to see Mother stretched out on the bed in her white dress, but instead she had seen her seated at the desk, writing feverishly in a notebook spread wide in front of her. When Stella had crept forward to see what it was that Mother was writing, Emily had shut the book firmly and said, in a voice that was falsely gay, that they should go down to the bay shore—it was perfect, this time of year, for bathing. It made her feel queer, remembering it.
"Move to the left," she told Millie rather absently—for that was her pet project for the time being—a series of portraits of Millie, in different moods—at different times of day—in interesting places. Millie at the Shore—Millie at the Malvern Rocks—Millie on the Roof of Burnley House at Sunset (this one would have sent chills up Aunt Elizabeth's spine, but when Aunt Ilse had looked up and seen them, from the yard, she had only waved)—Millie Standing on Her Head in the Old Orchard. Millie had such a changeable face—it changed with her rapid-moving thoughts. It was a challenge to keep her steady enough for one moment to capture each one of them, but Stella was trying. Today was Millie in the Hay Loft of the Old New Moon Barn and Stella was in raptures trying to catch the shafts of light that came through the slats in the boards and settled over the scene.
Millie moved accordingly and picked up the thread of her conversation as though Stella had not spoken at all.
"The woman you saw at church was Mrs. Norris," she said (in response to a question that Stella had asked some time ago), "Or as Mother calls her "that cauterwailing minx of an Evelyn Blake. Evelyn Blake was Mrs. Norris's name before she was married. She is an enemy of our family. It all began years ago when mother and your mother were students at Shrewsbury high school. Mrs. Norris was horrid to both of them. She played a horrible prank on your ma and blamed my ma for it—and she black-beaned your ma out of the Skull and Owl Society—though she always denied it after."
"It all seems rather long ago," said Stella doubtfully. She was not sure she was entirely comfortable with the idea of a family enemy.
"Oh, that was just the start of things," Millie continued. "Mrs. Norris went away for a while—but then she married Mr. Norris, who was MP of this district for ever so long—until Father beat him out in the last election. That was five years ago. It should have been a good clean fight—that's what Dad wanted—but Mr. Norris went round telling people that Perry Miller had em-emb-embezzulated funds from the treasury. It wasn't true—it was a horrid lie. Dad would never do anything like that. He's clean as a whistle, and everyone knows it—and knew it then. There was an investigation and he was cleared, but Mr. Norris was another story. It turned out that he had been cheating pensions from poor war veterans. I think that he must be very evil to do such a thing—and very stupid to accuse Dad of doing what he'd done himself. He hadn't even tried to cover his tracks. He must have known they'd find out. Anyway, Mr. Norris was in-ind-indicated, but before he could stand trial he dropped dead of a cor—coronationary and that put a cap on the whole thing."
"How awful!" cried Stella, putting her pencil down in her indignation. The idea that anyone could accuse dear, jolly, upstanding Uncle Perry of—of—that! Stella had met Uncle Perry scores of times by now and he was well on his way to becoming one of her favorite people. He had let her draw him and he had paid her for the portrait she had done of Aunt Ilse—a whole dollar—Stella's first commission of what (she hoped) would be a long and industrious career. She felt a simmering of anger at the bottom of her sweet heart for the stupid, swindling Mr. Norris.
"Mrs. Norris said horrible things about our family when it was reported in the newspapers," Millie said, her face getting more and more cross-looking by the minute. Stella's hand moved rapidly to try to keep up with the changes that were swooping across it. "She said that Dad was a murderer and that he could have called off the charges if he'd wanted to, but he didn't. And Flora Norris—you've seen her—has been awful to me ever since. You know—she's the girl with the riot of curls—and the smug expression on her face. I wouldn't mind her hating me—to be liked by such a person would be a bigger insult—but you see, she's got her heart set on 'catching' Pierrot one day. She's fourteen—they are in the same class at Queens. And you know how Pierrot is, Stella—he wouldn't notice if his nose jumped off and ran away from his face. He is so intent on seeing only the best in every one he meets—such a bad habit!—and so he thinks Flora perfectly nice and charming. It is mine and mother's biggest fear that he will marry her one day. Oh, I don't know what I'd do if he did!"
