The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “‘I’d get some one to stay with you, of course, Ma,’ said Pauline. ‘You see,’ she explained to me, ‘my cousin Louisa is going to celebrate her silver wedding at White Sands next Saturday week and she wants me to go. I was her bridesmaid when she was married to Maurice Hilton. I would like to go so much if Ma would give her consent.’

  “‘If I must die alone I must,’ said Mrs. Gibson. ‘I leave it to your conscience, Pauline.’

  “I knew Pauline’s battle was lost the moment Mrs. Gibson left it to her conscience. Mrs. Gibson has got her way all her life by leaving things to people’s consciences. I’ve heard that years ago somebody wanted to marry Pauline and Mrs. Gibson prevented it by leaving it to her conscience.

  “Pauline wiped her eyes, summoned up a piteous smile and picked up a dress she was making over . . . a hideous green and black plaid.

  “‘Now don’t sulk, Pauline,’ said Mrs. Gibson. ‘I can’t abide people who sulk. And mind you put a collar on that dress. Would you believe it, Miss Shirley, she actually wanted to make the dress without a collar? She’d wear a low-necked dress, that one, if I’d let her.’

  “I looked at poor Pauline with her slender little throat . . . which is rather plump and pretty yet . . . enclosed in a high, stiff-boned net collar.

  “‘Collarless dresses are coming in,’ I said.

  “‘Collarless dresses,’ said Mrs. Gibson, ‘are indecent.’

  “(Item: — I was wearing a collarless dress.)

  “‘Moreover,’ went on Mrs. Gibson, as if it were all of a piece. ‘I never liked Maurice Hilton. His mother was a Crockett. He never had any sense of decorum . . . always kissing his wife in the most unsuitable places!’

  “(Are you sure you kiss me in suitable places, Gilbert? I’m afraid Mrs. Gibson would think the nape of the neck, for instance, most unsuitable.)

  “‘But, Ma, you know that was the day she nearly escaped being trampled by Harvey Wither’s horse running amuck on the church green. It was only natural Maurice should feel a little excited.’

  “‘Pauline, please don’t contradict me. I still think the church steps were an unsuitable place for any one to be kissed. But of course my opinions don’t matter to any one any longer. Of course every one wishes I was dead. Well, there’ll be room for me in the grave. I know what a burden I am to you. I might as well die. Nobody wants me.’

  “‘Don’t say that, Ma,’ begged Pauline.

  “‘I will say it. Here you are, determined to go to that silver wedding although you know I’m not willing.’

  “‘Ma dear. I’m not going . . . I’d never think of going if you weren’t willing. Don’t excite yourself so. . . .’

  “‘Oh, I can’t even have a little excitement, can’t I, to brighten my dull life? Surely you’re not going so soon, Miss Shirley?’

  “I felt that if I stayed any longer I’d either go crazy or slap Mrs. Gibson’s nut-cracker face. So I said I had exam papers to correct.

  “‘Ah well, I suppose two old women like us are very poor company for a young girl,’ sighed Mrs. Gibson. ‘Pauline isn’t very cheerful . . . are you, Pauline? Not very cheerful. I don’t wonder Miss Shirley doesn’t want to stay long.’

  “Pauline came out to the porch with me. The moon was shining down on her little garden and sparkling on the harbor. A soft, delightful wind was talking to a white apple tree. It was spring . . . spring . . . spring! Even Mrs. Gibson can’t stop plum trees from blooming. And Pauline’s soft gray-blue eyes were full of tears.

  “‘I would like to go to Louie’s wedding so much,’ she said, with a long sigh of despairing resignation.

  “‘You are going,’ I said.

  “‘Oh, no, dear, I can’t go. Poor Ma will never consent. I’ll just put it out of my mind. Isn’t the moon beautiful tonight?’ she added, in a loud, cheerful tone.

  “‘I’ve never heard of any good that came from moon gazing,’ called out Mrs. Gibson from the sitting-room. ‘Stop chirruping there, Pauline, and come in and get my red bedroom slippers with the fur round the tops for me. These shoes pinch my feet something terrible. But nobody cares how I suffer.’

  “I felt that I didn’t care how much she suffered. Poor darling Pauline! But a day off is certainly coming to Pauline and she is going to have her silver wedding. I, Anne Shirley, have spoken it.

