The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  She toddled away, smiling, and Una turned to me. She was laughing, but there were tears in her eyes.

  “You blessed accidents!” she said, with a little tremble in her voice. “If you hadn’t happened just then Ted would have gone away in a rage and I might never have seen him again. Come now, Sue, and help me dress.”

  Johnny stayed in the hall and I went upstairs with Una. We had such an exciting time getting her dressed. She had the sweetest white organdie you ever saw, all frills and laces. I’m sure Pamelia’s silk couldn’t have been half so pretty. But she had no veil, and I felt rather disappointed about that. Then there was a knock at the door and Mrs. Franklin came in, with her arms full of something all fine and misty like a lacy cobweb.

  “I’ve brought you my wedding veil, dearie,” she said. “I wore it forty years ago. And God bless you, dearie. I can’t stop a minute. The boy is killing the chickens and Bridget is getting ready to broil them. Mrs. Jenner’s son across the road has just gone down to the bakery for a wedding cake.”

  With that she toddled off again. She was certainly a wonderful old lady. I just thought of Mother in her place. Well, Mother would simply have gone wild entirely.

  When Una was dressed she looked as beautiful as a dream. The boy had finished killing the chickens, and Mrs. Franklin had sent him up with a basket of roses for us, and we had each the loveliest bouquet. Before long Ted came back with the minister, and the next thing we knew we were all standing out on the lawn under the cherry trees and Una and Ted were being married.

  I was too happy to speak. I had never thought of being a bridesmaid in my wildest dreams and here I was one. How thankful I was that I had put on my blue organdie and my shirred hat! I wasn’t a bit nervous and I don’t believe Una was either. Mrs. Franklin stood at one side with a smudge of flour on her nose, and she had forgotten to take off her apron. Bridget and the boy watched us from the kitchen garden. It was all like a beautiful, bewildering dream. But the ceremony was horribly solemn. I am sure I shall never have the courage to go through with anything of the sort, but Johnny says I will change my mind when I grow up.

  When it was all over I nudged Johnny and said “Ode” in a fierce whisper. Johnny immediately stepped out before Una and recited it. Pamelia’s name was mentioned three times and of course he should have put Una in place of it, but he forgot. You can’t remember everything.

  “You dear funny darlings!” said Una, kissing us both. Johnny didn’t like that, but he said he didn’t mind it in a bride.

  Then we had dinner, and I thought Mrs. Franklin more wonderful than ever. I couldn’t have believed any woman could have got up such a spread at two hours’ notice. Of course, some credit must be given to Bridget and the boy. Johnny and I were hungry enough by this time and we enjoyed that repast to the full.

  We went home on the evening train. Ted and Una came to the station with us, and Una said she would write me when she got to Japan, and Ted said he would be obliged to us forever and ever.

  When we got home we found Hannah Jane and Father and Mother — who had arrived there an hour before us — simply distracted. They were so glad to see us safe and sound that they didn’t even scold us, and when Father heard our story he laughed until the tears came into his eyes.

  “Some are born to luck, some achieve luck, and some have luck thrust upon them,” he said.

  A Golden Wedding

  The land dropped abruptly down from the gate, and a thick, shrubby growth of young apple orchard almost hid the little weather-grey house from the road. This was why the young man who opened the sagging gate could not see that it was boarded up, and did not cease his cheerful whistling until he had pressed through the crowding trees and found himself almost on the sunken stone doorstep over which in olden days honeysuckle had been wont to arch. Now only a few straggling, uncared-for vines clung forlornly to the shingles, and the windows were, as has been said, all boarded up.

  The whistle died on the young man’s lips and an expression of blank astonishment and dismay settled down on his face — a good, kindly, honest face it was, although perhaps it did not betoken any pronounced mental gifts on the part of its owner.

  “What can have happened?” he said to himself. “Uncle Tom and Aunt Sally can’t be dead — I’d have seen their deaths in the paper if they was. And I’d a-thought if they’d moved away it’d been printed too. They can’t have been gone long — that flower-bed must have been made up last spring. Well, this is a kind of setback for a fellow. Here I’ve been tramping all the way from the station, a-thinking how good it would be to see Aunt Sally’s sweet old face again, and hear Uncle Tom’s laugh, and all I find is a boarded-up house going to seed. S’pose I might as well toddle over to Stetsons’ and inquire if they haven’t disappeared, too.”

