The Complete Works of L M Montgomery, page 749
Meanwhile, the deacon was having troubles of his own. His party wanted to bring him out as a candidate at the next local election, and the deacon wanted to be brought out. But of course the liquor interest was dead against him, and he had some personal foes even on the temperance side; and altogether it was doubtful if he would get the nomination. But he was working hard for it, and his chances were at least as good as any other man’s until the first Sunday in August came round.
The deacon felt a bit offish that morning when he got up; I could tell so much by his prayer even if I hadn’t known he had a bad cold. The deacon’s prayers are an infallible index to his state of health. When he is feeling well they are cheerful, and you can tell he has his own doubts about the doctrine of reprobation; but when he is a little under the weather his prayers are just like the old lady who said, “The Universalists think all the world is going to be saved, but we Presbyterians hope for better things.”
There was a strong tinge of this in the deacon’s prayer that Sunday morning, but that didn’t prevent him from eating a big breakfast of ham and eggs and hot muffins, topping off with marmalade and cheese. The deacon will eat cheese, although he knows it never agrees with him; and shortly before church time it began to make trouble for the poor man.
When I came downstairs — Amy did not go to church that day, which, in the light of what came afterwards, was a fortunate thing — I found the deacon in his best black suit, sitting on the kitchen sofa with his hands clasped over his stomach and a most mournful expression of countenance.
“I — ah, have a bad attack of cramps, Juliana,” he said with a groan. “They come on just as sudden. I — ah, wish you would fix me up a dose of ginger tea.”
“There isn’t a drop of hot water in the house,” I said, “but I’ll see what I can get you.”
The deacon, with sundry dismal groans, followed me into the pantry. While I was measuring out the ginger, he spied a big black bottle away upon the top shelf.
“Why, there is the very thing!” he exclaimed joyfully. “Mr. Johnson’s painkiller! Why didn’t I think of it before?”
I felt dubious about the painkiller, for I don’t believe in messing with medicines you don’t know anything about, though goodness knows Mr. Johnson used enough of it, and it seemed to agree with him fine. He was a young artist who had boarded with us the summer before, and a real nice, jolly, offhanded young fellow he was. We all liked him, and he got on extra well with the deacon, agreeing with him in everything, especially as regards temperance. He wasn’t strong though, poor young man, and soon after he came he told us he was subject to stomach trouble and had to take a dose of painkiller after every meal and sometimes between meals. He kept his bottle of it in the pantry, and I thought him a real good hand to take medicine, for he never made any faces swallowing that painkiller. He said it was a special mixture, tonic and painkiller combined, that his doctor had ordered for him, and it wasn’t hard to take. He went away in a hurry one day in consequence of a telegram saying his mother was ill, and he forgot his bottle of tonic — a new one he had just begun on. It had been standing there on the pantry shelf ever since.
The deacon climbed up on a chair, got it down, opened it, and sniffed at it.
“I kind of like the smell,” he said, as he poured out a glassful, same as he’d seen Mr. Johnson do.
“I wouldn’t take too much of it,” I said warningly. “You don’t know how it might agree with you.”
But the deacon thought he knew, and he drank it all down and smacked his lips.
“That is the nicest kind of painkiller I — ah, ever tasted, Juliana,” he said. “It has a real appetizing flavour. I — ah, believe I’ll take another glass; I — ah, have seen Mr. Johnson take two. Maybe it has lost its strength, standing there so long, and I — ah, do not want to risk another attack of cramp in church. It is best to make sure. I — ah, feel better already.”
So went the second glass and, when I came back with my bonnet on, that misguided man was just drinking a third.
“The cramp is all gone, Juliana,” he said joyfully. “That painkiller is the right kind of medicine and no mistake. I — ah, feel fine. Come on, let’s go to church.”
He said it in a light, hilarious sort of tone as if he’d been saying, “Let’s go to a picnic.” We walked to the church — it wasn’t more than half a mile — and Andrew stepped along jauntily and talked about various worldly subjects. He was especially eloquent about the election and discoursed as if he were sure of the nomination. He seemed so excited that I felt real uneasy, thinking he must be feverish.
