'But they did. I've a great big piece here in my bag. And everybody asked about you, and sent you their love, Ma.'
'Did you have a nice time?' asked Anne.
Pauline sat down on a hard chair, because she knew her mother would resent it if she sat on a soft one.
'Very nice,' she said cautiously. 'We had a lovely wedding dinner, and Mr Freeman, the Gull Cove minister, married Louisa and Maurice over again -'
'I call that sacrilegious.'
'- and then the photographer took all our pictures. The flowers were simply wonderful. The parlour was a bower -'
'Like a funeral, I s'pose.'
'- and, oh, Ma, Mary Luckley was there from the West - Mrs Flemming, you know. You remember what friends she and I always were. We used to call each other Polly and Molly.'
'Very silly names.'
'And it was so nice to see her again, and have a long talk over old times. Her sister Em was there too, with such a delicious baby.'
'You talk as if it was something to eat,' grunted Mrs Gibson. 'Babies are common enough.'
'Oh, no, babies are never common,' said Anne, bringing a bowl of water for Mrs Gibson's roses. 'Every one is a miracle.'
'Well, I had ten, and I never saw much that was miraculous about any of them. Pauline, do sit still if you kin. You fidget me. I notice you ain't asking how I got along. But I s'pose I couldn't expect it.'
'I can tell how you got along without asking, Ma. You look so bright and cheerful.' Pauline was still so uplifted by the day that she could be a little arch even with her mother. 'I'm sure you and Miss Shirley had a nice time, together.'
'We got on well enough. I just let her have her own way. I admit it's the first time in years I've heard some interesting conversation. I ain't so near the grave as some people would like to make out. Thank heaven, I've never got deaf or childish. Well, I s'pose the next thing you'll be off to the moon. And I s'pose they didn't care for my sarsaparilla wine, by any chance?'
'Oh, they did! They thought it delicious.'
'You've taken your own time telling me that. Did you bring back the bottle - or would it be too much to expect you'd remember that?'
'The - the bottle got broke,' faltered Pauline. 'Someone knocked it over in the pantry. But Louisa gave me another just exactly the same, Ma, so you needn't worry.'
'I've had that bottle ever since I started housekeeping. Louisa's can't be exactly the same. They don't make such bottles nowadays. I wish you'd bring me another shawl. I'm sneezing. I expect I've got a terrible cold. You can't either of you seem to remember not to let the night air git at me. Likely it'll bring my neuritis back.'
An old neighbour up the street dropped in at this juncture, and Pauline snatched at the chance to go a little way with Anne.
'Good night, Miss Shirley,' said Mrs Gibson quite graciously. 'I'm much obliged to you. If there was more people like you in this town it would be the better for it.' She grinned toothlessly, and pulled Anne down to her. 'I don't care what people say. I think you're real nice-looking,' she whispered.
Pauline and Anne walked along the street through the cool, green night, and Pauline let herself go, as she had not dared do before her mother.
'Oh, Miss Shirley, it was heavenly! How can I ever repay you? I've never spent such a wonderful day. I'll live on it for years. It was such fun being a bridesmaid again. And Captain Isaac Kent was groomsman. He - he used to be an old beau of mine. Well - no, hardly a beau. I don't think he ever had any real intentions, but we drove round together. And he paid me two compliments. He said, "I remember how pretty you looked at Louisa's wedding in that wine-coloured dress." Wasn't it wonderful his remembering the dress? And he said, "Your hair looks just as much like molasses taffy as it ever did." There wasn't anything improper in his saying that, was there, Miss Shirley?'
'Nothing whatever.'
'Lou and Molly and I had such a nice supper together after everybody had gone. I was so hungry. I don't think I've been so hungry for years. It was so nice to eat just what I wanted, and nobody to warn me about things that wouldn't agree with my stomach. After supper Mary and I went over to her old home, and wandered round the garden, talking over old times. We saw the lilac bushes we planted years ago. We had some beautiful summers together when we were girls. Then when it came sunset we went down to the dear old shore and sat there on a rock in silence. There was a bell ringing down at the harbour, and it was lovely to feel the wind from the sea again and see the stars trembling in the water. I had forgotten night on the Gulf could be so beautiful. When it got quite dark we went back, and Mr Gregor was ready to start; and so,' concluded Pauline, with a laugh, 'the Old Woman got Home that Night.'
