The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “If she’ll let us,” said Dan significantly.

  “Can Peg read a letter?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. Aunt Olivia says she is a good scholar. She went to school and was a smart girl until she became crazy. We’ll write it very plain.”

  “What if we don’t see her?” asked Felicity.

  “We’ll put the things on her doorstep then and leave them.”

  “She may be miles away over the country by this time,” sighed Cecily, “and never find them until it’s too late for Pat. But it’s the only thing to do. What can we give her?”

  “We mustn’t offer her any money,” said the Story Girl. “She’s very indignant when any one does that. She says she isn’t a beggar. But she’ll take anything else. I shall give her my string of blue beads. She’s fond of finery.”

  “I’ll give her that sponge cake I made this morning,” said

  Felicity. “I guess she doesn’t get sponge cake very often.”

  “I’ve nothing but the rheumatism ring I got as a premium for selling needles last winter,” said Peter. “I’ll give her that. Even if she hasn’t got rheumatism it’s a real handsome ring. It looks like solid gold.”

  “I’ll give her a roll of peppermint candy,” said Felix.

  “I’ll give one of those little jars of cherry preserve I made,” said Cecily.

  “I won’t go near her,” quavered Sara Ray, “but I want to do something for Pat, and I’ll send that piece of apple leaf lace I knit last week.”

  I decided to give the redoubtable Peg some apples from my birthday tree, and Dan declared he would give her a plug of tobacco.

  “Oh, won’t she be insulted?” exclaimed Felix, rather horrified.

  “Naw,” grinned Dan. “Peg chews tobacco like a man. She’d rather have it than your rubbishy peppermints, I can tell you. I’ll run down to old Mrs. Sampson’s and get a plug.”

  “Now, we must write the letter and take it and the presents to her right away, before it gets dark,” said the Story Girl.

  We adjourned to the granary to indite the important document, which the Story Girl was to compose.

  “How shall I begin it?” she asked in perplexity. “It would never do to say, ‘Dear Peg,’ and ‘Dear Miss Bowen’ sounds too ridiculous.”

  “Besides, nobody knows whether she is Miss Bowen or not,” said Felicity. “She went to Boston when she grew up, and some say she was married there and her husband deserted her, and that’s why she went crazy. If she’s married, she won’t like being called Miss.”

  “Well, how am I to address her?” asked the Story Girl in despair.

  Peter again came to the rescue with a practical suggestion.

  “Begin it, ‘Respected Madam,’” he said. “Ma has a letter a school trustee once writ to my Aunt Jane and that’s how it begins.”

  “Respected Madam,” wrote the Story Girl. “We want to ask a very great favour of you and we hope you will kindly grant it if you can. Our favourite cat, Paddy, is very sick, and we are afraid he is going to die. Do you think you could cure him? And will you please try? We are all so fond of him, and he is such a good cat, and has no bad habits. Of course, if any of us tramps on his tail he will scratch us, but you know a cat can’t bear to have his tail tramped on. It’s a very tender part of him, and it’s his only way of preventing it, and he doesn’t mean any harm. If you can cure Paddy for us we will always be very, very grateful to you. The accompanying small offerings are a testimonial of our respect and gratitude, and we entreat you to honour us by accepting them.

  ”Very respectfully yours,

  ”SARA STANLEY.”

  “I tell you that last sentence has a fine sound,” said Peter admiringly.

  “I didn’t make that up,” admitted the Story Girl honestly. “I read it somewhere and remembered it.”

  “I think it’s TOO fine,” criticized Felicity. “Peg Bowen won’t know the meaning of such big words.”

  But it was decided to leave them in and we all signed the letter.

  Then we got our “testimonials,” and started on our reluctant journey to the domains of the witch. Sara Ray would not go, of course, but she volunteered to stay with Pat while we were away. We did not think it necessary to inform the grown-ups of our errand, or its nature. Grown-ups had such peculiar views. They might forbid our going at all — and they would certainly laugh at us.