  He went through the old firs back of the lot and across the field to a rather shabby house beyond. A cheery-faced woman answered his knock and looked at him in a puzzled fashion. “Have you forgot me, Mrs. Stetson? Don’t you remember Lovell Stevens and how you used to give him plum tarts when he’d bring your turkeys home?”

  Mrs. Stetson caught both his hands in a hearty clasp.

  “I guess I haven’t forgotten!” she declared. “Well, well, and you’re Lovell! I think I ought to know your face, though you’ve changed a lot. Fifteen years have made a big difference in you. Come right in. Pa, this is Lovell — you mind Lovell, the boy Aunt Sally and Uncle Tom had for years?”

  “Reckon I do,” drawled Jonah Stetson with a friendly grin. “Ain’t likely to forget some of the capers you used to be cutting up. You’ve filled out considerable. Where have you been for the last ten years? Aunt Sally fretted a lot over you, thinking you was dead or gone to the bad.”

  Lovell’s face clouded.

  “I know I ought to have written,” he said repentantly, “but you know I’m a terrible poor scholar, and I’d do most anything than try to write a letter. But where’s Uncle Tom and Aunt Sally gone? Surely they ain’t dead?”

  “No,” said Jonah Stetson slowly, “no — but I guess they’d rather be. They’re in the poorhouse.”

  “The poorhouse! Aunt Sally in the poorhouse!” exclaimed Lovell.

  “Yes, and it’s a burning shame,” declared Mrs. Stetson. “Aunt Sally’s just breaking her heart from the disgrace of it. But it didn’t seem as if it could be helped. Uncle Tom got so crippled with rheumatism he couldn’t work and Aunt Sally was too frail to do anything. They hadn’t any relations and there was a mortgage on the house.”

  “There wasn’t any when I went away.”

  “No; they had to borrow money six years ago when Uncle Tom had his first spell of rheumatic fever. This spring it was clear that there was nothing for them but the poorhouse. They went three months ago and terrible hard they took it, especially Aunt Sally, I felt awful about it myself. Jonah and I would have took them if we could, but we just couldn’t — we’ve nothing but Jonah’s wages and we have eight children and not a bit of spare room. I go over to see Aunt Sally as often as I can and take her some little thing, but I dunno’s she wouldn’t rather not see anybody than see them in the poorhouse.”

  Lovell weighed his hat in his hands and frowned over it reflectively.

  “Who owns the house now?”

  “Peter Townley. He held the mortgage. And all the old furniture was sold too, and that most killed Aunt Sally. But do you know what she’s fretting over most of all? She and Uncle Tom will have been married fifty years in a fortnight’s time and Aunt Sally thinks it’s awful to have to spend their golden wedding anniversary in the poorhouse. She talks about it all the time. You’re not going, Lovell” — for Lovell had risen—”you must stop with us, since your old home is closed up. We’ll scare you up a shakedown to sleep on and you’re welcome as welcome. I haven’t forgot the time you caught Mary Ellen just as she was tumbling into the well.”

  “Thank you, I’ll stay to tea,” said Lovell, sitting down again, “but I guess I’ll make my headquarters up at the
station hotel as long as I stay round here. It’s kind of more central.”

  “Got on pretty well out west, hey?” queried Jonah.

  “Pretty well for a fellow who had nothing but his two hands to depend on when he went out,” said Lovell cautiously. “I’ve only been a labouring man, of course, but I’ve saved up enough to start a little store when I go back. That’s why I came east for a trip now — before I’d be tied down to business. I was hankering to see Aunt Sally and Uncle Tom once more. I’ll never forget how kind and good they was to me. There I was, when Dad died, a little sinner of eleven, just heading for destruction. They give me a home and all the schooling I ever had and all the love I ever got. It was Aunt Sally’s teachings made as much a man of me as I am. I never forgot ’em and I’ve tried to live up to ‘em.”

  After tea Lovell said he thought he’d stroll up the road and pay Peter Townley a call. Jonah Stetson and his wife looked at each other when he had gone.

