He ran gaily into the sitting-room.
“Tea ready, lady mother? I’m hungry as a wolf. Good news gives one an appetite. Mr. White has raised my salary a couple of dollars per week. We must celebrate the event somehow this evening. What do you say to a sail on the river and an ice cream at Taylor’s afterwards? When a little woman can’t outlive her schoolgirl hankering for ice cream — why, Mother, what’s the matter? Mother, dear!”
Mrs. Duncan had been standing before the window with her back to the room when Ernest entered. When she turned he saw that she had been crying.
“Oh, Ernest,” she said brokenly, “Jacob Patterson has just been here — and he says — he says—”
“What has that old miser been saying to trouble you?” demanded Ernest angrily, taking her hands in his.
“He says he holds your father’s promissory note for nine hundred dollars, overdue for several years,” answered Mrs. Duncan. “Yes — and he showed me the note, Ernest.”
“Father’s promissory note for nine hundred!” exclaimed Ernest in bewilderment. “But Father paid that note to James Patterson five years ago, Mother — just before his accident. Didn’t you tell me he did?”
“Yes, he did,” said Mrs. Duncan, “but—”
“Then where is it?” interrupted Ernest. “Father would keep the receipted note, of course. We must look among his papers.”
“You won’t find it there, Ernest. We — we don’t know where the note is. It — it was lost.”
“Lost! That is unfortunate. But you say that Jacob Patterson showed you a promissory note of Father’s still in existence? How can that be? It can’t possibly be the note he paid. And there couldn’t have been another note we knew nothing of?”
“I understand how this note came to be in Jacob Patterson’s possession,” said Mrs. Duncan more firmly, “but he laughed in my face when I told him. I must tell you the whole story, Ernest. But sit down and get your tea first.”
“I haven’t any appetite for tea now, Mother,” said Ernest soberly. “Let me hear the whole truth about the matter.”
“Seven years ago your father gave his note to old James Patterson, Jacob’s brother,” said Mrs. Duncan. “It was for nine hundred dollars. Two years afterwards the note fell due and he paid James Patterson the full amount with interest. I remember the day well. I have only too good reason to. He went up to the Patterson place in the afternoon with the money. It was a very hot day. James Patterson receipted the note and gave it to your father. Your father always remembered that much; he was also sure that he had the note with him when he left the house. He then went over to see Paul Sinclair. A thunderstorm came up while he was on the road. Then, as you know, Ernest, just as he turned in at Paul Sinclair’s gate the lightning flash struck and stunned him. It was weeks before he came to himself at all. He never did come completely to himself again. When, weeks afterwards, I thought of the note and asked him about it, we could not find it; and, search as we did, we never found it. Your father could never remember what he did with it when he left James Patterson’s. Neither Mr. Sinclair nor his wife could recollect seeing anything of it at the time of the accident. James Patterson had left for California the very morning after, and he never came back. We did not worry much about the loss of the note then; it did not seem of much moment, and your father was not in a condition to be troubled about the matter.”
“But, Mother, this note that Jacob Patterson holds — I don’t understand about this.”
“I’m coming to that. I remember distinctly that on the evening when your father came home after signing the note he said that James Patterson drew up a note and he signed it, but just as he did so the old man’s pet cat, which was sitting on the table, upset an ink bottle and the ink ran all over the table and stained one end of the note. Old James Patterson was the fussiest man who ever lived, and a stickler for neatness. ‘Tut, tut,’ he said, ‘this won’t do. Here, I’ll draw up another note and tear this blotted one up.’ He did so and your father signed it. He always supposed James Patterson destroyed the first one, and certainly he must have intended to, for there never was an honester man. But he must have neglected to do so for, Ernest, it was that blotted note Jacob Patterson showed me today. He said he found it among his brother’s papers. I suppose it has been in the desk up at the Patterson place ever since James went to California. He died last winter and Jacob is his sole heir. Ernest, that note with the compound interest on it for seven years amounts to over eleven hundred dollars. How can we pay it?”
