"I...you..., I," she stammered trying to catch her breath. She stopped and took a deep breath, her voice steadying. As she regained her composure, her tone became more edgy again. "Felix, I do think that it was mean of you to join up without telling first." She frowned and looked darkly out into the woods.
"Izzy, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings by not telling you about the navy before I enlisted," Felix said quietly. "But I was really afraid that you would get upset, and then I wouldn't do it. And I need to do it, can't you understand that?" His voice rose, and he held her hand tightly. "You of all people, I thought you would understand."
"Understand, is it?" she looked at him, a queer expression coming over her face. "All I understand is that you are leaving, and you thought little enough of me to even tell me what you were thinking about," she said fiercely. Felix had seen Izzy angry before, but he had never seen her look like this. Her eyes glowed in an almost unholy way and her face was an unflattering combination of red and white. "How would you feel if I made a decision like that and didn't tell you?" she asked defiantly. Felix's mouth opened and closed quickly and he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "I thought we were at least friends," she continued, throwing her head up, "but apparently, I was wrong."
Before Felix could open his mouth to retort, Izzy was gone. Pulling her hand from his grasp, she jumped off the carriage seat, dumping her hat onto the dusty road in the process. She looked up at him, tears brimming again in her eyes, which spoke volumes of their hurt, dismay, and something else, buried deep. Felix slid across the polished leather seat, and reached out his hand. "Izzy, wait, please!"
But she was gone, running along the old path into the woods towards Avonlea. Felix jumped down from the carriage, and picked up her hat, which lay sorrowfully in the dust. He looked down at the pink tulle confection, and again was reminded of Izzy's beauty as she walked up the aisle only that morning. He cringed. How could he have made such a mess of things in such a short time?
"I thought I was getting past the age of getting into these predicaments," he groaned inwardly, as he climbed back onto the carriage seat, and lay the hat next to him. He looked around at the gathering darkness and up at the vast navy sky with its a few stars dotting the expanse. Suddenly, he remembered sitting with Jasper at the telescope, while his uncle explained how the twinkling lights were distant whirling suns, burning millions of miles away, lighting unknown barren worlds. As he sat in the deepening darkness, Felix King was cognizant of one emotion--utter loneliness. With a sigh and a resigned "giddap" to the patient horse, he picked up the reins and pulled the carriage back out onto the road toward the King Farm.
Izzy continued running until her lungs screamed for mercy. She rounded a corner on the path, slowed, then stopped. Her breath was coming in deep gasps, intermingled with sobs. Her face burned from exertion and shame; wisps of hair stuck uncomfortably to the back of her neck. Her hand went to her head and she gasped. Her hat, she thought wildly, realizing that she must have dropped it when she got out of the buggy. She stood on the dark path, looking towards Avonlea. The lights of the town twinkled between the trees. As her breathing became more even, she inhaled deeply and fought down the urge to cry. Izzy placed her palms, ice cold, against her flaming face. How could she have lost her temper like that, with Felix of all people, and on this day of all days! "First I pretty much fall apart on him, and then I blow up at him," she said out loud to a young birch growing on the side of the path. "Isn't that the mature thing to do?" she asked the slender tree, which remained sympathetically silent. "How could I have embarrassed myself like that? He must think I am a fool and I am."
Izzy looked up at the canopy of branches above, and saw the stars peeking through the limbs. Suddenly, she realized how dark it was. Muriel and Father would be worried about her; it had been at least two hours since she had left the King Farm. With a pang of guilt, she quickly began walking towards town, trying to smooth her windswept hair back into place. What would she tell them, she thought hurriedly--the truth simply would not do at all!
Within a few minutes, she was rushing through the front door of the Pettibone home, shaking the dust from the bottom of her skirt. "Izzy, is that you?" Muriel Pettibone bustled out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the voluminous apron covering her dress. Her warm face, normally so open and friendly, looked strained. At the sight of Izzy standing in the front hall, she relaxed noticeably. "It is you, dear. I was starting to get worried. Where have you been?" Muriel stepped back as Izzy brushed by her into the kitchen.
