CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

NO ONE LOVED a juicy yarn more than Ruby Mae, and in the month since my return, she stopped off at the mission house nearly every other day to impart some item of news or tittle-tattle. Miss Alice had long ago tried to discourage this habit, but gossip and Ruby Mae had always gone hand-in-hand, and it seemed impossible to have one exist without the other.

I knew I shouldn't be bothered to listen to her, for it only made her more apt to spread what she knew, but I couldn't seem to help it; her news was always amusing, though I suspected that she dampened down some of the more lurid tales for my innocent ears.

When I caught sight of her running down the hill toward the mission one Saturday, her flaming hair flying out wildly behind her, I assumed that she had collected some new and shocking tale to share – however, as she came to a tumbling halt in front of me, where I sat shelling peas on the doorstep, I was soon to learn that this exciting story involved her own self.

"Lordy, Miz Christy," she burst out, flopping down to sit beside me. "Ye won't never guess what I learnt today!"

"I imagine I won't," I said calmly, well-accustomed to hearing this opening line.

"Waal, I'll tell ye, then! My Will went an' called fer Doc MacNeill, 'cause I ain't been feelin' good fer nigh on two days now –"

"Are you sick, Ruby Mae?" I asked anxiously.

"Aw, not really." She was still grinning, so I relaxed, knowing it must not be anything serious. "Waal, Doc come an' looked me over, an' he said that I'm gonna be a mama! Me an' Will are gonna have ourselves a baby!"

"A baby!"

"Yep." She smiled, with an eager light in her eyes. "Will's mighty pleased, an' I cain't hardly believe it. Me, a mama! I hope it's a little boy, fer Will, but Will has a hankerin' fer a gal-baby – one who looks jest like me, he says." She giggled.

I recovered from my astonishment. "Why, that's wonderful, Ruby Mae. How excited you must be! Have you told anyone yet?"

"Only Will's ma and pa, and you. Do ye think Miz Alice would like to hear?"

"I think she would love to," I said, giving her a quick hug. "We're all very happy for you and Will, Ruby Mae."

Beaming, she took off for Miss Alice's cabin to spread the joy; I watched her bounce down the trail like the exuberant girl she was. Sixteen. She was just sixteen, and she was a mother already! I shook my head in amazement. It seemed like the last few days had been nothing but a constant round of surprises – but, as I was soon to find out, the surprises were far from over.

"YOO-NITED STATES MAIL!"

Ben Pentland's familiar calling-card shout echoed down the field to the mission house. Miss Alice, putting aside her knitting, rose and went to open the door for him. In a minute, Mr. Pentland stomped inside, covered head-and-shoulders with a sheet of snow; Miss Ida winced as the majority of it landed on the spotless rug.

"Hello, Ben," David greeted cordially from his seat by the fireplace. "Come on in and melt all that ice off yourself."

"Don't mind if I do, Preacher." The postman ventured into the parlor, tipping his dirty felt hat politely at Miss Ida and I. "Cain't stay long – there's a mought of snow out thar and more's sure ter come, so I best not dawdle any. Got some parcels fer ye, Miz Christy."

"For me?"

"Aye – come Asheville way." He disappeared back into the hall and appeared a moment later, clutching two large crates, one under each arm. After setting them down on the carpet in front of me, eliciting another scowl from Ida, he reached into his leather vest and pulled out a thick, slightly sodden envelope. "A letter come with it."

I slit it open, not recognizing the elegant handwriting on its front.

My dear Miss Huddleston,

I beg you would accept this small token of my esteem. I do hope I haven't overstepped myself, but my wife assures me that you won't find fault with our offering. You are an inspiring young lady, and I have no doubt that these trifles will be put to excellent use.

Yrs. truly,

Randolph Hayvescroft

"Those crates was awful heavy," Mr. Pentland drawled, stretching out his long legs in front of the fire. "Do ye want me ter open 'em fer ye, Miz Christy?"