“I’m afraid that this is a very serious business, Mother,” said Ernest, rising and pacing the floor with agitated strides. “We shall have to pay the note if we cannot find the other — and even if we could, perhaps. Your story of the drawing up of the second note would not be worth anything as evidence in a court of law — and we have nothing to hope from Jacob Patterson’s clemency. No doubt he believes that he really holds Father’s unpaid note. He is not a dishonest man; in fact, he rather prides himself on having made all his money honestly. He will exact every penny of the debt. The first thing to do is to have another thorough search for the lost note — although I am afraid that it is a forlorn hope.”
A forlorn hope it proved to be. The note did not turn up. Old Jacob Patterson proved obdurate. He laughed to scorn the tale of the blotted note and, indeed, Ernest sadly admitted to himself that it was not a story anybody would be in a hurry to believe.
“There’s nothing for it but to sell our house and pay the debt, Mother,” he said at last. Ernest had grown old in the days that had followed Jacob Patterson’s demand. His boyish face was pale and haggard. “Jacob Patterson will take the case into the law courts if we don’t settle at once. Mr. White offered to lend me the money on a mortgage on the place, but I could never pay the interest out of my salary when we have nothing else to live on. I would only get further and further behind. I’m not afraid of hard work, but I dare not borrow money with so little prospect of ever being able to repay it. We must sell the place and rent that little four-roomed cottage of Mr. Percy’s down by the river to live in. Oh, Mother, it half kills me to think of your being turned out of your home like this!”
It was a bitter thing for Mrs. Duncan also, but for Ernest’s sake she concealed her feelings and affected cheerfulness. The house and lot were sold, Mr. White being the purchaser thereof; and Ernest and his mother removed to the little riverside cottage with such of their household belongings as had not also to be sold to make up the required sum. Even then, Ernest had to borrow two hundred dollars from Mr. White, and he foresaw that the repayal of this sum would cost him much self-denial and privation. It would be necessary to cut their modest expenses down severely. For himself Ernest did not mind, but it hurt him keenly that his mother should lack the little luxuries and comforts to which she had been accustomed. He saw too, in spite of her efforts to hide it, that leaving her old home was a terrible blow to her. Altogether, Ernest felt bitter and disheartened; his step lacked spring and his face its smile. He did his work with dogged faithfulness, but he no longer found pleasure in it. He knew that his mother secretly pined after her lost home where she had gone as a bride, and the knowledge rendered him very unhappy.
Paul Sinclair, his father’s friend and cousin, died that winter, leaving two small children. His wife had died the previous year. When his business affairs came to be settled they were found to be sadly involved. There were debts on all sides, and it was soon only too evident that nothing was left for the little boys. They were homeless and penniless.
“What will become of them, poor little fellows?” said Mrs. Duncan pityingly. “We are their only relatives, Ernest. We must give them a home at least.”
“Mother, how can we!” exclaimed Ernest. “We are so poor. It’s as much as we can do to get along now, and there is that two hundred to pay Mr. White. I’m sorry for Danny and Frank, but I don’t see how we can possibly do anything for them.”
Mrs. Duncan sighed.
“I know it
isn’t right to ask you to add to your burden,” she said wistfully.
“It is of you I am thinking, Mother,” said Ernest tenderly. “I can’t have your burden added to. You deny yourself too much and work too hard now. What would it be if you took the care of those children upon yourself?”
“Don’t think of me, Ernest,” said Mrs. Duncan eagerly. “I wouldn’t mind. I’d be glad to do anything I could for them, poor little souls. Their father was your father’s best friend, and I feel as if it were our duty to do all we can for them. They’re such little fellows. Who knows how they would be treated if they were taken by strangers? And they’d most likely be separated, and that would be a shame. But I leave it for you to decide, Ernest. It is your right, for the heaviest part will fall on you.”
Ernest did not decide at once. For a week he thought the matter over, weighing pros and cons carefully. To take the two Sinclair boys meant a double portion of toil and self-denial. Had he not enough to bear now? But, on the other side, was it not his duty, nay, his privilege, to help the children if he could? In the end he said to his mother:
“We’ll take the little fellows, Mother. I’ll do the best I can for them. We’ll manage a corner and a crust for them.”