"Just out walking on the shore, Muriel," she replied evenly. "I hadn't noticed how late it was getting, you know how it is at this time of year, the days getting shorter and all." Izzy moved quickly to the sink and pumped some water. "I'm so dusty from walking!" she continued hurriedly, splashing water on her face. Muriel looked curiously at her and then wisely decided not to question her young step-daughter. Years of teaching had made her an expert at reading the emotions of young people, and she could sense that Izzy was holding something back. All in good time, thought Muriel, as she moved about the kitchen.
"Yes, it is getting darker this time of year. I am always so surprised when the lighthouse comes on earlier," Muriel agreed.
Izzy turned to her, her young face betraying no emotion, but her eyes dark unreadable pools. She took a deep breath. "Where is father?" she asked, looking around the kitchen. Muriel's face brightened.
"He's in the parlour," the older woman responded, her eyes twinkling, "Why don't you go ahead in and I'll join you in a moment with some tea."
Izzy nodded and slowly pushed open the parlour door, her gaze taking in two distinguished figures, one older, one younger, his dark hair falling roguishly into his dark eyes--the eyes so like her very own. The eyes of her own long-dead mother. Her delighted shriek rang through the room.
"Arthur!"
* * * * *
The fire crackled merrily, its hiss and snap the only sound in the snug lighthouse. Her gaze never leaving his face, Felicity dropped onto the sofa beside Gus, who was roughly brushing away his tears with the back of his sleeve. He looked down at her, his dark eyes full of a heartbreaking combination of emotion. He took a deep breath. "Shouldn'a done it, Felicity. Musta costa fortune," he said brusquely. Once again, Felicity could feel that wall come up between them. "I'm, I'm." his voice caught, "I'm not even sure I can still play." A pang of distrust crossed her heart; had she made a mistake?
Her eyes dropped to the fiddle lying in its velvet cradle. She reached over him and took the instrument from its case. "Gus, don't be ridiculous," she admonished lightly. "I had always planned to buy you a new fiddle when we got married, and when things happened the way they did, well, it made even more sense." She handed him the fiddle and bow. He held them stiffly in his hands, and looked at her, a mix of emotions playing across his handsome face. Felicity realized that it was up to her. "Don't tell me that you need to see perfectly to play. Half the time you played before, you never even looked at your hands!" She looked tellingly at him. "I'm right and you know it," she reiterated.
"I'm not so sure, Felicity," Gus replied, a trifle sardonically. "Things have changed." He sat with the beautiful instrument perched on his lap.
"Yes, some things have changed," Felicity concurred, taking his hand in hers, "but the most important things haven't changed. The fiddle hasn't changed, the notes are still the same, the music is still the same."
"But I've changed," Gus replied, a trifle sadly. Felicity reached out and touched his face; his breath caught at her touch as her eyes widened and grew an even deeper blue.
"Play, Gus," she breathed, "Play for me if not for yourself." He looked at her, his eyes saying the things that his lips would not.
He stood up carefully and lifted the delicate instrument in his hands. His hands trembling, he carefully placed the fiddle under his chin, and stroked the bow across the strings. A rich sonorous note filled the tiny lighthouse. "Perfectly tuned too," Gus murmured, seemingly lost in the feel of the fiddle, oblivious to even Felicity's presence. There was a perfect silence. Felicity looked up at her husband, her eyes so intense, full of wonder, yet rife with fear. What if he was right? What if he couldn't play anymore? His fiddle had meant so much to him. He had lost so much; had he lost this gift as well? She held her breath, and reached out to him with her mind, her thoughts, her feelings, as she used to do each night as she prayed.
"Gus, you are meant to play," she said silently. "You must play. It is the last thing holding you back from us, from the world, from me." She felt the lump in her throat as she looked at his striking face, so serious, look blindly at the silken strings of the violin.
