A large crowd turned out to meet the eleven o'clock train at the Glen station; friends, family and countrymen of Cecilia Blythe, who had heard of her homecoming. There were mixed reasons for everyone wanting to be there to see her: some of the onlookers, a large proportion of them, were family, who loved the girl dearly and had missed her desperately these long two years. Many others who did not know Cecilia well wended their way to the station anyway, because a homecoming of any kind was rare these days. There was scarcely a family in the district that had not been ravaged by the loss of a loved one; it would be good to see a family reunited, even if it was not their own. And a large proportion had come expressly for the purpose of seeing the war-widow of Owen Ford. A whirlwind wedding—was there something not quite right about it?—a French girl—well, how would Rilla Ford react? Likely she would not like the girl, and they wanted to see sparks fly.
Una and Shirley Blythe stood with both sets of their parents; Gilbert was beaming and Anne stood radiant in white, looking around the bend, listening for the first notes of the train's whistle. John Meredith was in his chair, with a blanket thrown over his knees. His wife Rosemary had wanted him to stay home, but he would not miss this homecoming for the world. He was not quite sure if he would live to see the end of this war—he felt old in his bones, for the first time in his life—and Cecilia had always been a pet of his, for she was Una's girl, and named for his long-dead first wife. On his lap sat little Romy, all gold-curled, a sturdy girl of four, now, and no less dear to him because she had been named for the second woman he loved. If only Susan were here, he thought, and as he looked up, he thought that the others were thinking of her, too. The thought heartened him—he had loved Susan as much as he loved her sisters—and she could not really be dead as long as she was remembered.
Rilla Ford was there, wearing white. Some said it was pretension, and that, at forty, she was too old for the light colour, but those who knew her well knew why she did not wear the greens and purples she had loved so much before. Her face was white and haggard, and had been since her return to the House of Dreams after Owen's death the month before. Ken could not leave his post at the newspaper in Toronto, but she had brought Hannah and Trudy with her, and the three women looked stricken and surprised by grief. Next to them stood, staunchly, Faith and Jem, a bulwark against the curious stares darted in their direction. Some people, Faith Blythe knew, had always seen the Blythes as charmed, and had not thought that death would come to them this way. They wanted to see how the 'proud Blythes' would react. Well, she, Faith, would not give them any fuel for that fire! She put her arm around Rilla, as though to screen her from the world.
Nan Meredith and the Rev. Jerry were there, too. Nan had, in a velvet box in her coat pocket, the sapphire ring that had belonged to her grandmother and was now going to belong to Blythe's fiancée. She shook her head, wondering at the strange turn of events. She had known Blythe was in love with Cecilia and she had known the girl loved him more than almost any other person—but she had been fairly sure Cecilia did not love him in that way. The news of his betrothal had come so soon on the heels of his injury that she felt a little bewildered by it. She loved Cecilia, but she was not unaware of her son's complicated personality. Cecilia was strong with others, but she had always been like putty in Blythe's hands. And Blythe tended to dominance, when he thought he could get away with it—he would need a firm hand in a wife, to keep him in check. Would Cecilia—Una's gentle girl?—be able to do it?
Be happy for me, Mother, Blythe had written. I'm over the moon.
Well, Nan surmised, she would lay off these cares and concentrate on the fact that at least one of her children was happy. She darted a little glance at Joyce, who stood, sullen, by her father's shoulder. She hardly recognized her Joy anymore. Her once beautiful hair, so gold and long and perfectly styled, had been hacked off at the level of her chin, and her eyes, erstwhile so gray and sparkling, were dull and flat, now. Jacob Penhallow had come home only a few months ago, but Joy had not come to meet his train, then. Nan crossed her fingers inside her coat—silly superstition for a minister's wife—but she hoped that Cecilia would be able to instill a little of the old colour into Joy's cheeks.
They heard the whistle of the train, long and low. Baby Iris, in Penny Meredith's encircling arms, clapped her hands with glee, picking up on the expectant mood of the others. The train pulled into the station, and passengers began to disembark. A man in a bowler hat—a young soldier, home on leave—a group of young girls. Where were they? Where? Shirley had a moment of vertigo as he watched for his daughter. Suppose—suppose he should not recognize his girl? Suppose she had changed in the time she had been away. Would she be a stranger to him, now—in ways other than looks? But as he thought of it Cecilia appeared in the door of the train, and began to climb down the steps, and his heart picked up its normal rhythm again. She was his girl, sweet and unchanged. Her eyes were scanning the crowd, looking for him.
