“Sure, child dear, ’tis the young witches that do be having the most power. Mind ye, everybody can’t be a witch. We’re that exclusive ye’d never belave. But I’ll not press ye. And ye want me to find you a mother?”
“If you please. Nita Gresham got a new mother. So why can’t I?”
“Well, the real mothers are hard to come by. All the same, mebbe it can be managed. It’s lucky ye’ve come in the right time of the moon. I couldn’t have done a thing for ye next wake. And mind ye, child dear, I’m not after promising anything for sartin. But there’s a chanct, there’s a chanct... seeing as ye’ve got your grandmother’s mouth. If ye’d looked like your father, it wouldn’t be Witch Penny as’d help ye to a mother. I’d no use for him.”
Witch Penny chuckled. “What kind of a mother do ye be wanting?”
“A quiet mother who doesn’t laugh too much or ask too many questions.”
Witch Penny shook her head.
“A rare kind. It’ll take some conniving. Here...” Witch Penny dropped her shuttle, leaned forward and extracted from a box beside the loom a handful of raisins... “stow these away in your liddle inside while I do a bit av thinking.”
Charlotte ate her raisins with a relish while Witch Penny wove slowly and thoughtfully. She did not speak until Charlotte had finished the last raisin.
“It come into me mind,” said Witch Penny, “that if ye go up the long hill... and down it... then turn yourself about three times, nather more nor less, ye’ll find a road that goes west. Folly your nose along it till ye come to a gate with a liddle lane that leads down to the harbour shore. Turn yourself about three times more... if ye forget that part of it, ye may look till your eyes fall out of your head, but niver a mother ye’ll see. Then go down the lane to a stone house with a red door in it like a cat’s tongue. Knock three times on the door. If there’s a mother in the world for ye, ye’ll find her there. That’s all I can be doing for ye.”
Charlotte got up briskly.
“Thank you very much. It sounds like a good long walk, so I ought to start. What am I to pay you for this?”
Witch Penny chuckled again. Something seemed to amuse her greatly.
“How much have ye got?” she asked.
“A dollar.”
“How’d ye come by it?”
Charlotte thought witches were rather impertinent. However, if you dealt with them...
“Mrs. Beckwith gave it to me before she went away.”
“And how come ye didn’t spend it for swaties and ice cream?”
“I like to feel I’ve something to fall back on,” said Charlotte gravely.
Witch Penny chuckled for the third time.
“Says your grandmother. Oh, ye’re Laurence be name but it goes no daper. Kape your liddle bit av a dollar. Ye’ve got a mole on your neck. We can’t charge folks as have moles anything. It’s clane against our rules. Now run along or it’ll be getting too late.”
“I’m very much obliged to you,” said Charlotte, putting her money back in her pocket and offering her thin brown hand.
“Ye do be a mannerly child at that,” said Witch Penny.
Witch Penny stood on her sunken doorstep and watched the little, erect figure out of sight.
“Sure, and I do be wondering if I’ve done right. But she’d never fit in up at the Laurences with their clatter. And once the old leddy lays eyes on her!”
Charlotte had disappeared around the bend in the road. Then Witch Penny said a queer thing for a witch. She said: “God bless the liddle cratur.”
Charlotte tramped sturdily on, adventurous and expectant. The sky grew greyer and the wind colder as she climbed the long hill. From the top she caught an unexpected, breath-taking view of a great grey harbour with white-capped racing waves. And beyond its sandy bar something greater and greyer still which she knew must be the sea. Charlotte stood for a few minutes in an ecstasy. She had never seen the harbour before, although she had known it was not far away. And yet, had she not? Charlotte felt bewildered. Her dream came back to her. She had seen this harbour in her dream, with the big waves racing to the shore and the black crows sitting on the fences of the fields and a white bird flying against the dark sky.
Charlotte went down the hill and gravely turned herself about three times. A wind that smelt of the sea came blowing down a road to the left. This must be what Witch Penny meant by following her nose. And sure enough, after Charlotte had walked along the road for a little while, there was the gate and a grassy, deep-rutted lane leading along the side of a gentle hill that sloped to the harbour.
