The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “I thought you didn’t like cucumber, Cecily,” Dan remarked.

  “Neither I do,” said Cecily with a grimace. “But Peter says they’re splendid for dreaming. He et one that night he had the dream about being caught by cannibals. I’d eat three cucumbers if I could have a dream like that.”

  Cecily finished her cucumber, and then drank a glass of milk, just as we heard the wheels of Uncle Alec’s buggy rambling over the bridge in the hollow. Felicity quickly restored pork and pudding to their own places, and by the time Aunt Janet came in we were all in our respective beds. Soon the house was dark and silent. I was just dropping into an uneasy slumber when I heard a commotion in the girls’ room across the hall.

  Their door opened and through our own open door I saw Felicity’s white-clad figure flit down the stairs to Aunt Janet’s room. From the room she had left came moans and cries.

  “Cecily’s sick,” said Dan, springing out of bed. “That cucumber must have disagreed with her.”

  In a few minutes the whole house was astir. Cecily was sick — very, very sick, there was no doubt of that. She was even worse than Dan had been when he had eaten the bad berries. Uncle Alec, tired as he was from his hard day’s work and evening outing, was despatched for the doctor. Aunt Janet and Felicity administered all the homely remedies they could think of, but to no effect. Felicity told Aunt Janet of the cucumber, but Aunt Janet did not think the cucumber alone could be responsible for Cecily’s alarming condition.

  “Cucumbers are indigestible, but I never knew of them making any one as sick as this,” she said anxiously. “What made the child eat a cucumber before going to bed? I didn’t think she liked them.”

  “It was that wretched Peter,” sobbed Felicity indignantly. “He told her it would make her dream something extra.”

  “What on earth did she want to dream for?” demanded Aunt Janet in bewilderment.

  “Oh, to have something worth while to write in her dream book, ma. We all have dream books, you know, and every one wants their own to be the most exciting — and we’ve been eating rich things to make us dream — and it does — but if Cecily — oh, I’ll never forgive myself,” said Felicity, incoherently, letting all kinds of cats out of the bag in her excitement and alarm.

  “Well, I wonder what on earth you young ones will do next,” said

  Aunt Janet in the helpless tone of a woman who gives it up.

  Cecily was no better when the doctor came. Like Aunt Janet, he declared that cucumbers alone would not have made her so ill; but when he found out that she had drunk a glass of milk also the mystery was solved.

  “Why, milk and cucumbers together make a rank poison,” he said. “No wonder the child is sick. There — there now—” seeing the alarmed faces around him, “don’t be frightened. As old Mrs. Fraser says, ‘It’s no deidly.’ It won’t kill her, but she’ll probably be a pretty miserable girl for two or three days.”

  She was. And we were all miserable in company. Aunt Janet investigated the whole affair and the matter of our dream books was aired in family conclave. I do not know which hurt our feelings most — the scolding we got from Aunt Janet, or the ridicule which the other grown-ups, especially Uncle Roger, showered on us. Peter received an extra “setting down,” which he considered rank injustice.

  “I didn’t tell Cecily to drink the milk, and the cucumber alone wouldn’t have hurt her,” he grumbled. Cecily was able to be out with us again that day, so Peter felt that he might venture on a grumble. “‘Sides, she coaxed me to tell her what would be good for dreams. I just told her as a favour. And now your Aunt Janet blames me for the whole trouble.”

  “And Aunt Janet says we are never to have anything to eat before we go to bed after this except plain bread and milk,” said Felix sadly.

  “They’d like to stop us from dreaming altogether if they could,” said the Story Girl wrathfully.

  “Well, anyway, they can’t prevent us from growing up,” consoled

  Dan.

  “We needn’t worry about the bread and milk rule,” added Felicity. “Ma made a rule like that once before, and kept it for a week, and then we just slipped back to the old way. That will be what will happen this time, too. But of course we won’t be able to get any more rich things for supper, and our dreams will be pretty flat after this.”

  “Well, let’s go down to the Pulpit Stone and I’ll tell you a story I know,” said the Story Girl.