'I wish - I wish you didn't have such a hard time at home, Pauline.'
'Oh, dear Miss Shirley, I won't mind it now,' said Pauline quickly. 'After all, poor Ma needs me. And it's nice to be needed, my dear.'
Yes, it was nice to be needed. Anne thought of this in her tower room, where Dusty Miller, having evaded both Rebecca Dew and the widows, was curled up on her bed. She thought of Pauline trotting back to her bondage, but accompanied by 'the immortal spirit of one happy day'.
'I hope someone will always need me,' said Anne to Dusty Miller. 'And it's wonderful, Dusty Miller, to be able to give happiness to somebody. It has made me feel so rich, giving Pauline this day. But, oh, Dusty Miller, you don't think I'll ever be like Mrs Adoniram Gibson, even if I live to be eighty? Do you, Dusty Miller?'
Dusty Miller, with rich, throaty purrs, assured her he didn't.
16
Anne went down to Bonnyview on the Friday night before the wedding. The Nelsons were giving a dinner for some family friends and wedding guests arriving by the boat train. The big, rambling house which was Dr Nelson's summer home was built among spruces on a long point, with the bay on both sides and a stretch of golden-breasted dunes beyond that knew all there was to be known about winds.
Anne liked it the moment she saw it. An old stone house always looks reposeful and dignified. It fears not what rain or wind or changing fashion can do. And on this June evening it was bubbling over with young life and excitement - the laughter of girls, the greetings of old friends, buggies coming and going, children running everywhere, gifts arriving, everyone in the delightful turmoil of a wedding - while Dr Nelson's two black cats, who rejoiced in the names of Barnabas and Saul, sat on the railing of the veranda and watched everything like two imperturbable sable sphinxes.
Sally detached herself from a mob and whisked Anne upstairs.
'We've saved the north gable room for you. Of course, you'll have to share it with at least three others. There's a perfect riot here. Father's having a tent put up for the boys down among the spruces, and later on we can have cots in the glassed-in porch at the back. And we can pack most of the children in the hay-loft, of course. Oh, Anne, I'm so excited! It's really no end of fun getting married. My wedding-dress just came from Montreal today. It's a dream! Cream corded silk, with a lace bertha and pearl embroidery. The loveliest gifts have come. This is your bed. Mamie Gray and Dot Fraser and Sis Palmer have the others. Mother wanted to put Amy Stewart here, but I wouldn't let her. Amy hates you, because she wanted to be my bridesmaid. But I couldn't have anyone so fat and dumpy, could I, now? Besides, she looks like somebody seasick in Nile green. Oh, Anne, Aunt Mouser is here! She came just a few minutes ago, and we're simply horror-stricken. Of course, we had to invite her, but we never thought of her coming before tomorrow.'
'Who in the world is Aunt Mouser?'
'Dad's aunt, Mrs James Jennedy. Oh, of course, she's really Aunt Grace, but Tommy nicknamed her "Aunt Mouser", because she's always mousing round pouncing on things we don't want her to find out. There's no escaping her. She even gets up early in the morning for fear of missing something, and she's the last to go to bed at night. But that isn't the worst. If there's a wrong thing to say she's certain to say it, and she's never learned that there are questions that mustn't be asked. Dad calls her speeches "A
unt Mouser's felicities". I know she'll spoil the dinner. Here she comes, now.'
The door opened and Aunt Mouser came in - a fat brown, pop-eyed little woman, moving in an aroma of moth-balls and wearing a chronically worried expression. Except for the expression, she really did look a good deal like a hunting pussy-cat.
'So you're the Miss Shirley I've always heard so much of. You ain't a bit like a Miss Shirley I once knew. She had such beautiful eyes. Well, Sally, so you're to be married at last. Poor Nora is the only one left. Well, your mother is lucky to be rid of five of you. Eight years ago I said to her, "Jane," sez I, "do you think you'll ever get all those girls married off?" Well, a man is nothing but trouble, as I sees it, and of all the uncertain things marriage is the uncertainest; but what else is there for a woman in this world? That's what I've just been saying to poor Nora. "Mark my words, Nora," I said to her, "there isn't much fun in being an old maid. What's Jim Wilcox thinking of?" I said to her.'
'Oh, Aunt Grace, I wish you hadn't! Jim and Nora had some sort of a quarrel last January, and he's never been round since.'