The bow touched the fiddle and the pure climbing notes of the scale rang out into the room. Hesitantly at first, slowly, even a bit awkwardly, but with increasing strength and sureness, Gus played. His strong fingers danced on the strings, the bow moved effortlessly over them. An old Celtic tune filled the room with its lightness, and Felicity could feel the change. The music danced through the room as if it were a beautiful young girl, flirting with her lover. A smile came over Gus's face--a true smile, with no hint of the moroseness that had plagued him since his return to Avonlea. As the song came to an end, he glanced over at Felicity, who sat rapt, a broad smile on her face. He turned to her and his bow touched the strings again.
Felicity could feel the tone of the music change, and as the smile faded from her face, she was enveloped in memories. It was the tune he had played at the concert, the one they had put on with their classmates for the Lieutenant Governor's visit. The song he had played for Aunt Hetty, to thank her for the lessons he had learned. Gus's eyes never left Felicity's. They gazed entranced at each. Finally, for the first time she had walked through the door of that dingy room in Charleston, they could feel the barriers of time and distance, pain and suffering fall down. As the final note faded and the room again became silent, Felicity stood. Gus lowered his fiddle, and then placed it carefully on the table, his eyes never leaving hers. Finally he broke the silence. "Felicity, do you have any idea how much I love you?" he whispered hoarsely, his hand reaching out to touch her face, run down the silkiness of her neck.
"Show me," she replied softly, as his arms enveloped her and his head bent to kiss her lips as no man had ever kissed them before.
They had met as children. He was the older, the wiser, the more worldly. She bested him in school, the more learned, the more refined, the more scholarly. Their love had drawn them together, but always, their lives, their choices, and their pride had pulled them apart. They had each suffered alone with the certainty that they would never again be together on this side of the grave. She had fought against everything, her family, her pride, her own misgivings, to bring him home. Finally, they had come together as equals, as husband and wife, their souls forever joined. Never again would they be apart.
"And so God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him, male and female created he them. And God blessed them. And God saw every thing that he had made, and behold, it was very good. And on the seventh day, God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made. And God blessed the seventh day, and sanctified it."
* * * * *
Izzy leapt across the parlor as Arthur rose to his feet and caught her in his arms, his serious face lit up by a bright smile. For the second time that day, Izzy could feel the tears coming to her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously. Arthur and father would tease her mercilessly if she cried in front of them. She stepped back, her face glowing in the reflected light of the fire. Clive Pettibone chuckled deeply behind her. Izzy dropped into the chair beside her older brother as Muriel came into the parlour, smiling widely and carrying the tea. "When did you get home?" Izzy asked her brother.
"Just this afternoon," Arthur replied. "I had a chance for a few days off, and thought I would take advantage of the fine weather." He unconsciously ran his hands through his dark hair; Izzy realized with a start how that action reminded her of Felix. She fought the colour rising in her face, sat back in her chair, and accepted a cup of tea from her stepmother.
"So Izzy," Clive said quietly, "tell us about the wedding. Muriel here said you looked very well." He smiled with pride at his daughter, who looked shyly at her feet.
"It was wonderful, Father," Izzy replied. "Felicity was absolutely gorgeous, and Sara Stanley was there from Paris, and Miss King almost wasn't..." she continued on, regaling her father with the tale of how Hetty King had attended her niece's wedding. Clive, knowing all too well Hetty's stubborn pride, laughed aloud. Even Arthur smiled at the image of Hetty being dragged up the aisle of the church in her kitchen dress. "Gus made the most wonderful speech," she concluded, sitting back contentedly. "All in all, a wonderful wedding."
Muriel looked at her curiously. "And Felix?" she prompted, her eyebrows raised. "Don't you want to tell your father and brother his news?"
Izzy tossed her glossy head carelessly, her eyes betraying little. "Oh yes, Felix King has enlisted," she said. Both her father and Arthur started, surprise registering on their faces. "He has joined the Navy."
"The Navy!" both reiterated in unison.
