The weeks following Christmas seemed longer and colder than usual. The grownups tried to be cheerful, for the sake of the children, and perhaps, for themselves. The effect was morbid, and horrible. Uncle Jerry's sermons lacked the elegance and wit that they usually had, and he spent long afternoons locked in his study reading Psalms of lamentation. Aunt Nan seemed distracted, and Uncle Jem threw himself into his work. Aunt Faith made several mysterious visits to the mainland, and returned pale and wan, with her mouth set in a grim line, without presents for the girls, as she had promised. Grandfather Meredith was crazy with worry, and often sharp with his grandchildren, whom he had never been sharp with before. They did not know what to think of it! Only Grandmother Blythe remained calm and comforting, though there was something behind her eyes that showed how she really felt.
That Christmas had been one of the worst Ingleside had known-- worse even, for those who remembered, than that first one at the House of Dreams after little Joyce was lost. For days Una's life hung in the balance-- The rest of the small fry had been told that Aunt Una had had an accident, but nothing else. Still, they knew something must be dreadfully wrong to cause such upheaval, and all prayed like mad though Cecilia could not sit still long enough to form a coherent prayer. "Please, don't let her die, God," she said over and over and hoped that was enough.
Sometimes Joy's eyes turned on Cecilia watchfully and that poor maid wondered if Blythe could have told her what he knew. But no-- he wouldn't have done that. He couldn't have, when he knew it would hurt her so. It felt terrible to doubt Blythe.
Cecilia got used to feeling terrible, though. It was such an effort to pull herself out of bed in the mornings, and even more to make herself surrender to sleep at the end of the day. When she did she was greeted with nightmares-- terrible nightmares where she was lost in a crowd and could not breathe. Susan was sometimes in these dreams-- Cecilia could not see her-- could never see her-- but she heard her calling.
"I wish I didn't know the truth," she said angrily after one-too-many sleepless nights. "It would be so much-- easier-- to think that Mother was just ill."
Grandmother Blythe just smiled with her eyes. "But, my darling Cecilia, you would have known in your heart of hearts that the truth was being kept from you, and would have hated us-- and branded us as grownups-- for it."
Cecilia knew Grandmother spoke the truth. She thought, then, that she should turn her anger toward Mother. How could Mother have done such a thing! But she did not have the energy.
She did not tell Sid anything about it, though what he heard through back channels cannot be verified. Still, Cecilia never spoke of it. "I don't want his pity," Cecilia told herself. Several times she tried to talk about it with Blythe, but the moment she mentioned her mother she felt weary-- too weary to go on. She began to look pale and great circles popped out under her eyes. She ate hardly enough to keep a bird alive-- much less a growing fifteen-year-old girl. A doctor friend of Grandfather's, visiting from Summerside, saw her, and said concernedly to Grandfather,
"If she was one of my patients I'd watch her-- closely-- she looks a mite too consumptive for my taste."
And Grandfather cursed himself for being too distracted to notice. Why, Doc Johnson was right. Perhaps it would be best if they kept the girl out of school until she looked a bit stronger.
Cecilia did not resist. She had "fallen out" with most of her chums, who knew nothing of what was going on in her home life, and decided that, for some reason, Cecilia had become decidedly unfun. She had gotten a reputation for being haughty and morose, and it was useless to try and cheer her up. After a while, only Trudy, Cathy and Nellie Douglas continued to try to.
So she haunted Ingleside during the day, helping Grandmother with chores and taking long walks up the hill to the manse, or down by the harbor. Several times she stared at the dark water and thought how easy it would be to tumble down into it. She wouldn't have the strength to pull herself up and out. She wanted to go to sleep and sleep for a thousand years. Is this how Mother had felt? If so, Cecilia did not blame her for doing what she had done.
Grandmother noticed the girl giving in more and more to her thoughts. She hardly touched her schoolbooks anymore, and Anne Blythe, a great lover of learning, could not stand to see such a brilliant mind go to waste, even in the face of such sadness. Something had to be done.
"I could try to teach her myself," she said pensively. "Or Nan could-- it would be nice for her to dust off her B.A. Only I think that it will take a firm hand to reach her-- and I've always been too gentle to be a really effective teacher. And Nan is too distracted with worry herself-- what is to be done?"
She thought long and hard about it, to no avail, until Aunt Faith mentioned, in passing,
"I think I know someone who'd be willing."
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So Miss Branston came to the house three times a week to guide Cecilia in her studies. Her months on the Island had not mellowed her, as they had Cecilia, at first, but made her tougher, and touchier. "Let's not pretend we're here to have fun," said Miss Branston firmly, but not unkindly. More tiredly, than anything else. Cecilia understood that. "I'm here to teach you-- I don't want to-- and you're here to be taught-- you don't want to, either. But your Grandmother is paying me a good wage and I need it, so here I am."
