Mordecai had gone home and the pigs were not to be seen, but a chubby little face peeped at him from between two scrub, bloom-white cherry trees.
“G’way, you bad man!” said Bobbles vindictively. “G’way! You made my mommer cry — I saw you. I’m only Bobbles now, but when I grow up I’ll be Charles Henry Hayden and you won’t dare to make my mommer cry then.”
Harrington smiled grimly. “So you’re the lad who forgets to shut the pigpen gate, are you? Come out here and let me see you. Who is in there with you?”
“Ted is. He’s littler than me. But I won’t come out. I don’t like you. G’way home.”
Harrington obeyed. He went home and to work in his garden. But work as hard as he would, he could not forget Mary Hayden’s grieved face.
“I was a brute!” he thought. “Why couldn’t I have mentioned the matter gently? I daresay she has enough to trouble her. Confound those pigs!”
After that there was a time of calm. Evidently something had been done to Bobbles’ memory or perhaps Mrs. Hayden attended to the gate herself. At all events the pigs were not seen and Harrington’s garden blossomed like the rose. But Harrington himself was in a bad state.
For one thing, wherever he looked he saw the mental picture of his neighbour’s tired, sweet face and the tears in her blue eyes. The original he never saw, which only made matters worse. He wondered what opinion she had of him and decided that she must think him a cross old bear. This worried him. He wished the pigs would break in again so that he might have a chance to show how forbearing he could be.
One day he gathered a nice mess of tender young greens and sent them over to Mrs. Hayden by Mordecai. At first he had thought of sending her some flowers, but that seemed silly, and besides, Mordecai and flowers were incongruous. Mrs. Hayden sent back a very pretty message of thanks, whereat Harrington looked radiant and Mordecai, who could see through a stone wall as well as most people, went out to the barn and chuckled.
“Ef the little widder hain’t caught him! Who’d a-thought it?”
The next day one adventurous pig found its way alone into the Harrington garden. Harrington saw it get in and at the same moment he saw Mrs. Hayden running through her orchard. She was in his yard by the time he got out.
Her sunbonnet had fallen back and some loose tendrils of her auburn hair were curling around her forehead. Her cheeks were so pink and her eyes so bright from running that she looked almost girlish.
“Oh, Mr. Harrington,” she said breathlessly, “that pet pig of Bobbles’ is in your garden again. He only got in this minute. I saw him coming and I ran right after him.”
“He’s there, all right,” said Harrington cheerfully, “but I’ll get him out in a jiffy. Don’t tire yourself. Won’t you go into the house and rest while I drive him around?”
Mrs. Hayden, however, was determined to help and they both went around to the garden, set the gate open, and tried to drive the pig out. But Harrington was not thinking about pigs, and Mrs. Hayden did not know quite so much about driving them as Mordecai did; as a consequence they did not make much headway. In her excitement Mrs. Hayden ran over beds and whatever came in her way, and Harrington, in order to keep near her, ran after her. Between them they spoiled things about as much as a whole drove of pigs would have done.
But at last the pig grew tired of the fun, bolted out of the gate, and ran across the yard to his own place. Mrs. Hayden followed slowly and Harrington walked beside her.
“Those pigs are all to be shut up tomorrow,” she said. “Hiram has been fixing up a place for them in his spare moments and it is ready at last.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” said Harrington hastily. “It isn’t good for pigs to be shut up so young. You’d better let them run a while yet.”
“No,” said Mrs. Hayden decidedly. “They have almost worried me to death already. In they go tomorrow.”
They were at the lane gate now, and Harrington had to open it and let her pass through. He felt quite desperate as he watched her trip up through the rows of apple trees, her blue gingham skirt brushing the lush grasses where a lacy tangle of sunbeams and shadows lay. Bobbles and Ted came running to meet her and the three, hand in hand, disappeared from sight.
Harrington went back to the house, feeling that life was flat, stale, and unprofitable. That evening at the tea table he caught himself wondering what it would be like to see Mary Hayden sitting at his table in place of Sarah King, with Bobbles and Ted on either hand. Then he found out what was the matter with him. He was in love, fathoms deep, with the blue-eyed widow!
