“Thank you. Thank you.” Big Sam became ominously calm. “I’m entirely satisfied to be classed with the Apostle Paul. My conscience guides my conduct, you ribald old thing!”
“Been making a meal of the dictionary, it seems,” retorted Little Sam, yanking his pants off their nail, “and it don’t seem to have agreed with your stomach. Better take a dose of sody. Your conscience, as you call it, hasn’t nothing to do with it—only your prejurdices. Look at that writing man. Hain’t he got half a dozen of them statoos in his summer shanty up the river?”
“If he’s a fool—and wuss—is that any reason why you should be? Think of that and your immortal soul, Sam Dark.”
“This ain’t my day for thinking,” retorted the imperturbable Little Sam. “Now that you’ve blown off your steam, just set the porridge pot on. You’ll feel better when you’ve had your breakfast. Can’t ’preciate works of art properly on an empty stomach, Sammy.”
Big Sam glared at him. Then he grabbed the porridge pot, yanked open the door, and hurled the pot through it. The pot bounded and clattered and leaped down the rocks to the sandy cove below. Salt and Mustard fled out after it.
“Someday you’ll drive me too far,” said Little Sam darkly. “You’re just a narrow-minded, small-souled old maid, that’s what you are. If you hadn’t a dirty mind you wouldn’t be throwing a fit cause you see a stone woman’s legs. Your own don’t look so artistic, prancing around in that shirttail, let me tell you. You really ought to wear pajamas, Sammy.”
“I fired your old pot out to show you I’m in earnest,” roared Big Sam. “I tell you I won’t have no naked hussy in this house, Sam Dark. I ain’t over squeamish but I draw the line at naked weemen.”
“Yell louder, can’t you? It’s my house,” said Little Sam.
“Oh, it is, is it? Very well. Very well. I’ll tell you this right here and now. It ain’t big enough for me and you and your Roarer.”
“You ain’t the first person that idee’s occurred to,” said Little Sam. “I’ve had too many tastes of your jaw of late.”
Big Sam stopped prancing and tried to look as dignified as a man with nothing on but a shirt can look, as he laid down the ultimatum he never doubted would bring Little Sam to his senses.
“I’ve stood all I’m a-going to. I’ve stood them skulls of yours for years but I tell you right here and now, Sam Dark, I won’t stand for that atrocity. If it’s to remain—I leave.”
“As for leaving or staying, suit yourself. Aurorer stays there on that clock shelf,” retorted Little Sam, striding out and down the rocks to rescue his maltreated porridge pot.
Breakfast was a gloomy meal. Big Sam looked very determined, but Little Sam was not worried. They had had a worse row than this last week, when he had caught Big Sam stealing a piece of raisin pie he had put away for his own snack. But when the silent meal was over and Big Sam ostentatiously dragged an old, battered, bulging valise out from under his bunk and began packing his few chattels into it, Little Sam realized that the crisis was serious. Well, all right—all right. Big Sam needn’t think he could bully him into giving up Aurorer. He had won her and he was going to keep her and Big Sam could go to Hades. Little Sam really thought Hades. He had picked up the word in his theological reading and thought it sounded more respectable than hell.
Little Sam watched Big Sam stealthily out of his pale woolly eyes as he washed up the dishes and fed Mustard, who came scratching at the window-pane. The morning’s sunlit promise had been delusive and it was now, as Little Sam reflected testily, one of them still, dark, misty mornings calc’lated to dampen one’s spirits. This was what came of ladders and looking-glasses.
Big Sam packed his picture of Laurier and the model of a ship, with crimson hull and white sails, that had long adorned the cater-cornered shelf above his bunk. These were indisputably his. But when it came to their small library there was difficulty.
“Which of these books am I to take?” he demanded frostily.
“Whichever you like,” said Little Sam, getting out his baking-board. There were only two books in the lot he cared a hoot about, anyhow. Fox’s Book of Martyrs and The Horrible Confession and Execution of John Murdock (one of the Emigrants who lately left this country) who was hanged at Brockville (Upper Canada) on the 3rd day of September last for the inhuman Murder of His own brother.
When Little Sam saw Big Sam pack the latter in his valise, he had much ado to repress a grisly groan.