"This is the last thing I need," thought poor Cecilia, remembering Miss Branston's harshness back at school in Montreal. But as the weeks went on, she found that when she was with Miss Branston, she didn't think about anything but her studies. Miss Branston was too stern and pushed her too hard to let her thoughts fly free. It was a nice reprieve. Cecilia threw herself into her schoolwork with a vengeance, and soon not only caught up with her peers, but surpassed them.
Cecilia would recite for Miss Branston each afternoon, and then the two women would walk silently through cool, dark Rainbow Valley, thinking their own thoughts. Until one day, Cecilia mentioned some of her own-- she forget exactly what-- Miss Branston answered her query, and the two became cordial-- yet diffident-- confidants. Cecilia found that Miss Branston did not pussyfoot around like so many other grownups. She told the plain truth, no matter how badly it stung. But she did not leave her pupil stung-- she offered up whatever sensible comfort she could to make it better. Cecilia found her cold brand of logic more comforting than promises and platitudes.
"I shall miss this, when Grandfather says I can go back to school," Cecilia remarked one night-- when a hint of spring was on the wind. Rainbow Valley seemed to feel it, too, and was waiting, expectant, for the time to blossom forth.
"I shall, too," said Miss Branston fiercely. "And not only the salary-- though heaven knows I need it. I spend my days cooped up indoors with a crochety old woman and my thoughts. It's funny that neither are as good companions as you, little Cecilia."
"I wish you wouldn't call me little," said Cecilia wearily. "Miss Branston, I feel so old."
Cecilia had not told Miss Branston about Mother -- she had only hinted-- but perhaps Grandmother had, or perhaps Island gossip had filled in the rest of the details, because Miss Branston took Cecilia's little hand in hers and said, "This too will pass, my dear." It was the first kind thing she had ever said to the girl, and Cecilia was warmed by it, but it was not so kind that she felt pitied. Cecilia hated being pitied. Anyway, Miss Branston did pity the girl though she didn't dare show it--wise Miss Branston!--but not nearly as much as she pitied herself. She knew that when you were really old it was impossible to feel that you were-- she herself felt tremendously young and helpless, even though she was old, or was getting there, at least.
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Cecilia was sitting out on the verandah with Grandmother one March twilight, ostensibly reading her Latin grammar but really just enjoying the night that was falling. The wet, wind smells of early spring acted like a balm on her soul, along with the love-note she had gotten from Sid in that day's mail. Sid had been a duck through this whole thing. Perhaps he had heard through the grapevine about what was bothering her, but if so, he had never said, or pressed her for details. He stayed the same old, wonderful, comforting Sid that he had always been-- with maybe some added tenderness in his eyes and smile.
Miss Branston had been right-- Cecilia now believed that this, too, would pass. It was harder to believe during the day than the endless, indefinite night, but when she believed it, she really did believe it. Things had to get better. The alternative was too hurtful to bear. But she was still not as strong as Grandfather would have liked, and the dark circles still shadowed her eyes, which Grandmother did not like. Though they did make her great blue eyes look even deeper and more alluring. So perhaps it was Grandmother who had arranged things-- perhaps it had been thought of by someone else-- but whoever had done it, a small, solitary figure began to make his way up the Ingleside lane.
Cecilia did not see him at first, though Grandmother peered through her glasses and said nothing. The two ladies of Ingleside sat in the sun and kept on talking and enjoying the first warm afternoon of the year. And the man walking up the lane kept on walking.
Then suddenly a ray of sunset light broke through the clouds and Cecilia looked up to see Rainbow Valley bathed in a warm glow-- and-- and-- something else-- someone else!
"Father!" she cried out loud and ran joyfully to the gate, where he was struggling with the latch. Struggling perhaps because his eyes were clouded with tears at the sight of his dear little girl-- whose own eyes were heavy and sparkling with all the tears that she had not shed since the horrible news had touched her.
"Oh, Father, dearest!" Cecilia wept. "You're here-- you are-- and you don't come with bad news because you're smiling-- oh Dad, I've missed you so-- so-- so much it hurt!"
"So have I, darling," said Shirley Blythe, drawing his girl close, and thinking how strange it was that even though he had her near, now, there was still a pang of sorrow in his chest.
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A/N: I hope this chapter makes up for the last one. Thanks for all of the reviews and sorry if I made you cry!
Lovejag: thanks for the offer of help. I did a bit of historical research on this myself, but decided to throw caution to the wind. Mainly, I don't think the Blythes would have kept secrets from Cecilia. I think they would have told her the truth about what had happened to her mother, rather than have her hear it from someone else. Also, Anne was always very big on telling children the truth without being too harsh.
There will be more Cecilia/Shirley moments in the next chapter, so read on!