  We went — and straightway drank of the waters of forgetfulness. In a brief space we were laughing right merrily, no longer remembering our wrongs at the hands of those cruel grown-ups. Our laughter echoed back from the barns and the spruce grove, as if elfin denizens of upper air were sharing in our mirth.

  Presently, also, the laughter of the grown-ups mingled with ours. Aunt Olivia and Uncle Roger, Aunt Janet and Uncle Alec, came strolling through the orchard and joined our circle, as they sometimes did when the toil of the day was over, and the magic time ‘twixt light and dark brought truce of care and labour. ’Twas then we liked our grown-ups best, for then they seemed half children again. Uncle Roger and Uncle Alec lolled in the grass like boys; Aunt Olivia, looking more like a pansy than ever in the prettiest dress of pale purple print, with a knot of yellow ribbon at her throat, sat with her arm about Cecily and smiled on us all; and Aunt Janet’s motherly face lost its every-day look of anxious care.

  The Story Girl was in great fettle that night. Never had her tales sparkled with such wit and archness.

  “Sara Stanley,” said Aunt Olivia, shaking her finger at her after a side-splitting yarn, “if you don’t watch out you’ll be famous some day.”

  “These funny stories are all right,” said Uncle Roger, “but for real enjoyment give me something with a creep in it. Sara, tell us that story of the Serpent Woman I heard you tell one day last summer.”

  The Story Girl began it glibly. But before she had gone far with it, I, who was sitting beside her, felt an unaccountable repulsion creeping over me. For the first time since I had known her I wanted to draw away from the Story Girl. Looking around on the faces of the group, I saw that they all shared my feeling. Cecily had put her hands over her eyes. Peter was staring at the Story Girl with a fascinated, horror-strickened gaze. Aunt Olivia was pale and troubled. All looked as if they were held prisoners in the bonds of a fearsome spell which they would gladly break but could not.

  It was not our Story Girl who sat there, telling that weird tale in a sibilant, curdling voice. She had put on a new personality like a garment, and that personality was a venomous, evil, loathly thing. I would rather have died than have touched the slim, brown wrist on which she supported herself. The light in her narrowed orbs was the cold, merciless gleam of the serpent’s eye. I felt frightened of this unholy creature who had suddenly come in our dear Story Girl’s place.

  When the tale ended there was a brief silence. Then Aunt Janet said severely, but with a sigh of relief,

  “Little girls shouldn’t tell such horrible stories.”

  This truly Aunt Janetian remark broke the spell. The grown-ups laughed, rather shakily, and the Story Girl — our own dear Story Girl once more, and no Serpent Woman — said protestingly,

  “Well, Uncle Roger asked me to tell it. I don’t like telling such stories either. They make me feel dreadful. Do you know, for just a little while, I felt exactly like a snake.”

  “You looked like one,” said Uncle Roger. “How on earth do you do it?”

  “I can’t explain how I do it,” said the Story Girl perplexedly.

  “It just does itself.”

  Genius can never explain how it does it. It would not be genius

  if it could. And the Story Girl had genius.

  As we left the orchard I walked along behind Uncle Roger and Aunt

  Olivia.

  “That was an uncanny exhibition for a girl of fourteen, you know, Roger,” said Aunt Olivia musingly. “What is in store for that child?”

  “Fame,” said Uncle Roge
r. “If she ever has a chance, that is, and I suppose her father will see to that. At least, I hope he will. You and I, Olivia, never had our chance. I hope Sara will have hers.”

  This was my first inkling of what I was to understand more fully in later years. Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia had both cherished certain dreams and ambitions in youth, but circumstances had denied them their “chance” and those dreams had never been fulfilled.

  “Some day, Olivia,” went on Uncle Roger, “you and I may find ourselves the aunt and uncle of the foremost actress of her day. If a girl of fourteen can make a couple of practical farmers and a pair of matter-of-fact housewives half believe for ten minutes that she really is a snake, what won’t she be able to do when she is thirty? Here, you,” added Uncle Roger, perceiving me, “cut along and get off to your bed. And mind you don’t eat cucumbers and milk before you go.”