Presumably the pigs were shut up the next day, for Harrington’s garden was invaded no more. He stood it for a week and then surrendered at discretion. He filled a basket with early strawberries and went across to the Hayden place, boldly enough to all appearance, but with his heart thumping like any schoolboy’s.
The front door stood hospitably open, flanked by rows of defiant red and yellow hollyhocks. Harrington paused on the step, with his hand outstretched to knock. Somewhere inside he heard a low sobbing. Forgetting all about knocking, he stepped softly in and walked to the door of the little sitting-room. Bobbles was standing behind him in the middle of the kitchen but Harrington did not see him. He was looking at Mary Hayden, who was sitting by the table in the room with her arms flung out over it and her head bowed on them. She was crying softly in a hopeless fashion.
Harrington put down his strawberries. “Mary!” he exclaimed.
Mrs. Hayden straightened herself up with a start and looked at him, her lips quivering and her eyes full of tears.
“What is the matter?” said Harrington anxiously. “Is anything wrong?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Said Mrs. Hayden, trying to recover herself. “Yes, there is too. But it is very foolish of me to be going on like this. I didn’t know anyone was near. And I was feeling so discouraged. The colt broke his leg in the swamp pasture today and Hiram had to shoot him. It was Ted’s colt. But there, there is no use in crying over it.”
And by way of proving this, the poor, tired, overburdened little woman began to cry again. She was past caring whether Harrington saw her or not.
The woman-hater was so distressed that he forgot to be nervous. He sat down and put his arm around her and spoke out what was in his mind without further parley.
“Don’t cry, Mary. Listen to me. You were never meant to run a farm and be killed with worry. You ought to be looked after and petted. I want you to marry me and then everything will be all right. I’ve loved you ever since that day I came over here and made you cry. Do you think you can like me a little, Mary?”
It may be that Mrs. Hayden was not very much surprised, because Harrington’s face had been like an open book the day they chased the pig out of the garden together. As for what she said, perhaps Bobbles, who was surreptitiously gorging himself on Harrington’s strawberries, may tell you, but I certainly shall not.
The little brown house among the apple trees is shut up now and the boundary fence belongs to ancient history. Sarah King has gone also and Mrs. John Harrington reigns royally in her place. Bobbles and Ted have a small, blue-eyed, much-spoiled sister, and there is a pig on the estate who may die of old age, but will never meet his doom otherwise. It is Bobbles’ pig and one of the famous fourteen.
Mordecai still shambles around and worships Mrs. Harrington. The garden is the same as of yore, but the house is a different place and Harrington is a different man. And Mordecai will tell you with a chuckle, “It was them notorious pigs as did it all.”
Why Not Ask Miss Price?
Frances Allen came in from the post office and laid an open letter on the table beside her mother, who was making mincemeat. Alma Allen looked up from the cake she was frosting to ask, “What is the matter? You look as if your letter contained unwelcome news, Fan.”
“So it does. It is from Aunt Clara, to say she cannot come. She has received a telegram that her sister-in-law is very ill and she must go to her at once.”
> Mrs. Allen looked regretful, and Alma cast her spoon away with a tragic air.
“That is too bad. I feel as if our celebration were spoiled. But I suppose it can’t be helped.”
“No,” agreed Frances, sitting down and beginning to peel apples. “So there is no use in lamenting, or I would certainly sit down and cry, I feel so disappointed.”
“Is Uncle Frank coming?”
“Yes, Aunt Clara says he will come down from Stellarton if Mrs. King does not get worse. So that will leave just one vacant place. We must invite someone to fill it up. Who shall it be?”
Both girls looked rather puzzled. Mrs. Allen smiled a quiet little smile all to herself and went on chopping suet. She had handed the Thanksgiving dinner over to Frances and Alma this year. They were to attend to all the preparations and invite all the guests. But although they had made or planned several innovations in the dinner itself, they had made no change in the usual list of guests.
