Clemantiny turned to Miss Salome with an air of surrendering a dearly cherished opinion.
“Well, ma’am, I guess you must be right about his looking like Johnny. I must say I never could see the resemblance, but it may well be there, for he — that very fellow there — and Johnny are first cousins. Their mothers were sisters!”
“Clemantiny!” exclaimed Miss Salome.
“You may well say ‘Clemantiny.’ Such a coincidence! It doesn’t make you and him any relation, of course — the cousinship is on the mother’s side. But it’s there. Mary Morrow was born and brought up in Hopedale. She went to Upton when I did, and married Oliver Stephens there. Why, I knew his father as well as I know you.”
“This is wonderful,” said Miss Salome. Then she added sorrowfully, “But it doesn’t make your running away right, Chester.”
“Tell us all about it,” demanded Clemantiny, sitting down on the wood-box. “Sit down, boy, sit down — don’t stand there looking as if you were on trial for your life. Tell us all about it.”
Thus adjured, Chester sat down and told them all about it — his moonlight flitting and his adventures in Montrose. Miss Salome exclaimed with horror over the fact of his sleeping in a pile of lumber for seven nights, but Clemantiny listened in silence, never taking her eyes from the boy’s pale face. When Chester finished, she nodded.
“We’ve got it all now. There’s nothing more behind, Salome. It would have been better for you to have told as straight a story at first, young man.”
Chester knew that, but, having no reply to make, made none. Miss Salome looked at him wistfully.
“But, with it all, you didn’t do right to run away, Chester,” she said firmly. “I dare say your aunt was severe with you — but two wrongs never make a right, you know.”
“No’m,” said Chester.
“You must go back to your aunt,” continued Miss Salome sadly.
Chester nodded. He knew this, but he could not trust himself to speak. Then did Clemantiny arise in her righteous indignation.
“Well, I never heard of such nonsense, Salome Whitney! What on earth do you want to send him back for? I knew Harriet Elwell years ago, and if she’s still what she was then, it ain’t much wonder Chester ran away from her. I’d say ‘run,’ too. Go back, indeed! You keep him right here, as you should, and let Harriet Elwell look somewhere else for somebody to scold!”
“Clemantiny!” expostulated Miss Salome.
“Oh, I must and will speak my mind, Salome. There’s no one else to take Chester’s part, it seems. You have as much claim on him as Harriet Elwell has. She ain’t any real relation to him any more than you are.”
Miss Salome looked troubled. Perhaps there was something in Clemantiny’s argument. And she hated to think of seeing Chester go. He looked more like Johnny than ever, as he stood there with his flushed face and wistful eyes.
“Chester,” she said gravely, “I leave it to you to decide. If you think you ought to go back to your aunt, well and good. If not, you shall stay here.”
This was the hardest yet. Chester wished she had not left the decision to him. It was like cutting off his own hand. But he spoke up manfully.
“I — I think I ought to go back, Miss Salome, and I want to pay back the money, too.”
“I think so, too, Chester, although I’m sorry as sorry can be. I’ll go back to Upton with you. We’ll start tomorrow. If, when we get there, your aunt is willing to let you stay with me, you can come back.”
“There’s a big chance of that!” said Clemantiny sourly. “A woman’s likely to give up a boy like Chester — a good, steady worker and as respectful and obliging as there is between this and sunset — very likely, isn’t she! Well, this taffy is all burnt to the saucepan and clean ruined — but what’s the odds! All I hope, Salome Whitney, is that the next time you adopt a boy and let him twine himself ‘round a person’s heart, you’ll make sure first that you are going to stick to it. I don’t like having my affections torn up by the roots.”
Clemantiny seized the saucepan and disappeared with it into the pantry amid a whirl of pungent smoke.
Mount Hope Farm was a strangely dismal place that night. Miss Salome sighed heavily and often as she made her preparations for the morrow’s journey.