"The navy," Izzy replied firmly. "Both he and Elbert Werts joined up. Evidently they leave Avonlea in about a month." The light seemed to go out of her face, and Clive was struck with how much she looked like her mother. An icy grip took a hold of his heart. Jessica had been ill most of her life. There was nothing wrong with Izzy, was there?
Izzy stood. "I hope you don't mind my turning in so soon, but I'm very tired. I'll think I'll go up to bed now."
She bent to kiss her father and Arthur good night and turned to leave the room. Arthur called after her. "Izzy!" She turned to face him. "Did you know beforehand that Felix was joining up?" Arthur's gaze seemed to look right through her.
She swallowed hard, replying quietly, "No, I didn't. I'm sure Felix King has no reason to discuss such personal business with me." With that, she turned and was gone, leaving the three remaining occupants of the room looking confusedly at each other. With a sigh, Muriel began picking up the cups and plates from the tea, while Clive and Arthur sat in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.
* * * * *
At the sound of the bedroom door closing softly, Muriel was awake. Her hand reached out; Clive was gone. The moonlight streamed into their bedroom window, and Muriel looked at the clock--not quite three in the morning. Rolling over, she debated with herself. Should she follow him? She knew with certainty where he was going...and why.
Tying the sash of his housecoat about him, Clive pushed open his study door and carefully lit the lamp. Sitting heavily into his chair, he stared unseeingly at the papers on this desk, barely hearing the clock striking in the parlour. He hadn't been able to sleep, despite his best efforts. The thought of Felix King's enlisting weighted heavily on his mind. No, he corrected himself sternly, it was not Felix's enlisting that bothered him; it was Izzy's fate.
He hand reached out across the desk and picked up the old photograph. From behind the glass, Izzy and Arthur's very eyes looked out at him. To Clive, those eyes seemed to mock him, accuse him. That face was so young, so beautiful, and despite the fact that she had slept in the narrowest and coldest of beds for almost twenty years, for Clive, it still lived in a fashion. Jessica Pettibone was considered a beauty in her time, and Clive had courted her devotedly, thrilled when she agreed to marry him. And while he loved Muriel deeply, Jessica remained the bride of his youth and the mother of his children. Dead before she was thirty, dying with her oldest son at her side--Arthur no more than a child himself--her weakening voice calling out for her husband. For him...and he was not there. The military had taken him to India and it was there that he received the news of her death. He had lived with the guilt and recrimination ever since.
He dropped the picture to the table and buried his head in his hands. Clive Pettibone had not cried since he was a lad, but the tears were coming to his eyes now. Suddenly, a soft hand touched his shoulder, and he turned to see Muriel, concern etched on her lovely face. "Clive," she said questioningly, "what's the trouble?" Her eyes fell to the picture on the desk, and her slim hand reached out to pick it up. "What's bothering you?"
"Will that be her fate too?" he asked softly, his hand motioning at the picture. There was no need to tell her about whom he was talking; Muriel knew. "He will always be away and she will worry about him. She'll always be alone, raise her children alone, maybe even die alone..." his voice trailed off. "She's a tough young woman, I made sure of that, but this is not the fate I wanted for her, to be the wife of a military man. But how can I stop it? She loves him, doesn't she? But she's so young, my little girl..."
Muriel's dark eyes looked down at him, full of sympathetic pain. Reaching behind her, she pulled a chair over beside his and sat down, taking his strong hands in her own. She flinched at how cold they were. Clive's eyes met hers. "I could not love Izzy more than if I had borne her myself," she said quietly, as Clive squeezed her hand. "And I know that she cares about Felix King very much. She is young, but she knows what she wants. And if she wants him, knowing the life that she will have to lead, then Clive, you must let her go. She has to lead her own life. Would you really want her to do anything else?"
The answer was obvious, and so Clive Pettibone did not speak. Rather he gathered his wife into his arms. But the face that he buried on her shoulder was far older than the one that he had worn only yesterday and his heart remained heavy in his chest.
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