Una Blythe lost her head entirely, for the first time in her life. "Cecilia!" she shouted—it was the loudest anybody had ever heard Una speak in her life. She jumped up and down—she waved her hat—she was crying, even as a wide smile split her face.
Cecilia flew to her mother's arms. Una held her girl tight as she could, and they laughed and rocked together for a long moment. How thin Cecilia was! And how—pretty! And grownup! When she had left she had seemed a girl, still, in many ways, but here she was: unmistakably a woman. The Blythes, Merediths, and Fords pressed forward, everyone wanting to speak at once.
Cecilia turned—put her arm around the girl standing in her shadow and pushed her gently forward. Everyone held their breath as one, waiting for her to speak. This must be Owen's wife—Manon, her name was. How thin and small she was! What a cap of silky curls! Nae beauty, murmured Norman Douglas from the back of the crowd—but the word striking would not have been misapplied.
The crowd stepped back, respectfully. It seemed only right that Rilla and the girls should meet her, first. Cecilia turned almost formally to her aunt.
"Aunt Rilla," she said, "This is Manon—Manon Ford. Manon, this is Aunt Rilla and Trudy and Hannah."
People did not dare to breathe. Rilla was regarding the girl with a long, appraising look. Something in her face reminded Mary Vance of a dam that was about to burst. Manon looked up from under her fair lashes piteously. She looked as though if Cecilia did not have hold of her arm, she would bolt back to the train.
Rilla finally spoke. "You are so lovely," she said, to the trembling girl. "I see right away why Owen fell in love with you. Welcome, Manon. Welcome home."
She opened her arms and Owen's wife fell into them. Rilla petted her hair and kissed it, and everyone felt their eyes begin to sting. And Rilla was thinking that she had lost a child—but God had sent her another, to help her over his loss.
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"Are you still awake?" Penny Meredith wondered to Cecilia, whom she found sitting out on the back porch, staring out over the orchard with gloating eyes. Cecilia turned to her, her thin face rapt.
"Oh, Aunt Penny," she said. "I know it's late, but I can't go to bed. My heart won't let me. It wants to reacquaint itself with home, no matter how tired in body I may be."
They had had a long day. Everyone had wanted to come back to Red Apple, to talk with Cecilia and become acquainted with Manon. Una had had to talk almost sternly to them to dissuade them. There would be time and the poor dear was overtired almost to the point of tears. They must not overwhelm her, and kill her with kindness. Only Aunt Rilla and Trudy had come back to the farm for supper, Aunt Rilla with photographs of Owen in her bag, showing him at every stage of his development. After supper, they had sat in the parlour whispering over them, and Cecilia had gone straight out into the orchard. She climbed the oldest tree, higher and higher, until she could see the sea glittering in the distance. The neat patchwork fields—the rooftop of home—the tall red cliffs in the distance. She was home. Home.
"I heard a very pretty rumor about you," said Aunt Penny, sitting down on the step next to her niece. "And judging by that sapphire on your finger, I see it isn't a rumour at all. You're going to marry Blythe—well! You could do worse than a poet. Sid Gardiner is making a failure at farming, you know. Hasn't the brains or the gumption for it, it seems."
"You are the third person to tell me that since I've been home," Cecilia said, a little exasperately. "I wonder if everybody thinks I should hate poor Sid? I don't—I only pity him. His life has not turned out the way he wanted it, I think—and I have mine spread wide before me."
"Spread wide before you," Penny repeated. "Cecilia—I wonder if that will be true for you, as Blythe's wife? He is very strait and strict, you know. You don't see it because you love him, and because he loves you. Oh, don't flash those eyes at me, granddaughter of Anne! I love Blythe—isn't he my nephew? I think him the most adorable little tyrant. But Cecilia—have you never noticed how he always gets everything he wants? It isn't all luck or hard work. Blythe is good at taking the things people hand out for him. And you are good at giving without noticing the taking. I wonder if one day you will wake up and find that he has taken everything and given very little in return?"
