The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  Granny chuckled again. She was vastly pleased to see a Sparhallow suing to her — a Sparhallow!

  “Toads am cheap,” she said. “It’s all in the knowing how and the time o’ the moon. Here, take this li’l pill box — there’s eno’ in it — and put a li’l bit on his eyelids when you’ve getten the chance — and when he looks at you, he’ll love you. Mind you, though, that he looks at no other first — it’s the first one he sees that he’ll love. That’s the way it works.”

  “Thank you.” Janet took the little box. She wished she dared to go at once. But perhaps this would anger Granny. Granny looked at her with a twinkle in her little, incredibly old eyes.

  “Be off,” she said. “You’re in a hurry to go — you’re as proud as any of the proud Sparhallows. But I bear you no grudge. I likes proud people — when they have to come to me to get help.”

  Janet found herself outside with a relieved heart in her bosom and her little box in her hand. For a moment she was tempted to throw it away. But no — Randall would be so unhappy if he found out Avery didn’t love him! She would try the ointment at least — she would try to forget about the toads and not let herself think how it was made — something might come of it.

  Janet hurried home along the shore, where a silvery wave broke in a little lovely silvery curve on the sand. She was so happy that her cheeks burned, and Randall Burnley, who was sitting on the edge of her flat when she reached the pond, looked at her with admiration. Janet dropped her box into her pocket stealthily when she saw him. What with her guilty secret, she hardly knew whether she was glad or not when he said he was going to row her up the pond.

  “I saw you go down an hour ago and I’ve been waiting ever since,” he said. “Where have you been?”

  “Oh — I just — wanted a walk — this lovely day,” said Janet miserably. She felt that she was telling an untruth and this hurt her horribly — especially when it was to Randall. This was what came of truck with witches — you were led into falsehood and deception straightaway. Again Janet was tempted to drop Granny’s pill box into the depths of Burnley Pond — and again she decided not to because she saw Randall Burnley’s deep-set, blue-grey eyes, that could look tender or sorrowful or passionate or whimsical as he willed, and thought how they would look when he found Avery did not love him.

  So Janet drowned the voice of conscience and was brazenly happy — happy because Randall Burnley rowed her up the pond — happy because he walked halfway home with her over the autumnal fields — happy because he talked of the day and the sea and the golden weather, as only Randall could talk. But she thought she was happy because she had in her pocket what might make Avery love him.

  Randall went as far as the stile in the birch wood between the Burnley and the Sparhallow land — and he kept her there talking for another half-hour — and though he talked only of a book he had read and a new puppy he was training, Janet listened with her soul in her ears. She talked too — quite freely; she was never in the least shy or tongue-tied or awkward in Randall’s company. There she was always at her best, with a delightful feeling of being understood. She wondered if he noticed she had her hair done up. Her eyes shone and her brown face was full of rosy, kissable hues. When he finally turned away homeward, life went flat. Janet decided she was very tired after her long walk and her trying interview. But it did not matter, since she had her love potion. That was so much nicer a name than toad ointment.

  That night Janet rubbed mutton tallow on her hands. She had never done that before — she had thought it vain and foolish — though Avery did it every night. But that afternoon on the pond Randall had said something about the beautiful shape of her pretty slender hands. He had never paid her a compliment before. Her hands were brown and a little hard — not soft and white like Avery’s. So Janet resorted to the mutton tallow. If one had a scrap of beauty, if only in one’s hands, one might as well take care of it.

  Having got her ointment, the next thing was to make use of it. This was not so easy — because, in the first place, it must not be done when there was any danger of Avery’s seeing some other than Randall first — and it must be done without Avery’s knowing it. The two problems combined were almost too much for Janet. She bided her chance like a watchful cat — but it did not come. Two weeks went by and it had not come. Janet was getting very desperate. The wedding day was only a week away. The bride’s cake was made and the turkeys fattened. The invitations were sent out. Janet’s own bridesmaid dress was ready. And still the little pill box in the till of Janet’s blue chest was unopened. She had never even opened it, lest virtue escape.