Clemantiny stalked about with her grim face grimmer than ever. As for Chester, when he went to bed that night in the little porch chamber, he cried heartily into his pillows. He didn’t care for pride any longer; he just cried and didn’t even pretend he wasn’t crying when Miss Salome came in to sit by him a little while and talk to him. That talk comforted Chester. He realized that, come what might, he would always have a good friend in Miss Salome — aye, and in Clemantiny, too.
Chester never knew it, but after he had fallen asleep, with the tears still glistening on his brown cheeks, Clemantiny tiptoed silently in with a candle in her hand and bent over him with an expression of almost maternal tenderness on her face. It was late and an aroma of boiling sugar hung about her. She had sat up long after Miss Salome was abed, to boil another saucepan of taffy for Chester to eat on his journey.
“Poor, dear child!” she said, softly touching one of his crisp curls. “It’s a shame in Salome to insist on his going back. She doesn’t know what she’s sending him to, or she wouldn’t. He didn’t say much against his aunt, and Salome thinks she was only just a little bit cranky. But I could guess.”
Early in the morning Miss Salome and Chester started. They were to drive to Montrose, leave their team there and take the boat for Belltown. Chester bade farewell to the porch chamber and the long, white kitchen and the friendly barns with a full heart. When he climbed into the wagon, Clemantiny put a big bagful of taffy into his hands.
“Good-by, Chester,” she said. “And remember, you’ve always got a friend in me, anyhow.”
Then Clemantiny went back into the kitchen and cried — good, rough-spoken, tender-hearted Clemantiny sat down and cried.
It was an ideal day for travelling — crisp, clear and sunny — but neither Chester nor Miss Salome was in a mood for enjoyment.
Back over Chester’s runaway route they went, and reached Belltown on the boat that evening.
They stayed in Belltown overnight and in the morning took the train to Roxbury Station. Here Miss Salome hired a team from the storekeeper and drove out to Upton.
Chester felt his heart sink as they drove into the Elwell yard. How well he knew it!
Miss Salome tied her hired nag to the gatepost and took Chester by the hand. They went to the door and knocked. It was opened with a jerk and Mrs. Elwell stood before them. She had probably seen them from the window, for she uttered no word of surprise at seeing Chester again. Indeed, she said nothing at all, but only stood rigidly before them.
Dear me, what a disagreeable-looking woman! thought Miss Salome. But she said courteously, “Are you Mrs. Elwell?”
“I am,” said that lady forbiddingly.
“I’ve brought your nephew home,” continued Miss Salome, laying her hand encouragingly on Chester’s shrinking shoulder. “I have had him hired for some time on my farm at Hopedale, but I didn’t know until yesterday that he had run away from you. When he told me about it, I thought he ought to come straight back and return your four dollars, and so did he. So I have brought him.”
“You might have saved yourself the trouble then!” cried Mrs. Elwell shrilly. Her black eyes flashed with anger. “I’m done with him and don’t want the money. Run away when there was work to do, and thinks he can come back now that it’s all done and loaf all winter, does he? He shall never enter my house again.”
“That he shall not!” cried Miss Salome, at last finding her tongue. Her gentle nature was grievously stirred by the heartlessness shown in the face and voice of Mrs. Elwell. “That he shall not!” she cried again. “But he shall not want for a home as long as I have one to give him. Come, Chester, we’ll go home.”
“I wish you well of him,” Mrs. Elwell said sarcasticall
y.
Miss Salome already repented her angry retort. She was afraid she had been undignified, but she wished for a moment that Clemantiny was there. Wicked as she feared it was, Miss Salome thought she could have enjoyed a tilt between her ancient handmaid and Mrs. Elwell.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Elwell, if I have used any intemperate expressions,” she said with great dignity. “You provoked me more than was becoming by your remarks. I wish you good morning.”
Mrs. Elwell slammed the door shut.
With her cheeks even more than usually rosy, Miss Salome led Chester down to the gate, untied her horse and drove out of the yard. Not until they reached the main road did she trust herself to speak to the dazed lad beside her.
