The Complete Short Stories of Lucy Maud Montgomery. Lucy Maud Montgomery
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but her bloom went, and she got shyer and limper every year of her life. She wouldn’t have dared put on her second best dress without asking Emmeline’s permission. She was real fond of cats and Emmeline wouldn’t let her keep one. Emmeline even cut the serial out of the religious weekly she took before she would give it to Prissy, because she didn’t believe in reading novels. It used to make me furious to see it all. They were my next door neighbours after I married Thomas, and I was often in and out. Sometimes I’d feel real vexed at Prissy for giving in the way she did; but, after all, she couldn’t help it — she was born that way.
And now Stephen was going to try his luck again. It certainly did seem funny.
Stephen walked home with Prissy from prayer meeting four nights before Emmeline found it out. Emmeline hadn’t been going to prayer meeting all that summer because she was mad at Mr. Leonard. She had expressed her disapproval to him because he had buried old Naomi Clark at the harbour “just as if she was a Christian,” and Mr. Leonard had said something to her she couldn’t get over for a while. I don’t know what it was, but I know that when Mr. Leonard WAS roused to rebuke anyone the person so rebuked remembered it for a spell.
All at once I knew she must have discovered about Stephen and Prissy, for Prissy stopped going to prayer meeting.
I felt real worried about it, someway, and although Thomas said for goodness’ sake not to go poking my fingers into other people’s pies, I felt as if I ought to do something. Stephen Clark was a good man and Prissy would have a beautiful home; and those two little boys of Althea’s needed a mother if ever boys did. Besides, I knew quite well that Prissy, in her secret soul, was hankering to be married. So was Emmeline, too — but nobody wanted to help HER to a husband.
The upshot of my meditations was that I asked Stephen down to dinner with us from church one day. I had heard a rumour that he was going to see Lizzie Pye over at Avonlea, and I knew it was time to be stirring, if anything were to be done. If it had been Jane Miranda I don’t know that I’d have bothered; but Lizzie Pye wouldn’t have done for a stepmother for Althea’s boys at all. She was too bad-tempered, and as mean as second skimmings besides.
Stephen came. He seemed dull and moody, and not much inclined to talk. After dinner I gave Thomas a hint. I said,
“You go to bed and have your nap. I want to talk to Stephen.”
Thomas shrugged his shoulders and went. He probably thought I was brewing up lots of trouble for myself, but he didn’t say anything. As soon as he was out of the way I casually remarked to Stephen that I understood that he was going to take one of my neighbours away and that I couldn’t be sorry, though she was an excellent neighbour and I would miss her a great deal.
“You won’t have to miss her much, I reckon,” said Stephen grimly. “I’ve been told I’m not wanted there.”
I was surprised to hear Stephen come out so plump and plain about it, for I hadn’t expected to get at the root of the matter so easily. Stephen wasn’t the confidential kind. But it really seemed to be a relief to him to talk about it; I never saw a man feeling so sore about anything. He told me the whole story.
Prissy had written him a letter — he fished it out of his pocket and gave it to me to read. It was in Prissy’s prim, pretty little writing, sure enough, and it just said that his attentions were “unwelcome,” and would he be “kind enough to refrain from offering them.” Not much wonder the poor man went to see Lizzie Pye!
“Stephen, I’m surprised at you for thinking that Prissy Strong wrote that letter,” I said.
“It’s in her handwriting,” he said stubbornly.
“Of course it is. ‘The hand is the hand of Esau, but the voice is the voice of Jacob,’” I said, though I wasn’t sure whether the quotation was exactly appropriate. “Emmeline composed that letter and made Prissy copy it out. I know that as well as if I’d seen her do it, and you ought to have known it, too.”
“If I thought that I’d show Emmeline I could get Prissy in spite of her,” said Stephen savagely. “But if Prissy doesn’t want me I’m not going to force my attentions on her.”
Well, we talked it over a bit, and in the end I agreed to sound Prissy, and find out what she really thought about it. I didn’t think it would be hard to do; and it wasn’t. I went over the very next day because I saw Emmeline driving off to the store. I found Prissy alone, sewing carpet rags. Emmeline kept her constantly at that — because Prissy hated it I suppose. Prissy was crying when I went in, and in a few minutes I had the whole story.
Prissy wanted to get married — and she wanted to get married to Stephen — and Emmeline wouldn’t let her.
“Prissy Strong,” I said in exasperation, “you haven’t the spirit of a mouse! Why on earth did you write him such a letter?”
“Why, Emmeline made me,” said Prissy, as if there couldn’t be any appeal from that; and I knew there couldn’t — for Prissy. I also knew that if Stephen wanted to see Prissy again Emmeline must know nothing of it, and I told him so when he came down the next evening — to borrow a hoe, he said. It was a long way to come for a hoe.
“Then what am I to do?” he said. “It wouldn’t be any use to write, for it would likely fall into Emmeline’s hands. She won’t let Prissy go anywhere alone after this, and how am I to know when the old cat is away?”
“Please don’t insult cats,” I said. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You can see the ventilator on our barn from your place, can’t you? You’d be able to make out a flag or something tied to it, wouldn’t you, through that spyglass of yours?”
Stephen thought he could.
“Well, you take a squint at it every now and then,” I said. “Just as soon as Emmeline leaves Prissy alone I’ll hoist the signal.”
The chance didn’t come for a whole fortnight. Then, one evening, I saw Emmeline striding over the field below our house. As soon as she was out of sight I ran through the birch grove to Prissy.
“Yes, Em’line’s gone to sit up with Jane Lawson tonight,” said Prissy, all fluttered and trembling.
“Then you put on your muslin dress and fix your hair,” I said. “I’m going home to get Thomas to tie something to that ventilator.”
But do you think Thomas would do it? Not he. He said he owed something to his position as elder in the church. In the end I had to do it myself, though I don’t like climbing ladders. I tied Thomas’ long red woollen scarf to the ventilator, and prayed that Stephen would see it. He did, for in less than an hour he drove down our lane and put his horse in our barn. He was all spruced up, and as nervous and excited as a schoolboy. He went right over to Prissy, and I began to tuft my new comfort with a clear conscience. I shall never know why it suddenly came into my head to go up to the garret and make sure that the moths hadn’t got into my box of blankets; but I always believed that it was a special interposition of Providence. I went up and happened to look out of the east window; and there I saw Emmeline Strong coming home across our pond field.
I just flew down those garret stairs and out through the birches. I burst into the Strong kitchen, where Stephen and Prissy were sitting as cozy as you please.
“Stephen, come quick! Emmeline’s nearly here,” I cried.
Prissy looked out of the window and wrung her hands.
“Oh, she’s in the lane now,” she gasped. “He can’t get out of the house without her seeing him. Oh, Rosanna, what shall we do?”
I really don’t know what would have become of those two people if I hadn’t been in existence to find ideas for them.
“Take Stephen up to the garret and hide him there, Prissy,” I said firmly, “and take him quick.”
Prissy took him quick, but she had barely time to get back to the kitchen before Emmeline marched in — mad as a wet hen