CHAPTER XV. MORE GOSSIP
On the evening after Mrs. Myra Murray of the over-harbour section hadbeen buried Miss Cornelia and Mary Vance came up to Ingleside. Therewere several things concerning which Miss Cornelia wished to unburdenher soul. The funeral had to be all talked over, of course. Susan andMiss Cornelia thrashed this out between them; Anne took no part ordelight in such goulish conversations. She sat a little apart andwatched the autumnal flame of dahlias in the garden, and the dreaming,glamorous harbour of the September sunset. Mary Vance sat beside her,knitting meekly. Mary's heart was down in the Rainbow Valley, whencecame sweet, distance-softened sounds of children's laughter, but herfingers were under Miss Cornelia's eye. She had to knit so many roundsof her stocking before she might go to the valley. Mary knit and heldher tongue, but used her ears.
"I never saw a nicer looking corpse," said Miss Cornelia judicially."Myra Murray was always a pretty woman--she was a Corey from Lowbridgeand the Coreys were noted for their good looks."
"I said to the corpse as I passed it, 'poor woman. I hope you are ashappy as you look.'" sighed Susan. "She had not changed much. That dressshe wore was the black satin she got for her daughter's wedding fourteenyears ago. Her Aunt told her then to keep it for her funeral, but Myralaughed and said, 'I may wear it to my funeral, Aunty, but I will have agood time out of it first.' And I may say she did. Myra Murray was not awoman to attend her own funeral before she died. Many a time afterwardswhen I saw her enjoying herself out in company I thought to myself, 'Youare a handsome woman, Myra Murray, and that dress becomes you, but itwill likely be your shroud at last.' And you see my words have cometrue, Mrs. Marshall Elliott."
Susan sighed again heavily. She was enjoying herself hugely. A funeralwas really a delightful subject of conversation.
"I always liked to meet Myra," said Miss Cornelia. "She was always sogay and cheerful--she made you feel better just by her handshake. Myraalways made the best of things."
"That is true," asserted Susan. "Her sister-in-law told me that when thedoctor told her at last that he could do nothing for her and she wouldnever rise from that bed again, Myra said quite cheerfully, 'Well, ifthat is so, I'm thankful the preserving is all done, and I will nothave to face the fall house-cleaning. I always liked house-cleaning inspring,' she says, 'but I always hated it in the fall. I will get clearof it this year, thank goodness.' There are people who would call thatlevity, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, and I think her sister-in-law was alittle ashamed of it. She said perhaps her sickness had made Myra alittle light-headed. But I said, 'No, Mrs. Murray, do not worry over it.It was just Myra's way of looking at the bright side.'"
"Her sister Luella was just the opposite," said Miss Cornelia. "Therewas no bright side for Luella--there was just black and shades of gray.For years she used always to be declaring she was going to die in a weekor so. 'I won't be here to burden you long,' she would tell her familywith a groan. And if any of them ventured to talk about their littlefuture plans she'd groan also and say, 'Ah, _I_ won't be here then.'When I went to see her I always agreed with her and it made her so madthat she was always quite a lot better for several days afterwards. Shehas better health now but no more cheerfulness. Myra was so different.She was always doing or saying something to make some one feel good.Perhaps the men they married had something to do with it. Luella's manwas a Tartar, believe ME, while Jim Murray was decent, as men go. Helooked heart-broken to-day. It isn't often I feel sorry for a man at hiswife's funeral, but I did feel for Jim Murray."
"No wonder he looked sad. He will not get a wife like Myra again in ahurry," said Susan. "Maybe he will not try, since his children are allgrown up and Mirabel is able to keep house. But there is no predictingwhat a widower may or may not do and I, for one, will not try."
"We'll miss Myra terrible in church," said Miss Cornelia. "She wassuch a worker. Nothing ever stumped HER. If she couldn't get over adifficulty she'd get around it, and if she couldn't get around it she'dpretend it wasn't there--and generally it wasn't. 'I'll keep a stiffupper lip to my journey's end,' said she to me once. Well, she has endedher journey."