“What a disagreeable women!” she ejaculated at last. “I don’t wonder you ran away, Chester — I don’t, indeed! Though, mind you, I don’t think it was right, for all that. But I’m gladder than words can say that she wouldn’t take you back. You are mine now, and you will stay mine. I want you to call me Aunt Salome after this. Get up, horse! If we can catch that train at Roxbury, we’ll be home by night yet.”
Chester was too happy to speak. He had never felt so glad and grateful in his life before.
They got home that night just as the sun was setting redly behind the great maples on the western hill. As they drove into the yard, Clemantiny’s face appeared, gazing at them over the high board fence of the cow-yard. Chester waved his hand at her gleefully.
“Lawful heart!” said Clemantiny. She set down her pail and came out to the lane on a run. She caught Chester as he sprang from the wagon and gave him a hearty hug.
“I’m glad clean down to my boot soles to see you back again,” she said.
“He’s back for good,” said Miss Salome. “Chester, you’d better go in and study up your lessons for tomorrow.”
The Strike at Putney
The church at Putney was one that gladdened the hearts of all the ministers in the presbytery whenever they thought about it. It was such a satisfactory church. While other churches here and there were continually giving trouble in one way or another, the Putneyites were never guilty of brewing up internal or presbyterial strife.
The Exeter church people were always quarrelling among themselves and carrying their quarrels to the courts of the church. The very name of Exeter gave the members of presbytery the cold creeps. But the Putney church people never quarrelled.
Danbridge church was in a chronic state of ministerlessness. No minister ever stayed in Danbridge longer than he could help. The people were too critical, and they were also noted heresy hunters. Good ministers fought shy of Danbridge, and poor ones met with a chill welcome. The harassed presbytery, worn out with “supplying,” were disposed to think that the millennium would come if ever the Danbridgians got a minister whom they liked. At Putney they had had the same minister for fifteen years and hoped and expected to have him for fifteen more. They looked with horror-stricken eyes on the Danbridge theological coquetries.
Bloom Valley church was over head and heels in debt and had no visible prospect of ever getting out. The moderator said under his breath that they did over-much praying and too little hoeing. He did not believe in faith without works. Tarrytown Road kept its head above water but never had a cent to spare for missions or the schemes of the church.
In bright and shining contradistinction to these the Putney church had always paid its way and gave liberally to all departments of church work. If other springs of supply ran dry the Putneyites enthusiastically got up a “tea” or a “social,” and so raised the money. Naturally the “heft” of this work fell on the women, but they did not mind — in very truth, they enjoyed it. The Putney women had the reputation of being “great church workers,” and they plumed themselves on it, putting on airs at conventions among the less energetic women of the other churches.
They were especially strong on societies. There was the Church Aid Society, the Girls’ Flower Band, and the Sewing Circle. There was a Mission Band and a Helping Hand among the children. And finally there was the Women’s Foreign Mission Auxiliary, out of which the whole trouble grew which convulsed the church at Putney for a brief time and furnished a standing joke in presbyterial circles for years afterwards. To this day ministers and elders tell the story of the Putney church strike with sparkling eyes and subdued chuckles. It never grows old or stale. But the Putney elders are an exception. They never laugh at it. They never refer to it. It is not in the wicked, unregenerate heart of man to make a jest of his own bitter defeat.
It was in June that the secretary of the Putney W.F.M. Auxiliary wrote to a noted returned missionary who was touring the country, asking her to give an address on mission work before their society. Mrs. Cotterell wrote back saying that her brief time was so taken up already that she found it hard to make any further engagements, but she could not refuse the Putney people who were so well and favourably known in mission circles for their perennial interest and liberality. So, although she could not come on the date requested, she would, if acceptable, come the following Sunday.
This suited the Putney Auxiliary very well. On the Sunday referred to there was to be no evening service in the church owing to Mr. Sinclair’s absence. They therefore appointed the missionary meeting for that night, and made arrangements to hold it in the church itself, as the classroom was too small for the expected audience.
Then the thunderbolt descended on the W.F.M.A. of Putney from a clear sky. The elders of the church rose up to a man and declared that no woman should occupy the pulpit of the Putney church. It was in direct contravention to the teachings of St. Paul.