We were late as usual, for our clock is always slow; Andrew will never have it meddled with because it was his grandfather’s. The minister was just giving out his text when we got there. Our pew is right at the top of the church. The Boyd pew is just behind and Dr. Frank was sitting in it all alone. I saw his face fall as I went into our pew, and I knew he was feeling disappointed because Amy hadn’t come. Almost everybody else in Brunswick was there, though, and the church was full. Andrew sat down in his place with a loud, cheerful “hem,” and looked beamingly around on the congregation, smiling all across his face. I’d never seen Andrew smile in church before — he was usually as grave and solemn as if he were at a funeral — and there seemed something uncanny about it. I felt real relieved when he stopped looking around and concentrated his attention on the minister, who was just warming up to his subject.
Mr. Stanley is a real fine preacher. We’ve had him for three years and everybody likes him. In two minutes I was lost to all worldly things, listening to his eloquence. But suddenly — all too suddenly — my thoughts were recalled to earth.
I heard the deacon make a queer sort of noise, something between a growl and a sniff, and I looked around just in time to see him jump to his feet. He was scowling and his face was purple. I’d never seen Andrew in a temper before, but now he was just mad clean through.
“I tell you, preacher, that isn’t true,” he shouted. “It’s heresy — rank heresy — that is what it is — and as a deacon of this church I shall not let it pass unchallenged. Preacher, you’ve got to take that back.
It ain’t true and what’s more, it ain’t sound doctrine.”
And here the deacon gave the pew back in front of him such a resounding thwack that deaf old Mrs. Prott, who sat before him and hadn’t heard a word of his outburst, felt the jar and jumped up as if she had been shot. But Mrs. Prott was the only person in church who hadn’t heard him, and the sensation was something I can’t describe. Mr. Stanley had stopped short, with his hand outstretched, as if he were turned to stone, and his eyes were fairly sticking out of his head. They are goggle eyes at the best of times, for Mr. Stanley is no beauty with all his brains. I shall never forget the look of him at that moment.
I suppose I should have tried to calm the deacon or do something, but I was simply too thunderstruck to move or speak. The plain truth is, I thought Andrew had suddenly gone out of his mind and the horror of it froze me.
Meanwhile, the deacon, having got his second wind, went on, punctuating his remarks with thumps on the pew back.
“Never since I was a deacon have I heard such doctrine preached from this pulpit. The idea of saying that maybe all the heathen won’t be lost! You know they will be, for if they wouldn’t, all the money we’ve been giving foreign missions would be clean wasted. You’re unsound, that’s what you are! We ask for bread and you give us a stone.” A tremendous thwack!
Just then Dr. Boyd got up behind us. He leaned forward and tapped the deacon on the shoulder.
“Let us go out and talk it over outside, Mr. Poultney,” he said quietly, as if it was all a regular part of the performance.
I expected to see the deacon fly at him, but instead, Andrew just flung his arms around Frank’s neck and burst into tears.
“Yesh, lesh go out, m’ dear boy,” he sobbed. “Lesh leave this ungodly plache. Blesh you, m’ boy! Always loved you like a son — yesh. So doesh Amy.”
Dr. Boyd piloted him down the aisle. The deacon insisted on walking with his arms around Frank’s neck and he sobbed all the way out. Just by the door he came to a dead stop and looked at Selena Cotton, who was sitting past the door in the first raised pew. Like myself, Selena isn’t as young as she used to be; but, unlike myself, she hasn’t quite given up thinking about marriage, and everybody in Brunswick knew that she had been setting her cap for the deacon ever since his wife died. The deacon knew it himself.
Dr. Boyd tried to get him to move on, but Andrew wouldn’t budge until he had had his say. “Jesh in a moment, m’ dear boy. Don’ be in such a hurry — never be in a hurry going out of church — go shlow and dignified — always. Look at that lady. Blesh me, she’s a fine woman — fines’ woman in Brunswick. But I never encouraged her, Frank, ‘pon my word. I’d shcorn to trifle with a lady’s affections. Yesh, yesh, I’m coming, m’ dear boy.”