So Danny and Frank Sinclair came to the little cottage. Frank was eight and Danny six, and they were small and lively and mischievous. They worshipped Mrs. Duncan, and thought Ernest the finest fellow in the world. When his birthday came around in March, the two little chaps put their heads together in a grave consultation as to what they could give him.
“You know he gave us presents on our birthdays,” said Frank. “So we must give him something.”
“I’ll div him my pottet-knife,” said Danny, taking the somewhat battered and loose-jointed affair from his pocket, and gazing at it affectionately.
“I’ll give him one of Papa’s books,” said Frank. “That pretty one with the red covers and the gold letters.”
A few of Mr. Sinclair’s books had been saved for the boys, and were stored in a little box in their room. The book Frank referred to was an old History of the Turks, and its gay cover was probably the best of it, since its contents were of no particular merit.
On Ernest’s birthday both boys gave him their offerings after breakfast.
“Here’s a pottet-knife for you,” said Danny graciously. “It’s a bully pottet-knife. It’ll cut real well if you hold it dust the wight way. I’ll show you.”
“And here’s a book for you,” said Frank. “It’s a real pretty book, and I guess it’s pretty interesting reading too. It’s all about the Turks.”
Ernest accepted both gifts gravely, and after the children had gone out he and his mother had a hearty laugh.
“The dear, kind-hearted little lads!” said Mrs. Duncan. “It must have been a real sacrifice on Danny’s part to give you his beloved ‘pottet-knife.’ I was afraid you were going to refuse it at first, and that would have hurt his little feelings terribly. I don’t think the History of the Turks will keep you up burning the midnight oil. I remember that book of old — I could never forget that gorgeous cover. Mr. Sinclair lent it to your father once, and he said it was absolute trash. Why, Ernest, what’s the matter?”
Ernest had been turning the book’s leaves over carelessly. Suddenly he sprang to his feet with an exclamation, his face turning white as marble.
“Mother!” he gasped, holding out a yellowed slip of paper. “Look! It’s the lost promissory note.”
Mother and son looked at each other for a moment. Then Mrs. Duncan began to laugh and cry together.
“Your father took that book with him when he went to pay the note,” she said. “He intended to return it to Mr. Sinclair. I remember seeing the gleam of the red binding in his hand as he went out of the gate. He must have slipped the note into it and I suppose the book has never been opened since. Oh, Ernest — do you think — will Jacob Patterson—”
“I don’t know, Mother. I must see Mr. White about this. Don’t be too sanguine. This doesn’t prove that the note Jacob Patterson found wasn’t a genuine note also, you know — that is, I don’t think it would serve as proof in law. We’ll have to leave it to his sense of justice. If he refuses to refund the money I’m afraid we can’t compel him to do so.”
But Jacob Patterson did not any longer refuse belief to Mrs. Patterson’s story of the blotted note. He was a harsh, miserly man, but he prided himself on his strict honesty; he had been fairly well acquainted with his brother’s business transactions, and knew that George Duncan had given only one promissory note.
“I’ll admit, ma’am, since the receipted note has turned up, that your story about the blotted one must be true,” he said surlily. “I’ll pay your money back. Nobody can ever say Jacob Patterson cheated. I took what I believed to be my due. Since I’m convinced it wasn’t I’ll hand every penny over. Though, mind you, you couldn’t make me do it by law. It’s my honesty, ma’am, it’s my honesty.”
Since Jacob Patterson was so well satisfied with the fibre of his honesty, neither Mrs. Duncan nor Ernest was disposed to quarrel with it. Mr. White readily agreed to sell the old Duncan place back to them, and by spring they were settled again in their beloved little home. Danny and Frank were with them, of course.
“We can’t be too good to them, Mother,” said Ernest. “We really owe all our happiness to them.”
“Yes, but, Ernest, if you had not consented to take the homeless little lads in their time of need this wouldn’t have come about.”
“I’ve been well rewarded, Mother,” said Ernest quietly, “but, even if nothing of the sort had happened, I would be glad that I did the best I could for Frank and Danny. I’m ashamed to think that I was unwilling to do it at first. If it hadn’t been for what you said, I wouldn’t have. So it is your unselfishness we have to thank for it all, Mother dear.”
