The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “Oh, yes, Jordan dear, I’ll be better soon,” said Aunty Nan with her own sweet smile. “‘The inhabitant shall not say I am sick,’ you know. But if I could only see little Joscelyn first!”

  Jordan went out and hurried down-stairs. Billy Morrison was in the stable, when Jordan stuck his head over the half-door.

  “Say, can I have the rest of the day off, sir? I want to go to Kensington.”

  “Well, I don’t mind,” said Billy Morrison amiably. “May’s well get you jaunting done ‘fore harvest comes on. And here, Jord; take this quarter and get some oranges for Aunty Nan. Needn’t mention it to headquarters.”

  Billy Morrison’s face was solemn, but Jordan winked as he pocketed the money.

  “If I’ve any luck, I’ll bring her something that’ll do her more good than the oranges,” he muttered, as he hurried off to the pasture. Jordan had a horse of his own now, a rather bony nag, answering to the name of Dan. Billy Morrison had agreed to pasture the animal if Jordan used him in the farm work, an arrangement scoffed at by Mrs. William in no measured terms.

  Jordan hitched Dan into the second best buggy, dressed himself in his Sunday clothes, and drove off. On the road he re-read a paragraph he had clipped from the Charlottetown Daily Enterprise of the previous day.

  “Joscelyn Burnett, the famous contralto, is spending a few days in Kensington on her return from her Maritime concert tour. She is the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Bromley, of The Beeches.”

  “Now if I can get there in time,” said Jordan emphatically.

  Jordan got to Kensington, put Dan up in a livery stable, and inquired the way to The Beeches. He felt rather nervous when he found it, it was such a stately, imposing place, set back from the street in an emerald green seclusion of beautiful grounds.

  “Fancy me stalking up to that front door and asking for Miss Joscelyn Burnett,” grinned Jordan sheepishly. “Mebbe they’ll tell me to go around to the back and inquire for the cook. But you’re going just the same, Jordan Sloane, and no skulking. March right up now. Think of Aunty Nan and don’t let style down you.”

  A pert-looking maid answered Jordan’s ring, and stared at him when he asked for Miss Burnett.

  “I don’t think you can see her,” she said shortly, scanning his country cut of hair and clothes rather superciliously. “What is your business with her?”

  The maid’s scorn roused Jordan’s “dander,” as he would have expressed it.

  “I’ll tell her that when I see her,” he retorted coolly. “Just you tell her that I’ve a message for her from Aunty Nan Morrison of Gull Point Farm, Avonlea. If she hain’t forgot, that’ll fetch her. You might as well hurry up, if you please, I’ve not overly too much time.”

  The pert maid decided to be civil at least, and invited Jordan to enter. But she left him standing in the hall while she went in search of Miss Burnett. Jordan gazed about him in amazement. He had never been in any place like this before. The hall was wonderful enough, and through the open doors on either hand stretched vistas of lovely rooms that, to Jordan’s eyes, looked like those of a palace.

  “Gee whiz! How do they ever move around without knocking things over?”

  Then Joscelyn Burnett came, and Jordan forgot everything else. This tall, beautiful woman, in her silken draperies, with a face like nothing Jordan had ever seen, or even dreamed about, — could this be Aunty Nan’s little Joscelyn? Jordan’s round, freckled countenance grew crimson. He felt horribly tonguetied and embarrassed. What could he say to her? How could he say it?

  Joscelyn Burnett looked at him with her large, dark eyes, — the eyes of a woman who had suffered much, and learned much, and won through struggle to victory.

  “You have come from Aunty Nan?” she said. “Oh, I am so glad to hear from her. Is she well? Come in here and tell me all about her.”

  She turned toward one of those fairy-like rooms, but Jordan interrupted her desperately.

  “Oh, not in there, ma’am. I’d never get it out. Just let me blunder through it out here someways. Yes’m, Aunty Nan, she ain’t very well. She’s — she’s dying, I guess. And she’s longing for you night and day. Seems as if she couldn’t die in peace without seeing you. She wanted to get to Kensington to hear you sing, but that old cat of a Mrs. William — begging you pardon, ma’am — wouldn’t let her come. She’s always talking of you. If you can come out to Gull Point Farm and see her, I’ll be most awful obliged to you, ma’am.”

