Little Sam watched Big Sam stealthily out of his pale woolly eyes as he washed up the dishes and fed Mustard, who came scratching at the window-pane. The morning’s sunlit promise had been delusive and it was now, as Little Sam reflected testily, one of them still, dark, misty mornings calculated to dampen one’s spirits. This was what came of ladders and looking-glasses.
Big Sam packed his picture of Laurier and the model of a ship, with crimson hull and white sails, that had long adorned the crater-cornered shelf above his bunk. These were indisputably his. But when it came to their small library there was difficulty.
“Which of these books am I to take?” he demanded frostily.
“Whichever you like,” said Little Sam, getting out his baking-board. There were only two books in the lot he cared a hoot about, anyhow. Foxe’s Book of Martyrs and The Horrible Confession and Execution of John Murdoch (one of the Emigrants who lately left this country) who was hanged at Brockville (Upper Canada) on the 3rd day of September last for the inhuman Murder of His own brother.
When Little Sam saw Big Sam pack the latter in his valise, he had much ado to repress a grisly groan.
“I’m leaving you the Martyrs and all the dime novels,” said Big Sam defensively. “What about the dog and cat?”
“You’d better take the cat,” said Little Sam, measuring out flour. “It’ll match your whiskers.”
This suited Big Sam. Mustard was his favourite.
“And the weegee-board?”
“Take it. I don’t hold no dealings with the devil.”
Big Sam shut and strapped his valise, put the reluctant Mustard into a bag, and with the bag over his shoulder and his Sunday hat on his head he strode out of the house and down the road without even a glance at Little Sam, who was ostentatiously making raisin pie.
Little Sam watched him out of sight still incredulously. Then he looked at the white, beautiful cause of all the mischief exulting on the clock itself.
“Well, he didn’t get you out, my beauty, and I’m jiggered if he’s ever going to. No, siree. I’ve said it and I’ll stick to it. Anyhow, my ears won’t have to ache any longer, listening to that old epic of his. And I can wear my earrings again.”
Little Sam really thought Big Sam would come back when he had cooled down. But he underrated the strength of Big Sam’s principles or his stubbornness. The first thing he heard was that Big Sam had rented Tom Wilkins’ old shanty at Big Friday Cove and was living there. But not with Mustard. If Big Sam did not come back Mustard did. Mustard was scratching at the window three days after his ignominious departure in a bag. Little Sam let him in and fed him. It wasn’t his fault if Big Sam couldn’t keep his cat. He, Little Sam, wasn’t going to see no dumb animal starve. Mustard stayed home until one Sunday when Big Sam, knowing Little Sam was safely in church, and remembering Homer Penhallow’s tactics, came down to Little Friday Cove and got him. All to no purpose. Again Mustard came back — and yet again. After the third attempt Big Sam gave it up in bitterness of soul.
“Do I want his old yaller flannel cat?” he demanded of Stanton Grundy. “God knows I don’t. What hurts my feelings is that he knew the critter would go back. That’s why he offered him so free. The depth of that man! I hear he’s going round circulating mean, false things about me and saying I’ll soon be sick of living on salt codfish and glad to sneak back for a smell of good cooking. He’ll see — he’ll see. I ain’t never made a god of my stomach as he does. You should have heard the riot he raised because I et a piece of mouldy old raisin pie he’d cached for himself the greedy pig. And saying it’ll be too lonesome at Big Friday for one of my gabby propensities. Yessir, he said them words. Me, lonesome! This place just suits me down to the ground. See the scenery. I’m a lover of nature, sir, my favourite being the moon. And them contented cows up on the Point pasture — I could gaze at ’em by the hour. They’re all the society I want, sir — present comp’ny always excepted. Not,” added Big Sam feelingly, “but what Little Sam had his p’ints. The plum puddings that man could make! And them clam chowders of his stuck to the ribs better’n most things. But I had my soul to think of, hadn’t I? And my morals?”
