SHEER GOSSIP
“Where are the other children?” asked Miss Cornelia, when the first
greetings—cordial on her side, rapturous on Anne’s, and dignified on
Susan’s—were over.
“Shirley is in bed and Jem and Walter and the twins are down in their
beloved Rainbow Valley,” said Anne. “They just came home this
afternoon, you know, and they could hardly wait until supper was over
before rushing down to the valley. They love it above every spot on
earth. Even the maple grove doesn’t rival it in their affections.”
“I am afraid they love it too well,” said Susan gloomily. “Little Jem
said once he would rather go to Rainbow Valley than to heaven when he
died, and that was not a proper remark.”
“I suppose they had a great time in Avonlea?” said Miss Cornelia.
“Enormous. Marilla does spoil them terribly. Jem, in particular, can do
no wrong in her eyes.”
“Miss Cuthbert must be an old lady now,” said Miss Cornelia, getting
out her knitting, so that she could hold her own with Susan. Miss
Cornelia held that the woman whose hands were employed always had the
advantage over the woman whose hands were not.
“Marilla is eighty-five,” said Anne with a sigh. “Her hair is
snow-white. But, strange to say, her eyesight is better than it was
when she was sixty.”
“Well, dearie, I’m real glad you’re all back. I’ve been dreadful
lonesome. But we haven’t been dull in the Glen, believe _me_. There
hasn’t been such an exciting spring in my time, as far as church
matters go. We’ve got settled with a minister at last, Anne dearie.”
“The Reverend John Knox Meredith, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan, resolved
not to let Miss Cornelia tell all the news.
“Is he nice?” asked Anne interestedly.
Miss Cornelia sighed and Susan groaned.
“Yes, he’s nice enough if that were all,” said the former. “He is
_very_ nice—and very learned—and very spiritual. But, oh Anne dearie,
he has no common sense!
“How was it you called him, then?”
“Well, there’s no doubt he is by far the best preacher we ever had in
Glen St. Mary church,” said Miss Cornelia, veering a tack or two. “I
suppose it is because he is so moony and absent-minded that he never
got a town call. His trial sermon was simply wonderful, believe _me_.
Every one went mad about it—and his looks.”
“He is _very_ comely, Mrs. Dr. dear, and when all is said and done, I
_do_ like to see a well-looking man in the pulpit,” broke in Susan,
thinking it was time she asserted herself again.
“Besides,” said Miss Cornelia, “we were anxious to get settled. And Mr.
Meredith was the first candidate we were all agreed on. Somebody had
some objection to all the others. There was some talk of calling Mr.
Folsom. He was a good preacher, too, but somehow people didn’t care for
his appearance. He was too dark and sleek.”
“He looked exactly like a great black tomcat, that he did, Mrs. Dr.
dear,” said Susan. “I never could abide such a man in the pulpit every
Sunday.”
“Then Mr. Rogers came and he was like a chip in porridge—neither harm
nor good,” resumed Miss Cornelia. “But if he had preached like Peter
and Paul it would have profited him nothing, for that was the day old
Caleb Ramsay’s sheep strayed into church and gave a loud ‘ba-a-a’ just
as he announced his text. Everybody laughed, and poor Rogers had no
chance after that. Some thought we ought to call Mr. Stewart, because
he was so well educated. He could read the New Testament in five
languages.”
“But I do not think he was any surer than other men of getting to
heaven because of that,” interjected Susan.
“Most of us didn’t like his delivery,” said Miss Cornelia, ignoring
Susan. “He talked in grunts, so to speak. And Mr. Arnett couldn’t
preach _at all_. And he picked about the worst candidating text there
is in the Bible—‘Curse ye Meroz.’”
“Whenever he got stuck for an idea, he would bang the Bible and shout
very bitterly, ‘Curse ye Meroz.’ Poor Meroz got thoroughly cursed that
day, whoever he was, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan.
“The minister who is candidating can’t be too careful what text he
chooses,” said Miss Cornelia solemnly. “I believe Mr. Pierson would
have got the call if he had picked a different text. But when he
announced ‘I will lift my eyes to the hills’ _he_ was done for. Every
one grinned, for every one knew that those two Hill girls from the
Harbour Head have been setting their caps for every single minister who
came to the Glen for the last fifteen years. And Mr. Newman had too
large a family.”
