The Complete Works of L M Montgomery, page 167
“They do have jolly times,” said Anne, laughing over the recollections of some Rainbow Valley happenings that had come to her ears. “And they are all brave and frank and loyal and truthful.”
“That’s a true word, Anne dearie, and when you come to think of all the trouble in the church those two tattling, deceitful youngsters of the last minister’s made, I’m inclined to overlook a good deal in the Merediths.”
“When all is said and done, Mrs. Dr. dear, they are very nice children,” said Susan. “They have got plenty of original sin in them and that I will admit, but maybe it is just as well, for if they had not they might spoil from over-sweetness. Only I do think it is not proper for them to play in a graveyard and that I will maintain.”
“But they really play quite quietly there,” excused Anne. “They don’t run and yell as they do elsewhere. Such howls as drift up here from Rainbow Valley sometimes! Though I fancy my own small fry bear a valiant part in them. They had a sham battle there last night and had to ‘roar’ themselves, because they had no artillery to do it, so Jem says. Jem is passing through the stage where all boys hanker to be soldiers.”
“Well, thank goodness, he’ll never be a soldier,” said Miss Cornelia. “I never approved of our boys going to that South African fracas. But it’s over, and not likely anything of the kind will ever happen again. I think the world is getting more sensible. As for the Merediths, I’ve said many a time and I say it again, if Mr. Meredith had a wife all would be well.”
“He called twice at the Kirks’ last week, so I am told,” said
Susan.
“Well,” said Miss Cornelia thoughtfully, “as a rule, I don’t approve of a minister marrying in his congregation. It generally spoils him. But in this case it would do no harm, for every one likes Elizabeth Kirk and nobody else is hankering for the job of stepmothering those youngsters. Even the Hill girls balk at that. They haven’t been found laying traps for Mr. Meredith. Elizabeth would make him a good wife if he only thought so. But the trouble is, she really is homely and, Anne dearie, Mr. Meredith, abstracted as he is, has an eye for a good-looking woman, man-like. He isn’t SO other-worldly when it comes to that, believe ME.”
“Elizabeth Kirk is a very nice person, but they do say that people have nearly frozen to death in her mother’s spare-room bed before now, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan darkly. “If I felt I had any right to express an opinion concerning such a solemn matter as a minister’s marriage I would say that I think Elizabeth’s cousin Sarah, over-harbour, would make Mr. Meredith a better wife.”
“Why, Sarah Kirk is a Methodist,” said Miss Cornelia, much as if
Susan had suggested a Hottentot as a manse bride.
“She would likely turn Presbyterian if she married Mr. Meredith,” retorted Susan.
Miss Cornelia shook her head. Evidently with her it was, once a
Methodist, always a Methodist.
“Sarah Kirk is entirely out of the question,” she said positively. “And so is Emmeline Drew — though the Drews are all trying to make the match. They are literally throwing poor Emmeline at his head, and he hasn’t the least idea of it.”
“Emmeline Drew has no gumption, I must allow,” said Susan. “She is the kind of woman, Mrs. Dr. dear, who would put a hot-water bottle in your bed on a dog-night and then have her feelings hurt because you were not grateful. And her mother was a very poor housekeeper. Did you ever hear the story of her dishcloth? She lost her dishcloth one day. But the next day she found it. Oh, yes, Mrs. Dr. dear, she found it, in the goose at the dinner-table, mixed up with the stuffing. Do you think a woman like that would do for a minister’s mother-in-law? I do not. But no doubt I would be better employed in mending little Jem’s trousers than in talking gossip about my neighbours. He tore them something scandalous last night in Rainbow Valley.”
“Where is Walter?” asked Anne.
“He is up to no good, I fear, Mrs. Dr. dear. He is in the attic writing something in an exercise book. And he has not done as well in arithmetic this term as he should, so the teacher tells me. Too well I know the reason why. He has been writing silly rhymes when he should have been doing his sums. I am afraid that boy is going to be a poet, Mrs. Dr. dear.”
“He is a poet now, Susan.”
