It was rather funny that the very next day Gordon Mitchell should fall out of his canoe in the middle of the Claremont river and that Anthony Fairweather should rescue him!
Gordon was a member of the Canoe Club, but the only wonder was he hadn’t drowned himself long before. His Maker had never meant him for canoes. On this day he was right out on the middle of the river when he upset. Only three people saw it: Anthony and myself and little Stan Baird.
In Anthony went, clothes and all, as quick as a flash.
There wasn’t another man in Claremont — or out of it, as I believe — who could have swum that distance to Gordon Mitchell in time. As it was he was almost too late. Gordon had gone down for the last time, but Anthony dived, got him and brought him back to the wharf. Old Captain Fairweather had taught Anthony to swim when he was a lad of five, and if his soul were hovering anywhere around that day he must have been proud of his pupil. It was a splendid piece of work, as even I, dancing around on the wharf in a senile frenzy of horror and suspense, fully understood.
Anthony sent Stan Baird for Dr. Mills and fell to work with Gordon after the most scientific fashion. I helped as best I could, and by the time the doctor got there, with a crowd of folks pelting after him, Gordon had come back to life. They got him into a cab and took him home before he could speak coherently.
“So that’s that,” said Anthony. “Well, I’d better go home myself and get something dry. And I think I’ll start back to Montreal tomorrow. There’s no chance of me getting what I came for... and they’ll heroize me for this stunt in the usual sickening way. I can’t stand it... especially as I’m good and sorry I didn’t let the brute drown!”
That evening Mrs. Mitchell sent for me again. She met me at the door with such a transfigured face that I hardly knew her.
“Oh, Mr. Crandall, Gordon has come back!” she exclaimed. “He remembers everything. And he knows me... he knows I’m his mother.”
She was weeping with joy as she took me up to Gordon’s room. He was in bed, shouldered up on the pillows. He greeted me kindly but he looked past me.
“Haven’t they come yet?” he said.
“They’ll be here soon,” said Mrs. Mitchell soothingly.
“They” came almost on her words—”they” were Gertrude and Anthony, both looking puzzled. Evidently neither of them understood just why they had been thus summoned to take part in Gordon Mitchell’s resurrection.
“Sit down. I have something to tell you,” said Gordon. “I have Mr. Crandall here for a witness. Mother, please go out.”
She went, too thankful for the old affection in his eyes and voice to resent being thus shut out. Anthony and Gertrude did not sit down. They continued standing just inside the door, where the pale lilac light of sunset fell on them through the window.
Gertrude was dressed in some rich, cream-hued stuff, with gold touches here and there and a heavy gold girdle. She looked like a brocaded moth. The years had not dimmed her beauty. Anthony as usual looked dark and royal.
They were, as Anthony had said a... ahem... an exceedingly good-looking pair of people.
Gordon began:
“I did not tell you the truth about your father’s death, Gertrude. He lived a few minutes after I reached him. He said, ‘I’m dying, Gordon. Give Gertrude my love and tell her she can marry whom she darn well pleases.’”
What odd thoughts come into one’s mind at times. I looked at Gertrude and saw the miracle of her face, but all I really thought just then was, “Gordon has softened down Old Doc’s expression a bit. Gordon wouldn’t say even a second-hand damn.”
“Your father,” went on Gordon, “made me promise I would tell you. ‘Shake hands on it,’ he said, holding out his right hand with that big green stone on it. I shook... although even then I knew I wasn’t going to tell you. Then he said, ‘She’s had the best golfer in town for a father; now she’ll have to put up with the second-best as a husband. But when I’m dead Anthony will be the best, confound him.’ Those were his last words... then he died.
“I didn’t tell you,” continued Gordon. “I couldn’t. It would have been like cutting my heart out. But I lived in hell for that year... a hell I made for myself. I knew I ought to tell. I used to think, when at times it seemed I couldn’t bear it any longer, ‘Oh, if I could only forget what Old Doc said!’ Then you preached that sermon” — Gordon flung me a glance—”and I knew I couldn’t bear it any longer. I stood up... I don’t know what I meant to say... and everything went from me. You know all about that. But today, just as I was drowning, I remembered everything... everything! It was like the judgment day.”
