Rainbow Valley
his appearance. He was too dark and sleek.”
“He looked exactly like a great black tomcat, that he did, Mrs. Dr.
dear,” said Susan. “I never could abide such a man in the pulpit every
Sunday.”
“Then Mr. Rogers came and he was like a chip in porridge—neither harm
nor good,” resumed Miss Cornelia. “But if he had preached like Peter
and Paul it would have profited him nothing, for that was the day old
Caleb Ramsay’s sheep strayed into church and gave a loud ‘ba-a-a’ just
as he announced his text. Everybody laughed, and poor Rogers had no
chance after that. Some thought we ought to call Mr. Stewart, because
he was so well educated. He could read the New Testament in five
languages.”
“But I do not think he was any surer than other men of getting to
heaven because of that,” interjected Susan.
“Most of us didn’t like his delivery,” said Miss Cornelia, ignoring
Susan. “He talked in grunts, so to speak. And Mr. Arnett couldn’t
preach _at all_. And he picked about the worst candidating text there
is in the Bible—‘Curse ye Meroz.’”
“Whenever he got stuck for an idea, he would bang the Bible and shout
very bitterly, ‘Curse ye Meroz.’ Poor Meroz got thoroughly cursed that
day, whoever he was, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan.
“The minister who is candidating can’t be too careful what text he
chooses,” said Miss Cornelia solemnly. “I believe Mr. Pierson would
have got the call if he had picked a different text. But when he
announced ‘I will lift my eyes to the hills’ _he_ was done for. Every
one grinned, for every one knew that those two Hill girls from the
Harbour Head have been setting their caps for every single minister who
came to the Glen for the last fifteen years. And Mr. Newman had too
large a family.”
“He stayed with my brother-in-law, James Clow,” said Susan. “‘How many
children have you got?’ I asked him. ‘Nine boys and a sister for each
of them,’ he said. ‘Eighteen!’ said I. ‘Dear me, what a family!’ And
then he laughed and laughed. But I do not know why, Mrs. Dr. dear, and
I am certain that eighteen children would be too many for any manse.”
“He had only ten children, Susan,” explained Miss Cornelia, with
contemptuous patience. “And ten good children would not be much worse
for the manse and congregation than the four who are there now. Though
I wouldn’t say, Anne dearie, that they are so bad, either. I like
them—everybody likes them. It’s impossible to help liking them. They
would be real nice little souls if there was anyone to look after their
manners and teach them what is right and proper. For instance, at
school the teacher says they are model children. But at home they
simply run wild.”
“What about Mrs. Meredith?” asked Anne.
“There’s _no_ Mrs. Meredith. That is just the trouble. Mr. Meredith is
a widower. His wife died four years ago. If we had known that I don’t
suppose we would have called him, for a widower is even worse in a
congregation than a single man. But he was heard to speak of his
children and we all supposed there was a mother, too. And when they
came there was nobody but old Aunt Martha, as they call her. She’s a
cousin of Mr. Meredith’s mother, I believe, and he took her in to save
her from the poorhouse. She is seventy-five years old, half blind, and
very deaf and very cranky.”
“And a very poor cook, Mrs. Dr. dear.”
“The worst possible manager for a manse,” said Miss Cornelia bitterly.
“Mr. Meredith won’t get any other housekeeper because he says it would
hurt Aunt Martha’s feelings. Anne dearie, believe me, the state of that
manse is something terrible. Everything is thick with dust and nothing
is ever in its place. And we had painted and papered it all so nice
before they came.”
“There are four children, you say?” asked Anne, beginning to mother
them already in her heart.
“Yes. They run up just like the steps of a stair. Gerald’s the oldest.
He’s twelve and they call him Jerry. He’s a clever boy. Faith is
eleven. She is a regular tomboy but pretty as a picture, I must say.”
“She looks like an angel but she is a holy terror for mischief, Mrs.