  Then her chance came at last, unexpectedly. One evening at dusk, when Janet was crossing the little dark upstairs hall, Aunt Matilda called up to her.

  “Janet, send Avery down. There is a young man wanting to see her.”

  Aunt Matilda was laughing a little — as she always did when Randall came. It was a habit with her, hanging over from the early days of Randall’s courtship. Janet went on into their room to tell Avery. And lo, Avery was lying asleep on her bed, tired out from her busy day. Janet, after one glance, flew to her chest. She took out her pill box and opened it, a little fearfully. The toad ointment was there, dark and unpleasant enough to view. Janet tiptoed breathlessly to the bed and gingerly scraped the tip of her finger in the ointment.

  She said so little would be enough — oh, I hope I’m not doing wrong.

  Trembling with excitement, she brushed lightly the white lids of Avery’s eyes. Avery stirred and opened them. Janet guiltily thrust her pill box behind her.

  “Randall is downstairs asking for you, Avery.”

  Avery sat up, looking annoyed. She had not expected Randall that evening and would greatly have preferred a continuance of her nap. She went down crossly enough, but looking very lovely, flushed from sleep. Janet stood in their room, clasping her cold hands nervously over her breast. Would the charm work? Oh, she must know — she must know. She could not wait. After a few moments that seemed like years she crept down the stairs and out into the dusk of the June-warm September night. Like a shadow she slipped up to the open parlour window and looked cautiously in between the white muslin curtains. The next minute she had fallen on her knees in the mint bed. She wished she could die then and there.

  The young man in the parlour was not Randall Burnley. He was dark and smart and handsome; he was sitting on the sofa by Avery’s side, holding her hands in his, smiling into her rosy, delighted, excited face. And he was Bruce Gordon — no doubt of that. Bruce Gordon, the expected cousin from Scotland!

  “Oh, what have I done? What have I done?” moaned poor Janet, wringing her hands. She had seen Avery’s face quite plainly — had seen the look in her eyes. Avery had never looked at Randall Burnley like that. Granny Thomas’ abominable ointment had worked all right — and Avery had fallen in love with the wrong man.

  Janet, cold with horror and remorse, dragged herself up to the window again and listened. She must know — she must be sure. She could hear only a word here and there, but that word was enough.

  “I thought you promised to wait for me, Avery,” Bruce said reproachfully.

  “You were so long in coming back — I thought you had forgotten me,” cried Avery.

  “I think I did forget a little, Avery. I was such a boy. But now — well, thank Heaven, I haven’t come too late.”

  There was a silence, and shameless Janet, peering above the window sill, saw what she saw. It was enough. She crept away upstairs to her room. She was lying there across the bed when Avery swept in — a splendid, transfigured Avery, flushed triumphant. Janet sat up, pallid, tear-stained, and looked at her.

  “Janet,” said Avery, “I am going to marry Bruce Gordon next Wednesday night instead of Randall Burnley.”

  Janet sprang forward and caught Avery’s hand.

  “You must not,” she cried wildly. “It’s all my fault — oh, if I could only die — I got the love ointment from Granny Thomas to rub on your ey
es to make you love the first man you would see. I meant it to be Randall — I thought it was Randall — oh, Avery!”

  Avery had been listening, between amazement and anger. Now anger mastered amazement.

  “Janet Sparhallow,” she cried, “are you crazy? Or do you mean that you went to Granny Thomas — you, a Sparhallow! — and asked her for a love philtre to make me love Randall Burnley?”

  “I didn’t tell her it was for you — she thought I wanted it for myself,” moaned Janet. “Oh, we must undo it — I’ll go to her again — no doubt she knows of some way to undo the spell—”

  Avery, whose rages never lasted long, threw back her dark head and laughed ringingly.

  “Janet Sparhallow, you talk as if you lived in the dark ages! The idea of supposing that horrid old woman could give you love philtres! Why, girl, I’ve always loved Bruce — always. But I thought he’d forgotten me. And tonight when he came I found he hadn’t. There’s the whole thing in a nutshell. I’m going to marry him and go home with him to Scotland.”

  “And what about Randall?” said Janet, corpse-white.