"Do you think so?" asked Anne suddenly, coming back from dreamland. "Ican't picture HER journey as being ended. Can YOU think of her sittingdown and folding her hands--that eager, asking spirit of hers, with itsfine adventurous outlook? No, I think in death she just opened a gateand went through--on--on--to new, shining adventures."
"Maybe--maybe," assented Miss Cornelia. "Do you know, Anne dearie, Inever was much taken with this everlasting rest doctrine myself--thoughI hope it isn't heresy to say so. I want to bustle round in heaven thesame as here. And I hope there'll be a celestial substitute for pies anddoughnuts--something that has to be MADE. Of course, one does get awfultired at times--and the older you are the tireder you get. But thevery tiredest could get rested in something short of eternity, you'dthink--except, perhaps, a lazy man."
"When I meet Myra Murray again," said Anne, "I want to see her comingtowards me, brisk and laughing, just as she always did here."
"Oh, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susan, in a shocked tone, "you surely do notthink that Myra will be laughing in the world to come?"
"Why not, Susan? Do you think we will be crying there?"
"No, no, Mrs. Dr. dear, do not misunderstand me. I do not think we shallbe either crying or laughing."
"What then?"
"Well," said Susan, driven to it, "it is my opinion, Mrs. Dr. dear, thatwe shall just look solemn and holy."
"And do you really think, Susan," said Anne, looking solemn enough,"that either Myra Murray or I could look solemn and holy all thetime--ALL the time, Susan?"
"Well," admitted Susan reluctantly, "I might go so far as to say thatyou both would have to smile now and again, but I can never admit thatthere will be laughing in heaven. The idea seems really irreverent, Mrs.Dr. dear."
"Well, to come back to earth," said Miss Cornelia, "who can we get totake Myra's class in Sunday School? Julia Clow has been teaching itsince Myra took ill, but she's going to town for the winter and we'llhave to get somebody else."
"I heard that Mrs. Laurie Jamieson wanted it," said Anne. "The Jamiesonshave come to church very regularly since they moved to the Glen fromLowbridge."
"New brooms!" said Miss Cornelia dubiously. "Wait till they've goneregularly for a year."
"You cannot depend on Mrs. Jamieson a bit, Mrs. Dr. dear," said Susansolemnly. "She died once and when they were measuring her for hercoffin, after laying her out just beautiful, did she not go and comeback to life! Now, Mrs. Dr. dear, you know you CANNOT depend on a womanlike that."
"She might turn Methodist at any moment," said Miss Cornelia. "They tellme they went to the Methodist Church at Lowbridge quite as often as tothe Presbyterian. I haven't caught them at it here yet, but I would notapprove of taking Mrs. Jamieson into the Sunday School. Yet we must notoffend them. We are losing too many people, by death or bad temper. Mrs.Alec Davis has left the church, no one knows why. She told the managersthat she would never pay another cent to Mr. Meredith's salary. Ofcourse, most people say that the children offended her, but somehow Idon't think so. I tried to pump Faith, but all I could get out of herwas that Mrs. Davis had come, seemingly in high good humour, to see herfather, and had left in an awful rage, calling them all 'varmints!'"
"Varmints, indeed!" said Susan furiously. "Does Mrs. Alec Davis forgetthat her uncle on her mother's side was suspected of poisoning hiswife? Not that it was ever proved, Mrs. Dr. dear, and it does not do tobelieve all you hear. But if _I_ had an uncle whose wife died withoutany satisfactory reason, _I_ would not go about the country callinginnocent children varmints."
"The point is," said Miss Cornelia, "that Mrs. Davis paid a largesubscription, and how its loss is going to be made up is a problem.And if she turns the other Douglases against Mr. Meredith, as she willcertainly try to do, he will just have to go."
"I do not think Mrs. Alec Davis is very well liked by the rest of theclan," said Susan. "It is not likely she will
be able to influencethem."
"But those Douglases all hang together so. If you touch one, you touchall. We can't do without them, so much is certain. They pay half thesalary. They are not mean, whatever else may be said of them. NormanDouglas used to give a hundred a year long ago before he left."
"What did he leave for?" asked Anne.