'I believe in saying what I think. Things is better said. I heard of that quarrel. That's why I asked her about him. "It's only right," I told her, "that you should know they say he's driving Eleanor Pringle." She got red and mad, and flounced off. What's Vera Johnson doing here? She ain't any relation.'
'Vera's always been a great friend of mine, Aunt Grace. She's going to play the Wedding March.'
'Oh, she is, is she? Well, all I hope is she won't make a mistake and play the Dead March, like Mrs Tom Scott did at Dora Best's wedding. Such a bad omen. I don't know where you're going to put the mob you've got here for the night. Some of us will have to sleep on the clothes-line, I reckon.'
'Oh, we'll find a place for everyone, Aunt Grace.'
'Well, Sally, all I hope is you won't change your mind at the last moment, like Helen Summers did. It clutters things up so. Your father is in terrible high spirits. I never was one to go looking for trouble, but all I hope is it ain't the forerunner of a stroke. I've seen it happen that way.'
'Oh, Dad's fine, Aunt Grace. He's just a bit excited.'
'Ah, you're too young, Sally, to know all that can happen. Your mother tells me the ceremony is at high noon tomorrow. The fashions in weddings are changing, like everything else, and not for the better. When I was married it was in the evening, and my father laid in twenty gallons of liquor for the wedding. Ah, dear me, times ain't what they used to be. What's the matter with Mercy Daniels? I met her on the stairs, and her complexion has got terribly muddy.'
' "The quality of mercy is not strained",' giggled Sally, wriggling into her dinner dress.
'Don't quote the Bible flippantly!' rebuked Aunt Mouser. 'You must excuse her, Miss Shirley. She just ain't used to getting married. Well, all I hope is the groom won't have a hunted look, like so many of them do. I s'pose they do feel that way, but they needn't show it so plain. And I hope he won't forget the ring. Upton Hardy did. Him and Flora had to be married with a ring off one of the curtain-poles. Well, I'll be taking another look at the wedding presents. You've got a lot of nice things, Sally. All I hope is it won't be as hard to keep the handles of them spoons polished as I think likely.'
Dinner that night in the big glassed-in porch was a gay affair. Chinese lanterns had been hung all about it, shedding mellow-tinted lights on the pretty dresses and glossy hair and white, unlined brows of girls. Barnabas and Saul sat like ebony statues on the broad arms of the doctor's chair, where he fed them with titbits alternately.
'Just about as bad as Parker Pringle,' said Aunt Mouser. 'He has his dog sit at the table with a chair and napkin of his own. Well, sooner or later there'll be a judgement.'
It was a large party, for all the married Nelson girls and their husbands were there, besides ushers and bridesmaids; and it was a merry one, in spite of Aunt Mouser's 'felicities' - or perhaps because of them. Nobody took Aunt Mouser very seriously; she was evidently a joke among the young fry. When she said, on being introduced to Gordon Hill, 'Well, well, you ain't a bit like I expected. I always thought Sally would pick out a tall, handsome man,' ripples of laughter ran through the porch. Gordon Hill, who was on the short side, and called no more than 'pleasant-faced' by his best friends, knew he would never hear the last of it. When she said to Dot Fraser, 'Well, well, a new dress every time I see you! All I hope is your father's purse will be able to stand it for a few years yet,' Dot could, of course, have boiled her in oil, but some of the other girls found it amusing. And when Aunt Mouser mournfully remarked, apropos of the preparations for the wedding dinner, 'All I hope is everybody will get her teaspoons afterwards. Five were missing after Gertie Paul's wedding. They never turned up,' Mrs Nelson, who had borrowed three dozen, and the sisters-in-law she had borrowed them from all looked harried. But Dr Nelson haw-hawed cheerfully.
'We'll make every one turn out their pockets before they go, Aunt Grace.'
'Ah, you may laugh, Samuel. It is no joking matter to have anything like that happen in the family. Someone must have those teaspoons. I never go anywhere but I keep my eyes open for them. I'd know them wherever I saw them, though it was twenty-eight years ago. Poor Nora was just a baby then. You remember you had her there, Jane, in a little white embroidered dress? Twenty eight years! Ah, Nora, you're getting on, though in this light you don't show your age so much.'