“He stayed with my brother-in-law, James Clow,” said Susan. “‘How many
children have you got?’ I asked him. ‘Nine boys and a sister for each
of them,’ he said. ‘Eighteen!’ said I. ‘Dear me, what a family!’ And
then he laughed and laughed. But I do not know why, Mrs. Dr. dear, and
I am certain that eighteen children would be too many for any manse.”
“He had only ten children, Susan,” explained Miss Cornelia, with
contemptuous patience. “And ten good children would not be much worse
for the manse and congregation than the four who are there now. Though
I wouldn’t say, Anne dearie, that they are so bad, either. I like
them—everybody likes them. It’s impossible to help liking them. They
would be real nice little souls if there was anyone to look after their
manners and teach them what is right and proper. For instance, at
school the teacher says they are model children. But at home they
simply run wild.”
“What about Mrs. Meredith?” asked Anne.
“There’s _no_ Mrs. Meredith. That is just the trouble. Mr. Meredith is
a widower. His wife died four years ago. If we had known that I don’t
suppose we would have called him, for a widower is even worse in a
congregation than a single man. But he was heard to speak of his
children and we all supposed there was a mother, too. And when they
came there was nobody but old Aunt Martha, as they call her. She’s a
cousin of Mr. Meredith’s mother, I believe, and he took her in to save
her from the poorhouse. She is seventy-five years old, half blind, and
very deaf and very cranky.”
“And a very poor cook, Mrs. Dr. dear.”
“The worst possible manager for a manse,” said Miss Cornelia bitterly.
“Mr. Meredith won’t get any other housekeeper because he says it would
hurt Aunt Martha’s feelings. Anne dearie, believe me, the state of that
manse is something terrible. Everything is thick with dust and nothing
is ever in its place. And we had painted and papered it all so nice
before they came.”
“There are four children, you say?” asked Anne, beginning to mother
them already in her heart.
“Yes. They run up just like the steps of a stair. Gerald’s the oldest.
He’s twelve and they call him Jerry. He’s a clever boy. Faith is
eleven. She is a regular tomboy but pretty as a picture, I must say.”
“She looks like an angel but she is a holy terror for mischief, Mrs.
Dr. dear,” said Susan solemnly. “I was at the manse one night last week
and Mrs. James Millison was there, too. She had brought them up a dozen
eggs and a little pail of milk—a _very_ little pail, Mrs. Dr. dear.
Faith took them and whisked down the cellar with them. Near the bottom
of the stairs she caught her toe and fell the rest of the way, milk and
eggs and all. You can imagine the result, Mrs. Dr. dear. But that child
came up laughing. ‘I don’t know whether I’m myself or a custard pie,’
she said. And Mrs. James Millison was very angry. She said she would
never take another thing to the manse if it was to be wasted and
destroyed in that fashion.”
“Maria Millison never hurt herself taking things to the manse,” sniffed
Miss Cornelia. “She just took them that night as an excuse for
curiosity. But poor Faith is always getting into scrapes. She is so
heedless and impulsive.”
“Just like me. I’m going to like your Faith,” said Anne decidedly.
“She is full of spunk—and I do like spunk, Mrs. Dr. dear,” admitted
Susan.
“There’s something taking about her,” conceded Miss Cornelia. “You
never see her but she’s laughing, and somehow it always makes you want
to laugh too. She can’t even keep a straight face in church. Una is
ten—she’s a sweet little thing—not pretty, but sweet. And Thomas
Carlyle is nine. They call him Carl, and he has a regular mania for
collecting toads and bugs and frogs and bringing them into the house.”
“I suppose he was responsible for the dead rat that was lying on a
chair in the parlour the afternoon Mrs. Grant called. It gave her a
turn,” said Susan, “and I do not wonder, for manse parlours are no
places for dead rats. To be sure it may have been the cat who left it,
there. _He_ is as full of the old Nick as he can be stuffed, Mrs. Dr.
dear. A manse cat should at least _look_ respectable, in my opinion,
whatever he really is. But I never saw such a rakish-looking beast. And
he walks along the ridgepole of the manse almost every evening at
sunset, Mrs. Dr. dear, and waves his tail, and that is not becoming.”
“The worst of it is, they are _never_ decently dressed,” sighed Miss
Cornelia. “And since the snow went they go to school barefooted. Now,
you know Anne dearie, that isn’t the right thing for manse
children—especially when the Methodist minister’s little girl always
wears such nice buttoned boots. And I _do_ wish they wouldn’t play in
the old Methodist graveyard.”
