“The topic for our first promenade,” said Reverend Scott, “to be discussed by our young people: ‘Is It Better to Be Clever or Good?’ What will they have to say about that, eh? Let the walk begin!” And off they went in a stately stroll, as if they were taking the air in the Palace Gardens.
Roy asked Viola for the second promenade. The topic was “What I Should Like to Have Said about Me.”
“I'd like you to say that I'm clever and beautiful,” Elizabeth informed us.
“No chance of that,” said Henry Brown.
Elizabeth pretended to swat him and turned to me. “What about you, Mable?”
“It's a difficult question,” I said, “if we're to pick only one thing.”
“I think we can all agree that I'm handsome,” said Joseph.
“No,” said Henry. “I'm the handsome one.” We all laughed.
“I'd like Mama to think I'm good,” said Lyddie, “even if I'm not.”
“Maybe if you stop swiping spoonfuls of jam from the fruit cellar,” said Tommy.
“I know,” I said. “I think most I'd like to be brave.”
We were all making things up and laughing when there fell a hush in the room. We looked around, thinking the second promenade was done and the partners switching. But it was a new arrival who had caused the quiet. Mrs. Rattle stood just inside the doorway, wearing a skirt and a hat! She looked splendid all dressed up.
Perhaps the Ladies Reading Circle had planned that Miss Robertson should step forward to meet her.
“Good evening,” fluttered Miss Robertson. “You've missed the supper, but I'm sure we can rustle you up some dessert if you're inclined. Isn't it nice to greet a new parishioner, Reverend Scott?”
“Well, now,” said the reverend, looking confused. “Yes, indeed.”
“Come with me, Mrs. Rattle.” Miss Robertson led her gently aside as Reverend Scott signaled the fiddler to recommence his promenade accompaniment. The couples began again to walk and chat under the minister's watchful eye.
I slid along the wall toward the food table. I suspect that Mrs. Rattle had no wish for a lemon curd tart, but she took the plate from Miss Robertson and nodded graciously. She no doubt realized that many eyes were still directed her way and that Mrs. Forrest paced like a panther behind the rows of cakes and pies.
Mrs. Forrest did not try to hide her displeasure at Mrs. Rattle's appearance. These were Mrs. Forrest's friends, after all. Her church, her Harvest Social, her pumpkin pies. It could not seem right that someone who had insulted her in the newspaper should march in and make her feel discomfited in her own beehive.
I gathered my nerve and crept hurriedly over to speak with Mrs. Rattle.
“Why have you come here?” I pleaded quietly, looking into her eyes. “Don't you realize you've caused dreadful upset?”
“Mable Riley” She laid a hand upon my shoulder, balancing her tart plate in the other. “That was exactly my intention. I am ready for upset. I crave upset. Only upset leads to change.”
Her eyes shifted, watching someone behind me. I turned to see Mrs. Forrest squinting at us.
Miss Robertson jumped in. “Mrs. Rattle will need a fork for her tart,” she said loudly.
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Forrest. “She's not to be trusted with a fork, that one. There's no telling who she might stab in the back if we give her a fork.”
“I'll use my fingers,” said Mrs. Rattle. “After all, they work well enough to type my letters.” She bit into the rim of her pastry.
The anger blazed in Mrs. Forrest's eyes, but as she opened her mouth to retort, her husband smacked his hand upon the table next to us, making the platters and doilies jump.
“I don't know how you make your peace with God,” he growled at Mrs. Rattle. “To stir up trouble as you have done and then to come here and make jokes?”
His voice increased in volume as his fury caught fire. The halfhearted promenade trailed to nothing as this new entertainment commanded attention.
“I'm a hard-working man,” said Mr. Forrest. “I hire inexperienced girls, like yourself, and give them a place to earn their keep. If I make mistakes, well, I'm human. But for you to go about slandering my good name … That's ungrateful and downright criminal.” He shook his fist at her. “And if your type is welcome in this hall, then I'm in the wrong place!”
He took a step toward the door but then remembered his wife.
“Are you with me, Mrs. Forrest?” He looked around, his red face shining redder.