With that, the deacon threw a kiss at the outraged Selena and walked out.
Of course I had followed them, and now Frank said to me in a low voice, “I’ll drive him home — but my buggy is very narrow. Would you mind walking, Miss Barry?”
“I’ll walk, of course, but tell me,” I whispered anxiously, “do you think this attack is serious?”
“Not at all. I think he will soon recover and be all right,” said the doctor. His face was as grave as a judge’s, but I was sure I saw his eyes twinkle and I resented it. Here was Andrew either gone crazy or sickening from some dreadful disease and Dr. Boyd was laughing internally over it. I walked home in a state of mingled alarm and indignation. When I got there the doctor’s buggy was tied at the gate, the doctor and Amy were sitting together on the kitchen sofa, and the deacon was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s Andrew?” I exclaimed.
“In there, sound asleep,” said Frank, nodding at the door of the deacon’s bedroom.
“What is the matter with him?” I persisted. I was sure that Amy had been laughing, and I wondered if I was dreaming or if everybody had gone stark mad.
“Well,” said the doctor, “in plain English, he is — drunk!”
I sat down; fortunately there was a chair behind me. I don’t know whether I felt more relieved or indignant.
“It’s impossible!” I said. “Im — possible! The deacon never — there isn’t a drop — he didn’t taste a thing — why — why—”
In a flash I remembered the painkiller. I flew to the pantry, snatched the bottle, and rushed to Frank.
“It’s the painkiller — Mr. Johnson’s painkiller — he took an overdose of it — and maybe he’s poisoned.
Oh, do something for him quick! He may be dying this minute.”
Dr. Frank didn’t get excited. He uncorked the bottle, smelled it, and then took a swig of its contents.
“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Barry,” he said, smiling. “This happens to be wine; I don’t know what particular kind, but it is pretty strong.”
“Drunk!” I said — and then I began to laugh, though I’ve been ashamed of it ever since.
“The deacon will sleep it off,” said the doctor, “and be no worse when he wakens, except that he will probably have a bad headache. The thing for us to do is to hold a consultation and decide how this incident may be turned to the best advantage.”
The deacon slept until after supper. Then we heard a feeble groan proceeding from the bedroom. I went in and Frank followed me, his face solemn in the extreme. The deacon was sitting on the side of the bed, looking woebegone and dissipated.
“How are you feeling now, Andrew?” I asked.
“I don’t feel well,” said the deacon. “My head is splitting. Have I been sick? I thought I was in church. I don’t remember coming home. What is the matter with me, doctor?”
“The plain truth, Mr. Poultney,” said young Frank deliberately, “is that you were drunk. No, sit still!” — for the deacon had bounced up alarmingly—”I am not trying to insult you. You took three doses of what you supposed to be painkiller, but which was really a very strong wine. Then you went to church and made a scene; that is all.”
“All! Gracious Providence!” groaned the poor deacon, sitting dazedly down again. “You can’t mean it — yes, you do. Juliana, for pity’s sake, tell me what I said and did. I have dim recollections — I thought they were just bad dreams.”
I told him the truth. When I got to where he had thrown a kiss at Selena Cotton, he flung up his hands in despair.
“I’m a ruined man — utterly ruined! My standing in the community is gone forever and I’ve lost every chance of the nomination and Selena Cotton will marry me in spite of myself with this for a handle. Oh, if I only had that Johnson here!”
“Don’t worry, Deacon,” said Frank soothingly. “I think you can hush the matter up with my assistance. For instance, I might gravely state to all and sundry that you had a feverish cold and took a bad attack of cramp with it; that to relieve it you imprudently took a dose of very strong painkiller left here by a boarder, which painkiller, not being suited to your ailment, went straight to your head and rendered you delirious for the time being and entirely unaccountable for your words and actions. That is all quite true, and I think people will believe me.”
“That will be the very thing,” said the deacon eagerly. “You’ll do it, won’t you, Frank?”
“I don’t know,” said Frank gravely. “I might do it — for my future father-in-law.”
The deacon never blinked.
“Of course, of course,” he declared. “You can have Amy. I’ve been an old idiot. But if you can get me out of this scrape, I’ll agree to anything you ask.”