“It’s very tempting, when it’s right beside the manse,” said Anne.
“I’ve always thought graveyards must be delightful places to play in.”
“Oh, no, you did not, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said loyal Susan, determined to
protect Anne from herself. “You have too much good sense and decorum.”
“Why did they ever build that manse beside the graveyard in the first
place?” asked Anne. “Their lawn is so small there is no place for them
to play except in the graveyard.”
“It _was_ a mistake,” admitted Miss Cornelia. “But they got the lot
cheap. And no other manse children ever thought of playing there. Mr.
Meredith shouldn’t allow it. But he has always got his nose buried in a
book, when he is home. He reads and reads, or walks about in his study
in a day-dream. So far he hasn’t forgotten to be in church on Sundays,
but twice he has forgotten about the prayer-meeting and one of the
elders had to go over to the manse and remind him. And he forgot about
Fanny Cooper’s wedding. They rang him up on the ‘phone and then he
rushed right over, just as he was, carpet slippers and all. One
wouldn’t mind if the Methodists didn’t laugh so about it. But there’s
one comfort—they can’t criticize his sermons. He wakes up when he’s in
the pulpit, believe _me_. And the Methodist minister can’t preach at
all—so they tell me. _I_ have never heard him, thank goodness.”
Miss Cornelia’s scorn of men had abated somewhat since her marriage,
but her scorn of Methodists remained untinged of charity. Susan smiled
slyly.
“They do say, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that the Methodists and
Presbyterians are talking of uniting,” she said.
“Well, all I hope is that I’ll be under the sod if that ever comes to
pass,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “I shall never have truck or trade with
Methodists, and Mr. Meredith will find that he’d better steer clear of
them, too. He is entirely too sociable with them, believe _me_. Why, he
went to the Jacob Drews’ silver-wedding supper and got into a nice
scrape as a result.”
“What was it?”
“Mrs. Drew asked him to carve the roast goose—for Jacob Drew never did
or could carve. Well, Mr. Meredith tackled it, and in the process he
knocked it clean off the platter into Mrs. Reese’s lap, who was sitting
next him. And he just said dreamily. ‘Mrs. Reese, will you kindly
return me that goose?’ Mrs. Reese ‘returned’ it, as meek as Moses, but
she must have been furious, for she had on her new silk dress. The
worst of it is, she was a Methodist.”
“But I think that is better than if she was a Presbyterian,”
interjected Susan. “If she had been a Presbyterian she would mostly
likely have left the church and we cannot afford to lose our members.
And Mrs. Reese is not liked in her own church, because she gives
herself such great airs, so that the Methodists would be rather pleased
that Mr. Meredith spoiled her dress.”
“The point is, he made himself ridiculous, and _I_, for one, do not
like to see my minister made ridiculous in the eyes of the Methodists,”
said Miss Cornelia stiffly. “If he had had a wife it would not have
happened.”
“I do not see if he had a dozen wives how they could have prevented
Mrs. Drew from using up her tough old gander for the wedding-feast,”
said Susan stubbornly.
“They say that was her husband’s doing,” said Miss Cornelia. “Jacob
Drew is a conceited, stingy, domineering creature.”
“And they do say he and his wife detest each other—which does not seem
to me the proper way for married folks to get along. But then, of
course, I have had no experience along that line,” said Susan, tossing
her head. “And _I_ am not one to blame everything on the men. Mrs. Drew
is mean enough herself. They say that the only thing she was ever known
to give away was a crock of butter made out of cream a rat had fell
into. She contributed it to a church social. Nobody found out about the
rat until afterwards.”
“Fortunately, all the people the Merediths have offended so far are
Methodists,” said Miss Cornelia. “That Jerry went to the Methodist
prayer-meeting one night about a fortnight ago and sat beside old
William Marsh who got up as usual and testified with fearful groans.
‘Do you feel any better now?’ whispered Jerry when William sat down.
Poor Jerry meant to be sympathetic, but Mr. Marsh thought he was
impertinent and is furious at him. Of course, Jerry had no business to
be in a Methodist prayer-meeting at all. But they go where they like.”
“I hope they will not offend Mrs. Alec Davis of the Harbour Head,” said
Susan. “She is a very touchy woman, I understand, but she is very well
off and pays the most of any one to the salary. I have heard that she
says the Merediths are the worst brought up children she ever saw.”