“Well, you take it real calm, Mrs. Dr. dear. I suppose it is the best way, when a person has the strength. I had an uncle who began by being a poet and ended up by being a tramp. Our family were dreadfully ashamed of him.”
“You don’t seem to think very highly of poets, Susan,” said Anne, laughing.
“Who does, Mrs. Dr. dear?” asked Susan in genuine astonishment.
“What about Milton and Shakespeare? And the poets of the Bible?”
“They tell me Milton could not get along with his wife, and Shakespeare was no more than respectable by times. As for the Bible, of course things were different in those sacred days — although I never had a high opinion of King David, say what you will. I never knew any good to come of writing poetry, and I hope and pray that blessed boy will outgrow the tendency. If he does not — we must see what emulsion of cod-liver oil will do.”
CHAPTER VIII.
MISS CORNELIA INTERVENES
Miss Cornelia descended upon the manse the next day and cross-questioned Mary, who, being a young person of considerable discernment and astuteness, told her story simple and truthfully, with an entire absence of complaint or bravado. Miss Cornelia was more favourably impressed than she had expected to be, but deemed it her duty to be severe.
“Do you think,” she said sternly, “that you showed your gratitude to this family, who have been far too kind to you, by insulting and chasing one of their little friends as you did yesterday?”
“Say, it was rotten mean of me,” admitted Mary easily. “I dunno what possessed me. That old codfish seemed to come in so blamed handy. But I was awful sorry — I cried last night after I went to bed about it, honest I did. You ask Una if I didn’t. I wouldn’t tell her what for ‘cause I was ashamed of it, and then she cried, too, because she was afraid someone had hurt my feelings. Laws, I ain’t got any feelings to hurt worth speaking of. What worries me is why Mrs. Wiley hain’t been hunting for me. It ain’t like her.”
Miss Cornelia herself thought it rather peculiar, but she merely admonished Mary sharply not to take any further liberties with the minister’s codfish, and went to report progress at Ingleside.
“If the child’s story is true the matter ought to be looked into,” she said. “I know something about that Wiley woman, believe ME. Marshall used to be well acquainted with her when he lived over-harbour. I heard him say something last summer about her and a home child she had — likely this very Mary-creature. He said some one told him she was working the child to death and not half feeding and clothing it. You know, Anne dearie, it has always been my habit neither to make nor meddle with those over-harbour folks. But I shall send Marshall over to-morrow to find out the rights of this if he can. And THEN I’ll speak to the minister. Mind you, Anne dearie, the Merediths found this girl literally starving in James Taylor’s old hay barn. She had been there all night, cold and hungry and alone. And us sleeping warm in our beds after good suppers.”
“The poor little thing,” said Anne, picturing one of her own dear babies, cold and hungry and alone in such circumstances. “If she has been ill-used, Miss Cornelia, she mustn’t be taken back to such a place. I was an orphan once in a very similar situation.”
“We’ll have to consult the Hopetown asylum folks,” said Miss Cornelia. “Anyway, she can’t be left at the manse. Dear knows what those poor children might learn from her. I understand that she has been known to swear. But just think of her being there two whole weeks and Mr Meredith never waking up to it! What business has a man like that to have a family? Why, Anne dearie, he ought to be a monk.”
Two evenings later Miss Cornelia was back at Ingleside.
“It’s the most amazing thing!” she said. “Mrs. Wiley was found dead in her bed the very morning after this Mary-creature ran away. She has had a bad heart for years and the doctor had warned her it might happen at any time. She had sent away her hired man and there was nobody in the house. Some neighbours found her the next day. They missed the child, it seems, but supposed Mrs. Wiley had sent her to her cousin near Charlottetown as she had said she was going to do. The cousin didn’t come to the funeral and so nobody ever knew that Mary wasn’t with her. The people Marshall talked to told him some things about the way Mrs. Wiley used this Mary that made his blood boil, so he declares. You know, it puts Marshall in a regular fury to hear of a child being ill-used. They said she whipped her mercilessly for every little fault or mistake. Some folks talked of writing to the asylum authorities but everybody’s business is nobody’s business and it was never done.”