Again Charlotte turned herself around. If there were no mother at the end of this quest, it should not be for any failure to perform Witch Penny’s ritual scrupulously.
Halfway along the hill she came to the house, the grey stone house with the door like a cat’s tongue, a house so grey and old that it seemed a part of the hill. It had a dignified, reposeful look as if it feared not what wind or rain could do to it.
Charlotte found her legs trembling under her. She had come to journey’s end; and was there a mother in that house for her? Witch Penny hadn’t seemed at all sure, she had only said there was a chance. It was beginning to rain, the harbour was dim and misty, it would soon be dark. Charlotte shivered, took her courage in both hands and knocked at the red door.
There was no answer. Charlotte waited awhile and then went around the house to the kitchen door — it was red, too — and knocked again.
The door opened. Charlotte felt a quick pang of disappointment. This was no mother: she was far too old for a mother, this tall, thin woman with a fine old face that might have been a man’s and clear grey eyes with black bushy brows under frosty hair. Charlotte had never seen her before yet she had a queer feeling that the face was quite familiar to her.
“Who are you?” said the old woman, neither kindly nor unkindly... just in a simple, direct fashion to which Charlotte found it quite easy to respond.
“I am Charlotte Laurence. I went to Witch Penny to see if she could find me a mother and she told me to come here.”
The old woman stood still for what seemed to Charlotte a very long moment. Then she stepped back and said, “Come in.”
Charlotte looked around the little, white-washed kitchen. There was, to her further disappointment, no one in it, but she liked it. On the floor there was a big, dark-red, hooked rug, with three black cats in it. The cats had yellow wool eyes that were quite bright and catty in spite of the fact that they had evidently been walked over a good many years. There was a great stove with front doors that slid so far back that it was as good as a fireplace. There was a low wide window looking out on the harbour. There was a table with a red-and-white-checkered cloth on it and a platterful of something that smelt very good to Charlotte after her long walk.
“I was just sitting down to supper,” said the old woman. “I had a feeling that I was going to have company so I cooked a bit extra. Take off your cap and coat and sit in.”
Charlotte silently did as she was told. The old woman sat down, said grace... Charlotte liked that... and gave Charlotte a plentiful helping of crisp bacon and pancakes with maple syrup poured over them. Charlotte devoted herself to the business of eating. She had never been so hungry in her life before and she had never eaten anything that tasted so good as the bacon and pancakes. It was now raining and blowing quite wildly but the stove was glowing clear red in the dusk and the peace and cosiness of the old kitchen was in delightful contrast to the storm outside. And just to eat supper in silence, not having to talk or laugh unless you really wanted to, was so heavenly. Charlotte thought of the noisy meals at Aunt Florence’s where everybody talked and laughed incessantly... Aunt Florence liked “cheerful meals.”
Of course, as yet there was no mother. But one must have patience. It was easy to be patient here. Charlotte found herself liking the house... feeling at home in it. It was not strange to her... and the old woman was not strange. Charlotte wondered where she had seen eyes li
ke that before, many times before. And she loved the house. She wanted to see the hidden things in it — not its furniture or its carpets, but the letters in old boxes upstairs, and faded photos and clothes in old trunks. It seemed as if they belonged to her. She sighed in pure happiness. The old woman did not ask her why she sighed. That, too, was heavenly.
When the meal was over, the old woman — after all Charlotte was beginning to think she wasn’t so very old, it was just her white hair made you think so — put Charlotte in a chair by the stove where she could toast her feet on the warm hearth, and washed the dishes. Her shadow darted in all directions over the kitchen walls and ceiling and sometimes looked more like a witch than Witch Penny. But this woman was not a witch. Somehow, Charlotte felt no qualms on that score.
When the old woman had put her dishes away in a little corner cupboard with glass doors and shelves trimmed with white, scalloped lace paper, she lighted a lamp, got out her knitting and sat down by the table.
“You’re Charlotte Laurence. And your father, I suppose, was Edward Laurence.”
Charlotte nodded.
“Where is he?”
“He has gone to climb mountains in British Columbia and he sent me to stay with Aunt Florence while he was away.”