  “Got something in his eye,” nodded Jonah. “Him and Peter weren’t never much of friends.”

  “Maybe Aunt Sally’s bread is coming back to her after all,” said his wife. “People used to be hard on Lovell. But I always liked him and I’m real glad he’s turned out so well.”

  Lovell came back to the Stetsons’ the next evening. In the interval he had seen Aunt Sally and Uncle Tom. The meeting had been both glad and sad. Lovell had also seen other people.

  “I’ve bought Uncle Tom’s old house from Peter Townley,” he said quietly, “and I want you folks to help me out with my plans. Uncle Tom and Aunt Sally ain’t going to spend their golden wedding in the poorhouse — no, sir. They’ll spend it in their own home with their old friends about them. But they’re not to know anything about it till the very night. Do you s’pose any of the old furniture could be got back?”

  “I believe every stick of it could,” said Mrs. Stetson excitedly. “Most of it was bought by folks living handy and I don’t believe one of them would refuse to sell it back. Uncle Tom’s old chair is here to begin with — Aunt Sally give me that herself. She said she couldn’t bear to have it sold. Mrs. Isaac Appleby at the station bought the set of pink-sprigged china and James Parker bought the grandfather’s clock and the whatnot is at the Stanton Grays’.”

  For the next fortnight Lovell and Mrs. Stetson did so much travelling round together that Jonah said genially he might as well be a bachelor as far as meals and buttons went. They visited every house where a bit of Aunt Sally’s belongings could be found. Very successful they were too, and at the end of their jaunting the interior of the little house behind the apple trees looked very much as it had looked when Aunt Sally and Uncle Tom lived there.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Stetson had been revolving a design in her mind, and one afternoon she did some canvassing on her own account. The next time she saw Lovell she said:

  “We ain’t going to let you do it all. The women folks around here are going to furnish the refreshments for the golden wedding and the girls are going to decorate the house with golden rod.”

  The evening of the wedding anniversary came. Everybody in Blair was in the plot, including the matron of the poorhouse. That night Aunt Sally watched the sunset over the hills through bitter tears.

  “I never thought I’d be celebrating my golden wedding in the poorhouse,” she sobbed. Uncle Tom put his twisted hand on her shaking old shoulder, but before he could utter any words of comfort Lovell Stevens stood before them.

  “Just get your bonnet on, Aunt Sally,” he cried jovially, “and both of you come along with me. I’ve got a buggy here for you ... and you might as well say goodbye to this place, for you’re not coming back to it any more.”

  “Lovell, oh, what do you mean?” said Aunt Sally tremulously.

  “I’ll explain what I mean as we drive along. Hurry up — the folks are waiting.”

  When they reached the little old house, it was all aglow with light. Aunt Sally gave a cry as she entered it. All her old household goods were back in their places. There were some new ones too, for Lovell had supplied all that was lacking. The house was full of their old friends and neighbours. Mrs. Stetson welcomed them home again.

  “Oh, Tom,” whispered Aunt Sally, tears of happiness streaming down her old face, “oh, Tom, isn’t God good?”

  They had a right royal celebration, and a supper such as the Blair housewives could produce. There were speeches and songs and tales. Lovell kept himself in the background and helped Mrs. Stetson cut cake in the pantry all the evening. But when the guests had gone, he went to Aunt Sally and Uncle Tom, who were sitting by the fire.

  “Here’s a little golden wedding present for you,” he said awkwardly, putting a purse into Aunt Sally’s hand. “I reckon there’s enough there to keep you from ever having to go to the poorhouse again and if not, there’ll be more where that comes from when it’s done.”

  There were twenty-five bright twenty-dollar gold pieces in the purse.

  “We can’t take it, Lovell,” protested Aunt Sally. “You can’t afford it.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” laughed Lovell. “Out west men don’t think much of a little wad like that. I owe you far more than can be paid in cash, Aunt Sally. You must take it — I want to know there’s a little home here for me and two kind hearts in it, no matter where I roam.”

  “God bless you, Lovell,” said Uncle Tom huskily. “You don’t know what you’ve done for Sally and me.”

  That night, when Lovell went to the little bedroom off the parlour — for Aunt Sally, rejoicing in the fact that she was again mistress of a spare room, would not hear of his going to the station hotel — he gazed at his reflection in the gilt-framed mirror soberly.