"He's only fifteen—there's lots of time before he starts thinking of that," said Stella soothingly. "He may come to his senses yet. Turn your head a little to the right—just a little—there now, sit still!"
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It was not long after this interview that Stella got to meet Flora Norris for herself. It happened one sweltering June afternoon. Stella had been sent by Aunt Elizabeth to town to collect the mail. She saw the figure coming toward her from a long way off—first just a little blur far away down the road—then closer, and she saw the bicycle—then she saw the riotous, spun-sugar curls that Millie had spoken of. It was Flora Norris—in the flesh. As the girl drew closer Stella saw the smirk on her face—and that she was wearing lipstick—bright red lipstick that matched the shiny paint on her bike. At that sneer, her timid heart began to thump wildly. She shrank over to the side of the road to let Flora pass, and told herself that there was no way the girl could know who she was. There was nothing to worry about—not really.
But then Flora swerved on her bike and headed straight for Stella. It had rained the night before and Stella's feet were sticking in the mud by the road. She tried to jump out of the way—would Flora run her down? Could one be killed by colliding with a bicycle? But she was not quick enough. Flora rode her bicycle close to Stella, aiming for the large, muddy puddle that had collected in the center of the road. Stella's white dress was sprayed with dirty water, and her face and hair were spattered with red clay. There was a nasty laugh, to show that the encounter had not been accidental. And then Flora was gone.
Stella walked home, shaken by the event. She had experienced many things in her young life—but she had never known what it was to have someone hate you before they even met you. It was disconcerting. She wondered if Father had ever felt this way, when people had jeered at him. She was so lost in thought that she did not notice at first when young Peter Miller stepped into place beside her.
"What happened to you, kidlet?" he asked, in the bemused, kindly way he had. "You're a mess." Stella noticed that he was not wearing his spectacles today. His eyes seemed very blue—she had never really noticed their color before. She brushed at her muddied skirt and contemplated his question.
"I don't think I'd like to tell you," she said finally. "It's not because I don't like you, Pierrot—I like you awfully." This was said with a fierce sincerity that made Pierrot smile. He was a reasonably handsome boy, and he knew it, though he was not puffed-up about it—but all the same, he had not had a she-creature talk to him so plainly and without coquetry in some time.
"Why not?" he wondered.
"Because," Stella said. "The true story would not reflect well on someone who is a particular acquaintance of yours."
"Maybe you should tell me, then. I don't want to be friends—or even acquaintances—with anybody who would tangle with you, Stella. Why—we're family, really. And in a family the cubs have to stick together."
Stella swished her skirt from side to side, dithering. Finally she said, "It's awfully hard to know what is the right thing to do, at times, isn't it?"
"Whole books have been written on the topic."
"Oh—really? What do they say?"
"Generally, the conclusions are a tad contradictory," Pierrot admitted. "But I've heard said that the best way to find out what is right is to ask your heart."
"Well, I think my heart wants to keep the matter private," said Stella, looking so Elizabethan that Pierrot could not help but smile.
"I've heard," he said whimsically, "That two people can't really be friends until they have a secret with each other, and from each other. So we are half-way to being friends, at least."
They walked on. Stella had succeeded in brushing most of the mud from her face and she gave her dress up for good. There wasn't going to be anything she could do about it, she reasoned, so why bother wasting any more thought on the issue? Instead she watched Pierrot slantwise from underneath lowered lashes. Once, twice. The third time she glanced up he was looking back, with a grin on his face.
"I wonder why you look at me that way?"
"What way?" Stella wondered. She tried to look very innocent; as though she'd been thinking of nothing, really, at all.
"Don't ever play cards," Pierrot told her. "I don't think you'd be very good at it."
Stella decided that she would tell him. "I was just thinking," she said boldly, "How you are so very different from everyone else in your family."
