Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the twenty-first chapter of Rainbow Valley.

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Wherever you listen to podcasts today, we'll be continuing rainbow Valley by Lucy Maud Montgomery chapter 21 The Impossible Word John Meredith walked meditatively through the clear crispness of a winter night in Rainbow Valley.

The hills beyond glistened with the chill splendid lustre of moonlight on snow.

Every little fur tree in the long valley sang its own wild song to the harp of wind and frost.

His children and the blaze lads and lasses were coasting down the eastern slope and whizzing over the glassy pond.

They were having a glorious time, and their gay voices and gayer laughter echoed up and down the valley, dying away in elphin cadences.

Among the trees on the right, the lights of Ingleside gleamed through the maple grove with the genial lure and invitation which seems always to glow in the beacons of a home where we know there is love and good cheer and a welcome for all kin, whether of flesh or spirit.

Mr.

Meredith liked very well on occasion, to spend an evening arguing with the doctor by the driftwood fire, where the famous china dogs of Ingleside kept ceaseless watch and ward as became deities of the hearth.

But tonight he did not look that way.

Far on the western hill gleamed a paler but more alluring star.

Mr.

Meredith was on his way to see Rosemary West, and he meant to tell her something which had been slowly blossoming in his heart since their first meeting and had sprung in the full flower.

On the evening where Faith had so warmly voiced her admiration for Rosemary, he had come to realize that he had learned to care for Rosemary not as he had cared for Cecilia.

Of course, that was entirely different.

That love of romance and dream and glamour could never, he thought, return.

But Rosemary was beautiful and sweet and dear.

Very dear.

She was the best of companions he was happier in her company than he had ever expected to be again.

She would be an ideal mistress for his home, a good mother to his children.

During the years of his widowhood, mr.

Meredith had received innumerable hints from brother members of Presbyteria, and from many parishioners who could not be suspected of any ulterior motive, as well as from some who could, that he ought to marry again.

But these hints never made any impression on him.

It was commonly thought he was never aware of them, but he was quite acutely aware of them, and in his own occasional visitations of common sense he knew that the common sensible thing for him to do was to marry.

But common sense was not the strong point of John Meredith, and to choose out, deliberately and cold bloodedly some suitable woman as one might choose a housekeeper or a business partner was something he was quite incapable of doing.

How he hated that word suitable.

It reminded him so strongly of James Perry, a suitable woman of suitable age, that anxious brother of the cloth had said in his far from subtle hint.

For the moment, John Meredith had had a perfectly unbelievable desire to rush madly away and proposed marriage to the youngest, most unsuitable woman it was possible to discover.

Mrs.

Marshall Elliot was his good friend, and he liked her.

But when she had bluntly told him he should marry again, he felt as if she had torn away the veil that hung before some sacred shrine of his innermost life.

And he had been more or less afraid of her ever since.

He knew there were women in his congregation of suitable age who would marry him quite readily.

That fact had seeped through all his abstraction very early in his ministry in Glenn St.

Mary.

They were good, substantial, uninteresting women, one or two fairly comely, the others not exactly so, and John Meredith would as soon have thought of marrying any one of them as of hanging himself.

He had some ideals to which no seeming necessity could make him false.

He could ask no woman to fill Cecilia's place in his home, unless he could offer her at least some of the affection and homage he had given to his girlish bride.

And where and his limited feminine acquaintance was such a woman to be found.

Rosemary west had come into his life on that autumn evening, bringing with her an atmosphere in which his spirit recognized native air.

Across the gulf of strangerhood they clasped hands of friendship.

He knew her better in that ten minutes by the hidden spring than he knew Emilyne Drew or Elizabeth Kirk or Amy Annetta Douglas in a year, or could know them in a century.

He had fled to her for comfort when Mrs.

Alec Davis had outraged his mind and soul and had found it.

Since then he had gone often to the house on the hill, slipping through the shadowy paths of night in Rainbow Valley so astutely that Glenn gossip could never be absolutely certain that he did go to see Rosemary West.

Once or twice he had been caught in the west living room by other visitors.

That was all the lady's aid had to go by.

But when Elizabeth Kirk heard it, she put away a secret hope she had allowed herself to cherish without a change of expression on her kind, plain face.

And Emily Drew resolved that the next time she saw a certain old bachelor of lowbridge she would not snub him as she had done at a previous meeting.

Of course, if Rosemary West was out to catch the minister, she would catch him.

She looked younger than she was, and men thought her pretty.

Besides, the west girls had money.

It is to be hoped that he won't be so absent minded as to proposed to Ellen by mistake was the only malicious thing she allowed herself to say to a sympathetic sister drew Emily, and bore no further grudge towards Rosemary when all was said and done.

An unencumbered bachelor was far better than a witterer with four children.

It had been only the glamour of the mance that had temporarily blinded Emilyne's eyes to the better part.

A sled with three shrieking occupants sped past Mr.

Meredith to the pond.

Faith.

This long curl streamed in the wind and her laughter rang above that of the others.

John Meredith looked after them kindly and longingly.