Gordon shuddered.
“You’d better not talk any more just now, Gordon,” I said soothingly.
“There’s something else I want to confess,” said Gordon pathetically. “It was I told Old Doc that Anthony said he could have Gertrude for the asking. That was a lie. And I shut the skunk up in the classroom. I did it for a joke... and people made such a fuss about it I was ashamed to confess. That’s all.”
He didn’t ask to be forgiven, but Gertrude took his hand and pressed it before she went out with Anthony. They had the decency to hide their rapture until they got out of Gordon’s sight. Gordon’s eyes followed Gertrude starvingly. Yes, everything had come back, even his love for her. He groaned as she went out, hidden from him by Anthony’s broad shoulders.
But his mother slipped in past them, and he turned to her and held out his hands like a child seeking for comfort. I got up and went out. Neither of them heard me go.
I thought it all over as I walked up the street. I could not be as hard on Gordon as he deserved.
Charlotte’s Quest
Charlotte had made up her mind to see the Witch Penny about it. Perhaps God didn’t think she ought to be unhappy, in a home of jolly, noisy, rollicking cousins (Charlotte hated noise and rollicking with all the power of her being); where she was continually being pounced on and petted and kissed (Charlotte detested pouncing and petting and kissing); where Aunt Florence or Cousin Edith or Mrs. Barrett, the grandmother of the gang, was always trying to dress her up like a doll (Charlotte hated to be dressed up); and where she was never alone or lonely for a moment (Charlotte loved and longed to be alone — well, not exactly lonely, because Charlotte was never lonely when she was alone). Yes, it was quite likely, Charlotte told herself, on considered reflection, that God couldn’t believe that she was unhappy. So there remained only Witch Penny. Charlotte had an idea that witches were kittle cattle to have dealings with and that the thing was not altogether lawful. But she wanted a mother so desperately that she would have gone to any lengths to get one.
It was Jim who had told her about the Witch Penny very soon after she had come to live with Aunt Florence.
“The Witch Penny is going to fly to a witches’ meeting tonight with her old black cat perched behind her,” he told her one windy autumn evening. And then he went on with a fascinating rigmarole about riding on a broomstick over houses and hills. Jim did not mean to be fascinating. He was merely trying to frighten Charlotte “out of her skin.” But Charlotte was not easily frightened and remained in her skin. She found his yarns thrilling, especially the part about flying on a broomstick, although she would have preferred to fly on a swallow’s back. Why couldn’t you, if you were a witch? If you could turn yourself into a grey cat, as Jim said Witch Penny could, why couldn’t you turn yourself into something small enough to ride a swallow? Just think of swooping through the air. Charlotte quivered with ecstasy.
Charlotte wanted a mother terribly. She knew that the thing was quite possible. Before Father had gone away and just before she had come to Aunt Florence’s, Nita Gresham had got a new mother. Charlotte heard about it in school. If Nita, why not she? A mother who would take you in her arms and tell you stories. To whom you would belong. It seemed a terrible thing to Charlotte that she didn’t belong anywhere or to anybody. Not even to Father. How could you belong to a father who looked upon you merely
as a hindrance to mountain climbing? Charlotte knew perfectly well that was how her father regarded her, although neither he nor anyone else had ever told her so. You couldn’t fool Charlotte in all things. She might fall for a silly story about witches and broomsticks, but in some respects she had a terrible wisdom.
Next to a mother she wanted a quiet place where she could be alone when she wanted to be; to listen to the wind telling strange tales, or hold the big spotted shell that murmured of the sea to her ear, or talk to the roses in the garden. Or just sit still and think and say nothing. If you were quiet at Aunt Florence’s, someone was sure to ask what was the matter with you. And if your visitation of silence was prolonged they said you were sulky. It had not been quite so bad when she had lived at home, a kind of home, with Father and old Mrs. Beckwith. At least they left her alone. If you couldn’t be loved, the next best thing was to be let alone. At Aunt Florence’s she was never let alone and she knew quite well they didn’t love her. They kissed and petted and teased her just because it was one of their customs. Jim thought her a ninny. Edith and Susette thought her a dumb-bell. Mrs. Barrett thought she was “queer,” and Aunt Florence couldn’t make her pretty.