Midsummer Madness
Gay did not find the first few weeks of her engagement to Noel all sunshine. One could not in a clan like hers. Among the Darks and Penhallows an engagement was tribal property, and every one claimed the right to comment and criticize, approve or disapprove, according to circumstances. In this instance disapproval was rampant, for none of the clan liked any Gibson and they did not spare Gay’s feelings. It simply did not occur to them that a child of eighteen had any feelings to spare, so they dealt with her faithfully.
“Poor little fool, will she giggle as loud after she’s been married to him for a couple of years?” said William Y., when he heard Gay’s exquisite laugh as she and Noel whirled by in their car one night. To do him justice, William Y. would not have said it in Gay’s hearing, but it was straightway carried to her. Gay only laughed again. And she laughed when Cousin Hannah from Summerside asked her if it could be true that she was going to marry “a certain young man.” Cousin Hannah would not say “a Gibson.” Her manner gave the impression that Gibsons did not really exist. They might imagine they did but they were mere emanations of the Evil One, to be resolutely disbelieved in by any one of good principles and proper breeding. One did not speak openly of the devil. Neither did one speak of the Gibsons. Her contempt stung Gay a bit, in spite of her laughter. But a letter from Noel, simply crammed with darlings, soon removed the sting.
“Do you really love him?” asked Mrs William Y. solemnly.
Gay wanted to say no because she detested Mrs William Y. But she also wanted to show her and every one just what Noel meant to her.
“He’s the only man in the world for me, Aunty.”
“H’m! That’s a large order out of about five hundred million men,” said Mrs William Y. sarcastically. “However, I remember I once felt that way, too.”
This, although Mrs William Y. was unaware of it, was the most dreadful thing Gay had heard yet. Mrs William Y. couldn’t have thought William Y. the only man in the world. Of course she had married him — but she couldn’t. Gay, with the egotism of youth, couldn’t believe that any woman had ever been in love with William Y., not realizing that when William Y. had been slender and hirsute, twenty-five years before, he had been quite a lady-killer.
“You could do better, you know,” persisted Mrs William Y.
“Oh, I suppose you mean Roger,” cried Gay petulantly. “You all think there’s nobody like Roger.”
“Neither there is,” said Mrs William Y. with simple and sincere feeling. She loved Roger. Everybody loved him. If only Gay wasn’t so silly and romantic. Just swept off her feet by Noel Gibson’s eyes and hair.
“I suppose you think it’s all fun being married,” Mrs Clifford said.
Gay didn’t think it was “fun” at all. That wasn’t how she regarded marriage. But Aunt Rhoda Dark was just as bad.
“Do you realize what an important event marriage is in anybody’s life, Gay?”
Gay was driven into a flippant answer that made Aunt Rhoda shake her head over modern youth.
Rachel Penhallow remarked in Gay’s hearing that kidney trouble “ran” in the Gibsons. Mrs Clifford advised “not to let him feel too sure of you.” Mrs Denzil raked Noel’s father over the coals.
“The only way to get him to do anything was to coax him to do the opposite. I was there the day he threw a plate at his wife. She dodged it, but it made a dent on the mantel. You can see that dent there yet, Gay, if you don’t believe me.”
“What has all this got to do with me and Noel?” burst out Gay.
“These things are inherited. You can’t get away from them.”
But Aunt Kate Penhallow didn’t think Noel was stubborn like his father. She thought Noel was the opposite — weak and easily swayed. She didn’t like his chin; and Uncle Robert didn’t like his eyes; and Cousin Amasa didn’t
like his ears—”They lie too close to his head. You never see such ears on a successful man,” said Cousin Amasa, who had outstanding ears of his own but wasn’t considered much of a success for all that.
“You would think they were the only people who ever got engaged in the world,” said Mrs Toynbee, who, having come through three engagements, naturally didn’t think it the wonder Gay and Noel did.
“All the Gibsons are very fickle,” said Mrs Artemas Dark, who had been engaged to one herself before she married Artemas. He had treated her badly, but in her secret soul she sometimes thought she preferred him to Artemas still.
“You’d better wait until you’re out of the cradle before you marry,” growled Drowned John, who was having troubles of his own just then and was very touchy on the subject of engagements.