  Joscelyn Burnett looked troubled. She had not forgotten Gull Point Farm, nor Aunty Nan; but for years the memory had been dim, crowded into the background of consciousness by the more exciting events of her busy life. Now it came back with a rush. She recalled it all tenderly — the peace and beauty and love of that olden summer, and sweet Aunty Nan, so very wise in the lore of all things simple and good and true. For the moment Joscelyn Burnett was a lonely, hungry-hearted little girl again, seeking for love and finding it not, until Aunty Nan had taken her into her great mother-heart and taught her its meaning.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said perplexedly. “If you had come sooner — I leave on the 11:30 train tonight. I MUST leave by then or I shall not reach Montreal in time to fill a very important engagement. And yet I must see Aunty Nan, too. I have been careless and neglectful. I might have gone to see her before. How can we manage it?”

  “I’ll bring you back to Kensington in time to catch that train,” said Jordan eagerly. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Aunty Nan — me and Dan. Yes, sir, you’ll get back in time. Just think of Aunty Nan’s face when she sees you!”

  “I will come,” said the great singer, gently.

  It was sunset when they reached Gull Point Farm. An arc of warm gold was over the spruces behind the house. Mrs. William was out in the barn-yard, milking, and the house was deserted, save for the sleeping baby in the kitchen and the little old woman with the watchful eyes in the up-stairs room.

  “This way, ma’am,” said Jordan, inwardly congratulating himself that the coast was clear. “I’ll take you right up to her room.”

  Up-stairs, Joscelyn tapped at the half-open door and went in. Before it closed behind her, Jordan heard Aunty Nan say, “Joscelyn! Little Joscelyn!” in a tone that made him choke again. He stumbled thankfully down-stairs, to be pounced upon by Mrs. William in the kitchen.

  “Jordan Sloane, who was that stylish woman you drove into the yard with? And what have you done with her?”

  “That was Miss Joscelyn Burnett,” said Jordan, expanding himself. This was his hour of triumph over Mrs. William. “I went to Kensington and brung her out to see Aunty Nan. She’s up with her now.”

  “Dear me,” said Mrs. William helplessly. “And me in my milking rig! Jordan, for pity’s sake, hold the baby while I go and put on my black silk. You might have given a body some warning. I declare I don’t know which is the greatest idiot, you or Aunty Nan!”

  As Mrs. William flounced out of the kitchen, Jordan took his satisfaction in a quiet laugh.

  Up-stairs in the little room was a great glory of sunset and gladness of human hearts. Joscelyn was kneeling by the bed, with her arms about Aunty Nan; and Aunty Nan, with her face all irradiated, was stroking Joscelyn’s dark hair fondly.

  “O, little Joscelyn,” she murmured, “it seems too good to be true. It seems like a beautiful dream. I knew you the minute you opened the door, my dearie. You haven’t changed a bit. And you’re a famous singer now, little Joscelyn! I always knew you would be. Oh, I want you to sing a piece for me — just one, won’t you, dearie? Sing that piece people like to hear you sing best. I forget the name, but I’ve read about it in the papers. Sing it for me, little Joscelyn.”

  And Joscelyn, standing by Aunty Nan’s bed, in the sunset light, sang the song she had sung to many a brilliant audience on many a noted concert-platform — sang it as even she had never sung before, while Aunty Nan lay and listened beatifically, and downstairs even Mrs. William held her breath, entranced by the exquisite melody that floated throu
gh the old farmhouse.

  “O, little Joscelyn!” breathed Aunty Nan in rapture, when the song ended.

  Joscelyn knelt by her again and they had a long talk of old days. One by one they recalled the memories of that vanished summer. The past gave up its tears and its laughter. Heart and fancy alike went roaming through the ways of the long ago. Aunty Nan was perfectly happy. And then Joscelyn told her all the story of her struggles and triumphs since they had parted.

  When the moonlight began to creep in through the low window, Aunty Nan put out her hand and touched Joscelyn’s bowed head.

  “Little Joscelyn,” she whispered, “if it ain’t asking too much, I want you to sing just one other piece. Do you remember when you were here how we sung hymns in the parlour every Sunday night, and my favourite always was ‘The Sands of Time are Sinking?’ I ain’t never forgot how you used to sing that, and I want to hear it just once again, dearie. Sing it for me, little Joscelyn.”

