L. M. MONTGOMERY – Premium Collection: Novels, Short Stories, Poetry & Memoir (Including Anne of Green Gables Series, Chronicles of Avonlea & The Story Girl Trilogy). Lucy Maud Montgomery
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you are, Captain Jim. Nobody else — not even Gilbert” — with a shake of her head at him—”remembered that I always long for mayflowers in spring.”
“Well, I had another errand, too — I wanted to take Mr. Howard back yander a mess of trout. He likes one occasional, and it’s all I can do for a kindness he did me once. I stayed all the afternoon and talked to him. He likes to talk to me, though he’s a highly eddicated man and I’m only an ignorant old sailor, because he’s one of the folks that’s GOT to talk or they’re miserable, and he finds listeners scarce around here. The Glen folks fight shy of him because they think he’s an infidel. He ain’t that far gone exactly — few men is, I reckon — but he’s what you might call a heretic. Heretics are wicked, but they’re mighty int’resting. It’s jest that they’ve got sorter lost looking for God, being under the impression that He’s hard to find — which He ain’t never. Most of ‘em blunder to Him after awhile, I guess. I don’t think listening to Mr. Howard’s arguments is likely to do me much harm. Mind you, I believe what I was brought up to believe. It saves a vast of bother — and back of it all, God is good. The trouble with Mr. Howard is that he’s a leetle TOO clever. He thinks that he’s bound to live up to his cleverness, and that it’s smarter to thrash out some new way of getting to heaven than to go by the old track the common, ignorant folks is travelling. But he’ll get there sometime all right, and then he’ll laugh at himself.”
“Mr. Howard was a Methodist to begin with,” said Miss Cornelia, as if she thought he had not far to go from that to heresy.
“Do you know, Cornelia,” said Captain Jim gravely, “I’ve often thought that if I wasn’t a Presbyterian I’d be a Methodist.”
“Oh, well,” conceded Miss Cornelia, “if you weren’t a Presbyterian it wouldn’t matter much what you were. Speaking of heresy, reminds me, doctor — I’ve brought back that book you lent me — that Natural Law in the Spiritual World — I didn’t read more’n a third of it. I can read sense, and I can read nonsense, but that book is neither the one nor the other.”
“It IS considered rather heretical in some quarters,” admitted Gilbert, “but I told you that before you took it, Miss Cornelia.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have minded its being heretical. I can stand wickedness, but I can’t stand foolishness,” said Miss Cornelia calmly, and with the air of having said the last thing there was to say about Natural Law.
“Speaking of books, A Mad Love come to an end at last two weeks ago,” remarked Captain Jim musingly. “It run to one hundred and three chapters. When they got married the book stopped right off, so I reckon their troubles were all over. It’s real nice that that’s the way in books anyhow, isn’t it, even if ‘tistn’t so anywhere else?”
“I never read novels,” said Miss Cornelia. “Did you hear how Geordie Russell was today, Captain Jim?”
“Yes, I called in on my way home to see him. He’s getting round all right — but stewing in a broth of trouble, as usual, poor man.
“‘Course he brews up most of it for himself, but I reckon that don’t make it any easier to bear.”
“He’s an awful pessimist,” said Miss Cornelia.
“Well, no, he ain’t a pessimist exactly, Cornelia. He only jest never finds anything that suits him.”
“And isn’t that a pessimist?”
“No, no. A pessimist is one who never expects to find anything to suit him. Geordie hain’t got THAT far yet.”
“You’d find something good to say of the devil himself, Jim Boyd.”
“Well, you’ve heard the story of the old lady who said he was persevering. But no, Cornelia, I’ve nothing good to say of the devil.”
“Do you believe in him at all?” asked Miss Cornelia seriously.
“How can you ask that when you know what a good Presbyterian I am, Cornelia? How could a Presbyterian get along without a devil?”
“DO you?” persisted Miss Cornelia.
Captain Jim suddenly became grave.
“I believe in what I heard a minister once call ‘a mighty and malignant and INTELLIGENT power of evil working in the universe,’” he said solemnly. “I do THAT, Cornelia. You can call it the devil, or the ‘principle of evil,’ or the Old Scratch, or any name you like. It’s THERE, and all the infidels and heretics in the world can’t argue it away, any more’n they can argue God away. It’s there, and it’s working. But, mind you, Cornelia, I believe it’s going to get the worst of it in the long run.”
“I am sure I hope so,” said Miss Cornelia, none too hopefully. “But speaking of the devil, I am positive that Billy Booth is possessed by him now. Have you heard of Billy’s latest performance?”
“No, what was that?”
“He’s gone and burned up his wife’s new, brown broadcloth suit, that she paid twenty-five dollars for in Charlottetown, because he declares the men looked too admiring at her when she wore it to church the first time. Wasn’t that like a man?”
“Mistress Booth IS mighty pretty, and brown’s her color,” said Captain Jim reflectively.
“Is that any good reason why he should poke her new suit into the kitchen stove? Billy Booth is a jealous fool, and he makes his wife’s life miserable. She’s cried all the week about her suit. Oh, Anne, I wish I could write like you, believe ME. Wouldn’t I score some of the men round here!”
“Those Booths are all a mite queer,” said Captain Jim. “Billy seemed the sanest of the lot till he got married and then this queer jealous streak cropped out in him. His brother Daniel, now, was always odd.”
“Took tantrums every few days or so and wouldn’t get out of bed,” said Miss Cornelia with a relish. “His wife would have to do all the barn work till he got over his spell. When he died people wrote her letters of condolence; if I’d written anything it would have been one of congratulation. Their father, old Abram Booth, was a disgusting old sot. He was drunk at his wife’s funeral, and kept reeling round and hiccuping ‘I didn’t dri — i — i — nk much but I feel a — a — awfully que — e — e — r.’ I gave him a good jab in the back with my umbrella when he came near me, and it sobered him up until they got the casket out of the house. Young Johnny Booth was to have been married yesterday, but he couldn’t be because he’s gone and got the mumps. Wasn’t that like a man?”
“How could he help getting the mumps, poor fellow?”
“I’d poor fellow him, believe ME, if I was Kate Sterns. I don’t know how he could help getting the mumps, but I DO know the wedding supper was all prepared and everything will be spoiled before he’s well again. Such a waste! He should have had the mumps when he was a boy.”
“Come, come, Cornelia, don’t you think you’re a mite unreasonable?”
Miss Cornelia disdained to reply and turned instead to Susan Baker, a grim-faced, kindhearted elderly spinster of the Glen, who had been installed as maid-of-all-work at the little house for some weeks. Susan had been up to the Glen to make a sick call, and had just returned.
“How is poor old Aunt Mandy tonight?” asked Miss Cornelia.
Susan sighed.
“Very poorly — very poorly, Cornelia. I am afraid she will soon be in heaven, poor thing!”
“Oh, surely, it’s not so bad as that!” exclaimed Miss Cornelia, sympathetically.
Captain Jim and Gilbert looked at each other. Then they suddenly rose and went out.
“There are times,” said Captain Jim, between spasms, “when it would be a sin NOT to laugh. Them two excellent women!”