"Am I really? I wonder what you mean."
"Oh," trembled Stella, eager that she not have offended him, "It's just that Aunt Ilse is so gay and Uncle Perry so friendly and Millie so fun and laughy all the time…"
"And I suppose I am none of these things." He was a little cold, now. Stella did not know it, but it was not the first time Pierrot had been accused of being 'different,' and he was still very young—he had not learnt to appreciate his differentness yet.
"No!" she cried, tears coming into her eyes. "You are dreadfully nice, Pierrot. I just mean that you are serious—and quiet—and last night when we were playing statues in the garden—even Aunt Ilse and Uncle Perry—you were reading in your room. I don't mind—only I thought perhaps you want to play because I was there. It would have been ever so much more fun if you'd come down and played with us."
Her simple, unthinking compliment restored Pierrot's good humor. He grinned at her. Stella Priest was so very young and sweet in a way that Millie had never been. He thought it would be very nice to have a sister that looked up at you a little adoringly from under such curly, un-Murray-like lashes, instead of teasing you mercilessly and being a pest. He ruffled her hair and tried to explain to Stella a little bit about how hard he must study if he wanted to qualify for Redmond college in another three years.
"And besides," Pierrot confessed. "I take more after my Grandfather Burnley than my mother or dad. Don't you have differences from your parents?"
"Oh, yes," Stella admitted. "I could never be as sweet as Mother—nor half so smart as Father—and—and—sometimes I think I'm happier than my father was. Sometimes I don't think my father was—well, very happy."
"Why not, do you think?"
"I think that there was something Father wanted very badly but could not have," Stella said simply. "I don't know what it was—or if he ever got it." They had rounded the bend in the road. "I wonder sometimes if—oh! Pierrot! Look at that charming little house over there!"
The 'charming little house' was indeed a very charming little house—a cottage, really—set back from the road in a copse of tall spruces, through which the Wind Woman from Mother's stories danced and played. A darling, cosy little house, shingled, but then shingles had never been painted and were now a very weathered gray. Someone had started a garden around it, years ago, but now it was wild and untended. Only the bones of the garden remained. It should have been a very sweet, happy place—but it couldn't be, because the windows were boarded over with rough planks, and the house had a very lonely air.
"Who does it belong to?" she wondered, a little angrily. "It must not belong to anybody—because nobody could treat this poor little house in such a terrible way. It wants to be loved."
Pierrot said nothing. He was an astute boy, and people often overlooked him when they were gossiping about certain things—it was easy to do, since he was, more often than not, curled up unnoticed somewhere with a book. But his ears were always listening, and his mind was always working.
"I must draw this place," Stella commanded. "Do you have any paper—and a pencil?"
Pierrot had both things in his pocket but he did not hand them over, queenly as she might be in asking for them. Instead he said,
"I don't know exactly who this house belongs to"—that much was true—"but I feel sure they wouldn't like us prowling around. We'd best be scooting along, kidlet."
Stella did not like his 'kidlet' this time. She felt there was something very patronizing about it.
"If it's a secret, you might just say so," she said very coolly. They walked the rest of the way to New Moon, she keeping her head held very high—that is, until Aunt Elizabeth opened the door and beheld her young great-niece, in all her mud-spattered glory.
"Stella Priest! What on earth happened to you?"
"I was running and I fell," she lied, glibly—so glibly that later she would feel badly over it. But at the moment she did not care. Her pride was too hurt for her to tell the truth. "Pierrot helped me up and walked me home."
"I've told you not to run on the road," Aunt Elizabeth said, a little annoyed—for she had told Stella just that, quiet often. "I expect you've ruined that dress. Go on up and get out of it and give it to me—I'll see if there's any way to salvage it."
"Yes, Aunty," Stella said, but before she went she linked her arm through Pierrot's quickly and gave him a little, friendly pinch. They each had a secret from the other—and now they shared one. It was just as he had said—they were friends now.