  “I told Rebecca Dew and the widows all about it when I came home and we had such fun, thinking up all the lovely, insulting things I might have said to Mrs. Gibson. Aunt Kate does not think I will succeed in getting Mrs. Gibson to let Pauline go but Rebecca Dew has faith in me. ‘Anyhow, if you can’t, nobody can,’ she said.

  “I was at supper recently with Mrs. Tom Pringle who wouldn’t take me to board. (Rebecca says I am the best paying boarder she ever heard of because I am invited out to supper so often.) I’m very glad she didn’t. She’s nice and purry and her pies praise her in the gates, but her home isn’t Windy Poplars and she doesn’t live in Spook’s Lane and she isn’t Aunt Kate and Aunt Chatty and Rebecca Dew. I love them all three and I’m going to board here next year and the year after. My chair is always called ‘Miss Shirley’s chair’ and Aunt Chatty tells me that when I’m not here Rebecca Dew sets my place at the table just the same, so it won’t seem so lonesome.’ Sometimes Aunt Chatty’s feelings have complicated matters a bit but she says she understands me now and knows I would never hurt her intentionally.

  “Little Elizabeth and I go out for a walk twice a week now. Mrs. Campbell has agreed to that, but it must not be oftener and never on Sundays. Things are better for little Elizabeth in spring. Some sunshine gets into even that grim old house and outwardly it is even beautiful because of the dancing shadows of tree tops. Still, Elizabeth likes to escape from it whenever she can. Once in a while we go up-town so that Elizabeth can see the lighted shop windows. But mostly we go as far as we dare down the Road that Leads to the End of the World, rounding every corner adventurously and expectantly, as if we were going to find Tomorrow behind it, while all the little green evening hills neatly nestle together in the distance. One of the things Elizabeth is going to do in Tomorrow is ‘go to Philadelphia and see the angel in the church.’ I haven’t told her . . . I never will tell her . . . that the Philadelphia St. John was writing about was not Phila., Pa. We lose our illusions soon enough. And anyhow, if we could get into Tomorrow, who knows what we might find there? Angels everywhere, perhaps.

  “Sometimes we watch the ships coming up the harbor before a fair wind, over a glistening pathway, through the transparent spring air, and Elizabeth wonders if her father may be on board one of them. She clings to the hope that he may come some day. I can’t imagine why he doesn’t. I’m sure he would if he knew what a darling little daughter he has here longing for him. I suppose he never realizes she is quite a girl now . . . . I suppose he still thinks of her as the little baby who cost his wife her life.

  “I’ll soon have finished my first year in Summerside High. The first term was a nightmare, but the last two have been very pleasant. The Pringles are delightful people. How could I ever have compared them to the Pyes? Sid Pringle brought me a bunch of trilliums today. Jen is going to lead her class and Miss Ellen is reported to have said that I am the only teacher who ever really understood the child! The only fly in my ointment is Katherine Brooke, who continues unfriendly and distant. I’m going to give up trying to be friends with her. After all, as Rebecca Dew says, there are limits.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you. . . . Sally Nelson has asked me to be one of her bridesmaids. She is going to be married the last of June at Bonnyview, Dr. Nelson’s summer home down at the jumping-off place. She is marrying Gordon Hill. Then Nora Nelson will be the only one of Dr. Nelson’s six girls left unmarried. Jim Wilcox has been going with her for years . . . ‘off and on’ as Rebecca Dew says . . . but it never seems to come to anything and nobody thinks it will now. I’m very fond of Sally, but I’ve never made much headway getting acquainted with Nora. She’s a good deal older than I
am, of course, and rather reserved and proud. Yet I’d like to be friends with her. She isn’t pretty or clever or charming but somehow she’s got a tang. I’ve a feeling she’d be worth while.

  “Speaking of weddings, Esme Taylor was married to her Ph.D. last month. As it was on Wednesday afternoon I couldn’t go to the church to see her, but every one says she looked very beautiful and happy and Lennox looked as if he knew he had done the right thing and had the approval of his conscience. Cyrus Taylor and I are great friends. He often refers to the dinner which he has come to consider a great joke on everybody. ‘I’ve never dared sulk since,’ he told me. ‘Momma might accuse me of sewing patchwork next time.’ And then he tells me to be sure and give his love to ‘the widows.’ Gilbert, people are delicious and life is delicious and I am

  “Forevermore

  “Yours!