“It must just be the time-honoured family affair,” Frances had declared. “If we begin inviting other folks, there is no knowing when to draw the line. We can’t have more than fourteen, and some of our friends would be sure to feel slighted.”
So the same old list it was. But now Aunt Clara — dear, jolly Aunt Clara, whom everybody in the connection loved and admired — could not come, and her place must be filled.
“We can’t invite the new minister, because we would have to have his sister, too,” said Frances. “And there is no reason for asking any one of our girl chums more than another.”
“Mother, you will have to help us out,” said Alma. “Can’t you suggest a substitute guest?”
Mrs. Allen looked down at the two bright, girlish faces turned up to her and said slowly, “I think I can, but I am not sure my choice will please you. Why not ask Miss Price?”
Miss Price! They had never thought of her! She was the pale, timid-looking little teacher in the primary department of the Hazelwood school.
“Miss Price?” repeated Frances slowly. “Why, Mother, we hardly know her. She is dreadfully dull and quiet, I think.”
“And so shy,” said Alma. “Why, at the Wards’ party the other night she looked startled to death if anyone spoke to her. I believe she would be frightened to come here for Thanksgiving.”
“She is a very lonely little creature,” said Mrs. Allen gently, “and doesn’t seem to have anyone belonging to her. I think she would be very glad to get an invitation to spend Thanksgiving elsewhere than in that cheerless little boarding-house where she lives.”
“Of course, if you would like to have her, Mother, we will ask her,” said Frances.
“No, girls,” said Mrs. Allen seriously. “You must not ask Miss Price on my account, if you do not feel prepared to make her welcome for her own sake. I had hoped that your own kind hearts might have prompted you to extend a little Thanksgiving cheer in a truly Thanksgiving spirit to a lonely, hard-working girl whose life I do not think is a happy one. But there, I shall not preach. This is your dinner, and you must please yourselves as to your guests.”
Frances and Alma had both flushed, and they now remained silent for a few minutes. Then Frances sprang up and threw her arms around her mother.
“You’re right, Mother dear, as you always are, and we are very selfish girls. We will ask Miss Price and try to give her a nice time. I’ll go down this very evening and see her.”
In the grey twilight of the chilly autumn evening Bertha Price walked home to her boarding-house, her pale little face paler, and her grey eyes sadder than ever, in the fading light. Only two days until Thanksgiving — but there would be no real Thanksgiving for her. Why, she asked herself rebelliously, when there seemed so much love in the world, was she denied her share?
Her landlady met her in the hall.
“Miss Allen is in the parlour, Miss Price. She wants to see you.”
Bertha went into the parlour somewhat reluctantly. She had met Frances Allen only once or twice and she was secretly almost afraid of the handsome, vivacious girl who was so different from herself.
“I am sorry you have had to wait, Miss Allen,” she said shyly. “I went to see a pupil of mine who is ill and I was kept later than I expected.”
“My errand won’t take very long,” said Frances brightly. “Mother wants you to spend Thanksgiving Day with us, Miss Price, if you have no other engagement. We will have a few other guests, but nobody outside our own family except Mr. Seeley, who is the law partner and intimate friend of my brother Ernest in town. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“Oh, thank you, yes,” said Bertha, in pleased surprise. “I shall be very glad to go. Why, it is so nice to think of it. I expected my Thanksgiving Day to be lonely and sad — not a bit Thanksgivingy.”
“We shall expect you then,” said Frances, with a cordial little hand-squeeze. “Come early in the morning, and we will have a real friendly, pleasant day.”
That night Frances said to her mother and sister, “You never saw such a transfigured face as Miss Price’s when I asked her up. She looked positively pretty — such a lovely pink came out on her cheeks and her eyes shone like stars. She reminded me so much of somebody I’ve seen, but I can’t think who it is. I’m so glad we’ve asked her here for Thanksgiving!”
Thanksgiving came, as bright and beautiful as a day could be, and the Allens’ guests came with it. Bertha Price was among them, paler and shyer than ever. Ernest Allen and his friend, Maxwell Seeley, came out from town on the morning train.
After all the necessary introductions had been made, Frances flew to the kitchen.