  Joscelyn rose and went to the window. Lifting back the curtain, she stood in the splendour of the moonlight, and sang the grand old hymn. At first Aunty Nan beat time to it feebly on the counterpane; but when Joscelyn came to the verse, “With mercy and with judgment,” she folded her hands over her breast and smiled.

  When the hymn ended, Joscelyn came over to the bed.

  “I am afraid I must say good-bye now, Aunty Nan,” she said.

  Then she saw that Aunty Nan had fallen asleep. She would not waken her, but she took from her breast the cluster of crimson roses she wore and slipped them gently between the toil-worn fingers.

  “Good-bye, dear, sweet mother-heart,” she murmured.

  Down-stairs she met Mrs. William splendid in rustling black silk, her broad, rubicund face smiling, overflowing with apologies and welcomes, which Joscelyn cut short coldly.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Morrison, but I cannot possibly stay longer. No, thank you, I don’t care for any refreshments. Jordan is going to take me back to Kensington at once. I came out to see Aunty Nan.” “I’m certain she’d be delighted,” said Mrs. William effusively. “She’s been talking about you for weeks.”

  “Yes, it has made her very happy,” said Joscelyn gravely. “And it has made me happy, too. I love Aunty Nan, Mrs. Morrison, and I owe her much. In all my life I have never met a woman so purely, unselfishly good and noble and true.”

  “Fancy now,” said Mrs. William, rather overcome at hearing this great singer pronounce such an encomium on quiet, timid old Aunty Nan.

  Jordan drove Joscelyn back to Kensington; and up-stairs in her room Aunty Nan slept, with that rapt smile on her face and Joscelyn’s red roses in her hands. Thus it was that Mrs. William found her, going in the next morning with her breakfast. The sunlight crept over the pillow, lighting up the sweet old face and silver hair, and stealing downward to the faded red roses on her breast. Smiling and peaceful and happy lay Aunty Nan, for she had fallen on the sleep that knows no earthy wakening, while little Joscelyn sang.

  The Winning of Lucinda

  The marriage of a Penhallow was always the signal for a gathering of the Penhallows. From the uttermost parts of the earth they would come — Penhallows by birth, and Penhallows by marriage and Penhallows by ancestry. East Grafton was the ancient habitat of the race, and Penhallow Grange, where “old” John Penhallow lived, was a Mecca to them.

  As for the family itself, the exact kinship of all its various branches and ramifications was a hard thing to define. Old Uncle Julius Penhallow was looked upon as a veritable wonder because he carried it all in his head and could tell on sight just what relation any one Penhallow was to any other Penhallow. The rest made a blind guess at it, for the most part, and the younger Penhallows let it go at loose cousinship.

  In this instance it was Alice Penhallow, daughter of “young” John Penhallow, who was to be married. Alice was a nice girl, but she and her wedding only pertain to this story in so far as they furnish a background for Lucinda; hence nothing more need be said of her.

  On the afternoon of her wedding day — the Penhallows held to the good, old-fashioned custom of evening weddings with a rousing dance afterwards — Penhallow Grange was filled to overflowing with guests who had come there to have tea and rest themselves before going down to “young” John’s. Many of them had driven fifty miles. In the big autumnal orchard the younger fry foregathered and chatted and coquetted. Up-stairs, in “old” Mrs. John’s bedroom, she and her married daughters held high conclave. “Old” John had established himself with his sons and sons-in-law in the parlour, and the three daughters-in-law were making themselves at home in the blue sitting-room, ear-deep in harmless family gossip. Lucinda and Romney Penhallow were also there.

  Thin Mrs. Nathaniel Penhallow sat in a rocking chair and toasted her toes at the grate, for the brilliant autumn afternoon was slightly chilly and Lucinda, as usual, had the window open. She and plump Mrs. Frederick Penhallow did most of the talking. Mrs. George Penhallow being rather out of it by reason of her newness. She was George Penhallow’s second wife, married only a year. Hence, her contributions to the conversation were rather spasmodic, hurled in, as it were, by dead reckoning, being sometimes appropriate and sometimes savouring of a point of view not strictly Penhallowesque.

  Romney Penhallow was sitting in a corner, listening to the chatter of the women, with the inscrutable smile that always vexed Mrs. Frederick. Mrs. George wondered within herself what he did there among the women. She also wondered just where he belonged on the family tree. He was not one of the uncles, yet he could not be much younger than George.