  “P.S. Our old red cow down at Mr. Hamilton’s has a spotted calf. We’ve been buying our milk for three months from Lew Hunt. Rebecca says we’ll have cream again now . . . and that she has always heard the Hunt well was inexhaustible and now she believes it. Rebecca didn’t want that calf to be born at all. Aunt Kate had to get Mr. Hamilton to tell her that the cow was really too old to have a calf before she would consent.”

  Chapter 13

  “Ah, when you’ve been old and bed-rid as long as me you’ll have more sympathy,” whined Mrs. Gibson.

  “Please don’t think I’m lacking in sympathy, Mrs. Gibson,” said Anne, who, after half an hour’s vain effort, felt like wringing Mrs. Gibson’s neck. Nothing but poor Pauline’s pleading eyes in the background kept her from giving up in despair and going home. “I assure you, you won’t be lonely and neglected. I will be here all day and see that you lack nothing in any way.”

  “Oh, I know I’m of no use to any one,” said Mrs. Gibson, apropos of nothing that had been said. “You don’t need to rub that in, Miss Shirley. I’m ready to go any time . . . any time. Pauline can gad round all she wants to then. I won’t be here to feel neglected. None of the young people of today have any sense. Giddy . . . very giddy.”

  Anne didn’t know whether it was Pauline or herself who was the giddy young person without sense, but she tried the last shot in her locker.

  “Well, you know, Mrs. Gibson, people will talk so terribly if Pauline doesn’t go to her cousin’s silver wedding.”

  “Talk!” said Mrs. Gibson sharply. “What will they talk about?”

  “Dear Mrs. Gibson . . .” (‘May I be forgiven the adjective!’ thought Anne) “in your long life you have learned, I know, just what idle tongues can say.”

  “You needn’t be casting my age up to me,” snapped Mrs. Gibson. “And I don’t need to be told it’s a censorious world. Too well . . . too well I know it. And I don’t need to be told that this town is full of tattling toads neither. But I dunno’s I fancy them jabbering about me . . . saying, I s’pose, that I’m an old tyrant. I ain’t stopping Pauline from going. Didn’t I leave it to her conscience?”

  “So few people will believe that,” said Anne, carefully sorrowful.

  Mrs. Gibson sucked a peppermint lozenge fiercely for a minute or two. Then she said,

  “I hear there’s mumps at White Sands.”

  “Ma, dear, you know I’ve had the mumps.”

  “There’s folks as takes them twice. You’d be just the one to take them twice, Pauline. You always took everything that come round. The nights I’ve set up with you, not expecting you’d see the morning! Ah me, a mother’s sacrifices ain’t long remembered. Besides, how would you get to White Sands? You ain’t been on a train for years. And there ain’t any train back Saturday night.”

  “She could go on the Saturday morning train,” said Anne. “And I’m sure Mr. James Gregor will bring her back.”

  “I never liked Jim Gregor. His mother was a Tarbush.”

  “He is taking his double-seated buggy and going down Friday, or else he would take her down, too. But she’ll be quite safe on the train, Mrs. Gibson. Just step on at Summerside . . . step off at White Sands . . . no changing.”

  “There’s something behind all this,” said Mrs. Gibson suspiciously. “Why are you so set on her going, Miss Shirley? Just tell me that.”

  Anne smiled into the beady-eyed face.

  “Because I think Pauline is a good, kind daughter to you, Mrs. Gibson, and needs a day off now and then, just as everybody does.”

  Most people found it hard to resist Anne’s smile. Either that, or the fear of gossip vanquished Mrs. Gibson.

  “I s’pose it never occurs to any one I’d like a day off from this wheel-chair if I could get it. But I can’t . . . I just have to bear my affliction patiently. Well, if she must go she must. She’s always been one to get her own way. If she catches mumps or gets poisoned by strange mosquitoes, don’t blame me for it. I’ll have to get along as best I can. Oh, I s’pose you’ll be here, but you ain’t used to my ways as Pauline is. I s’pose I can stand it for one day. If I can’t . . . well, I’ve been living on borrowed time many’s the year now so what’s the difference?” Not a gracious assent by any means but still an assent. Anne in her relief and gratitude found herself doing something she could never have imagined herself doing . . . she bent over and kissed Mrs. Gibson’s leathery cheek. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Never mind your wheedling ways,” said Mrs. Gibson. “Have a peppermint.”

  “How can I ever thank you, Miss Shirley?” said Pauline, as she went a little way down the street with Anne.

  “By going to White Sands with a light heart and enjoying every minute of the time.”