  “You’ve just got enough left to pay your passage back west, old fellow,” he said, “and then it’s begin all over again just where you begun before. But Aunt Sally’s face was worth it all — yes, sir. And you’ve got your two hands still and an old couple’s prayers and blessings. Not such a bad capital, Lovell, not such a bad capital.”

  A Redeeming Sacrifice

  The dance at Byron Lyall’s was in full swing. Toff Leclerc, the best fiddler in three counties, was enthroned on the kitchen table and from the glossy brown violin, which his grandfather brought from Grand Pré, was conjuring music which made even stiff old Aunt Phemy want to show her steps. Around the kitchen sat a row of young men and women, and the open sitting-room doorway was crowded with the faces of non-dancing guests who wanted to watch the sets.

  An eight-hand reel had just been danced and the girls, giddy from the much swinging of the final figure, had been led back to their seats. Mattie Lyall came out with a dipper of water and sprinkled the floor, from which a fine dust was rising. Toff’s violin purred under his hands as he waited for the next set to form. The dancers were slow about it. There was not the rush for the floor that there had been earlier in the evening, for the supper table was now spread in the dining-room and most of the guests were hungry.

  “Fill up dere, boys,” shouted the fiddler impatiently. “Bring out your gals for de nex’ set.”

  After a moment Paul King led out Joan Shelley from the shadowy corner where they had been sitting. They had already danced several sets together; Joan had not danced with anybody else that evening. As they stood together under the light from the lamp on the shelf above them, many curious and disapproving eyes watched them. Connor Mitchell, who had been standing in the open outer doorway with the moonlight behind him, turned abruptly on his heel and went out.

  Paul King leaned his head against the wall and watched the watchers with a smiling, defiant face as they waited for the set to form. He was a handsome fellow, with the easy, winning ways that women love. His hair curled in bronze masses about his head; his dark eyes were long and drowsy and laughing; there was a swarthy bloom on his round cheeks; and his lips were as red and beguiling as a girl’s. A bad egg was Paul King, with a bad past and a bad future. He was shiftless and drunken; ugly tales were told of him. Not
a man in Lyall’s house that night but grudged him the privilege of standing up with Joan Shelley.

  Joan was a slight, blossom-like girl in white, looking much like the pale, sweet-scented house rose she wore in her dark hair. Her face was colourless and young, very pure and softly curved. She had wonderfully sweet, dark blue eyes, generally dropped down, with notably long black lashes. There were many showier girls in the groups around her, but none half so lovely. She made all the rosy-cheeked beauties seem coarse and over-blown.

  She left in Paul’s clasp the hand by which he had led her out on the floor. Now and then he shifted his gaze from the faces before him to hers. When he did, she always looked up and they exchanged glances as if they had been utterly alone. Three other couples gradually took the floor and the reel began. Joan drifted through the figures with the grace of a wind-blown leaf. Paul danced with rollicking abandon, seldom taking his eyes from Joan’s face. When the last mad whirl was over, Joan’s brother came up and told her in an angry tone to go into the next room and dance no more, since she would dance with only one man. Joan looked at Paul. That look meant that she would do as he, and none other, told her. Paul nodded easily — he did not want any fuss just then — and the girl went obediently into the room. As she turned from him, Paul coolly reached out his hand and took the rose from her hair; then, with a triumphant glance around the room, he went out.

  The autumn night was very clear and chill, with a faint, moaning wind blowing up from the northwest over the sea that lay shimmering before the door. Out beyond the cove the boats were nodding and curtsying on the swell, and over the shore fields the great red star of the lighthouse flared out against the silvery sky. Paul, with a whistle, sauntered down the sandy lane, thinking of Joan. How mightily he loved her — he, Paul King, who had made a mock of so many women and had never loved before! Ah, and she loved him. She had never said so in words, but eyes and tones had said it — she, Joan Shelley, the pick and pride of the Harbour girls, whom so many men had wooed, winning their trouble for their pains. He had won her; she was his and his only, for the asking. His heart was seething with pride and triumph and passion as he strode down to the shore and flung himself on the cold sand in the black shadow of Michael Brown’s beached boat.