“I am sorry that Wiley person is dead,” said Susan fiercely. “I should like to go over-harbour and give her a piece of my mind. Starving and beating a child, Mrs. Dr. dear! As you know, I hold with lawful spanking, but I go no further. And what is to become of this poor child now, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?”
“I suppose she must be sent back to Hopetown,” said Miss Cornelia. “I think every one hereabouts who wants a home child has one. I’ll see Mr. Meredith to-morrow and tell him my opinion of the whole affair.”
“And no doubt she will, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan, after Miss Cornelia had gone. “She would stick at nothing, not even at shingling the church spire if she took it into her head. But I cannot understand how even Cornelia Bryant can talk to a minister as she does. You would think he was just any common person.”
When Miss Cornelia had gone, Nan Blythe uncurled herself from the hammock where she had been studying her lessons and slipped away to Rainbow Valley. The others were already there. Jem and Jerry were playing quoits with old horseshoes borrowed from the Glen blacksmith. Carl was stalking ants on a sunny hillock. Walter, lying on his stomach among the fern, was reading aloud to Mary and Di and Faith and Una from a wonderful book of myths wherein were fascinating accounts of Prester John and the Wandering Jew, divining rods and tailed men, of Schamir, the worm that split rocks and opened the way to golden treasure, of Fortunate Isles and swan-maidens. It was a great shock to Walter to learn that William Tell and Gelert were myths also; and the story of Bishop Hatto was to keep him awake all that night; but best of all he loved the stories of the Pied Piper and the San Greal. He read them thrillingly, while the bells on the Tree Lovers tinkled in the summer wind and the coolness of the evening shadows crept across the valley.
“Say, ain’t them in’resting lies?” said Mary admiringly when
Walter had closed the book.
“They aren’t lies,” said Di indignantly.
“You don’t mean they’re true?” asked Mary incredulously.
“No — not exactly. They’re like those ghost-stories of yours. They weren’t true — but you didn’t expect us to believe them, so they weren’t lies.”
“That yarn about the divining rod is no lie, anyhow,” said Mary. “Old Jake Crawford over-harbour can work it. They send for him from everywhere when they want to dig a well. And I believe I know the Wandering Jew.”
“Oh, Mary,” said Una, awe-struck.
“I do — true’s you’re alive. There was an old man at Mrs. Wiley’s one day last fall. He looked old enough to be ANYTHING. She was asking him about cedar posts, if he thought they’d last well. And he said, ‘Last well? They’ll last a thousand years. I know, for I’ve tried them twice.’ Now, if he was two thousand years old who was he but your Wandering Jew?”
“I don’t believe the Wandering Jew would associate with a person like Mrs. Wiley,” said Faith decidedly.
“I love the Pied Piper story,” said Di, “and so does mother. I always feel so sorry for the poor little lame boy who couldn’t keep up with the others and got shut out of the mountain. He must have been so disappointed. I think all the rest of his life he’d be wondering what wonderful thing he had missed and wishing he could have got in with the others.”
“But how glad his mother must have been,” said Una softly. “I think she had been sorry all her life that he was lame. Perhaps she even used to cry about it. But she would never be sorry again — never. She would be glad he was lame because that was why she hadn’t lost him.”
“Some day,” said Walter dreamily, looking afar into the sky, “the Pied Piper will come over the hill up there and down Rainbow Valley, piping merrily and sweetly. And I will follow him — follow him down to the shore — down to the sea — away from you all. I don’t think I’ll want to go — Jem will want to go — it will be such an adventure — but I won’t. Only I’ll HAVE to — the music will call and call and call me until I MUST follow.”
“We’ll all go,” cried Di, catching fire at the flame of Walter’s fancy, and half-believing she could see the mocking, retreating figure of the mystic piper in the far, dim end of the valley.
“No. You’ll sit here and wait,” said Walter, his great, splendid eyes full of strange glamour. “You’ll wait for us to come back. And we may not come — for we cannot come as long as the Piper plays. He may pipe us round the world. And still you’ll sit here and wait — and WAIT.”