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  THE BEWITCHMENT OF PAT

  We were all in the doleful dumps — at least, all we “young fry” were, and even the grown-ups were sorry and condescended to take an interest in our troubles. Pat, our own, dear, frolicsome Paddy, was sick again — very, very sick.

  On Friday he moped and refused his saucer of new milk at milking time. The next morning he stretched himself down on the platform by Uncle Roger’s back door, laid his head on his black paws, and refused to take any notice of anything or anybody. In vain we stroked and entreated and brought him tidbits. Only when the Story Girl caressed him did he give one plaintive little mew, as if to ask piteously why she could not do something for him. At that Cecily and Felicity and Sara Ray all began crying, and we boys felt choky. Indeed, I caught Peter behind Aunt Olivia’s dairy later in the day, and if ever a boy had been crying I vow that boy was Peter. Nor did he deny it when I taxed him with it, but he would not give in that he was crying about Paddy. Nonsense!

  “What were you crying for, then?” I said.

  “I’m crying because — because my Aunt Jane is dead,” said Peter defiantly.

  “But your Aunt Jane died two years ago,” I said skeptically.

  “Well, ain’t that all the more reason for crying?” retorted Peter. “I’ve had to do without her for two years, and that’s worse than if it had just been a few days.”

  “I believe you were crying because Pat is so sick,” I said firmly.

  “As if I’d cry about a cat!” scoffed Peter. And he marched off whistling.

  Of course we had tried the lard and powder treatment again, smearing Pat’s paws and sides liberally. But to our dismay, Pat made no effort to lick it off.

  “I tell you he’s a mighty sick cat,” said Peter darkly. “When a cat don’t care what he looks like he’s pretty far gone.”

  “If we only knew what was the matter with him we might do something,” sobbed the Story Girl, stroking her poor pet’s unresponsive head.

  “I could tell you what’s the matter with him, but you’d only laugh at me,” said Peter.

  We all looked at him.

  “Peter Craig, what do you mean?” asked Felicity.

  “‘Zackly what I say.”

  “Then, if you know what is the matter with Paddy, tell us,” commanded the Story Girl, standing up. She said it quietly; but Peter obeyed. I think he would have obeyed if she, in that tone and with those eyes, had ordered him to cast himself into the depths of the sea. I know I should.

  “He’s BEWITCHED — that’s what’s the matter with him,” said Peter, half defiantly, half shamefacedly.

  “Bewitched? Nonsense!”

  “There now, what did I tell you?” complained Peter.

  The Story Girl looked at Peter, at the rest of us, and then at poor Pat.

  “How could he be bewitched?” she asked irresolutely, “and who could bewitch him?”

  “I don’t know HOW he was bewitched,” said Peter. “I’d have to be a witch myself to know that. But Peg Bowen bewitched him.”

  “Nonsense!” said the Story Girl again.

  “All right,” said Peter. “You don’t have to believe me.”

  “If Peg Bowen could bewitch anything — and I don’t believe she could — why should she bewitch Pat?” asked the Story Girl. “Everybody here and at Uncle Alec’s is always kind to her.”

  “I’ll tell you why,” said Peter. “Thursday afternoon, when you fellows were all in school, Peg Bowen came here. Your Aunt Olivia gave her a lunch — a good one. You may laugh at the notion of Peg being a witch, but I notice your folks are always awful good to her when she comes, and awful careful never to offend her.”

  “Aunt Olivia would be good to any poor creature, and so would mother,” said Felicity. “And of course nobody wants to offend Peg, because she is spiteful, and she once set fire to a man’s barn in Markdale when he offended her. But she isn’t a witch — that’s ridiculous.”

  “All right. But wait till I tell you. When Peg Bowen was leaving Pat stretched out on the steps. She tramped on his tail. You know Pat doesn’t like to have his tail meddled with. He slewed himself round and clawed her bare foot. If you’d just seen the look she gave him you’d know whether she was a witch or not. And she went off down the lane, muttering and throwing her hands round, just like she did in Lem Hill’s cow pasture. She put a spell on Pat, that’s what she did. He was sick the next morning.”

  We looked at each other in miserable, perplexed silence. We were only children — and we believed that there had been such things as witches once upon a time — and Peg Bowen WAS an eerie creature.