All this sort of thing only amused Gay. It didn’t amount to anything. What did worry her was the subtle undercurrent of disapproval among those whose opinion she really valued. Nobody thought well of her engagement. Her mother cried bitterly over it and at first refused to give her consent at all.
“I can’t stop you from marrying him, of course,” she said, with what was great bitterness for the easy-going Mrs Howard. “But I’ll never say I’m willing — never. I’ve never approved of him, Gay.”
“Why — Why?” cried Gay piteously. She loved her mother and hated to go against her in anything. “Why, Mother? What can you say against him?”
“There’s nothing in him,” said Mrs Howard feebly. She thought it rather a poor reason, not realizing that she was actually uttering the most serious indictment in the world.
Altogether Gay had a hard time of it for a couple of weeks. Then Cousin Mahala swept down on the clan from her retreat up west — Cousin Mahala, who looked like a handsome old man with her short, crisp, virile grey hair and strong wise face. The eyes a little sunken. The mouth with a humorous quirk. The face of a woman who has lived.
“Let Gay marry him if she wants to,” she told the harassed Mrs Howard, “and learn the ups and downs of life for herself, the same as the rest of us did. None of us have had perfect men.”
“Oh, Cousin Mahala, you’re the only person in this whole clan with a heart,” cried Gay.
Cousin Mahala looked at her with a twinkle in her eye.
“Oh, no, I’m not, Gay. We’ve all got hearts, more or less. And the rest of us want to save you from the trouble and mistakes we’ve had. I don’t. Mistakes and trouble are bound to come. Better come our own way than some one else’s way. You’ll be a lovely little bride, Gay. So young. I do like a young bride.”
“Aunt Mavis asked me if I thought marriage ‘all fun.’ Of course I don’t think it’s all ‘fun’—”
“You bet it isn’t,” said Cousin Mahala —
—”But I don’t think it’s all vexation either—”
“You’re right there, too,” said Cousin Mahala —
“ — And whatever it is, I want to try it with Noel and nobody else.”
Mrs Howard, thus attacked from the rear, surrendered. But only on one condition. Gay and Noel must wait a year before marriage. Eighteen was too young to marry. She couldn’t give Gay up so soon. And Mrs Howard had another reason. Dandy Dark hated the Gibsons. If Dandy had the bestowal of the jug and if Gay were actually married to a Gibson, Mrs Howard felt she would have no chance of it at all. This secret thought stiffened her against all the pleading of Gay and the ardent Noel, to which she would probably have succumbed otherwise. Noel resigned himself sulkily to the condition. Gay, sweetly. After all, she was glad to purchase her mother’s acquiescence by a little waiting. She couldn’t bear to do anything against her mother’s will. And being engaged was very delightful. There was a big hope-chest to be filled. Of course she knew the clan hoped that in a year she would change her mind. As if anything could ever make her stop loving Noel. She kissed his ring in the dark that night before she went to sleep. Dear Cousin Mahala! If only she lived nearer. Gay wanted to have her about while she made ready to be married. She knew all the rest, although they had tacitly agreed to recognize the engagement and make the best of it, would rub all the bloom off her dear romance with their horrible practicalities and go on regretting all the time in their hearts that it wasn’t Roger.
Roger had been lovely. He had wished her joy — in his dear caressing voice — Roger had such a nice voice — and told her he wanted every happiness to be hers.
“If I’d a black cat’s wish-bone I’d give it to you, Gay,” he said whimsically. “They tell me as long as you have a black cat’s wish-bone you can get everything you want.”
“But I’ve got everything I want, Roger,” cried Gay. “Now that mother has come round so sweetly I haven’t a thing left to wish for — except — except — that you—” Gay went crimson—”that everybody could be as happy as I am.”
“I’m afraid it would take more than a black cat’s wish-bone to bring that about,” said Roger. But whether his “that” referred to the “you” or to the “everybody” Gay didn’t know and dared not ask. She danced back to the house, flinging a smile over her shoulder to Roger as if she had thrown him a rose. Then she forgot all about him.