“Oh, no, Mr. Forrest,” said his wife. She came out from behind the table, pulling off her apron as if preparing for a school-yard fight. “It will take a snowstorm in July to chase me out of a room I want to be in. I am the chair of the Ladies Church Committee, and I have something to say to this lying hussy.”
She waddled forward, adjusting her silly hat. When she stood only a yard away, she spoke again, spraying as the words flew out in anger.
“How dare you push your nose in where it doesn't belong! This is the way you repay Mr. Forrest for the kindness of hiring you? With slurs and slander? You are not wanted in Sellerton. You can just take your bicycle and your fancy britches and be gone!”
Mrs. Rattle stayed still and inhaled slowly, remarkably cool in the face of such an assault.
“I have only reported what I experienced firsthand in your husband's factory, Mrs. Forrest. His business will benefit from improving conditions for the women who work there. Ignoring the problem will cause great unrest. Your workers and the quality of your cheese will suffer.”
“Are you threatening me, you saucy chit?”
“I am stating fact, madam.”
“You're not worth the time it took to train you!” shouted Mr. Forrest. “We don't need your kind at Bright Creek. Your employ is terminated as of this minute!”
“I would be very much disappointed if that were not the case,” said Mrs. Rattle. Her voice was quiet, but it carried to the corners of the room. No one had expected such a drama at the Harvest Social and everyone listened eagerly.
I believe it was my own admiring smile that set Mrs. Forrest off on her next fury. “Miss Riley?” She swung her glare to Viola, who had inched closer to us. “The fact that you permit your sister to consort with this monster is an indication of your poor moral standards.”
Viola's cheeks burned pink. Her fingers curled into fists, but she pinched her lips together. How could she stay silent? She no doubt imagined the end of her own employ if she were to defend herself.
I felt Mrs. Rattle's gaze upon me. Had I not just claimed a wish for bravery? This was surely my chance to shine.
“Excuse me,” I said, my palms damp. “My sister is not responsible for my friendships. I may speak with whomever I please. Mrs. Rattle is the most admirable lady I have ever met, and I believe every word she wrote in the newspaper.”
I might have continued, but Alfred quickly shuffled me toward the door. I heard Mrs. Rattle thank me but did not witness anything more. Viola and the Goodhands departed in a cluster around me, and we hurried to where Darling was patiently waiting.
“Well, I never,” Mrs. Goodhand kept murmuring. “I never did.”
“That was an impressive confrontation,” said Alfred. “I shouldn't like to cross Mrs. Rattle. She makes a formidable foe.”
He winked at me, but Viola shivered.
“I do not like to scold you in front of others, Mable,” she began. “But your behaviour this evening has shamed the Goodhands and very likely put an end to my position at Sellerton School.” Her voice broke in anguish. “You are quite the most selfish, thoughtless –”
“Now, now.” Mr. Goodhand interrupted Violas tirade by patting her arm with a big paw. “I don't feel shamed,” he said. “I do not approve of your sister's manners, but nobody thinks I reared her.”
He turned to me. “In fact, I aim to thank you. That was quite the shortest Social I've ever had to endure.” And then he began to chuckle, wheezing with the unused effort of it.
Viola stared at him, aghast. Alfred burst out laughing, and Mrs. Goodhand kept muttering as if she hadn't heard at all.
So, that was the Social!
How did I dare? I awoke many times during this night wondering, How did I dare? Then I thought of Mrs. Forrest's snarling mouth and felt a flush of victory that I looked straight at her quivering chins and spoke my mind!
MONDAY, OCTOBER 28
Viola said not a word on the way to school. Happily, we met up with Elizabeth at the turn, so I had a companion. Viola strode ahead while Elizabeth and I slowed our pace to discuss Saturday evening once again.
It was not until we reached the schoolhouse that I discovered the further-reaching effects of my outburst. Most scholars refused to look at me straight or to speak with me. It was as if I were wearing a sign pinned to my back saying AVOID ME. The Brown boys turned away in the cloakroom instead of pushing me back and forth in their teasing way.