  “Oh, I’ll do that. You don’t know what this means to me, Miss Shirley. It’s not only Louisa I want to see. The old Luckley place next to her home is going to be sold and I did so want to see it once more before it passed into the hands of strangers. Mary Luckley . . . she’s Mrs. Howard Flemming now and lives out west . . . was my dearest friend when I was a girl. We were like sisters. I used to be at the Luckley place so much and I loved it so. I’ve often dreamed of going back. Ma says I’m getting too old to dream. Do you think I am, Miss Shirley?”

  “Nobody is ever too old to dream. And dreams never grow old.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that. Oh, Miss Shirley, to think of seeing the gulf again. I haven’t seen it for fifteen years. The harbor is beautiful, but it isn’t the gulf. I feel as if I was walking on air. And I owe it all to you. It was just because Ma likes you she let me go. You’ve made me happy . . . you are always making people happy. Why, whenever you come into a room, Miss Shirley, the people in it feel happier.”

  “That’s the very nicest compliment I’ve ever had paid me, Pauline.”

  “There’s just one thing, Miss Shirley . . . I’ve nothing to wear but my old black taffeta. It’s too gloomy for a wedding, isn’t it? And it’s too big for me since I got thin. You see it’s six years since I got it.”

  “We must try to induce your mother to let you have a new dress,” said Anne hopefully.

  But that proved to be beyond her powers. Mrs. Gibson was adamant. Pauline’s black taffeta was plenty good for Louisa Hilton’s wedding.

  “I paid two dollars a yard for it six years ago and three to Jane Sharp for making it. Jane was a good dressmaker. Her mother was a Smiley. The idea of you wanting something ‘light,’ Pauline Gibson! She’d go dressed in scarlet from head to foot, that one, if she was let, Miss Shirley. She’s just waiting till I’m dead to do it. Ah, well, you’ll soon be shet of all the trouble I am to you, Pauline. Then you can dress as gay and giddy as you like, but as long as I’m alive you’ll be decent. And what’s the matter with your hat? It’s time you wore a bonnet, anyhow.”

  Poor Pauline had a lively horror of having to wear a bonnet. She would wear her old hat for the rest of her life before she would do that.

  “I’m just going to be glad inside and forget all about my clothes,” she told Anne, when they went out to the garden to pick a bouquet of June lilies and bleeding-he
art for the widows.

  “I’ve a plan,” said Anne, with a cautious glance to make sure Mrs. Gibson couldn’t hear her, though she was watching from the sitting-room window. “You know that silver-gray poplin of mine? I’m going to lend you that for the wedding.”

  Pauline dropped the basket of flowers in her agitation, making a pool of pink and white sweetness at Anne’s feet.

  “Oh, my dear, I couldn’t. . . . Ma wouldn’t let me.”

  “She won’t know a thing about it. Listen. Saturday morning you’ll put it on under your black taffeta. I know it will fit you. It’s a little long, but I’ll run some tucks in it tomorrow . . . tucks are fashionable now. It’s collarless, with elbow sleeves so no one will suspect. As soon as you get to Gull Cove, take off the taffeta. When the day is over you can leave the poplin at Gull Cove and I can get it the next week-end I’m home.”

  “But wouldn’t it be too young for me?”

  “Not a bit of it. Any age can wear gray.”

  “Do you think it would be . . . right . . . to deceive Ma?” faltered Pauline.

  “In this case entirely right,” said Anne shamelessly. “You know, Pauline, it would never do to wear a black dress to a wedding. It might bring the bride bad luck.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that for anything. And of course it won’t hurt Ma. I do hope she’ll get through Saturday all right. I’m afraid she won’t eat a bite when I’m away . . . she didn’t the time I went to Cousin Matilda’s funeral. Miss Prouty told me she didn’t. . . . Miss Prouty stayed with her. She was so provoked at Cousin Matilda for dying . . . Ma was, I mean.”

  “She’ll eat. . . . I’ll see to that.”

  “I know you’ve a great knack of managing her,” conceded Pauline. “And you won’t forget to give her her medicine at the regular times, will you, dear? Oh, perhaps I oughtn’t to go after all.”

  “You’ve been out there long enough to pick forty bokays,” called Mrs. Gibson irately. “I dunno what the widows want of your flowers. They’ve plenty of their own. I’d go a long time without flowers if I waited for Rebecca Dew to send me any. I’m dying for a drink of water. But then I’m of no consequence.”