"Blythe gives me many things," said Cecilia stiffly. "He gives me friendship—and love—and beauty."
"But marriage is more than that," said Penny earnestly. "It is a lot more hard work than you can imagine now, Cecilia. And that is not entirely your fault—that you can't imagine it. There are an awful lot of storybook romances around these parts. Your grandparents—your parents. Cecilia, there will be nights when you'll go to sleep hopping mad—when the very sight of your beloved will set your teeth on edge—when you feel you have done everything wrong in life and bungled it entirely. How will Blythe help you when the chips are down if he is always expecting you to be the one to help him? And you are so similar—the same things that get to you will get to him, because your souls are too much the same. There is no balance there, dear heart."
Cecilia got stiffly to her feet. "It's done," she said tightly. "Why are you telling me this? It's done. I gave my promise, Aunt Penny. And I love him. I want to be his wife. We'll figure things out, as everybody does. And you have—you have ruined this night of homecoming for me."
Penny looked up in consternation. She was the sort of person who always spoke plainly—too plainly—she knew that about herself. Drat it all, she should not have dumped all this on the girl. She was just being her old, pessimistic self. It was so easy to fall into that with Bruce so far and so long away. He was the one who kept her steady, just as she kept his temper in check. Do I hate to see romance anywhere because my own lover is gone?
"I'm sorry, darling," she said contritely. "I'm a beast. Let's talk of something else. That Manon of yours is a doll. I'm so glad Owen married her so that she could come to us. How does she like it here so far—has she said anything to you?"
Cecilia felt herself settling down. She sat back down next to her aunt—but she kept a wide berth. "She is overwhelmed, I think. I put her to bed an hour ago—Aunt Rilla wanted to take her to the House of Dreams but I was firm. Manon needs to recuperate from today. I had to undress her, like a little girl. She was babbling French to me as I tucked her under her quilts—I don't think she quite understands yet, what has happened to her. Losing Owen and gaining a family—such a large family—in so short a time—well, it is a lot to take in."
"She would have made him a superb wife," said Penny. "I can see that about her already. Maybe she will learn to love again someday? Well, you are good to stick by her—although I hope it doesn't stop you from applying to Redmond this fall. It's too late for you to go this year—but you might start classes in the spring."
"I am not going to Redmond," Cecilia said, with a wry smile.
"Not going to Redmond! Of course you are. Cecilia, if it's the money, Bruce and I have been putting a little aside. And you can qualify for veterans' assistance. I've looked into it. Dear, you mustn't give up on your dream of medical school. It can be done. Look at me—with a little luck and some elbow grease, I managed to get my bachelor of laws."
"I do not want to go to medical school anymore," Cecilia said sharply. "It has nothing to do with money—or Blythe, before you bring him into this, too. I'm tired, Aunt Penny. I want to rest and I don't want any more of death—for now. Maybe I will change my mind. Maybe not."
Penny wisely said nothing except, "Well, I owe Mary Douglas five dollars, then. She bet me you wouldn't stick it out. I said she was wrong, of course. Likely I'll have to pay her, two. Mary never forgets about money owed her."
Penny got up and kissed Cecilia's hair.
"Aunt Penny," Cecilia said, and her aunt turned at the door. "I love you. I'm just a little cross, tonight. I know you have my best interests at heart—but I suppose I have to get reacclimated, too. Tomorrow I'll be my old self again."
Penny smiled. "Of course you will, darling." She paused. "Cecilia," she said, a little shyly. "Perhaps I've been too hard on Blythe tonight. No—I know I have. I really am fond of him—and I think, after all, there are ways in which the two of you together will be happy. You will never be bored with him. He will keep you apprised of the beauty all around you. And you'll have darling children."
"Blythe doesn't want children," said Cecilia, with a wavery smile. "He says he wants to lavish all of his attention on me. He says I am too valuable to him to be wasted on child-rearing drudgery. And he has always wanted to travel…" Her face clouded as she wondered if that would be possible, now, with Blythe confined to his chair.
Penny wisely did not ask the girl what she wanted. She simply crossed the worn boards of the porch and kissed Cecilia's face, once, twice, three times.
"Welcome home, darling," Penny said. "We're glad to have you back."