“I’m leaving you the Martyrs and all the dime novels,” said Little Sam defensively. “What about the dog and cat?”
“You’d better take the cat,” said Little Sam, measuring out flour. “It’ll match your whiskers.”
This suited Big Sam. Mustard was his favorite.
“And the weegee-board?”
“Take it. I don’t hold no dealings with the devil.”
Big Sam shut and strapped his valise, put the reluctant Mustard into a bag, and with the bag over his shoulder and his Sunday hat on his head he strode out of the house and down the road without even a glance at Little Sam, who was ostentatiously making raisin pie.
Little Sam watched him out of sight still incredulously. Then he looked at the white, beautiful cause of all the mischief exulting on the clock shelf.
“Well, he didn’t get you out, my beauty, and I’m jiggered if he’s ever going to. No, siree. I’ve said it and I’ll stick to it. Anyhow, my ears won’t have to ache any longer, listening to that old epic of his. And I can wear my earrings again.”
Little Sam really thought Big Sam would come back when he had cooled down. But he underrated the strength of Big Sam’s principles or his stubbornness. The first thing he heard was that Big Sam had rented Tom Wilkins’ old shanty at Big Friday Cove and was living there. But not with Mustard. If Big Sam did not come back Mustard did. Mustard was scratching at the window three days after her ignominious departure in a bag. Little Sam let her in and fed her. It wasn’t his fault if Big Sam couldn’t keep his cat. He, Little Sam, wasn’t going to see no dumb animal starve. Mustard stayed home until one Sunday when Big Sam, knowing Little Sam was safely in church, and remembering Homer Penhallow’s tactics, came down to Little Friday Cove and got her. All to no purpose. Again Mustard came back—and yet again. After the third attempt Big Sam gave it up in bitterness of soul.
“Do I want his old yaller flannel cat?” he demanded of Stanton Grundy. “God knows I don’t. What hurts my feelings is that he knew the critter would go back. That’s why he offered her so free. The depth of that man! I hear he’s going round circulating mean, false things about me and saying I’ll soon be sick of living on salt codfish and glad to sneak back for a smell of good cooking. He’ll see—he’ll see. I ain’t never made a god of my stomach as he does. You should have heard the riot he raised because I et a piece of moldy old raisin pie he’d cached for himself, the greedy pig. And saying it’ll be too lonesome at Big Friday for one of my gabby propensities. Yessir, he said them words. Me, lonesome! This place just suits me down to the ground. See the scenery. I’m a lover of nature, sir, my favorite being the moon. And them contented cows up on the Point pasture—I could gaze at ’em by the hour. They’re all the society I want, sir—present comp’ny always excepted. Not,” added Big Sam feelingly, “but what Little Sam had his p’ints. The plum puddings that man could make! And them clam chowders of his stuck to the ribs better’n most things. But I had my soul to think of, hadn’t I? And my morals?”
CHAPTER 3
Midsummer Madness
1
Gay did not find the first few weeks of her engagement to Noel all sunshine. One could not in a clan like hers. Among the Darks and Penhallows an engagement was tribal property and every one claimed the right to comment and criticize, approve or disapprove, according to circumstances. In this instance disapproval was rampant, for none of the clan liked any Gibson and they did not spare Gay’s feelings. It
simply did not occur to them that a child of eighteen had any feelings to spare, so they dealt with her faithfully.
“Poor little fool, will she giggle as loud after she’s been married to him for a couple of years?” said William Y., when he heard Gay’s exquisite laugh as she and Noel whirled by in their car one night. To do him justice, William Y. would not have said it in Gay’s hearing, but it was straightway carried to her. Gay only laughed again. And she laughed when Cousin Hannah from Summerside asked her if it could be true that she was going to marry “a certain young man.” Cousin Hannah would not say “a Gibson.” Her manner gave the impression that Gibsons did not really exist. They might imagine they did but they were mere emanations of the Evil One, to be resolutely disbelieved in by anyone of good principles and proper breeding. One did not speak openly of the devil. Neither did one speak of the Gibsons. Her contempt stung Gay a bit, in spite of her laughter. But a letter from Noel, simply crammed with darlings, soon removed the sting.