Cathy and Frank Forrest were kept home. The rumour is that their mother won't let them come to school so long as Miss Riley is teacher. There were several other scholars absent as well, but we cannot be certain it's me to blame.
Elizabeth listened in to what the others were whispering. “They merely repeat what their parents have told them,” she reported. “They say you've been infected by the wicked Mrs. Rattle. Infected or enchanted, depending on who is speaking. The question is whether you will first bring harm to yourself or to the Goodhands.”
I know my cheeks were hot, but I know not which caused the hotter flame: shame or anger. I was sorry to cause distress to the Goodhand household, but it irked me to be shunned.
Elizabeth sat quietly at my side while we ate lunch sheltered from the wind behind the schoolhouse. Tommy suddenly plunked himself down, with his usual toothy grin.
“Well, Mable,” he said, “the classroom is certainly quiet to-day, with no one talking to you. You no doubt please your sister in your muffled condition.”
“Aren't you saucy, Tommy Thomas,” said Elizabeth. “It's not Mable's choice to be ignored.”
“Did you not choose to defy Mrs. Forrest?” Tommy asked me.
“Well, yes. But I supposed that my schoolmates would cheer me on.”
“I did, Mable. It was a treat. I'd spend my allowance to see it again.”
I kicked him.
“Really!” He dodged me and went on. “But two of your schoolmates bear the name of Forrest. Did you expect them to cheer your betrayal of their mother? Or their friends? Or their friends' families?”
“I had not considered that.”
Elizabeth giggled. “Not that Cathy Forrest has too many friends.”
“True enough,” said Tommy. He winged his apple core at a squirrel, who dashed along the fence top.
And I puzzled over the matter of loyalty and betrayal. Who had I betrayed? Mrs. Forrest or the Goodhands? And to whom was I loyal? Mrs. Rattle or myself?
Mr. Goodhand was in high spirits this evening, reading the newspaper.
“PERSONAL AND SOCIAL NOTES
The Sellerton Harvest Social was held Saturday night at the Methodist Church hall. The Ladies Church Committee provided a fine spread, under the leadership of Mrs. Francis Forrest, who also baked the prize-winning pumpkin pie.”
“It doesn't mention she was also the judge,” sniffed Mrs. Goodhand.
“There were six promenades, each with a topic of great interest to the young folk attending.
“They stuck around for six, eh? And we got away after only two!” Mr. Goodhand's chuckle creaked again.
“The festivities were punctuated by a lively discussion among several prominent members of the community.
“Lively discussion?” said Mr. Goodhand. “That's what you call it, eh?”
“Dad, if this doesn't show you that newspapers report only part of the story, I don't know what will,” said Alfred.
As I readied for bed tonight, I thought about my situation. I have had a taste of being an outcast and do not like the flavour. It makes me more sympathetic than ever to Mrs. Rattle's lonely place outside. She suffers only because she says what she believes to be true. We are taught that honesty is honourable and that to tell a lie is to sin. But the payment for speaking the truth aloud is this awful shunning. How difficult it is to make the right choice!
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29
School was not quite so lonely to-day. Tommy and Elizabeth ate lunch with me again, but we were joined by the Browns and Rachel from Grade Five. Adeline, the Mennonite girl, who neither knows nor cares about Socials or suffragists, was happy to have me for a reading partner. And my little first-years were ready to slide their hands back into mine and pat my knees despite what their parents might be saying at home.
Mr. Goodhand did not read aloud the “Personal and Social Notes” this evening. He stopped on the front page.
“Will you listen to this,” he said. “The brute has got his just rewards.
“CZOLGOSZ ELECTROCUTED PRESIDENT MCKINLEY'S ASSASSIN PAYS PENALTY OF HIS CRIME
Auburn, N.Y Leon F. Czolgosz was executed in the death chamber of the state prison here at 7:42 this morning. He made but a brief speech before death. He said he was not sorry for what he had done but expressed regret that he had not seen his father.”
The newspapers call electrocution the new “humane method” of execution. Is it humane to be sizzled like a sausage? I do not like to think about it. How does the father of Leon Czolgosz feel this evening? Is he regretful also? Did he love his son and forgive this terrible deed? Or is he relieved to wash his hands of the young man who brought shame to the family name?