  “Forty, if he is a day,” was Mrs. George’s mental dictum, “but a very handsome and fascinating man. I never saw such a splendid chin and dimple.”

  Lucinda, with bronze-colored hair and the whitest of skins, defiant of merciless sunlight and revelling in the crisp air, sat on the sill of the open window behind the crimson vine leaves, looking out into the garden, where dahlias flamed and asters broke into waves of purple and snow. The ruddy light of the autumn afternoon gave a sheen to the waves of her hair and brought out the exceeding purity of her Greek outlines.

  Mrs. George knew who Lucinda was — a cousin of the second generation, and, in spite of her thirty-five years, the acknowledged beauty of the whole Penhallow connection.

  She was one of those rare women who keep their loveliness unmarred by the passage of years. She had ripened and matured, but she had not grown old. The older Penhallows were still inclined, from sheer force of habit, to look upon her as a girl, and the younger Penhallows hailed her as one of themselves. Yet Lucinda never aped girlishness; good taste and a strong sense of humour preserved her amid many temptations thereto. She was simply a beautiful, fully developed woman, with whom Time had declared a truce, young with a mellow youth which had nothing to do with years.

  Mrs. George liked and admired Lucinda. Now, when Mrs. George liked and admired any person, it was a matter of necessity with her to impart her opinions to the most convenient confidant. In this case it was Romney Penhallow to whom Mrs. George remarked sweetly:

  “Really, don’t you think our Lucinda is looking remarkably well this fall?”

  It seemed a very harmless, inane, well-meant question. Poor Mrs. George might well be excused for feeling bewildered over the effect. Romney gathered his long legs together, stood up, and swept the unfortunate speaker a crushing Penhallow bow of state.

  “Far be it from me to disagree with the opinion of a lady — especially when it concerns another lady,” he said, as he left the blue room.

  Overcome by the mordant satire in his tone, Mrs. George glanced speechlessly at Lucinda. Behold, Lucinda had squarely turned her back on the party and was gazing out into the garden, with a very decided flush on the snowy curves of her neck and cheek. Then Mrs. George looked at her sisters-in-law. They were regarding her with the tolerant amusement they might bestow on a blundering child. Mrs. George experienced that subtle prescience whereby it is given us to know that we have put our foot i
n it. She felt herself turning an uncomfortable brick-red. What Penhallow skeleton had she unwittingly jangled? Why, oh, why, was it such an evident breach of the proprieties to praise Lucinda?

  Mrs. George was devoutly thankful that a summons to the tea-table rescued her from her mire of embarrassment. The meal was spoiled for her, however; the mortifying recollection of her mysterious blunder conspired with her curiosity to banish appetite. As soon as possible after tea she decoyed Mrs. Frederick out into the garden and in the dahlia walk solemnly demanded the reason of it all.

  Mrs. Frederick indulged in a laugh which put the mettle of her festal brown silk seams to the test.

  “My dear Cecilia, it was SO amusing,” she said, a little patronizingly.

  “But WHY!” cried Mrs. George, resenting the patronage and the mystery. “What was so dreadful in what I said? Or so funny? And WHO is this Romney Penhallow who mustn’t be spoken to?”

  “Oh, Romney is one of the Charlottetown Penhallows,” explained Mrs. Frederick. “He is a lawyer there. He is a first cousin of Lucinda’s and a second of George’s — or is he? Oh, bother! You must go to Uncle John if you want the genealogy. I’m in a chronic muddle concerning Penhallow relationship. And, as for Romney, of course you can speak to him about anything you like except Lucinda. Oh, you innocent! To ask him if he didn’t think Lucinda was looking well! And right before her, too! Of course he thought you did it on purpose to tease him. That was what made him so savage and sarcastic.”

  “But WHY?” persisted Mrs. George, sticking tenaciously to her point.

  “Hasn’t George told you?”

  “No,” said George’s wife in mild exasperation. “George has spent most of his time since we were married telling me odd things about the Penhallows, but he hasn’t got to that yet, evidently.”

  “Why, my dear, it is our family romance. Lucinda and Romney are in love with each other. They have been in love with each other for fifteen years and in all that time they have never spoken to each other once!”