“How long is he going to be away?”
“Years,” said Charlotte indifferently.
The old woman knitted two rounds of her stocking before she said anything else.
“Do you like it at your Aunt Florence’s?”
“No. It’s too noisy and affectionate,” said Charlotte gravely.
The old woman laid down her knitting and stared at her. There was a queer expression on her face, she might almost have been going to laugh. Her thick black eyebrows twitched.
“Does your aunt know where you are?”
Charlotte shook her head.
“And don’t you think she’ll be worried? I don’t think you can get back tonight in this storm.”
“She’s always worried over something,” said Charlotte, as if it didn’t matter a great deal. Nobody had ever worried much about her. And she was very well satisfied with where she was. She had never been in a place or in such company that suited her so well. Only, as yet, no mother. But it was quiet and peaceful and warm. The wood snapped and crackled in the stove. The rain spattered on the window panes. The wind growled and snarled because it could not get into the sturdy house.
“We’re neither of us much for talking, it seems,” said the old woman.
“No, but I think we are entertaining each other very well,” said Charlotte.
This time the old woman did really laugh.
“I’ve had some such thought myself,” she said.
It was quite a long while, a long, delightful while, after that Charlotte found herself nodding. And the downtrodden black cats had begun to trot around the rug.
“You’re half asleep. You’d be better in bed. Are you afraid to sleep alone?”
Afraid? Charlotte loved to sleep alone. And she never could at Aunt Florence’s. She did not even have a steady room, always being passed about from one to the other. Now Mrs. Barrett who snored, now Jenny who kicked, now Edith or Susette who fussed over her.
“I like sleeping alone,” said Charlotte.
The old woman filled a little blue rubber bag with hot water from the puffing kettle and lighted a candle in a little blue china candlestick. She took Charlotte through a large room, with only a little plain furniture in it. You could move around in it without knocking something over. It was not cluttered up with overstuffed divans or gilt fandangos, but full of dancing, inviting shadows from the candle. Charlotte felt sure that this room was never in a hurry. Then they went up a staircase of shining black steps and into a bedroom where there was a bed with a pink flounced spread. The old woman set the candle on the bureau, turned back the bedclothes and put the blue bottle in the bed.
“I hope you’ll be warm and have a good night,” she said. There was something in her face that was very kind. Charlotte felt emboldened to ask a question.
“Would you mind telling me if I’m likely to find a mother here?”
“We’ll see about that in the morning,” said the old woman as she went out and shut the brown door with the big brass latch.
Charlotte looked about the room. She loved it: and it was a room that was used to being loved. Charlotte was quite sure of that. It had a hooked rug on the floor with great soft plushy roses and ferns in it, flowered chintz curtains at the window, and a blue-and-white pitcher and wash basin. And everything in it felt related to her.
On the wall over the table was the picture of a little girl in an old-fashioned dress... a little girl not much older than Charlotte. She looked very sweet and young and innocent with the little puffs at her shoulders and the big bow of ribbon in her hair. Charlotte felt acquainted with her.
And then she saw it, the china lady with the blue shoes and the gilt sash and the unfaded red rose in her golden hair, sitting on the little frilled shelf in the corner... the china lady of her dream. There could be no mistake about it. Sometime she had been here before... not in a dream but really. And her mother had been with her.
Charlotte got into bed, feeling perfectly at home. When she wakened in the morning to see sunshine raining all over her bed, the old woman was bending over her.
“Is that Mother’s picture?” were the first words Charlotte said.
“Yes. This used to be her room. This is not the first time you have been in it. Have you any recollection of it, child?”
“Yes. I thought it was a dream until last night. And Mother was here with me, wasn’t she?”
“Yes. I am your grandmother, Elizabeth Jasper. Your mother married a man I’d no use for. People will tell you I never forgave her. That was nonsense. It’s true I never went to see her. I wouldn’t cross the threshold of Ned Laurence’s house. But she came here to see me and brought you. We made up for all our coolness. She died soon afterwards. I couldn’t bring myself to have anything to do with your father. I see I was wrong. I shouldn’t have left him to bring you up to hate me.”