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 31
I stayed home from Endeavor this evening. Viola urged me to go. “Take every opportunity to seek God's forgiveness,” she said, but I simply could not bear the church ladies' scorn. I helped Mrs. Goodhand with the mending instead, which was just as dreary. All the household is concerned that “Mable be well occupied” so that I am not tempted by irreverence….
PART THE NINTH
{IN THE VILLAIN'S DEN}
Helena awoke to find herself surrounded by her abductors in the warm kitchen of a humble farmhouse. Captain Brigand pressed a flask of brandy to her lips, forcing the burning liquid to spark her wits to clarity. “We have no time to nurse the nurse,” he explained. “Do what you can for our Tom.”
Helena turned to the wounded man, laid out upon a wooden bench. She realized at once that Tom was but a frightened boy, scarcely older than she.
She requested a blanket, boiled water, and a linen sheet cut into strips for bandages. Then Helena gently pulled away Tom's shirt, soaked with blood. The bullet had missed his heart, for the hole was somewhat lower on his chest. He flinched as her fingers probed the spot to discover that indeed the bullet was within him still and lodged between two ribs.
“He'll need brandy,” said Helena.
Joseph understood. He urged Tom to swallow several times. Helena worked swiftly; slipping her fingers beneath the flesh, she seized the bullet and pulled it sharply out of its trap.
Tom uttered a cry and then fainted dead away. She cleansed the tear again and wrapped it carefully, knowing she had done her best.
“I am not a real nurse,” Helena reminded the men. “You must find a doctor to dress the wound properly.”
“We have no doctor hereabouts to trust,” said Harry gruffly, touching the scar upon his own cheek.
“Send a fellow for some salve, at least,” she pleaded. “And be sure to change the dressing twice each day.”
“You'll be here to do that for him,” said Harry. “We cannot release you now.”
Helena bowed her head in an effort to smother her dismay.
While the brothers conferred with their compatriots in the next room, Helena hurried to the window, hoping to discover other dwellings nearby. Alas, the farm was on a hillside with no evidence of humanity in sight.
“Feather will go,” said Joseph, entering the kitchen with their fifth man at his side. �
�Tell him what you'll need to prepare our supper, too.”
Helena laughed. “Surely you do not think I am a cook as well as a nurse?” she said. “Who has cooked for you until now?”
“Young Tom.”
Helena laughed again. “It is your misfortune that you abducted an earl's daughter,” she said. “There is truth in the saying that a rich woman is a useless one. I have always had servants. I do not know how to cook.”
At that moment, poor Tom whimpered in his sleep and Helena's heart turned over. She realized he would need sustenance if he was to heal.
“Ask the butcher for bones,” she told Feather. “Perhaps together we can make a soup.”
And indeed, several hours later, the men had feasted on a rustic soup, bread, and cheese. Tom had revived enough to join the banter and to grasp his nurse's hand in thanks.
'Twas past midnight before the house was quiet and the men at rest. Helena had volunteered to sit beside the patient in case he should need her. He appeared to sleep soundly, however, and she knew he would make a full recovery if the bandits continued the treatment as she had instructed them.
Quietly, she tied her green velvet traveling cape about her neck, noticing how worn it looked after only twenty-four hours of adventure. As she stepped outside, she rejoiced in the clear night and looked to the stars for guidance on the next leg of her journey.
Before two minutes' walking, however, there came a shout. She turned to see Tom, waving from the doorway. He hobbled after her, wearing no shirt, his bandages lit by the moon.
“Please!” he called. “Come back!”
Helena thought she could outrun him, but as she watched, Tom stumbled and fell to the ground, where he lay unmoving.
To be continued …
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 1
Such a naughty thing I did this afternoon. I learned a trick; during the turn of a Hapless Hyphen to spell, I would grimace suddenly, as if wincing in sympathy at an error made, and thus rattle the speller's concentration and provoke the very error I wished for! I dared not overdo the operation for fear of being noticed, but the Cheering Commas are now leading the race!
Mable Riley Page 11