The Revolt of Mary Isabel
“For a woman of forty, Mary Isabel, you have the least sense of any person I have ever known,” said Louisa Irving.
Louisa had said something similar in spirit to Mary Isabel almost every day of her life. Mary Isabel had never resented it, even when it hurt her bitterly. Everybody in Latimer knew that Louisa Irving ruled her meek little sister with a rod of iron and wondered why Mary Isabel never rebelled. It simply never occurred to Mary Isabel to do so; all her life she had given in to Louisa and the thought of refusing obedience to her sister’s Mede-and-Persian decrees never crossed her mind. Mary Isabel had only one secret from Louisa and she lived in daily dread that Louisa would discover it. It was a very harmless little secret, but Mary Isabel felt rightly sure that Louisa would not tolerate it for a moment.
They were sitting together in the dim living room of their quaint old cottage down by the shore. The window was open and the sea-breeze blew in, stirring the prim white curtains fitfully, and ruffling the little rings of dark hair on Mary Isabel’s forehead — rings which always annoyed Louisa. She thought Mary Isabel ought to brush them straight back, and Mary Isabel did so faithfully a dozen times a day; and in ten minutes they crept down again, kinking defiance to Louisa, who might make Mary Isabel submit to her in all things but had no power over naturally curly hair. Louisa had never had any trouble with her own hair; it was straight and sleek and mouse-coloured — what there was of it.
Mary Isabel’s face was flushed and her wood-brown eyes looked grieved and pleading. Mary Isabel was still pretty, and vanity is the last thing to desert a properly constructed woman.
“I can’t wear a bonnet yet, Louisa,” she protested. “Bonnets have gone out for everybody except really old ladies. I want a hat: one of those pretty, floppy ones with pale blue forget-me-nots.”
Then it was that Louisa made the remark quoted above.
“I wore a bonnet before I was forty,” she went on ruthlessly, “and so should every decent woman. It is absurd to be thinking so much of dress at your age, Mary Isabel. I don’t know what sort of a way you’d bedizen yourself out if I’d let you, I
’m sure. It’s fortunate you have somebody to keep you from making a fool of yourself. I’m going to town tomorrow and I’ll pick you out a suitable black bonnet. You’d look nice starring round in leghorn and forget-me-nots, now, wouldn’t you?”
Mary Isabel privately thought she would, but she gave in, of course, although she did hate bitterly that unbought, unescapable bonnet.
“Well, do as you think best, Louisa,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose it doesn’t matter much. Nobody cares how I look anyhow. But can’t I go to town with you? I want to pick out my new silk.”
“I’m as good a judge of black silk as you,” said Louisa shortly. “It isn’t safe to leave the house alone.”
“But I don’t want a black silk,” cried Mary Isabel. “I’ve worn black so long; both my silk dresses have been black. I want a pretty silver-grey, something like Mrs. Chester Ford’s.”
“Did anyone ever hear such nonsense?” Louisa wanted to know, in genuine amazement. “Silver-grey silk is the most unserviceable thing in the world. There’s nothing like black for wear and real elegance. No, no, Mary Isabel, don’t be foolish. You must let me choose for you; you know you never had any judgment. Mother told you so often enough. Now, get your sunbonnet and take a walk to the shore. You look tired. I’ll get the tea.”
Louisa’s tone was kind though firm. She Was really good to Mary Isabel as long as Mary Isabel gave her her own way peaceably. But if she had known Mary Isabel’s secret she would never have permitted those walks to the shore.
Mary Isabel sighed again, yielded, and went out. Across a green field from the Irving cottage Dr. Donald Hamilton’s big house was hooding itself in the shadows of the thick fir grove that enabled the doctor to have a garden. There was no shelter at the cottage, so the Irving “girls” never tried to have a garden. Soon after Dr. Hamilton had come there to live he had sent a bouquet of early daffodils over by his housekeeper. Louisa had taken them gingerly in her extreme fingertips, carried them across the field to the lawn fence, and cast them over it, under the amused grey eyes of portly Dr. Hamilton, who was looking out of his office window. Then Louisa had come back to the porch door and ostentatiously washed her hands.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 707