To make matters worse, Mr. Sinclair declared himself on the elders’ side. He said that he could not conscientiously give his consent to a woman occupying his pulpit, even when that woman was Mrs. Cotterell and her subject foreign missions.
The members of the Auxiliary were aghast. They called a meeting extraordinary in the classroom and, discarding all forms and ceremonies in their wrath, talked their indignation out.
Out of doors the world basked in June sunshine and preened itself in blossom. The birds sang and chirped in the lichened maples that cupped the little church in, and peace was over all the Putney valley. Inside the classroom disgusted women buzzed like angry bees.
“What on earth are we to do?” sighed the secretary plaintively. Mary Kilburn was always plaintive. She sat on the steps of the platform, being too wrought up in her mind to sit in her chair at the desk, and her thin, faded little face was twisted with anxiety. “All the arrangements are made and Mrs. Cotterell is coming on the tenth. How can we tell her that the men won’t let her speak?”
“There was never anything like this in Putney church before,” groaned Mrs. Elder Knox. “It was Andrew McKittrick put them up to it. I always said that man would make trouble here yet, ever since he moved to Putney from Danbridge. I’ve talked and argued with Thomas until I’m dumb, but he is as set as a rock.”
“I don’t see what business the men have to interfere with us anyhow,” said her daughter Lucy, who was sitting on one of the window-sills. “We don’t meddle with them, I’m sure. As if Mrs. Cotterell would contaminate the pulpit!”
“One would think we were still in the dark ages,” said Frances Spenslow sharply. Frances was the Putney schoolteacher. Her father was one of the recalcitrant elders and Frances felt it bitterly — all the more that she had tried to argue with him and had been sat upon as a “child who couldn’t understand.”
“I’m more surprised at Mr. Sinclair than at the elders,” said Mrs. Abner Keech, fanning herself vigorously. “Elders are subject to queer spells periodically. They think they assert their authority that way. But Mr. Sinclair has always seemed so liberal and broad-minded.”
“You never can tell what crotchet an old bachelor will take into his head,” said Alethea Craig bitingly.
The others nodded agreement. Mr. Sinclair’s inveterate celibacy was a standing grievance with the Putney wome
n.
“If he had a wife who could be our president this would never have happened, I warrant you,” said Mrs. King sagely.
“But what are we going to do, ladies?” said Mrs. Robbins briskly. Mrs. Robbins was the president. She was a big, bustling woman with clear blue eyes and crisp, incisive ways. Hitherto she had held her peace. “They must talk themselves out before they can get down to business,” she had reflected sagely. But she thought the time had now come to speak.
“You know,” she went on, “we can talk and rage against the men all day if we like. They are not trying to prevent us. But that will do no good. Here’s Mrs. Cotterell invited, and all the neighbouring auxiliaries notified — and the men won’t let us have the church. The point is, how are we going to get out of the scrape?”
A helpless silence descended upon the classroom. The eyes of every woman present turned to Myra Wilson. Everyone could talk, but when it came to action they had a fashion of turning to Myra.
She had a reputation for cleverness and originality. She never talked much. So far today she had not said a word. She was sitting on the sill of the window across from Lucy Knox. She swung her hat on her knee, and loose, moist rings of dark hair curled around her dark, alert face. There was a sparkle in her grey eyes that boded ill to the men who were peaceably pursuing their avocations, rashly indifferent to what the women might be saying in the maple-shaded classroom.
“Have you any suggestion to make, Miss Wilson?” said Mrs. Robbins, with a return to her official voice and manner.
Myra put her long, slender index finger to her chin.
“I think,” she said decidedly, “that we must strike.”
When Elder Knox went in to tea that evening he glanced somewhat apprehensively at his wife. They had had an altercation before she went to the meeting, and he supposed she had talked herself into another rage while there. But Mrs. Knox was placid and smiling. She had made his favourite soda biscuits for him and inquired amiably after his progress in hoeing turnips in the southeast meadow.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 641