I smiled, seeing the spark of curiosity alive in his eyes. "That would be very kind, thank you."

A few quick jerks with a poker pried the lid off, and I burrowed through the mound of wood shavings and paper to uncover the gifts inside.

"Books!" I cried, pulling out A Tale of Two Cities from the crate. There were others underneath, at least fifteen or twenty, tightly packed together. I held up the novel – the binding was tight, the embossed leather cover clean and gleaming beautifully in the firelight. They were new, brand new!

The second box was opened to reveal a scene of similar bounty; Miss Alice helped me unpack and pile them in neat stacks. I counted thirty-one in all – thirty-one books! Giddily, I pointed out particular titles while the others looked on with amusement.

"Here's one for Ruby Mae," I said with a grin, holding up a copy of Anne of Green Gables.

Miss Alice's eyes twinkled.

"And look!" I dove back into the crates, becoming more and more excited as I sorted through the treasure trove of books. "Rob Allen will love these. And there are even picture books for the little ones! How wonderfully kind of Mr. Hayvescroft."

"I hope that you didn't solicit them," David said abruptly, taking up a newspaper from the table.

My pleasure was immediately sucked away by his coldness. "For your information, I didn't say a word about our needs or ask him to donate anything."

"Of course you didn't," Miss Alice cut in. "We shall have to write to the gentleman and thank him for his kindness."

"It's better than those ludicrous hats, anyway," Miss Ida sniffed.

I sighed again at the reminder of my last attempt at garnering support and supplies for the mission. Well, I hadn't solicited these books; Mr. Hayvescroft had sent them without the slightest hint from me. I looked up at David, but he had disappeared behind the spread of newssheet, his hands white-knuckled where they gripped the paper.

"Christy?" Miss Alice tapped my arm. "Perhaps we can put these upstairs for the night. It is too cold to venture outside to the schoolhouse."

How uncanny – it was on the tip of my tongue to suggest that we go stock the books on the schoolhouse shelves. I glanced out the window. The snow was falling rapidly, and it would likely worsen before the evening was out. Miss Alice was right; the last thing we needed was to be stranded in the church overnight.

Mr. Pentland, having sufficiently thawed himself out, wandered over to join us and picked up one of the books, peering intently at the cover and then flipping it open to study the neat lines of print. "Reckon the young'uns will like this jest fine. Who's this Haycroft feller?"

"Mr. Hayvescroft is one of my father's friends," I said. "I had the opportunity to speak with him about teaching in the Cove during my holiday in Asheville."

Nodding, Mr. Pentland placed the book back atop its pile with the utmost care. "Ought ter be headin' out now afore the weather really flares up." He donned his hat, shrugged into his coat, and headed to the door, stopping in the hall. "Miz Christy?"

"Yes?"

"You reckon older folks might lend out these here books too?"

"You're welcome to borrow one whenever you wish."

Looking slightly abashed, he inclined his head to me and went out.

"I hope you aren't planning to make that offer to everyone," Miss Ida remarked, after Mr. Pentland was a safe distance down the road. "You'll never get them back if you do."

"I trust that our neighbors will be as honest and careful with the books as they are with everything else," Miss Alice replied, taking up her sewing again.

"Just wait," I added. "We'll have Cutter Gap's first library up and running in no time. It will turn out."

Miss Ida shot a glance over at David but didn't venture to argue; she settled back in her chair, her lips pursed as she focused her attention on the buttons she was stitching on one of her brother's shirts.

"It will work," I said, directing the comment to David, who was watching me darkly. "You'll see."

With a sudden motion, David flung himself from his chair, slapped the paper onto the table, and stalked out of the room.

THE NEXT MORNING was a dreary, overcast day, the snow falling more plentifully but dripping with icy rainwater, making for a miserable drizzle of slush that plopped dully on the rooftop in a continuous rhythm. The noise wore on everyone's nerves – even Miss Alice didn't seem as composed as she generally was.