He was glad that his children had such chums as the blives glad that they had so wise and gay and tender a friend as Mrs.

Blythe.

But they needed something more and that something would be supplied when he brought Rosemary West as a bride to the old man's.

There was in her a quality essentially maternal.

It was Saturday night and he did not often go calling on Saturday night which was supposed to be dedicated to a thoughtful revision of Sunday's sermon.

But he had chosen this night because he had learned that Ellen West was going to be away and Rosemary would be alone often as he had spent pleasant evenings in the house on the hill.

He had never, since that first meeting at the spring seen Rosemary alone.

Ellen had always been there.

He did not precisely object to Ellen being there.

He liked Ellen West very much, and they were the best of friends.

Ellen had an almost masculine understanding and a sense of humor which his own shy, hidden appreciation of fun found very agreeable.

He liked her interest in politics and world events.

There was no man in the glen not even accepting Dr.

Blythe who had a better grasp of such things.

I think it is just as well to be interested in things as long as you live, she had said.

If you're not, it doesn't seem to me that there's much difference between the quick and the dead.

He liked her pleasant, deep rumbly voice.

He liked the hearty laugh with which she always ended up some jolly and well told story.

She never gave him digs about his children as other Glenn women did.

She never bored him with local gossip.

She had no malice and no pettiness.

She was always splendidly sincere.

Mr.

Meredith, who had picked up Miss Cornelia's way of classifying people, considered that Ellen belonged to the race of Joseph altogether an admirable woman for a sister in law.

Nevertheless, a man did not want even the most admirable of women around when he was proposing to another woman, and Ellen was always around.

She did not insist on talking to Mr.

Meredith herself all the time.

She let Rosemary have a fair share of him many evenings.

Indeed, Eleanor faced herself almost totally sitting back in the corner with St.

George in her lap and letting Mr.

Meredith and Rosemary talk and sing and read books together.

Sometimes they quite forgot her presence.

But if their conversation or choice of duet's ever betrayed the least tendency to what Ellen considered philandering ellen promptly nipped that tendency in the bud and blotted Rosemary out for the rest of the evening.

But not even the grimmest of Amiable dragons can altogether prevent a certain subtle language of eye and smile and eloquent silence.

And so the minister's courtship progressed after a fashion.

But if it was ever to reach a climax, that climax must come when Ellen was away.

And Ellen was so seldom away, especially in winter.

She found her own fireside the pleasantest place in the world.

She vowed Godding had no attraction for her.

She was fond of company, but she wanted it at home.

Mr.

Meredith had almost been driven to the conclusion that he must write to Rosemary what he wanted to say.

When Ellen casually announced one evening that she was going to a silver wedding next Saturday night, she had been bridesmaid when the principals were married.

Only old guests were invited, so Rosemary was not included.

Mr.

Meredith pricked up his ears a trifle, and a gleam flashed in his dreamy dark eyes.

Both Ellen and Rosemary saw it.

And both Ellen and Rosemary felt with a tingling shock that Mr.

Meredith would certainly come up the hill next Saturday night.

Might as well have it over with, St.

George, Ellen sternly told the Black cat after Mr.

Meredith had gone home and Rosemary had silently gone upstairs.

He means to ask her, St.

George.

I'm perfectly sure of that.

So he might as well have his chance to do it and find out.

He can't get her, George.

She'd rather take him saint.

I know that.

But she promised, and she's got to keep her promised.

I'm rather sorry.

In some way, St.

George.

I don't know of a man I'd sooner have for a brother in law if a brother in law was convenient.

I haven't a thing against him, Saint, not a thing except that he won't see and can't be made to see that the Kaiser is a menace to the peace of Europe.

That's his blind spot.

But he's good company, and I like him.

A woman can say anything she likes to a man with a mouth like John Meredith's.

And be sure of not being misunderstood.

Such a man is more precious than Ruby's, Saint, and much rarer, George.

But he can't have Rosemary.

And I suppose when he finds out he can't have her, he'll drop us both.

And we'll miss him saint.

We'll miss him something scandalous, George.

But she promised.

And I'll see that she keeps her promise.

Ellen's face looked almost ugly in its lowering resolution.

Upstairs, Rosemary was crying into her pillow.

So Mr.

Meredith found his lady alone and looking very beautiful.

Rosemary had not made any special toilet for the occasion.

She wanted to, but she thought it would be absurd to dress up for a man you meant to refuse.

So she wore her plain, dark afternoon dress and looked like a queen in it.

Her suppressed excitement colored her face to brilliancy.

Her great blue eyes were pools of light less placid than usual.

She wished the interview were over.

She had looked forward to it all day with dread.

She felt quite sure that John Meredith cared a great deal for her after a fashion, and she felt just as sure that he did not care for her as he had cared for his first love.

She felt that her refusal would disappoint him considerably, but she did not think it would altogether overwhelm him.

Yet she hated to make it, hated for his sake.

And Rosemary was quite honest with herself for her own.

She knew she could have loved John Meredith if if it had been permissible.

She knew that life would be a blank thing if rejected as a lover, he refused longer to be a friend.

She knew that she could be very happy with him and that she could make him happy.

