“Your affectionate Mother”
“Well, that’s good news,” said Jane. “I was afraid Cristabel mightn’t be able to get away.”
“I wonder if she’ll bring us wedding presents.”
“I’ll bet she won’t! She’ll have spent all she can afford on Shaw’s suit.”
“Well, it’ll be pretty mean if she doesn’t.”
“She’ll bring you presents all right. Don’t you worry,” Jane comforted Letitia and Beaty.
Leslie had been forward in his courtship and there was to be a double wedding at the farm in October.
“Can I have the letter?” asked Shaw.
Jane Gower was folding and refolding it in her fingers, which were so used to work that they must constantly be moving. Almost grudgingly she handed him the letter. He had the string in his pocket and gathered the new garments into his arms.
“Grandma,” he said, “can I wear the suit to school tomorrow?”
“I’ve told you—no! Don’t ask again.”
“But I do want to!”
“Then want will be your master!” She turned away, dismissing him.
He carried the new possessions to his room and laid them on the bed. He caressed the navy-blue serge with his hand. He ran to the top of the stairs and shouted:—
“Grandma, can I try them on—just for a minute?”
“Yes.” Her voice came from the pantry. “Come down here and let me see you in them.”
He tore off his clothes, attached his braces to the new trousers, and put on the new suit. He could scarcely believe in himself. His eyes were bright with wonder as he examined what portion of himself he could in the little cracked looking glass.
Cristabel had indeed provided room for growth. The trousers were halfway down the calf, the sleeves reached his knuckles. There was a new white handkerchief, with a border of blue dots, folded in the breast pocket.
“How good you are, Mamma,” he said, out loud. “How good you are to me!”
He marched proudly down the stairs to show himself.
Jane Gower saw nothing ridiculous in the fitting of the suit. She looked him over with approval. Esther called from the kitchen:—
“Ma, I want Shaw to carry this cake to the Manse! It’s got to go soon if it’s to be in time for the social.”
“He’s all dressed up!”
“It won’t hurt the suit to go that far in it. Ma, my cake will be late if I don’t watch out!” There was a blubbering note in her voice. Jane gave in at once.
“All right, Shaw, you can take the cake to Mrs. Blair, but don’t stay any longer than you need to.”
Shaw could scarcely believe in his good fortune as he trudged down the lane carefully carrying the cake. He could smell its sweet richness, feel a delicate warmth from it. He wondered if possibly Ian and Elspeth would see him, and what they would think of his fine new suit? He thought he must look at least fifteen in it. The lane seemed very long. He broke into a jogtrot, but still holding the cake carefully. His arms ached when he reached the Manse, two miles away. Mrs. Blair opened the door.
“It’s a cake for the social,” he said, putting it into her hands, “from Esther. It’s iced.”
“Thank you, Shaw. Why, how you’re growing! Does Esther want the plate returned now?”
“Yes, please.” It would keep him waiting a little if the plate were returned.
“Come into the dining room. The children are there.” She led him in and herself went on to the kitchen.
The walls of the Manse were newly papered and the brass gaseliers were dazzlingly brilliant to Shaw. The carpet of the dining room was a rich red. Elspeth was sitting at the table drawing pictures and coloring them from a box of water-color paints. She looked sweet and good. A newspaper was spread before Ian and on it he was whittling a boat from a piece of pine. The grain of the wood was rosy in the sunlight. Ian’s freckles stood out on his fair skin, giving him a roguish look.
“Hello! Hello!” they greeted Shaw. “Come and see what we’re doing! What do you think of this for a boat?”
He stood staring, dazzled by the contrast to his own life. Then Ian began to laugh.
“Look at Shaw! Look at the suit! Look at the three-quarter pants, Elspeth!”
Shaw grinned sheepishly. He did not feel hurt. This was Ian’s way of being friendly. They made room for him at the table. He was proud of the long sleeves that reached to his knuckles.
In the kitchen Mrs. Blair discovered that the cake, in its soft freshness, had been joggled to pieces. Some instinct told her that this disaster must be kept a secret from the Gowers. Almost an hour passed before she returned with the plate to the dining room. She found three heads touching above the table. Shaw was in possession of the paints.
“Come, children,” she said, “you must dress for the social. Shaw, won’t you wait and go with us? I see that you’re quite ready.”
Shaw sprang up aghast at the passage of time. “I must go home. I’m not going to the social. I was to hurry home.”
“I don’t think your grandma’d mind if you came with us.”
“I must go home,” said Shaw sullenly.
He was at the gate when Elspeth came running after him. She pushed the paintbox into his hand.
“I want to give it to you,” she said, shyly but firmly. “It’s a birthday present.”
“Give it to me! Why—you couldn’t do that! Your mother wouldn’t let you!”
“She would! I can do what I like with my own things. I want you to have the paints.” Before he could say anything more she had run back into the house.
The gate clicked behind him. He was alone in the road. He felt dizzy with joy. Clutching cake plate and paintbox to his breast, he ran along the quiet road. A flaming afterglow set the seal of the day’s magic on the sky. Everything was transformed. The cedar trees were pointed black towers. The pines were waving black banners. The cattle in the fields were deer grazing in a king’s park. A locomotive, whistling in the distance, sent a shiver of exaltation through his nerves. He would travel! He would go to the ends of the earth! But now, here in his hand was this paintbox, this treasure, this birthday gift! Never before, never in his ten years of life, had he been given anything that was not practically useful,—clothes, boots, school books,—and now, here was this miracle, this box packed with glorious color! It seemed to him that he had been wishing for a long while for a paintbox, that he had wanted one more than anything else. Yet he had no talent for drawing, no definite craving was satisfied by the acquisition of the paints. It was the unexpected munificence of the gift, its complete lack of practical use, that made it so spectacular.
There was the sharpness of coming frost in the air. There was the poignancy of parting in the sweet scents offered by the dusky earth. A power came upward from it that made walking easy, made a boy’s body light as air. The flaming color in the west did not dim till Shaw reached the gate of the farm. Then the lane darkened as he ran along it. He was glad to see the orange square of a lighted window.
Then, remembering how long he had been away, he was frightened. What would his grandmother say? He stole to the window.
Roger Gower was sitting by the dining table, the newspaper