“Do you really love him?” asked Mrs. William Y. solemnly.
Gay wanted to say no because she detested Mrs. William Y. But she also wanted to show her and everyone just what Noel meant to her.
“He’s the only man in the world for me, Aunty.”
“H’m! That’s a large order out of about five hundred million men,” said Mrs. William Y. sarcastically. “However, I remember I once felt that way, too.”
This, although Mrs. William Y. was unaware of it, was the most dreadful thing Gay had heard yet. Mrs. William Y. couldn’t have thought William Y. the only man in the world. Of course she had married him—but she couldn’t. Gay, with the egotism of youth, couldn’t believe that any woman had ever been in love with William Y., not realizing that when William Y. had been slender and hirsute, twenty-five years before, he had been quite a lady-killer.
“You could do better, you know,” persisted Mrs. William Y.
“Oh, I suppose you mean Roger,” cried Gay petulantly. “You all think there’s nobody like Roger.”
“Neither there is,” said Mrs. William Y. with simple and sincere feeling. She loved Roger. Everybody loved him. If only Gay wasn’t so silly and romantic. Just swept off her feet by Noel Gibson’s eyes and hair.
“I suppose you think it’s all fun being married,” Mrs. Clifford said.
Gay didn’t think it was “fun” at all. That wasn’t how she regarded marriage. But Aunt Rhoda Dark was just as bad.
“Do you realize what an important event marriage is in anybody’s life, Gay?”
Gay was driven into a flippant answer that made Aunt Rhoda shake her head over modern youth.
Rachel Penhallow remarked in Gay’s hearing that kidney trouble “ran” in the Gibsons. Mrs. Clifford advised “not to let him feel too sure of you.” Mrs. Denzil raked Noel’s father over the coals.
“The only way to get him to do anything was to coax him to do the opposite. I was there the day he threw a plate at his wife. She dodged it but it made a dent on the mantel. You can see that dent there yet, Gay, if you don’t believe me.”
“What has all this got to do with me and Noel?” burst out Gay.
“These things are inherited. You can’t get away from them.”
But Aunt Kate Penhallow didn’t think Noel was stubborn like his father. She thought Noel was the opposite—weak and easily swayed. She didn’t like his chin; and Uncle Robert didn’t like his eyes; and Cousin Amasa didn’t like his ears—“They lie too close to his head. You never see such ears on a successful man,” said Cousin Amasa, who had outstanding ears of his own but wasn’t considered much of a success for all that.
“You would think they were the only people who ever got engaged in the world,” said Mrs. Toynbee, who, having come through three engagements, naturally didn’t think it the wonder Gay and Noel did.
“All the Gibsons are very fickle,” said Mrs. Artemas Dark, who had been engaged to one herself before she married Artemas. He had treated her badly, but in her secret soul she sometimes thought she preferred him to Artemas still.
“You’d better wait until you’re out of the cradle before you marry,” growled Drowned John, who was having troubles of his own just then and was very touchy on the subject of engagements.
All this sort of thing only amused Gay. It didn’t amount to anything. What did worry her was the subtle undercurrent of disapproval among those whose opinion she really valued. Nobody thought well of her engagement. Her mother cried bitterly over it and at first refused to give her consent at all.
“I can’t stop you from marrying him, of course,” she said, with what was great bitterness for the easygoing Mrs. Howard. “But I’ll never say I’m willing—never. I’ve never approved of him, Gay.”
“Why—why?” cried Gay piteously. She loved her mother and hated to go against her in anything. “Why, Mother? What can you say against him?”
“There’s nothing in him,” said Mrs. Howard feebly. She thought it rather a poor reason, not realizing that she was actually uttering the most serious indictment in the world.
Altogether Gay had a hard time of it for a couple of weeks. Then Cousin Mahala swept down on the clan from her retreat up west—Cousin Mahala, who looked like a handsome old man with her short, crisp, virile gray hair and strong wise face. The eyes a little sunken. The mouth with a humorous quirk. The face of a woman who has lived.
“Let Gay marry him if she wants to,” she told the harassed Mrs. Howard, “and learn the ups and downs of life for herself, the same as the rest of us did. None of us have had perfect men.”