“Goodness, child, are you all corners?” she would exclaim impatiently when Charlotte’s dress wouldn’t hang right. Aunt Florence hadn’t any use for anyone with too many corners. And nothing else about Charlotte pleased her. She was too dark in a fair clan, her eyes were too big and grey, her eyebrows too bushy and her skin too sallow. “I don’t know where she gets such a complexion,” Aunt Florence mourned.
“Don’t you? I do,” said Mrs. Barrett very significantly. “She’s the living image of You-Know-Who.”
“I never saw her,” said Aunt Florence, “but if Charlotte looks like her, I don’t wonder Edward isn’t fond of her.”
So her father wasn’t fond of her. Charlotte sighed. She had always suspected it, but it was a little bitter to be sure of it. She had always thought it was because he couldn’t be fond of anything but mountain climbing.
Now it seemed there was a mysterious You-Know-Who in the business.
Charlotte knew she didn’t look like her mother. There was no picture of her mother that Charlotte had even seen, but she knew she had been small and fair and golden. Charlotte wished she looked like her mother. She couldn’t remember her mother, that is, not exactly. She could only remember a dream she had had about her, a beautiful dream in which she was in such a beautiful place. And Mother was there with her. Charlotte had never forgotten it — she was always looking for it. An old house fronting seaward, ships going up and down. Spruce woods and misty hills, cold salt air from the water, rest, quiet, silence. And the most beautiful china lady, with blue shoes and a gilt sash and a red rose in her golden china hair, sitting on a shelf.
Mother had been there with her. Charlotte was quite sure of that, though everything else was a little dim, as dreams are. Charlotte always had a queer feeling that if she could find that place she would find Mother again. But it was not likely that even Witch Penny could help her to a place in a dream.
Charlotte determined to slip away on the afternoon they were getting ready for the party. They were always having parties. “Let us eat, drink and be merry,” was the motto of the Laurences. Charlotte hated parties and she knew she would hate this more than most because they were going to have tableaux and Charlotte was to take part in one and wear a silly tinsel crown. Somehow, she hated the thought of that tinsel crown venomously.
In the customary scurry and bustle she hoped to get away unseen, but Mrs. Barrett spied her and asked her where she was going.
“I am going hunting for happiness,” said Charlotte gravely and simply. The truth had to be told.
Mrs. Barrett stared at her.
“I don’t know who you get your peculiar notions from. Any child but you would be keen to help get ready for a party. Look at your cousins — what a delightful time they’re having.”
Probably they were. Everybody was rushing wildly around, moving and dragging furniture about. But they were always doing that. Nothing ever remained in the same place longer than a week. Just as you got used to a thing being in a certain place, Aunt Florence or Susette took a notion it would look better somewhere else; and after much noisy, good-natured argument, there it went. And a party always gave such a grand excuse for moving everything.
Charlotte did not reply to Mrs. Barrett, which was another of her unsatisfactory habits. She simply opened the door, went out and shut it softly behind her. It was hard to shut it softly because, like every other door in the house, it seemed determined to bang shut. But Charlotte managed it.
She stood for a moment in the front porch, drawing a breath of relief. Behind her was noise and commotion. Edith and Susette were wrangling in the hall. The radio was going full blare in the library, Jim was banging on the piano to make the fat dog howl — and the dog was howling. Charlotte put her fingers in her ears and ran down the walk. Over her was a grey, quiet autumn sky, and before her a grey, quiet road. Charlotte suddenly felt as light of being as if she really had been turned into a swallow. She was out, she was alone and she was going to find a mother.
The Witch Penny’s house was a little grey one nestling against the steep hill that rose from the pond about half a mile west of the small town. The gate hung slackly on its hinges. The house itself was shabby and old, with sunken window sills and a much-patched roof. Charlotte reflected that being a witch didn’t seem to be a very profitable business.