Nora did not join in the laugh that followed. She looked as if she might flash lightning at any moment. In spite of her daffodil-hued dress and the pearls in her dark hair she made Anne think of a black moth. In direct contrast to Sally, who was a cool, snowy blonde, Nora Nelson had magnificent black hair, dusky eyes, heavy black brows, and velvety-red cheeks. Her nose was beginning to look a trifle hawk-like, and she had never been accounted pretty, but Anne felt oddly attracted to her in spite of her sulky, smouldering expression. She felt that she would prefer Nora as a friend to the popular Sally.
They had a dance after dinner, and music and laughter came tumbling in a flood out of the broad, low windows of the old stone house. At ten Nora had disappeared. Anne was a little tired of the noise and merriment. She slipped through the hall to a back door that opened almost on the bay and flitted down a flight of rocky steps to the shore, past a little grove of pointed firs. How divine the cool salt air was after the sultry evening! How exquisite the silver patterns of moonlight on the bay! How dreamlike that ship which had sailed at the rising of the moon, and was now approaching the harbour bar! It was a night when you might expect to stray into a dance of mermaidens.
Nora was hunched up in the grim, black shadow of a rock by the water's edge, looking more like a thunderstorm than ever.
'May I sit with you for a while?' asked Anne. 'I'm a little tired of dancing, and it's a shame to miss this wonderful night. I envy you with the whole harbour for a backyard like this.'
'What would you feel like at a time like this if you had no beau?' asked Nora abruptly and sullenly. 'Or any likelihood of one,' she added still more sullenly.
'I think it must be your own fault if you haven't,' said Anne, sitting down beside here.
Nora found herself telling Anne her troubles. There was always something about Anne that made people tell her their troubles.
'You're saying that to be polite, of course. You needn't. You know as well as I do that I'm not a girl men are likely to fall in love with. I'm the "plain Miss Nelson". It isn't my fault that I haven't anybody. I couldn't stand it in there any longer. I had to come down here and just let myself be unhappy. I'm tired of smiling and being agreeable to everyone, and pretending not to care when they give me digs about not being married. I'm not going to pretend any longer. I do care. I care horribly. I'm the only one of the Nelson girls left. Five of us are married, or will be tomorrow. You heard Aunt Mouser casting my age up to me at the dinner-table. And I heard her telling Mother before dinner that I had "aged quite a bit" since last summer. Of course I have. I'm twenty-eight. In twelve more years I'll b
e forty. How will I endure life at forty, Anne, if I haven't got any roots of my own by that time?'
'I wouldn't mind what a foolish old woman said.'
'Oh, wouldn't you? You haven't a nose like mine. I'll be as beaky as Father in ten more years. And I suppose you wouldn't care either if you'd waited years for a man to propose - and he just wouldn't?'
'Oh, yes, I think I would care about that.'
'Well, that's my predicament exactly. Oh, I know you've heard of Jim Wilcox and me. It's such an old story. He's been hanging round me for years, but he's never said anything about getting married.'
'Do you care for him?'
'Of course I care. I've always pretended I didn't; but, as I've told you, I'm through with pretending. And he's never been near me since last January. We had a fight - but we've had hundreds of fights. He always came back before, but he hasn't come this time - and he never will. He doesn't want to. Look at his house across the bay, shining in the moonlight. I suppose he's there - and I'm here - and all the harbour between us. That's the way it always will be. It - it's terrible! And I can't do a thing.'
'If you sent for him wouldn't he come back?'
'Send for him! Do you think I'd do that? I'd die first. If he wants to come there's nothing to prevent him coming. If he doesn't I don't want him to... Yes, I do! I do! I love Jim - and I want to get married. I want to have a home of my own, and be "Mrs", and shut Aunt Mouser's mouth. Oh, I wish I could be Barnabas or Saul for a few moments, just to swear at her! If she calls me "poor Nora" again I'll throw a scuttle at her. But, after all, she only says what everybody thinks. Mother has despaired long ago of my ever marrying, so she leaves me alone; but the rest rag me. I hate Sally. Of course, I'm dreadful - but I hate her. She's getting a nice husband and a lovely home. It isn't fair she should have everything and I nothing. She isn't better or cleverer or much prettier than me - only luckier. I suppose you think I'm awful... Not that I care what you think.'
'I think you're very, very tired after all these weeks of preparation and strain, and that things which were always hard have become too hard all at once.'