“Every word you say convinces me more and more that the Merediths
belong to the race that knows Joseph,” said Mistress Anne decidedly.
“When all is said and done, they _do_,” admitted Miss Cornelia. “And
that balances everything. Anyway, we’ve got them now and we must just
do the best we can by them and stick up for them to the Methodists.
Well, I suppose I must be getting down harbour. Marshall will soon be
home—he went over-harbour to-day—and wanting his super, man-like. I’m
sorry I haven’t seen the other children. And where’s the doctor?”
“Up at the Harbour Head. We’ve only been home three days and in that
time he has spent three hours in his own bed and eaten two meals in his
own house.”
“Well, everybody who has been sick for the last six weeks has been
waiting for him to come home—and I don’t blame them. When that
over-harbour doctor married the undertaker’s daughter at Lowbridge
people felt suspicious of him. It didn’t look well. You and the doctor
must come down soon and tell us all about your trip. I suppose you’ve
had a splendid time.”
“We had,” agreed Anne. “It was the fulfilment of years of dreams. The
old world is very lovely and very wonderful. But we have come back very
well satisfied with our own land. Canada is the finest country in the
world, Miss Cornelia.”
“Nobody ever doubted that,” said Miss Cornelia, complacently.
“And old P.E.I. is the loveliest province in it and Four Winds the
loveliest spot in P.E.I.,” laughed Anne, looking adoringly out over the
sunset splendour of glen and harbour and gulf. She waved her hand at
it. “I saw nothing more beautiful than that in Europe, Miss Cornelia.
Must you go? The children will be sorry to have missed you.”
“They must come and see me soon. Tell them the doughnut jar is always
full.”
“Oh, at supper they were planning a descent on you. They’ll go soon;
but they must settle down to school again now. And the twins are going
to take music lessons.”
“Not from the Methodist minister’s wife, I hope?” said Miss Cornelia
anxiously.
“No—from Rosemary West. I was up last evening to arrange it with her.
What a pretty girl she is!”
“Rosemary holds her own well. She isn’t as young as she once was.”
“I thought her very charming. I’ve never had any real acquaintance with
her, you know. Their house is so out of the way, and I’ve seldom ever
seen her except at church.”
“People always have liked Rosemary West, though they don’t understand
her,” said Miss Cornelia, quite unconscious of the high tribute she was
paying to Rosemary’s charm. “Ellen has always kept her down, so to
speak. She has tyrannized over her, and yet she has always indulged her
in a good many ways. Rosemary was engaged once, you know—to young
Martin Crawford. His ship was wrecked on the Magdalens and all the crew
were drowned. Rosemary was just a child—only seventeen. But she was
never the same afterwards. She and Ellen have stayed very close at home
since their mother’s death. They don’t often get to their own church at
Lowbridge and I understand Ellen doesn’t approve of going too often to
a Presbyterian church. To the Methodist she _never_ goes, I’ll say that
much for her. That family of Wests have always been strong
Episcopalians. Rosemary and Ellen are pretty well off. Rosemary doesn’t
really need to give music lessons. She does it because she likes to.
They are distantly related to Leslie, you know. Are the Fords coming to
the harbour this summer?”
“No. They are going on a trip to Japan and will probably be away for a
year. Owen’s new novel is to have a Japanese setting. This will be the
first summer that the dear old House of Dreams will be empty since we
left it.”
“I should think Owen Ford might find enough to write about in Canada
without dragging his wife and his innocent children off to a heathen
country like Japan,” grumbled Miss Cornelia. “_The Life Book_ was the
best book he’s ever written and he got the material for that right here
in Four Winds.”
“Captain Jim gave him the most of that, you know. And he collected it
all over the world. But Owen’s books are all delightful, I think.”
“Oh, they’re well enough as far as they go. I make it a point to read
every one he writes, though I’ve always held, Anne dearie, that reading
novels is a sinful waste of time. I shall write and tell him my opinion
of this Japanese business, believe _me_. Does he want Kenneth and
Persis to be converted into pagans?”
With which unanswerable conundrum Miss Cornelia took her departure.
Susan proceeded to put Rilla in bed and Anne sat on the veranda steps
under the early stars and dreamed her incorrigible dreams and learned
all over again for the hundredth happy time what a moonrise splendour
and sheen could be on Four Winds Harbour.