“Oh, dry up,” said Mary, shivering. “Don’t look like that, Walter Blythe. You give me the creeps. Do you want to set me bawling? I could just see that horrid old Piper going away on, and you boys following him, and us girls sitting here waiting all alone. I dunno why it is — I never was one of the blubbering kind — but as soon as you start your spieling I always want to cry.”
Walter smiled in triumph. He liked to exercise this power of his over his companions — to play on their feelings, waken their fears, thrill their souls. It satisfied some dramatic instinct in him. But under his triumph was a queer little chill of some mysterious dread. The Pied Piper had seemed very real to him — as if the fluttering veil that hid the future had for a moment been blown aside in the starlit dusk of Rainbow Valley and some dim glimpse of coming years granted to him.
Carl, coming up to their group with a report of the doings in ant-land, brought them all back to the realm of facts.
“Ants ARE darned in’resting,” exclaimed Mary, glad to escape the shadowy Piper’s thrall. “Carl and me watched that bed in the graveyard all Saturday afternoon. I never thought there was so much in bugs. Say, but they’re quarrelsome little cusses — some of ’em like to start a fight ‘thout any reason, far’s we could see. And some of ’em are cowards. They got so scared they just doubled theirselves up into a ball and let the other fellows bang ‘em. They wouldn’t put up a fight at all. Some of ’em are lazy and won’t work. We watched ’em shirking. And there was one ant died of grief ‘cause another ant got killed — wouldn’t work — wouldn’t eat — just died — it did, honest to Go — oodness.”
A shocked silence prevailed. Every one knew that Mary had not started out to say “goodness.” Faith and Di exchanged glances that would have done credit to Miss Cornelia herself. Walter and Carl looked uncomfortable and Una’s lip trembled.
Mary squirmed uncomfortably.
“That slipped out ‘fore I thought — it did, honest to — I mean, true’s you live, and I swallowed half of it. You folks over here are mighty squeamish seems to me. Wish you could have heard the Wileys when they had a fight.”
“Ladies don’t say such things,” said Faith, very primly for her.
“It isn’t right,” whispered Una.
“I ain’t a lady,” said Mary. “What chance’ve I ever had of being a lady? But I won’t say that again if I can help it. I promise you.”
“Besides,” said Una, “you can’t expect God to answer your prayers if you take His name in vain, Mary.”
“I don’t expect Him to answer ’em anyhow,” said Mary of little faith. “I’ve been asking Him for a week to clear up this Wiley affair and He hasn’t done a thing. I’m going to give up.”
At this juncture Nan arrived breathless.
“Oh, Mary, I’ve news for you. Mrs. Elliott has been over-harbour and what do you think she found out? Mrs. Wiley is dead — she was found dead in bed the morning after you ran away. So you’ll never have to go back to her.”
“Dead!” said Mary stupefied. Then she shivered.
“Do you s’pose my praying had anything to do with that?” she cried imploringly to Una. “If it had I’ll never pray again as long as I live. Why, she may come back and ha’nt me.”
“No, no, Mary,” said Una comfortingly, “it hadn’t. Why, Mrs.
Wiley died long before you ever began to pray about it at all.”
“That’s so,” said Mary recovering from her panic. “But I tell you it gave me a start. I wouldn’t like to think I’d prayed anybody to death. I never thought of such a thing as her dying when I was praying. She didn’t seem much like the dying kind. Did Mrs. Elliott say anything about me?”
“She said you would likely have to go back to the asylum.”
“I thought as much,” said Mary drearily. “And then they’ll give me out again — likely to some one just like Mrs. Wiley. Well, I s’pose I can stand it. I’m tough.”
“I’m going to pray that you won’t have to go back,” whispered
Una, as she and Mary walked home to the manse.
“You can do as you like,” said Mary decidedly, “but I vow I won’t. I’m good and scared of this praying business. See what’s come of it. If Mrs. Wiley HAD died after I started praying it would have been my doings.”
“Oh, no, it wouldn’t,” said Una. “I wish I could explain things better — father could, I know, if you’d talk to him, Mary.”