  “Oh, Randall — pooh! Do you suppose I’m worrying about Randall? But you must go to him tomorrow and tell him for me, Janet.”

  “I will not — I will not.”

  “Then I’ll tell him myself — and I’ll tell him about you going to Granny,” said Avery cruelly. “Janet, don’t stand there looking like that. I’ve no patience with you. I shall be perfectly happy with Bruce — I would have been miserable with Randall. I know I shan’t sleep a wink tonight — I’m so excited. Why, Janet, I’ll be Mrs. Gordon of Gordon Brae — and I’ll have everything heart can desire and the man of my heart to boot. What has lanky Randall Burnley with his little six-roomed house to set against that?”

  If Avery did not sleep, neither did Janet. She lay awake till dawn, suffering such misery as she had never endured in her life before. She knew she must go to Randall Burnley tomorrow and break his heart. If she did not, Avery would tell him — tell him what Janet had done. And he must not know that — he must not. Janet could not bear that thought.

  It was a pallid, dull-eyed Janet who went through the birch wood to the Burnley farm next afternoon, leaving behind her an excited household where the sudden change of bridegrooms, as announced by Avery, had rather upset everybody. Janet found Randall working in the garden of his new house — setting out rosebushes for Avery — Avery, who was to jilt him at the very altar, so to speak. He came over to open the gate for Janet, smiling his dear smile. It was a dear smile — Janet caught her breath over the dearness of it — and she was going to blot it off his face.

  She spoke out, with plainness and directness. When you had to deal a mortal blow, why try to lighten it?

  “Avery sent me to tell you that she is going to marry Bruce Gordon instead of you. He came last night — and she says that she has always liked him best.”

  A very curious change came over Randall’s face — but not the change Janet had expected to see. Instead of turning pale Randall flushed; and instead of a sharp cry of pain and incredulity, Randall said in no uncertain tones, “Thank God!”

  Janet wondered if she were dreaming. Granny Thomas’ love potion seemed to have turned the world upside down. For Randall’s arms were about her and Randall was pressing his lean bronzed cheek to hers and Randall was saying:

  “Now I can tell you, Janet, how much I love you.”

  “Me? Me!” choked Janet.

  “You. Why, you’re in the very core of my heart, girl. Don’t tell me you can’t love me — you can — you must — why, Janet,” for his eyes had caught and locked with hers for a minute, “you do!”

  There were five minutes about which nobody can tell anything, for even Randall and Janet never knew clearly just what happened in those five minutes. Then Janet, feeling somehow as if she had died and then come back to life, found her tongue.

  “Three years ago you came courting Avery,” she said reproachfully.

  “Three years ago you were a child. I did not think about you. I wanted a wife — and Avery was pretty. I thought I was in love with her. Then you grew up all at once — and we were such good friends — I never could talk to Avery — she wasn’t interested in anything I said — and you have eyes that catch a man — I’ve always thought of your eyes. But I was honour-bound to Avery — I didn’t dream you cared. You must marry me next Wednesday, Janet — we’ll have a double wedding. You won’t mind — being married — so soon?”

  “Oh, no — I won’t — mind,” said Janet dazedly. “Only — oh, Randall — I must tell you — I didn’t mean to tell you — I’d have rather died — but now — I must tell you about it now — because I can’t bear anything hidden between us. I went to old Granny Thomas — and got a love ointment from her — to make Avery love you, because I knew she didn’t — and I wanted you to be happy — Randall, don’t — I can’t talk when you do that! Do you think Granny’s ointment could have made her care for Bruce?”

  Randall laughed — the little, low laugh of the triumphant lover.

  “If it did, I’m glad of it. But I need no such ointment on my eyes to make me love you — you carry your philtre in that elfin little face of yours, Janet.”

  Some Fools and a Saint

  “You are going to board at Long Alec’s!” exclaimed Mr. Sheldon in amazement.