  Peg Bowen’s house was nearly a mile away, even by the short cut past the swamp and up the wooded hill. We went down through the brook field and over the little plank bridge in the hollow, half lost in its surrounding sea of farewell summers. When we reached the green gloom of the woods beyond we began to feel frightened, but nobody would admit it. We walked very closely together, and we did not talk. When you are near the retreat of witches and folk of that ilk the less you say the better, for their feelings are so notoriously touchy. Of course, Peg wasn’t a witch, but it was best to be on the safe side.

  Finally we came to the lane which led directly to her abode. We were all very pale now, and our hearts were beating. The red September sun hung low between the tall spruces to the west. It did not look to me just right for a sun. In fact, everything looked uncanny. I wished our errand were well over.

  A sudden bend in the lane brought us out to the little clearing where Peg’s house was before we were half ready to see it. In spite of my fear I looked at it with some curiosity. It was a small, shaky building with a sagging roof, set amid a perfect jungle of weeds. To our eyes, the odd thing about it was that there was no entrance on the ground floor, as there should be in any respectable house. The only door was in the upper story, and was reached by a flight of rickety steps. There was no sign of life about the place except — sight of ill omen — a large black cat, sitting on the topmost step. We thought of Uncle Roger’s gruesome hints. Could that black cat be Peg? Nonsense! But still — it didn’t look like an ordinary cat. It was so large — and had such green, malicious eyes! Plainly, there was something out of the common about the beastie!

  In a tense, breathless silence the Story Girl placed our parcels on the lowest step, and laid her letter on the top of the pile. Her brown fingers trembled and her face was very pale.

  Suddenly the door above us opened, and Peg Bowen herself appeared on the threshold. She was a tall, sinewy old woman, wearing a short, ragged, drugget skirt which reached scantly below her knees, a scarlet print blouse, and a man’s hat. Her feet, arms, and neck were bare, and she had a battered old clay pipe in her mouth. Her brown face was seamed with a hundred wrinkles, and her tangled, grizzled hair fell unkemptly over her shoulders. She was scowling, and her flashing black eyes held no friendly light.

  We had borne up bravely enough hitherto, in spite of our inward, unconfessed quakings. But now our strained nerves gave way, and sheer panic seized us. Peter gave a little yelp of pure terror. We turned and fled across the clearing and into the woods. Down the long hill we tore, like mad, hunted creatures, firmly convinced that Peg Bowen was after us. Wild was that scamper, as nightmare-like as any recorded in our dream books. The Story Girl was in front of me, and I can recall the tremendous leaps she made over fallen logs and little spruce bushes, with her long brown curls streaming out behind her from their scarlet fillet. Cecily, behind me, kept gasping out the contradictory sentences, “Oh, Bev, wait for me,” and “Oh, Bev, hurry, hurry!” More by blind instinct than anything else we kept together and found our way out of the woods. Presently we were in the field beyond the brook. Over us was a dainty sky of shell pink, placid cows were pasturing around us; the farewell summers nodded to us in the friendly breezes. We halted, with a glad realization that we were back in our own haunts and that Peg Bowen had not caught us.

  “Oh, wasn’t that an awful experience?” gasped Cecily, shuddering.

  “I wouldn’t go through it again — I couldn’t, not even for Pat.”

  “It come on a fellow so suddent,” said Peter shamefacedly. “I think I could a-stood my ground if I’d known she wa
s going to come out. But when she popped out like that I thought I was done for.”

  “We shouldn’t have run,” said Felicity gloomily. “It showed we were afraid of her, and that always makes her awful cross. She won’t do a thing for Pat now.”

  “I don’t believe she could do anything, anyway,” said the Story

  Girl. “I think we’ve just been a lot of geese.”

  We were all, except Peter, more or less inclined to agree with her. And the conviction of our folly deepened when we reached the granary and found that Pat, watched over by the faithful Sara Ray, was no better. The Story Girl announced that she would take him into the kitchen and sit up all night with him.

  “He sha’n’t die alone, anyway,” she said miserably, gathering his limp body up in her arms.

