LITTLE did I think that night as I snuggled into my pillow, trying to
find a comfortable spot for my sunburned shoulder, what momentous
events the coming week held in store.
Sunday was quiet enough, however. Eve and I both overslept but this,
Aunt Cal supposed, was no more than was to be expected after our
“dissipation.” She had apparently forgotten that the dissipation had
been her own suggestion. Indeed her Sunday morning severity seemed to
have quite erased all traces of that softened mood I had imagined I
detected yesterday.
Sunday at Aunt Cal’s had its own particular ritual. Breakfast was half
an hour later, a concession to the day of rest. Or perhaps to keep us
from getting too hungry for the cold dinner which followed church.
I enjoyed going to the service in the little white meeting house with
its faintly musty smell, which reminded me somehow of things I had
never known but which seemed curiously a part of me nevertheless. Eve
said it was my New England ancestry coming out. Eve likes to dwell on
the fact that her own ancestors were among the pioneers who made tracks
into the western wilderness and it is to this fact that she attributes
her own love of change and adventure. Though, as I pointed out to her,
both our family trees probably had their roots in the same soil—so
where was the difference really? It is a subject we never tire of
discussing, that of ancestry and the chances of life which made us what
we are!
We were talking about it that morning as we got ready for church,
taking Aunt Cal as an example of what the past in the shape of
tradition and custom could do for one. Aunt Cal had never spoken of her
family or forbears but I felt practically certain that her direct
ancestral line included a Scotch Covenanter, a Puritan preacher and one
of the judges who sentenced the Salem witches to be burned!
Hattie May was at church in ruffled organdy and a floppy hat with
Hamish, looking very much like a rebellious little boy in his stiff
white collar. I guessed that his sister had him well in hand for the
time at least.
As we walked home in the bright midday sun, one on either side of Aunt
Cal, I felt as if I were taking part in a scene which had happened over
and over again. Perhaps not so long ago, Aunt Cal had walked like this
with her mother on Sunday morning.
As we approached Captain Trout’s cottage, the Captain himself, dressed
immaculately as usual, rounded the corner of the house. “Good morning,
ladies!” he swept off his blue visored cap, revealing the shining
expanse of his bald head. “A beautiful day!”
We smiled at him but Aunt Cal’s only response was a stiff inclination
of the head. As she was about to sweep on, however, a light-footed gray
form darted from behind the hedge, made a wild spring into the air and
landed clinging on the fringe of Aunt Cal’s sash.
“That miserable cat!” cried the Captain, darting spryly through the
gate. But Eve had the kitten first and was gently detaching her sharp
little claws. The Captain’s apologies were almost abject.
“Oh, no damage, I think.” Aunt Cal, unbending a little, was smiling in
spite of herself. “She seems a very lively kitten.”
“Madam, I assure you my life is quite dizzy with keeping up with her.
After—er—my other one——. But you know how it is—these young
things!” He smiled expansively upon Eve and me. “For all their wild
ways, they do help to keep us young!”
To this outburst Aunt Cal’s only response was a murmured word that she
must be getting on. But Eve and I lingered to watch Daisy June who was
now half way up a telegraph pole. “Captain Trout,” asked Eve
unexpectedly, “did you ever happen to know a man by the name of Bangs?
Harry Bangs, I think he is—a barber or something?”
The Captain shook his head. “Can’t say that I have. I’ve met some queer
barbers in different quarters of the globe but I don’t recall any by
that name. Is the gentleman a friend of yours?”
“Oh, no,” returned Eve hastily. “Not at all. We—just heard of him. And
no doubt that isn’t his real name anyway!”
“Sandy,” said Eve that afternoon. We were in our room supposed to be
writing letters. But I had finished mine and Eve said she didn’t
believe in making the Sabbath a day of work. “Sandy, I wish we could
take just one more look for that Circe. I’m not half satisfied yet that
she isn’t somewhere about.”
“I know,” I agreed, “I feel that way too. And if you can think of any
plausible excuse to give Aunt Cal for our going out there again—you
see, now that she knows about things, she’s pretty sure to keep here
eye on us from now on.”
Eve nodded. “Don’t I know it! But I’ve been wondering if we couldn’t go
out and make a call on that friend of hers in Old Beecham. Mrs. Viner,
you know, the one who was sick. Don’t you think we might take her
out—oh, some soup or something? Or just drop in on her to cheer her
up?”
“Maybe she don’t want to be cheered up,” I said. “Maybe she enjoys
being gloomy like Aunt Cal!”
“Just the same I’m going to suggest it,” returned Eve. “’Twon’t do any
harm to try.”
“Well you’d better wait till tomorrow anyway,” I said. “I don’t think
she’s in a very auspicious mood today. I guess maybe her trip to
Millport yesterday had a bad effect on her.”
I was making the bed next morning when Eve came racing up the stairs.
“I’ve done it!” she said, her eyes dancing. “I asked her wouldn’t she
like to have us go out and inquire about Mrs. Viner as it was such a
lovely cool morning and we’d enjoy the trip.”
“Well?”
“Well, she was a little surprised. Guess she suspects some hidden
motive but she did admit that she’d like to know how Mrs. V. is getting
along. So she finally agreed and said she’d send her a bottle of
dandelion wine. She lives in the big stone house next the feed store
and we’re not to stay more than ten minutes and not to talk any
nonsense.”
“The shorter, the better for me,” I said. “Invalids give me the
jitters! Make me feel sorta creepy like.”
“Sandy, I’m ashamed of you! And you a missionary’s daughter!”
“What’s that got to do with it? Besides you can’t pretend that your
own—er—motives are purely hu—what d’you call it?”
“Humanitarian, you mean. Well, what if they’re not! I guess,” she added
sagely, “hardly anybody’s are when you come right down to it!”
“You don’t know my father,” I said.
“Well, I said hardly anybody. Anyway don’t let’s stand here arguing. I
guess you can stand a ten minute call.”
“But what shall we talk about?” I persisted.
“Oh anything—ships or shoes or sealing wax,” she returned lightly.
“Personally I’ve always found shoes a good subject when hard pressed.
Middle-aged people are practically certain to have foot troubles and
they just dote on telling you about the kind of shoes they wear and
where they got ’em and what a lot they had to pay!”