  The old minister of the Methodist Mowbray Narrows congregation and the new minister were in the little church classroom. The old minister ... who was retiring ... had looked kindly at the new minister ... kindly and rather wistfully. This boy was so like what he had been himself forty years before ... young, enthusiastic, full of hope, energy and high purpose. Good-looking, too. Mr. Sheldon smiled a bit in the back of his mind and wondered if Curtis Burns were engaged. Probably. Most young ministers were. If not, there would be some fluttering in the girlish hearts of Mowbray Narrows. And small blame to them.

  The reception had been held in the afternoon and had been followed by a supper in the basement. Curtis Burns had met the most of his people and shaken hands with them. He was feeling a little confused and bewildered and rather glad to find himself in the vine-shaded classroom with old Mr. Sheldon, his saintly predecessor, who had decided to spend the rest of his days in Glen St. Mary, the neighbouring settlement. People said it was because he felt he could not get along without Dr. Gilbert Blythe of Ingleside. Some of the older Methodists said it disapprovingly. They had always thought he ought to patronize the Methodist doctor of Lowbridge.

  “You have a good church and a loyal people here, Mr. Burns,” Mr. Sheldon was saying. “I hope your ministry among them will be happy and blessed.”

  Curtis Burns smiled. When he smiled his cheeks dimpled, which gave him a boyish, irresponsible look. Mr. Sheldon felt a momentary doubt. He could not recall any minister of his acquaintance with dimples, not even a Presbyterian one. Was it fitting? But Curtis Burns was saying, with just the right shade of diffidence and modesty, “I am sure it will be my own fault, Mr. Sheldon, if it is not. I feel my lack of experience. May I draw on you occasionally for advice and help?”

  “I shall be very glad to give you any assistance in my power,” said Mr. Sheldon, his doubts promptly disappearing. “As for advice bushels of it are at your disposal. I shall hand you out a piece at once. If you need a doctor always send for the Methodist one. I got in very wrong through my friendship with Dr. Blythe. And go into the parsonage ... don’t board.”

  Curtis shook his brown head ruefully.

  “I can’t ... Mr. Sheldon ... not right away. I haven’t a cent ... and I have some borrowed money to repay. I’ll have to wait until I have paid my debts and saved enough money to pay for a housekeeper.”

  So he was not contemplating matrimony.

  “Oh, well, of course if you can’t, you can’t. But do it as soon as you can. There is no place for a minister like his own home. The Mowbray Narrows parsonage is a nice house although it is old. It was a very happy home for me ...
at first ... until the death of my dear wife two years ago. Since then I have been very lonely. If it had not been for my friendship with the Blythes ... but a good many people disapproved of that because they were Presbyterians. However, you will have a good boarding place with Mrs. Richards. She will make you very comfortable.”

  “Unfortunately Mrs. Richards cannot take me after all. She has to go to the hospital for a rather serious operation. I am going to board at Mr. Field’s ... Long Alec, I believe he is called. You seem to have odd nicknames in Mowbray Narrows ... I’ve heard a few already.”

  And then Mr. Sheldon had exclaimed, with something more than surprise in his tone,

  “Long Alec’s!”

  “Yes, I prevailed on him and his sister to take me in for a few weeks, at least, on promise of good behaviour. I’m in luck. It’s the only other place near the church. I had hard work to get them to consent.”

  “But ... Long Alec’s!” said Mr. Sheldon again.

  It struck Curtis that Mr. Sheldon’s surprise was rather surprising. And there had been the same note in Dr. Blythe’s voice when he had told him.

  Why shouldn’t he board at Long Alec’s?

  Long Alec seemed a most respectable and a rather attractive youngish man, with his fine-cut aquiline features and soft, dreamy grey eyes. And the sister ... a sweet, little brown thing, rather tired-looking, with a flute-like voice. Her face was as brown as a nut, her hair and eyes were brown, her lips scarlet. Of all the girls that had clustered, flowerlike, about the basement that day, casting shy glances of admiration at the handsome young minister, he remembered nothing. But somehow he remembered Lucia Field.

  “Why not Long Alec’s?” he said.

  Recalling, too, that a few other people besides Dr. Blythe had seemed taken aback when he had mentioned his change of boarding house. Why ... why? Long Alec was on the board of managers. He must be respectable.