But between her and happiness stood the prison gate of the promise she had made to Ellen years ago.

Rosemary could not remember her father.

He had died when she was only three years old.

Ellen, who had been 13, remembered him, but with no special tenderness.

He had been a stern, reserved man, many years older than his fair, pretty wife.

Five years later, their brother of twelve died also.

Since his death, the two girls had always lived alone with their mother.

They had never mingled very freely in the social life of the Glen or Lowbridge, though where they went, the wit and spirit of Ellen and the sweetness and beauty of Rosemary made them welcome guests.

Both had what was called a disappointment in their girlhood.

The sea had not given up Rosemary's lover and Norman Douglas, then a handsome, red haired young giant noted for wild driving and noisy though harmless escapades, had quarreled with Ellen and left her in a fit of peak.

There were not lacking candidates for both Martin's and Norman's places, but none seemed to find favor in the eyes of the west girls, who drifted slowly out of youth and bellhood without any seeming regret.

They were devoted to their mother, who was a chronic invalid.

The three had a little circle of home interests books and pets and flowers, which made them happy and contented.

Mrs.

West's death, which occurred on Rosemary's 25th birthday, was a bitter grief to them.

At first they were intolerably lonely.

Ellen especially continued to grieve and brood, her long, moody musings broken only by fits of stormy, passionate weeping.

The old lowbridge doctor told Rosemary that he feared permanent melancholy, or worse.

Once, when Ellen had sat all day refusing either to speak or eat, rosemary had flung herself on her knees by her sister's side.

Oh, Ellen, you have me yet, she said imploringly.

Am I nothing to you?

We have always loved each other so.

I won't have you always, ellen had said, breaking her silence with harsh intensity.

You will marry and leave me.

I shall be left all alone.

I cannot bear the thought.

I cannot.

I would rather die.

I will never marry, said Rosemary.

Never.

Ellen.

Ellen bent forward and looked searchingly into Rosemary's eyes.

Will you promise me that?

Solemnly she said, promise it on Mother's Bible.

Rosemary assented, at once quite willing to humor Ellen.

What did it matter?

She knew quite well she would never want to marry anyone.

Her love had gone down with Martin Crawford to the deeps of the sea, and without love she could not marry anyone.

So she promised readily, though Ellen made a rather fearsome rite of it.

They clasped hands over the Bible in their mother's vacant room, and both vowed to each other that they would never marry and would always live together.

Ellen's condition improved from that hour.

She soon regained her normal cheery poise.

For ten years she and Rosemary lived in the old house, happily undisturbed by any thought of marrying or giving in marriage.

Their promise sat very lightly on them.

Ellen never failed to remind her sister of it whenever any eligible male creature crossed their paths.

But she had never been really alarmed until John Meredith came home that night with Rosemary.

As for Rosemary, Ellen's obsession regarding that promise had always been a little matter of mirth to her, until lately.

Now it was a merciless fetter, self imposed, but never to be shaken off because of it.

Tonight she must turn her face from happiness.

It was true that the shy, sweet rosebud love she had given to her boy lover she could never give to another.

But she knew now that she could give to John Meredith a love richer and more womanly.

She knew that he touched the deeps in her nature that Martin had never touched, that had not perhaps been in the girl of 17 to touch.

And she must send him away tonight, send him back to his lonely hearth and his empty life and his heartbreaking problems.

Because she had promised Ellen ten years before on their mother's Bible that she would never marry, john Meredith did not immediately grasp his opportunity.

On the contrary, he talked for two good hours on the least LoverLike of subjects.

He even tried politics, though politics always bored Rosemary.

The latter began to think that she had been altogether mistaken and her fears and expectations suddenly seemed to her grotesque.

She felt flat and foolish.

The glow went out of her face and the lustre out of her eyes.

John Meredith had not the slightest intention of asking her to marry him.

And then, quite suddenly, he rose, came across the room, and standing by her chair, he asked it.

The room had grown terribly still.

Even Saint George ceased to purr.

Rosemary heard her own heart beating and was sure John Meredith must hear it too.

Now is the time for her to say no.

Gently but firmly.

She had been ready for days with her stilted, regretful little formula, and now the words of it had completely vanished from her mind.

She had to say no, and she suddenly found she could not say it.

It was the impossible word.

She knew now that it was not that she could have loved John Meredith, but that she did love him.

The thought of putting him from her life was agony.

She must say something.

She lifted her bowed golden head and asked him stammeringly to give her a few days for for consideration.

John Meredith was a little surprised.

He was not Vayner than any man has a right to be, but he had expected that Rosemary West would say yes.

He had been tolerably sure she cared for him.

Then why this doubt, this hesitation?

She was not a schoolgirl to be uncertain as to her own mind.

He felt an ugly shock of disappointment and dismay.

But he assented to her request with his unfailing gentle courtesy and went away at once.

I will tell you in a few days, said Rosemary, with down cast eyes and burning face.

When the door shut behind him.

She went back into the room and wrung her hands.

Thank you for joining Bite at a Time books today while we read a bite of one of your favorite classics.

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