“But he didn’t. He just never said anything about you,” said Charlotte, sitting up in bed. She knew now that no new mother was to be found, but somehow she did not feel disappointed. She seemed so close to her own mother. The room, the house, was full of her.
“Judith Penny sent you here to find a mother. She isn’t called a witch for nothing, that one. I’m sorry I haven’t got a mother for you. Do you think a grandmother would do?”
Charlotte knew all at once where she had seen Grandmother Jasper’s eyes so often. In her looking glass. She was suddenly so happy that it seemed to her she must burst with her happiness.
“Can I live here with you?” she whispered. Grandmother Jasper nodded.
“I telephoned your aunt last night after you went to bed and told her where you were. I told her you might stay here quite likely. She didn’t seem to mind.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t. Grandmother, it’s so quiet here!”
Grandmother nodded.
“We’re alike in more than our looks, child. What a turn you gave me when I opened the door last night. I thought I was seeing the ghost of the child I was fifty years ago.”
“Grandmother,” said Charlotte curiously, “is Witch Penny really a witch?”
“If she isn’t, she ought to be,” said Grandmother Jasper.
The Short Stories
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
THE HURRYING OF LUDOVIC
OLD LADY LLOYD
EACH IN HIS OWN TONGUE
LITTLE JOSCELYN
THE WINNING OF LUCINDA
OLD MAN SHAW’S GIRL
AUNT OLIVIA’S BEAU
THE QUARANTINE AT ALEXANDER ABRAHAM’S
PA SLOANE’S PURCHASE
THE COURTING OF PRISSY STRONG
THE MIRACLE AT CARMODY
THE END OF A QUARREL
AUNT CYNTHIA’S PERSIAN CA
T
THE MATERIALIZING OF CECIL
HER FATHER’S DAUGHTER
JANE’S BABY
THE DREAM-CHILD
THE BROTHER WHO FAILED
THE RETURN OF HESTER
THE LITTLE BROWN BOOK OF MISS EMILY
SARA’S WAY
THE SON OF HIS MOTHER
THE EDUCATION OF BETTY
IN HER SELFLESS MOOD
THE CONSCIENCE CASE OF DAVID BELL
ONLY A COMMON FELLOW
TANNIS OF THE FLATS
AN AFTERNOON WITH MR. JENKINS
RETRIBUTION
THE TWINS PRETEND
FANCY’S FOOL
A DREAM COME TRUE
PENELOPE STRUTS HER THEORIES
THE RECONCILIATION
THE CHEATED CHILD
FOOL’S ERRAND
THE POT AND THE KETTLE
HERE COMES THE BRIDE
BROTHER BEWARE
THE ROAD TO YESTERDAY
A COMMONPLACE WOMAN
A CASE OF TRESPASS
A STRAYED ALLEGIANCE
AN INVITATION GIVEN ON IMPULSE
DETECTED BY THE CAMERA
IN SPITE OF MYSELF
KISMET
LILIAN’S BUSINESS VENTURE
A CHRISTMAS INSPIRATION
A CHRISTMAS MISTAKE
MIRIAM’S LOVER
MISS CALISTA’S PEPPERMINT BOTTLE
THE JEST THAT FAILED
THE PENNINGTONS’ GIRL
THE RED ROOM
THE SETNESS OF THEODOSIA
THE STORY OF AN INVITATION
THE TOUCH OF FATE
THE WAKING OF HELEN
THE WAY OF THE WINNING OF ANNE
YOUNG SI
A PATENT MEDICINE TESTIMONIAL
A SANDSHORE WOOING
AFTER MANY DAYS
AN UNCONVENTIONAL CONFIDENCE
AUNT CYRILLA’S CHRISTMAS BASKET
DAVENPORT’S STORY
EMILY’S HUSBAND
MIN
MISS CORDELIA’S ACCOMMODATION
NED’S STROKE OF BUSINESS
OUR RUNAWAY KITE
THE BRIDE ROSES
THE JOSEPHS’ CHRISTMAS
THE MAGICAL BOND OF THE SEA
THE MARTYRDOM OF ESTELLA
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 758