  We did not think Aunt Olivia would give her permission to stay up; but Aunt Olivia did. Aunt Olivia really was a duck. We wanted to stay with her also, but Aunt Janet wouldn’t hear of such a thing. She ordered us off to bed, saying that it was positively sinful in us to be so worked up over a cat. Five heart-broken children, who knew that there are many worse friends than dumb, furry folk, climbed Uncle Alec’s stairs to bed that night.

  “There’s nothing we can do now, except pray God to make Pat better,” said Cecily.

  I must candidly say that her tone savoured strongly of a last resort; but this was owing more to early training than to any lack of faith on Cecily’s part. She knew and we knew, that prayer was a solemn rite, not to be lightly held, nor degraded to common uses. Felicity voiced this conviction when she said,

  “I don’t believe it would be right to pray about a cat.”

  “I’d like to know why not,” retorted Cecily, “God made Paddy just as much as He made you, Felicity King, though perhaps He didn’t go to so much trouble. And I’m sure He’s abler to help him than Peg Bowen. Anyhow, I’m going to pray for Pat with all my might and main, and I’d like to see you try to stop me. Of course I won’t mix it up with more important things. I’ll just tack it on after I’ve finished asking the blessings, but before I say amen.”

  More petitions than Cecily’s were offered up that night on behalf of Paddy. I distinctly heard Felix — who always said his prayers in a loud whisper, owing to some lasting conviction of early life that God could not hear him if he did not pray audibly — mutter pleadingly, after the “important” part of his devotions was over, “Oh, God, please make Pat better by the morning. PLEASE do.”

  And I, even in these late years of irreverence for the dreams of youth, am not in the least ashamed to confess that when I knelt down to say my boyish prayer, I thought of our little furry comrade in his extremity, and prayed as reverently as I knew how for his healing. Then I went to sleep, comforted by the simple hope that the Great Father would, after “important things” were all attended to, remember poor Pat.

  As soon as we were up the next morning we rushed off to Uncle Roger’s. But we met Peter and the Story Girl in the lane, and their faces were as the faces of those who bring glad tidings upon the mountains.

  “Pat’s better,” cried the Story Girl, blithe, triumphant. “Last night, just at twelve, he began to lick his paws. Then he licked himself all over and went to sleep, too, on the sofa. When I woke Pat was washing his face, and he has taken a whole saucerful of milk. Oh, isn’t it splendid?”

  “You see Peg Bowen did put a spell on him,” said Peter, “and then she took it off.”

  “I guess Cecily’s prayer had more to do with Pat’s getting better than Peg Bowen,” said Felicity. “She prayed for Pat over and over again. That is why he’s better.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Peter, “but I’d advise Pat not to scratch

  Peg Bowen again, that’s all.”

  “I wish I knew whether it was the praying or Peg Bowen that cured

  Pat,” said Felix in perplexity.

  “I don’t believe it was either of them,” said Dan. “Pat just got sick and got better again of his own accord.”

  “I’m going to believe that it was the praying,” said Cecily decidedly. “It’s so much nicer to believe that God cured Pat than that Peg Bowen did.”

  “But you oughtn’t to believe a thing just ‘cause it would be more comfortable,” objected Peter. “Mind you, I ain’t saying God couldn’t cure Pat. But nothing and nobody can’t ever make me believe that Peg Bowen wasn’t at the bottom of it all.”

  Thus faith, superstition, and incredulity strove together amongst us, as in all history.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  A CUP OF FAILURE

  One warm Sunday evening in the moon of golden-rod, we all, grown-ups and children, were sitting in the orchard by the Pulpit Stone singing sweet old gospel hymns. We could all sing more or less, except poor Sara Ray, who had once despairingly confided to me that she didn’t know what she’d ever do when she went to heaven, because she couldn’t sing a note.