For a moment Charlotte hesitated. She was not a timid child, but she did feel a little frightened. Then she thought of Mrs. Barrett rocking fiercely in her rocker and forever talking in her high, cheerful voice. “Mother is always so bright,” Aunt Florence always said. Charlotte shuddered. No witch could be worse. She knocked resolutely on the door.
A thumping sound inside ceased. Had she interrupted Witch Penny in the weaving of a spell?... and footsteps seemed to be coming down a stair. Then the door opened and Witch Penny appeared. Charlotte took her all in with one of her straight, deliberate looks.
She was grey as an owl, with a broad rosy face and tiny black eyes surrounded by cushions of fat. Charlotte thought she looked too jolly for a witch. But no doubt there were all kinds. Certainly the big black cat with fiery golden eyes that sat behind her on the lower step of the stair looked his reputed part.
“Now who may ye be and what may ye be wanting with me?” said Witch Penny a bit gruffly.
Charlotte never wasted breath, words or time. “I am Charlotte Laurence and I have come to ask you to find me a mother — that is, if you really are a witch. Are you?”
Witch Penny’s look suddenly changed. It grew secretive and mysterious.
“Whist, child,” she whispered. “Don’t be talking of witches in the open daylight like this. Little ye know what might happen.”
“But are you?” persisted Charlotte. If Witch Penny wasn’t a witch, she wasn’t going to bother with her.
“To be sure, I am. But come in, come in. Finding a mother ain’t something to be done on the durestep. Better come right upstairs. I’m weaving a tablecloth for the fairies up there. All the witches in the countryside promised to do one apiece for them. The poor liddle shiftless craturs left all their tablecloths out in the frost last Tuesday night, and ’twas their ruination. But I’ve got far behind me comrades and mustn’t be losing any more time. Ye’ll excuse me if I kape on with me work while ye’re telling me your troubles. It’s the quane’s own cloth I’m weaving, and it’s looking sour enough her majesty will be if it’s not finished on time.”
Charlotte thought that Witch Penny’s old loom looked very big and clumsy for the weaving of fairy tablecloths, and the web in it seemed strangely like rather coarse grey flannel. But no doubt witches had their own way of blinding the eyes of ordinary mortals. When Witch Penny finished it, she would weave a spell over it and it would become a thing of gossamer light and loveliness.
Witch Penny resumed h
er work and Charlotte sat down on a stool beside her. They were on a little landing above the stairs, with one low, cobwebby window and a stained ceiling with bunches of dried tansy and yarrow hanging from it. The cat had followed them up and sat on the top step, staring at Charlotte. Its eyes shone uncannily through the dusk of the staircase.
“Now, out with your story,” said Witch Penny. “Ye’re wanting a mother, ye tell me, and ye’re Charlotte Laurence. Ye’ll be having Edward Laurence for your father, I’m thinking?”
“Yes. But he’s gone west to climb mountains,” explained Charlotte. “He’s always wanted to, but Mother died when I was three, and as long as I was small he couldn’t. I’m eight now, so he’s gone.”
“And left ye with your Uncle Tom and your Aunt Florence. Oh, I’ve heard all about it. Your Aunt Florence’s cat was after telling mine the whole story at the last dance we had. Your Aunt Florence do be too grand for the likes of us, but it’s little she thinks where her cat do be going. Ye don’t look like the Laurences — ye haven’t got your father’s laughing mouth — ye’ve got a proud mouth like your old Grandmother Jasper. Did ye ever see her?”
Charlotte shook her head. She knew nothing of her Grandmother Jasper beyond the fact of her existence, but all at once she knew who You-Know-Who was.
“No, it ain’t likely ye would. She was real mad at your mother for marrying Ned Laurence. I’ve heard she never would forgive her, never would set foot in her house. But ye have her mouth. And what black hair ye’ve got. And what big eyes. And what little ears. And ye have a mole on your neck. ’Tis the witch’s mark. Come now, child dear, wouldn’t ye like to be made a witch? ’Tis a far easier job than the one ye’ve set me. Think av the fun av riding on the broomstick.”
Charlotte thought of it. Flying over the steeples and dark spruces at night. “I think I’m too young to be a witch,” she said.
Witch Penny’s eyes twinkled.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 757