Roger overtook the Moon Man on the way home and asked him to take a lift. The Moon Man refused. He would never get in a car. But he looked piercingly at Roger.
“Why don’t you set your love on my Lady Moon?” he said. “I would not be jealous. All men may love her but she loves no one. It doesn’t hurt to love if you do not hope to be loved in return.”
“I’ve never hoped to be loved in return — but it hurts damnably,” said Roger.
II
The clan had its shock at Aunt Becky’s levee and its sensation over the fight at the graveyard; but the affair of Peter and Donna burst upon it like a cyclone. It was, naturally, almost the death of Drowned John.
Peter and Donna would have liked to keep it a delightful secret until they had perfected their plans, but as soon as they saw Mrs Toynbee they knew there was no hope of that. Donna went home in a state of uplift that lasted until three o’clock at night. Then the terrors and doubts that stalk around at that hour swooped down on her. What — oh, what would Drowned John say? Of course, there was nothing he could do. She had only to walk out of the door and go with Peter. But Donna hated the thought of eloping. It was simply not done among Darks and Penhallows. And if she eloped she would have no chance of the jug. Not that the jug was to be compared to Peter. But if she could only have Peter and the jug, too! Donna thought she had a good chance of it if it rested with Dandy. She had always been a pet of Dandy’s. But she had once heard Dandy’s comments on an eloping couple.
Then there was Virginia. Virginia would never forgive her. Not that Virginia mattered beside Peter either. But she was fond of Virginia; she was the only chum she had ever had. And she was afraid of the reproachful things Virginia would say. In the morning she wouldn’t feel like this. But at three o’clock one did have qualms.
It was all just as dreadful as Donna feared it would be. Mrs Toynbee saw Drowned John at the post-office next day, and Drowned John came home in a truly Drowned Johnian condition — aggravated by his determination not to swear. But in other respects he gave tongue.
Donna was plucky. She owned up fearlessly that she had kissed Peter at the Courting-House, just as Mrs Toynbee said. “You see, Daddy, I’m going to marry him.”
“You’re mad!” said Drowned John.
“I think I am,” sighed Donna. “But oh, Daddy, it’s such a nice madness.”
Drowned John repented, as he had repented often before, that he had ever let Donna have that year at the Kingsport Ladies’ College in her teens. It was there she learned to say those smart, flippant things which always knocked the wind out of him. He dared not swear but he banged the table and told Donna that she was never to speak to Peter Penhallow again. If she did —
“But I’ll have to speak to him now and again, Daddy. One can’t live on terms of absolute silence with one
’s husband, you know.”
There it was again. But Donna, though flippant and seemingly fearless, was quaking inside. She knew her Drowned John. When Peter came down that afternoon Drowned John met him at the door and asked him his business.
“I’ve come to see Donna,” Peter told him cheerfully. “I’m going to marry her, you know.”
“My dear young man” — oh, the contempt Drowned John snorted into the phrase!—”you do yourself too much honour.”
He went in and shut the door in Peter’s face. Peter thought at first he would smash a window. But he knew Drowned John was quite capable of having him arrested for housebreaking. Where the devil was Donna! She might at least look out at him.
Donna, with a headache, was crying on her bed, quite ignorant of Peter’s nearness. Thekla had been so nasty. Thekla had said that one husband, like one religion, should be enough for anybody. But then Thekla had always hated her for getting married at all. She had no friends — she was alone in a hostile, unfeeling clan world. But she was going to marry Peter.
It wasn’t so easy. Peter, who would have made no bones of carrying off a bride from the Congo or Yucatan if he had happened to want one, found it a very different proposition to carry one off from the Darks and Penhallows. He couldn’t even see Donna. Drowned John wouldn’t let him in the house or let Donna out of it. Of course this couldn’t have lasted. Drowned John couldn’t keep Donna mewed up forever, and eventually Peter and she would have found a way to each other. But the stars in their course, so poor Donna thought, fought against them. One night she sneezed; the next night her eyes were sore; the next night they had Roger, who told Donna she was down with measles.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 495