  That whole scene comes out clearly for me in memory — the arc of primrose sky over the trees behind the old house, the fruit-laden boughs of the orchard, the bank of golden-rod, like a wave of sunshine, behind the Pulpit Stone, the nameless colour seen on a fir wood in a ruddy sunset. I can see Uncle Alec’s tired, brilliant, blue eyes, Aunt Janet’s wholesome, matronly face, Uncle Roger’s sweeping blond beard and red cheeks, and Aunt Olivia’s full-blown beauty. Two voices ring out for me above all others in the music that echoes through the halls of recollection. Cecily’s sweet and silvery, and Uncle Alec’s fine tenor. “If you’re a King, you sing,” was a Carlisle proverb in those days. Aunt Julia had been the flower of the flock in that respect and had become a noted concert singer. The world had never heard of the rest. Their music echoed only along the hidden ways of life, and served but to lighten the cares of the trivial round and common task.

  That evening, after they tired of singing, our grown-ups began talking of their youthful days and doings.

  This was always a keen delight to us small fry. We listened avidly to the tales of our uncles and aunts in the days when they, too — hard fact to realize — had been children. Good and proper as they were now, once, so it seemed, they had gotten into mischief and even had their quarrels and disagreements. On this particular evening Uncle Roger told many stories of Uncle Edward, and one in which the said Edward had preached sermons at the mature age of ten from the Pulpit Stone fired, as the sequel will show, the Story Girl’s imagination.

  “Can’t I just see him at it now,” said Uncle Roger, “leaning over that old boulder, his cheeks red and his eyes burning with excitement, banging the top of it as he had seen the ministers do in church. It wasn’t cushioned, however, and he always bruised his hands in his self-forgetful earnestness. We thought him a regular wonder. We loved to hear him preach, but we didn’t like to hear him pray, because he always insisted on praying for each of us by name, and it made us feel wretchedly uncomfortable, somehow. Alec, do you remember how furious Julia was because Edward prayed one day that she might be preserved from vanity and conceit over her singing?”

  “I should think I do,” laughed Uncle Alec. “She was sitting right there where Cecily is now, and she got up at once and marched right out of the orchard, but at the gate she turned to call back indignantly, ‘I guess you’d better wait till you’ve prayed the conceit out of yourself before you begin on me, Ned King. I never heard such stuck-up sermons as you preach.’ Ned went on praying and never let on he heard her, but at the end of his prayer he wound up with ‘Oh, God, I pray you to keep an eye on us all, but I pray you to pay particular attention to my sister Julia, for I think she needs it even more than the rest of us, world without end, Amen.’”

  Our uncles roared with laughter over the recollection. We all laughed, indeed, especially over another tale in which Uncle Edward, leaning too far over the “pulpit” in his earnestness, lost his balance altogether and tumbled ingloriously into the grass below.

  “He lit on a big Scotch thistle,” said Uncle Roger, chuckling, “and besides that, he skinned h
is forehead on a stone. But he was determined to finish his sermon, and finish it he did. He climbed back into the pulpit, with the tears rolling over his cheeks, and preached for ten minutes longer, with sobs in his voice and drops of blood on his forehead. He was a plucky little beggar. No wonder he succeeded in life.”

  “And his sermons and prayers were always just about as outspoken as those Julia objected to,” said Uncle Alec. “Well, we’re all getting on in life and Edward is gray; but when I think of him I always see him a little, rosy, curly-headed chap, laying down the law to us from the Pulpit Stone. It seems like the other day that we were all here together, just as these children are, and now we are scattered everywhere. Julia in California, Edward in Halifax, Alan in South America, Felix and Felicity and Stephen gone to the land that is very far off.”

  There was a little space of silence; and then Uncle Alec began, in a low, impressive voice, to repeat the wonderful verses of the ninetieth Psalm — verses which were thenceforth bound up for us with the beauty of that night and the memories of our kindred. Very reverently we all listened to the majestic words.

  “Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting thou art God…. For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night…. For all our days are passed away in thy wrath; we spend our years as a tale that is told. The days of our years are threescore and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years yet is their strength, labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off and we fly away…. So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom…. Oh, satisfy us early with thy mercy; that we may rejoice and be glad all our days…. And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us; and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.”