Both of the Grantlands had been almost entirely mute, venturing to talk only when asked a direct question. I wondered whether they had received some bad news from Boston, but I was much too cowed by their stony silence to ask. It wasn't like David to be so sullen; I was worried for him, and a little frightened by his black looks. It was as if a stranger inhabited his body – this bitter, angry man couldn't be David, not my dear, sweet David.

I was ashamed of myself. A good part of the whole mess was my fault, for being so wishy-washy; maybe things might have worked out if I had been honest from the beginning. I was at a loss, wishing desperately for someone to get us out of the fix that I had created.

My resources were used up: I had gone to Miss Alice more than once in the past few weeks, anxious for her advice. Although she was always properly sympathetic and reassuring, she took care not to interfere in even the smallest way. She would not offer any straight advice beyond urging me to take my concerns to the Lord. I tried to, but the thoughts dashing through my head interrupted my prayers.

There was no one else to talk to – there was no Fairlight to confide in. Miss Ida was certainly out of the question as a confidante; I was too embarrassed to approach Opal or one of the other mountain women, and all of my other friends lived across the border, too far away to be of any immediate assistance. I could hardly ask Mother for her opinion; she would be horrified at the thought that I was involved with any man in Cutter Gap.

Aware that the situation was volatile, I had carefully avoided Dr. MacNeill since the afternoon he had camped out on the sofa – when I saw him at church, I tried to be polite without lingering too long at his side, knowing that David was watching. I hoped fervently that the Doctor wasn't confused or even hurt by my distance, but I was so afraid of a confrontation; it was the only thing that I could think to do.

I wanted to talk to him – when we passed each other, I had the strangest longing to take him aside and tell him everything. I wanted his advice. I wanted him to listen quietly, patiently, as he always did, with that blend of gentle encouragement, amusement, and thoughtfulness that had become so familiar to me. I wanted someone to help carry the burden, to help me puzzle out David's behavior. No problem seemed to be too great for Dr. MacNeill to bear on those broad shoulders of his; of late, especially, there was a new confidence in him – a confidence borne not of his accomplishments but his faith. I envied his self-possession.

But I could never approach him. My troubles shouldn't extend to him; I had no business dragging the Doctor into a quarrel between David and I.

So each day I had waited, tiptoeing around the house, waiting for the inevitable explosion. It did come, but in a much different form than I had expected – it was the last of a string of surprises that had made up a very discomfiting week.

Dinner that evening was a solemn affair. Miss Ida served roast chicken, beans, and cornbread, a wonderful fare, but none of us really tasted it. David was forking food into his mouth without conscious thought, his gaze fixed on the window, while Miss Alice sat quietly at the foot of the table, a disquieted light in her eyes. I prodded the beans across my plate absently, thinking of my lesson plans for the next day. I would need more paper – it was being used up so rapidly that two of the thick packets I had bought in Asheville were already gone. Perhaps Father would send more if I asked...

The scrape of David's chair against the floorboards woke me from my haze of abstraction; my gaze shot up to find him standing before the table, his hands clasped behind his back. "Alice, Christy, there's something I'd like to say."

Miss Alice straightened, placing her spoon calmly by her plate before meeting his intent eyes. "By all means, David. What have you to tell us?"

He cleared his throat, glancing over at his sister, who instantly rose and went into the kitchen. Her departure seemed to rattle him a little, but he shook his head slightly and faced Miss Alice again. "I have written all the proper letters," he said softly, "but I thought I ought to let you know that I've handed in my resignation."

"Resignation?" I echoed dumbly. Automatically I turned to Miss Alice for help, for an explanation, but she looked stunned.

"I wrote to Dr. Ferrand over a month ago," he continued, "to request permission to accept a position in a church back in Boston. I received his confirmation last Tuesday."