  “If that’s so — though I can’t believe it — we can’t do anything,” said the Story Girl drearily. “Pat must die.”

  Cecily began to weep afresh.

  “I’d do anything to save Pat’s life,” she said. “I’d BELIEVE anything.”

  “There’s nothing we can do,” said Felicity impatiently.

  “I suppose,” sobbed Cecily, “we might go to Peg Bowen and ask her to forgive Pat and take the spell off him. She might, if we apologized real humble.”

  At first we were appalled by the suggestion. We didn’t believe that Peg Bowen was a witch. But to go to her — to seek her out in that mysterious woodland retreat of hers which was invested with all the terrors of the unknown! And that this suggestion should come from timid Cecily, of all people! But then, there was poor Pat!

  “Would it do any good?” said the Story Girl desperately. “Even if she did make Pat sick I suppose it would only make her crosser if we went and accused her of bewitching him. Besides, she didn’t do anything of the sort.”

  But there was some uncertainty in the Story Girl’s voice.

  “It wouldn’t do any harm to try,” said Cecily. “If she didn’t make him sick it won’t matter if she is cross.”

  “It won’t matter to Pat, but it might to the one who goes to her,” said Felicity. “She isn’t a witch, but she’s a spiteful old woman, and goodness knows what she’d do to us if she caught us. I’m scared of Peg Bowen, and I don’t care who knows it. Ever since I can mind ma’s been saying, ‘If you’re not good Peg Bowen will catch you.’”

  “If I thought she really made Pat sick and could make him better,

  I’d try to pacify her somehow,” said the Story Girl decidedly.

  “I’m frightened of her, too — but just look at poor, darling

  Paddy.”

  We looked at Paddy who continued to stare fixedly before him with unwinking eyes. Uncle Roger came out and looked at him also, with what seemed to us positively brutal unconcern.

  “I’m afraid it’s all up with Pat,” he said.

  “Uncle Roger,” said Cecily imploringly, “Peter says Peg Bowen has bewitched Pat for scratching her. Do you think it can be so?”

  “Did Pat scratch Peg?” asked Uncle Roger, with a horror-stricken face. “Dear me! Dear me! That mystery is solved. Poor Pat!”

  Uncle Roger nodded his head, as if resigning himself and Pat to the worst.

  “Do you really think Peg Bowen is a witch, Uncle Roger?” dema
nded the Story Girl incredulously.

  “Do I think Peg Bowen is a witch? My dear Sara, what do YOU think of a woman who can turn herself into a black cat whenever she likes? Is she a witch? Or is she not? I leave it to you.”

  “Can Peg Bowen turn herself into a black cat?” asked Felix, staring.

  “It’s my belief that that is the least of Peg Bowen’s accomplishments,” answered Uncle Roger. “It’s the easiest thing in the world for a witch to turn herself into any animal you choose to mention. Yes, Pat is bewitched — no doubt of that — not the least in the world.”

  “What are you telling those children such stuff for?” asked Aunt

  Olivia, passing on her way to the well.

  “It’s an irresistible temptation,” answered Uncle Roger, strolling over to carry her pail.

  “You can see your Uncle Roger believes Peg is a witch,” said

  Peter.

  “And you can see Aunt Olivia doesn’t,” I said, “and I don’t either.”

  “See here,” said the Story Girl resolutely, “I don’t believe it, but there MAY be something in it. Suppose there is. The question is, what can we do?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’D do,” said Peter. “I’d take a present for Peg, and ask her to make Pat well. I wouldn’t let on I thought she’d made him sick. Then she couldn’t be offended — and maybe she’d take the spell off.”

  “I think we’d better all give her something,” said Felicity. “I’m willing to do that. But who’s going to take the presents to her?”

  “We must all go together,” said the Story Girl.

  “I won’t,” cried Sara Ray in terror. “I wouldn’t go near Peg

  Bowen’s house for the world, no matter who was with me.”

  “I’ve thought of a plan,” said the Story Girl. “Let’s all give her something, as Felicity says. And let us all go up to her place this evening, and if we see her outside we’ll just go quietly and set the things down before her with the letter, and say nothing but come respectfully away.”