“Oh, Cousin Mahala, you’re the only person in this whole clan with a heart,” cried Gay.
Cousin Mahala looked at her with a twinkle in her eye.
“Oh, no, I’m not, Gay. We’ve all got hearts, more or less. And the rest of us want to save you from the troubles and mistakes we’ve had. I don’t. Mistakes and trouble are bound to come. Better come our own way than someone else’s way. You’ll be a lovely little bride, Gay. So young. I do like a young bride.”
“Aunt Mavis asked me if I thought marriage ‘all fun.’ Of course I don’t think it’s all fun—”
“You bet it isn’t,” said Cousin Mahala—
“—But I don’t think it’s all vexation either—”
“You’re right there, too,” said Cousin Mahala—
“—And whatever it is, I want to try it with Noel and nobody else.”
Mrs. Howard, thus attacked from the rear, surrendered. But only on one condition. Gay and Noel must wait a year before marrying. Eighteen was too young to marry. She couldn’t give Gay up so soon. And Mrs. Howard had another reason. Dandy Dark hated the Gibsons. If Dandy had the bestowal of the jug and if Gay were actually married to a Gibson, Mrs. Howard felt she would have no chance of it at all. This secret thought stiffened her against all the pleading of Gay and the ardent Noel, to which she would probably have succumbed otherwise. Noel resigned himself sulkily to the condition. Gay, sweetly. After all, she was glad to purchase her mother’s acquiescence by a little waiting. She couldn’t bear to do anything against her mother’s will. And being engaged was very delightful. There was a big hope chest to be filled. Of course she knew the clan hoped that in a year she would change her mind. As if anything could ever make her stop loving Noel. She kissed his ring in the dark that night before she went to sleep. Dear Cousin Mahala! If only she lived nearer. Gay wanted to have her about while she made ready to be married. She knew all the rest, although they had tacitly agreed to recognize the engagement and make the best of it, would rub all the bloom off her dear romance with their horrible practicalities and go on regretting all the time in their hearts that it wasn’t Roger.
Roger had been lovely. He had wished her joy—in his dear caressing voice—Roger had such a nice voice—and told her he wanted every happiness to be hers.
“If I’d a black cat’s wishbone I’d give
it to you, Gay,” he said whimsically. “They tell me as long as you have a black cat’s wishbone you can get everything you want.”
“But I’ve got everything I want, Roger,” cried Gay. “Now that mother has come around so sweetly I haven’t a thing left to wish for—except—except—that you—” Gay went crimson—“that everybody could be as happy as I am.”
“I’m afraid it would take more than a black cat’s wishbone to bring that about,” said Roger. But whether his “that” referred to the “you” or to the “everybody” Gay didn’t know and dared not ask. She danced back to the house, flinging a smile over her shoulder to Roger as if she had thrown him a rose. Then she forgot all about him.
Roger overtook the Moon Man on the way home and asked him to take a lift. The Moon Man refused. He would never get in a car. But he looked piercingly at Roger.
“Why don’t you set your love on my Lady Moon?” he said. “I would not be jealous. All men may love her but she loves no one. It doesn’t hurt to love if you do not hope to be loved in return.”
“I’ve never hoped to be loved in return—but it hurts damnably,” said Roger.
2
The clan had its shock at Aunt Becky’s levee and its sensation over the fight at the graveyard; but the affair of Peter and Donna burst upon it like a cyclone. It was, naturally, almost the death of Drowned John.
Peter and Donna would have liked to keep it a delightful secret until they had perfected their plans, but as soon as they saw Mrs. Toynbee they knew there was no hope of that. Donna went home in a state of uplift that lasted until three o’clock at night. Then the terrors and doubts that stalk around at that hour swooped down on her. What—oh, what would Drowned John say? Of course, there was nothing he could do. She had only to walk out of the door and go with Peter. But Donna hated the thought of eloping. It was simply not done among Darks and Penhallows. And if she eloped she would have no chance of the jug. Not that the jug was to be compared to Peter. But if she could only have Peter and the jug, too! Donna thought she had a good chance of it if it rested with Dandy. She had always been a pet of Dandy’s. But she had once heard Dandy’s comments on an eloping couple.