“I’ve found out who it is Miss Price reminds me of,” she said, as she bustled about the range. “It’s Max Seeley. You needn’t laugh, Al. It’s a fact. I noticed it the minute I introduced them. He’s plump and prosperous and she’s pinched and pale, but there’s a resemblance nevertheless. Look for yourself and see if it isn’t so.”
Back in the big, cheery parlour the Thanksgiving guests were amusing themselves in various ways. Max Seeley had given an odd little start when he was introduced to Miss Price, and as soon as possible he followed her to the corner where she had taken refuge. Ernest Allen was out in the kitchen talking to his sisters, the “uncles and cousins and aunts” were all chattering to each other, and Mr. Seeley and Miss Price were quite unnoticed.
“You will excuse me, won’t you, Miss Price, if I ask you something about yourself?” he said eagerly. “The truth is, you look so strikingly like someone I used to know that I feel sure you must be related to her. I do not think I have any relatives of your name. Have you any of mine?”
Bertha flushed, hesitated for an instant, then said frankly, “No, I do not think so. But I may as well tell you that Price is not my real name and I do not know what it is, although I think it begins with S. I believe that my parents died when I was about three years old, and I was then taken to an orphan asylum. The next year I was taken from there and adopted by Mrs. Price. She was very kind to me and treated me as her own daughter. I had a happy home with her, although we were poor. Mrs. Price wished me to bear her name, and I did so. She never told me my true surname, perhaps she did not know it. She died when I was sixteen, and since then I have been quite alone in the world. That is all I know about myself.”
Max Seeley was plainly excited.
“Why do you think your real name begins with S?” he asked.
“I have a watch which belonged to my mother, with the monogram ‘B.S.’ on the case. It was left with the matron of the asylum and she gave it to Mrs. Price for me. Here it is.”
Max Seeley almost snatched the old-fashioned little silver watch, from her hand and opened the case. An exclamation escaped him as he pointed to some scratches on the inner side. They looked like the initials M.A.S.
“Let me tell my story now,” he said. “My name is Maxwell Seeley. My father died when I was seven years old, and my mother a year later. My little sister, Bertha, then three years old, and I were left quite alone
and very poor. We had no relatives. I was adopted by a well-to-do old bachelor, who had known my father. My sister was taken to an orphan asylum in a city some distance away. I was very much attached to her and grieved bitterly over our parting. My adopted father was very kind to me and gave me a good education. I did not forget my sister, and as soon as I could I went to the asylum. I found that she had been taken away long before, and I could not even discover who had adopted her, for the original building, with all its records, had been destroyed by fire two years previous to my visit. I never could find any clue to her whereabouts, and long since gave up all hope of finding her. But I have found her at last. You are Bertha Seeley, my little sister!”
“Oh — can it be possible!”
“More than possible — it is certain. You are the image of my mother, as I remember her, and as an old daguerreotype I have pictures her. And this is her watch — see, I scratched my own initials on the case one day. There is no doubt in the world. Oh, Bertha, are you half as glad as I am?”
“Glad!”
Bertha’s eyes were shining like stars. She tried to smile, but burst into tears instead and her head went down on her brother’s shoulder. By this time everybody in the room was staring at the extraordinary tableau, and Ernest, coming through the hall, gave a whistle of astonishment that brought the two in the corner back to a sense of their surroundings.
“I haven’t suddenly gone crazy, Ernest, old fellow,” smiled Max. “Ladies and gentlemen all, this little school-ma’am was introduced to you as Miss Price, but that was a mistake. Let me introduce her again as Miss Bertha Seeley, my long-lost and newly-found sister.”
Well they had an amazing time then, of course. They laughed and questioned and explained until the dinner was in imminent danger of getting stone-cold on the dining-room table. Luckily, Alma and Frances remembered it just in the nick of time, and they all got out, somehow, and into their places. It was a splendid dinner, but I believe that Maxwell and Bertha Seeley didn’t know what they were eating, any more than if it had been sawdust. However, the rest of the guests made up for that, and did full justice to the girls’ cookery.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 657