Christopher was out late that night. Eunice waited up for him, as she always did. It was a chilly spring evening, reminding her of the night her mother had died. The kitchen was in spotless order, and she sat down on a stiff-backed chair by the window to wait for her brother.
She did not want a light. The moonlight fell in with faint illumination. Outside, the wind was blowing over a bed of new-sprung mint in the garden, and was suggestively fragrant. It was a very old-fashioned garden, full of perennials Naomi Holland had planted long ago. Eunice always kept it primly neat. She had been working in it that day, and felt tired.
She was all alone in the house and the loneliness filled her with a faint dread. She had tried all that day to reconcile herself to Christopher’s marriage, and had partially succeeded. She told herself that she could still watch over him and care for his comfort. She would even try to love Victoria; after all, it might be pleasant to have another woman in the house. So, sitting there, she fed her hungry soul with these husks of comfort.
When she heard Christopher’s step she moved about quickly to get a light. He frowned when he saw her; he had always resented her sitting up for him. He sat down by the stove and took off his boots, while Eunice got a lunch for him. After he had eaten it in silence he made no move to go to bed. A chill, premonitory fear crept over Eunice. It did not surprise her at all when Christopher finally said, abruptly, “Eunice, I’ve a notion to get married this spring.”
Eunice clasped her hands together under the table. It was what she had been expecting. She said so, in a monotonous voice.
“We must make some arrangement for — for you, Eunice,” Christopher went on, in a hurried, hesitant way, keeping his eyes riveted doggedly on his plate. “Victoria doesn’t exactly like — well, she thinks it’s better for young married folks to begin life by themselves, and I guess she’s about right. You wouldn’t find it comfortable, anyhow, having to step back to second place after being mistress here so long.”
Eunice tried to speak, but only an indistinct murmur came from her bloodless lips. The sound made Christopher look up. Something in her face irritated him. He pushed back his chair impatiently.
“Now, Eunice, don’t go taking on. It won’t be any use. Look at this business in a sensible way. I’m fond of you, and all that, but a man is bound to consider his wife first. I’ll provide for you comfortably.”
“Do you mean to say that your wife is going to turn me out?”
Eunice gasped, rather than spoke, the words.
Christopher drew his reddish brows together.
“I just mean that Victoria says she won’t marry me if she has to live with you. She’s afraid of you. I told her you wouldn’t interfere with her, but she wasn’t satisfied. It’s your own fault, Eunice. You’ve always been so queer and close that people think you’re an awful crank. Victoria’s young and lively, and you and she wouldn’t get on at all. There isn’t any question of turning you out. I’ll build a little house for you somewhere, and you’ll be a great deal better off there than you would be here. So don’t make a fuss.”
Eunice did not look as if she were going to make a fuss. She sat as if turned to stone, her hands lying palm upward in her lap. Christopher got up, hugely relieved that the dreaded explanation was over.
“Guess I’ll go to bed. You’d better have gone long ago. It’s all nonsense, this waiting up for me.”
When he had gone Eunice drew a long, sobbing breath and looked about her like a dazed soul. All the sorrow of her life was as nothing to the desolation that assailed her now.
She rose and, with uncertain footsteps, passed out through the hall and into the room where her mother died. She had always kept it locked and undisturbed; it was arranged just as Naomi Holland had left it. Eunice tottered to the bed and sat down on it.
She recalled the promise she had made to her mother in that very room. Was the power to keep it to be wrested from her? Was she to be driven from her home and parted from the only creature she had on earth to love? And would Christopher allow it, after all her sacrifices for him? Aye, that he would! He cared more for that black-eyed, waxen-faced girl at the old Pye place than for his own kin. Eunice put her hands over her dry, burning eyes and groaned aloud.
Caroline Holland had her hour of triumph over Eunice when she heard it all. To one of her nature there was no pleasure so sweet as that of saying, “I told you so.” Having said it, however, she offered Eunice a home. Electa Holland was dead, and Eunice might fill her place very acceptably, if she would.
“You can’t go off and live by yourself,” Caroline told her. “It’s all nonsense to talk of such a thing. We will give you a home, if Christopher is going to turn you out. You were always a fool, Eunice, to pet and pamper him as you’ve done. This is the thanks you get for it — turned out like a dog for his fine wife’s whim! I only wish your mother was alive!”
It was probably the first time Caroline had ever wished this. She had flown at Christopher like a fury about the matter, and had been rudely insulted for her pains. Christopher had told her to mind her own business.
When Caroline cooled down she made some arrangements with him, to all of which Eunice listlessly assented. She did not care what became of her. When Christopher Holland brought Victoria as mistress to the house where his mother had toiled, and suffered, and ruled with her rod of iron, Eunice was gone. In Charles Holland’s household she took Electa’s place — an unpaid upper servant.
Charles and Caroline were kind enough to her, and there was plenty to do. For five years her dull, colorless life went on, during which time she never crossed the threshold of the house where Victoria Holland ruled with a sway as absolute as Naomi’s had been. Caroline’s curiosity led her, after her first anger had cooled, to make occasional calls, the observations of which she faithfully reported to Eunice. The latter never betrayed any interest in them, save once. This was when Caroline came home full of the news that Victoria had had the room where Naomi died opened up, and showily furnished as a parlor. Then Eunice’s sallow face crimsoned, and her eyes flashed, over the desecration. But no word of comment or complaint ever crossed her lips.
She knew, as every one else knew, that the glamor soon went from
Christopher Holland’s married life. The marriage proved an
unhappy one. Not unnaturally, although unjustly, Eunice blamed
Victoria for this, and hated her more than ever for it.
Christopher seldom came to Charles’ house. Possibly he felt ashamed. He had grown into a morose, silent man, at home and abroad. It was said he had gone back to his old drinking habits.
One fall Victoria Holland went to town to visit her married sister. She took their only child with her. In her absence Christopher kept house for himself.
It was a fall long remembered in Avonlea. With the dropping of the leaves, and the shortening of the dreary days, the shadow of a fear fell over the land. Charles Holland brought the fateful news home one night.
“There’s smallpox in Charlottetown — five or six cases. Came in one of the vessels. There was a concert, and a sailor from one of the ships was there, and took sick the next day.”
This was alarming enough. Charlottetown was not so very far away and considerable traffic went on between it and the north shore districts.
When Caroline recounted the concert story to Christopher the next morning his ruddy face turned quite pale. He opened his lips as if to speak, then closed them again. They were sitting in the kitchen; Caroline had run over to return some tea she had borrowed, and, incidentally, to see what she could of Victoria’s housekeeping in her absence. Her eyes had been busy