"He declared a member of the session cheated him in a cow deal. Hehasn't come to church for twenty years. His wife used to come regularwhile she was alive, poor thing, but he never would let her payanything, except one red cent every Sunday. She felt dreadfullyhumiliated. I don't know that he was any too good a husband to her,though she was never heard to complain. But she always had a cowed look.Norman Douglas didn't get the woman he wanted thirty years ago and theDouglases never liked to put up with second best."
"Who was the woman he did want."
"Ellen West. They weren't engaged exactly, I believe, but they wentabout together for two years. And then they just broke off--nobodyever know why. Just some silly quarrel, I suppose. And Norman went andmarried Hester Reese before his temper had time to cool--married herjust to spite Ellen, I haven't a doubt. So like a man! Hester was a nicelittle thing, but she never had much spirit and he broke what little shehad. She was too meek for Norman. He needed a woman who could stand upto him. Ellen would have kept him in fine order and he would have likedher all the better for it. He despised Hester, that is the truth, justbecause she always gave in to him. I used to hear him say many a time,long ago when he was a young fellow 'Give me a spunky woman--spunk forme every time.' And then he went and married a girl who couldn't say booto a goose--man-like. That family of Reeses were just vegetables. Theywent through the motions of living, but they didn't LIVE."
"Russell Reese used his first wife's wedding-ring to marry his second,"said Susan reminiscently. "That was TOO economical in my opinion, Mrs.Dr. dear. And his brother John has his own tombstone put up in theover-harbour graveyard, with everything on it but the date of death, andhe goes and looks at it every Sunday. Most folks would not consider thatmuch fun, but it is plain he does. People do have such different ideasof enjoyment. As for Norman Douglas, he is a perfect heathen. When thelast minister asked him why he never went to church he said 'Too manyugly women there, parson--too many ugly women!' I should like to go tosuch a man, Mrs. Dr. dear, and say to him solemnly, 'There is a hell!'"
"Oh, Norman doesn't believe there is such a place," said Miss Cornelia."I hope he'll find out his mistake when he comes to die. There, Mary,you've knit your three inches and you can go and play with the childrenfor half an hour."
Mary needed no second bidding. She flew to Rainbow Valley with a heartas light as her heels, and in the course of conversation told FaithMeredith all about Mrs. Alec Davis.
"And Mrs. Elliott says that she'll turn all the Douglases against yourfather and then he'll have to leave the Glen because his salary won'tbe paid," concluded Mary. "_I_ don't know what is to be done, honest togoodness. If only old Norman Douglas would come back to church and pay,it wouldn't be so bad. But he won't--and the Douglases will leave--andyou all will have to go."
Faith carried a heavy heart to bed with her that night. The thought ofleaving the Glen was unbearable. Nowhere else in the world were theresuch chums as the Blythes. Her little heart had been wrung when theyhad left Maywater--she had shed many bitter tears when she parted withMaywater chums and the old manse there where her mother had lived anddied. She could not contemplate calmly the thought of such another andharder wrench. She COULDN'T leave Glen St. Mary and dear Rainbow Valleyand that delicious graveyard.
"It's awful to be minister's family," groaned Faith into her pillow."Just as soon as you get fond of a place you are torn up by the roots.I'll never, never, NEVER marry a minister, no matter how nice he is."
Faith sat up in bed and looked out of the little vine-hung window. Thenight was very still, the silence broken only by Una's soft breathing.Faith felt terribly alone in the world. She could see Glen St. Marylying under the starry blue meadows of the autumn night. Over thevalley a light shone from the girls' room at Ingleside, and another fromWalter's room. Faith wondered if poor Walter had toothache again. Thenshe sighed, with a little passing sigh of envy of Nan and Di. They had amother and a settled home--THEY were not at the mercy of people who gotangry without any reason and called you a varmint. Away beyond the Glen,amid fields that were very quiet with sleep, another light was burning.Faith knew it shone in the house where Norman Douglas lived. He wasreputed to sit up all hours of the night reading. Mary had said if hecould only be induced to return to the church all would be well. Andwhy not? Faith looked at a big, low star hanging over the tall, pointedspruce at the gate of the Methodist Church and had an inspiration. Sheknew what ought to be done and she, Faith Meredith, would do it. Shewould make everything right. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turnedfrom the lonely, dark world and cuddled down beside Una.