Dr. Frank got him out of it. There was a fearful lot of gossip and clatter at first, but Frank had the same story for everyone and they finally believed him, especially as the deacon stayed meekly in bed and had any amount of medicines sent over under Frank’s prescription from the drugstore. Nobody was allowed to see him. When people called to inquire for him, we told them that the doctor’s orders were that he was to be kept perfectly quiet, lest any excitement might set up the brain disturbance again.
“It’s very strange,” said Selena Cotton. “If it had been anyone but Deacon Poultney, people would really have supposed that he was intoxicated.”
“Yes,” I assented calmly, “the doctor says there was a drug in the painkiller that is apt to have the same effect as liquor. However, I guess it has taught Andrew a lesson. He won’t go drinking strange medicines again without knowing what is in them. He is thankful he has escaped as well as he has. It might have been poison.”
In the long run the deacon got his nomination and won his election, and Frank got Amy. But nowadays, when the deacon has the cramp, I brew him up a good hot jorum of ginger tea. I never mention the word “painkiller” to him.
From Out the Silence
Anne Hamilton had wakened from a dream of Edith. It is a strange thing to dream of the dead. There in your dream they are living, but still you know somehow that they are dead. It was the first time she had dreamed of Edith since her death, but although they had been walking together, Edith’s face was averted — always averted. So the dream was no comfort to her, and her memory of Edith’s face in life was becoming so blurred and indistinct.
Anne had a strange defect — or rather lack of a faculty. She could not remember faces which she had not seen for some time. She could not call up before her mind’s eye a picture of them as other people seemed able to do. Edith had been dead for six months, and she was forgetting what her old friend had looked like.
There was no picture to help her. Edith had never had a photograph taken. It was an odd kink of hers. She was determined that no picture of her should exist after her death. Anne had never been able to budge her an inch on this point.
It was six months since Edith had died, but it was a year since they had quarrelled. That foolish, senseless quarrel over scapegrace Jim Harvey! It had come up like a flash out of the blue. They had often enough talked of Jim Harvey before and they had never quarrelled, although they always disagreed. Anne had no use — never had had any use — for Jim Harvey. Edith had always loved and defended him. That they should quarrel over him was unthinkable, yet they had done it. Edith had been worried over something that day. Perhaps Anne had been a little tactless. Something had been touched on the raw. And they had quarrelled bitterly after thirty years of flawless friendship. They would have made up if Edith had lived, Anne was desperately sure of that. But she left soon after for her trip abroad, and in Italy the telegram, sent by a cousin who knew nothing of their quarrel, had reached her, telling her that Edith was suddenly dead. Anne buried her face in the pillow and moaned as she always did when she recalled the anguish of that moment.
When she came home the autumn rains were beating down on Edith’s grave, and there was nothing for her to do on stormy winter evenings that followed but sit alone and think of her lost friend. She could not even find alleviation of her pain in books. Everything she read reminded her of Edith. They had read and talked over so many books. There were poems and passages all through them that Edith had marked. If it had not been for the quarrel, these things would have comforted her. Now they were like a knife thrust through her heart.
Owlwood was shut up and tenantless. Never again could she look up to the hill and see Edith’s light on it. And Edith had died in bitterness with her — without a word of love or remembrance. There lay the intolerable sting. Anne would have given anything she possessed to have known that Edith had thought kindly of her before death — had wished for reconciliation. She could not have done so when she had left no message. The Hamiltons had all been so bitter and unrelenting when they had quarrelled. Edith had gone away into the silence from which forevermore no word of reconciliation could come.
Anne’s loneliness through the winter that followed her return to Glenellyn was terrible. She had always been a rather distant, reserved woman, reputed proud, and had no other intimate friend. Edith and she had been all in all to each other. They were almost of an age and had been friends from girlhood. Edith’s young husband had died so soon after their marriage that it never seemed to Anne that Edith had really been married at all. Alastair Graham had left his wife a fortune, and Owlwood was a thing of beauty; but she had spent as much time in Anne’s modest little home on the outskirts of Croyden as she did in her own.