Miss Ida came back into the dining parlor, carrying a fresh loaf of bread; she recoiled when we all twisted around to stare at her, begging without words for some sort of explanation. She sat back down, deliberately avoiding our eyes, and began to cut the bread with a vigor that nearly crushed it.

"I must say I am quite astonished at this sudden step, David," Miss Alice said at last. "Why did you decide to take it?" The question hung in the air, stifling all of us in the little room.

Something indefinable flashed across David's expressive face, but he turned and paced over to the window. "I thought that I could make an impression here, but every improvement I tried to make set us back instead. I'm not doing any good, so I see no reason to stay. Someone else can try their hand at it – I'm done with this place."

I wanted to protest. Did he have no notion of all the things he had done for the people of the Cove? How could he be so blind to the miracles that God had worked through him?

"Ida?" Miss Alice intoned gently. "Are you leaving us too?"

Miss Ida lowered her head and continued to slice the loaf, but her fingers trembled on the polished handle of the knife.

"She is," David answered, when his sister did not speak. "Mother needs her at home, and I can be useful there too – Cutter Gap doesn't need either of us."

"David, surely..."

"No, Alice," he interrupted, his mouth a thin, grim slash across his handsome face. "Everything is already settled. Ida and I have seats booked on the train for tomorrow afternoon, and we should be back in Boston by the week's end. Dr. Ferrand has promised to find a replacement for me – some student fresh out of seminary. Perhaps he'll have better luck than I did."

"I respect thy feelings," Miss Alice replied, slipping back unconsciously into her Quaker speech, with a note of distress in her voice that I had never heard before, "but please rethink thy motivations, David. I cannot believe that thou hast been considering the matter clearly. Hast thou taken thy worries to the Lord?"

David snorted. "Alice, please don't preach to me. I've made up my mind. I'm sorry if it upsets you, but I think you'll recover from any disappointment quickly." His eyes turned to me, dark and inscrutable. "I know you will, Christy."

His words stung. The guilt came upon me hard, choking off whatever retort I might have made. My fault, my fault. Suddenly his gaze was overpowering, accusatory – too much, too much, my fault...I rose and choked out a quick, "Excuse me," before fleeing for the safety of my room.

A/N: Sorry for the long wait, and for yet another sad, melodramatic post. I promise that things will cheer up a little more soon. All the poor characters have been drowning in angst throughout these last few chapters.

Nevertheless, it's about time that the David situation came to a head, eh? Despite all evidence to the contrary, I actually do like David -- just not as a potential husband for Christy. ; ) He has some wonderful qualities and the potential to become a great man, given a little more time and experience.

In the book, we see him as a charming, good-natured, but immature young man, like Christy herself in many ways. The difference between them, however, is that Christy is willing to learn from her mistakes, whereas David continues to make the same ones over and over again. Spiritually they differ too: Christy, after overcoming some stubbornness of her own, lets God change who she is as a person -- David has extreme difficulty in turning any part of his life over to God. He wants to be upright, but he refuses to alter himself in any way.

I had always gotten the impression that David had been dictated to all his life: his mother and his sister are domineering women, and he was pushed into attending seminary because they wanted him to become a minister. All his choices have been made for him, and part of his coming to Cutter Gap is to escape and make decisions of his own. I think that his proposal to Christy is almost an extension of the desire he has to rebel; it isn't so much because he loves Christy than because she is his own choice, not his mother's, not his sister's. Christy, despite coming from a fairly well-to-do family, probably wouldn't be the sort of girl Mrs. Grantland would want her son marrying.

Once David has had a taste of this freedom, he doesn't want to give over any of that control to anyone -- not even to God. Catherine seems to hint at the end that David is starting to come to terms with this problem. He has struggled with it throughout the course of the novel, and there's hope for him, I think. He has a good heart, even though I'm making him act like a jerk now. ; )

Sorry for going off on another ranting character analysis -- it's a bad habit. Anyone have another theory on David? Is he a hopeless case, or is he just misunderstood? ; )

Thanks for your reviews!