Dr. dear,” said Susan solemnly. “I was at the manse one night last week
and Mrs. James Millison was there, too. She had brought them up a dozen
eggs and a little pail of milk—a _very_ little pail, Mrs. Dr. dear.
Faith took them and whisked down the cellar with them. Near the bottom
of the stairs she caught her toe and fell the rest of the way, milk and
eggs and all. You can imagine the result, Mrs. Dr. dear. But that child
came up laughing. ‘I don’t know whether I’m myself or a custard pie,’
she said. And Mrs. James Millison was very angry. She said she would
never take another thing to the manse if it was to be wasted and
destroyed in that fashion.”
“Maria Millison never hurt herself taking things to the manse,” sniffed
Miss Cornelia. “She just took them that night as an excuse for
curiosity. But poor Faith is always getting into scrapes. She is so
heedless and impulsive.”
“Just like me. I’m going to like your Faith,” said Anne decidedly.
“She is full of spunk—and I do like spunk, Mrs. Dr. dear,” admitted
Susan.
“There’s something taking about her,” conceded Miss Cornelia. “You
never see her but she’s laughing, and somehow it always makes you want
to laugh too. She can’t even keep a straight face in church. Una is
ten—she’s a sweet little thing—not pretty, but sweet. And Thomas
Carlyle is nine. They call him Carl, and he has a regular mania for
collecting toads and bugs and frogs and bringing them into the house.”
“I suppose he was responsible for the dead rat that was lying on a
chair in the parlour the afternoon Mrs. Grant called. It gave her a
turn,” said Susan, “and I do not wonder, for manse parlours are no
places for dead rats. To be sure it may have been the cat who left it,
there. _He_ is as full of the old Nick as he can be stuffed, Mrs. Dr.
dear. A manse cat should at least _look_ respectable, in my opinion,
whatever he really is. But I never saw such a rakish-looking beast. And
he walks along the ridgepole of the manse almost every evening at
sunset, Mrs. Dr. dear, and waves his tail, and that is not becoming.”
“The worst of it is, they are _never_ decently dressed,” sighed Miss
Cornelia. “And since the snow went they go to school barefooted. Now,
you know Anne dearie, that isn’t the right thing for manse
children—especially when the Methodist minister’s little girl always
wears such nice buttoned boots. And I _do_ wish they wouldn’t play in
the old Methodist graveyard.”
“It’s very tempting, when it’s right beside the manse,” said Anne.
“I’ve always thought graveyards must be delightful places to play in.”
“Oh, no, you did not, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said loyal Susan, determined to
protect Anne from herself. “You have too much good sense and decorum.”
“Why did they ever build that manse beside the graveyard in the first
place?” asked Anne. “Their lawn is so small there is no place for them
to play except in the graveyard.”
“It _was_ a mistake,” admitted Miss Cornelia. “But they got the lot
cheap. And no other manse children ever thought of playing there. Mr.
Meredith shouldn’t allow it. But he has always got his nose buried in a
book, when he is home. He reads and reads, or walks about in his study
in a day-dream. So far he hasn’t forgotten to be in church on Sundays,
but twice he has forgotten about the prayer-meeting and one of the
elders had to go over to the manse and remind him. And he forgot about
Fanny Cooper’s wedding. They rang him up on the ‘phone and then he
rushed right over, just as he was, carpet slippers and all. One
wouldn’t mind if the Methodists didn’t laugh so about it. But there’s
one comfort—they can’t criticize his sermons. He wakes up when he’s in
the pulpit, believe _me_. And the Methodist minister can’t preach at
all—so they tell me. _I_ have never heard him, thank goodness.”
Miss Cornelia’s scorn of men had abated somewhat since her marriage,
but her scorn of Methodists remained untinged of charity. Susan smiled
slyly.
“They do say, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that the Methodists and
Presbyterians are talking of uniting,” she said.
“Well, all I hope is that I’ll be under the sod if that ever comes to
pass,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “I shall never have truck or trade with
Methodists, and Mr. Meredith will find that he’d better steer clear of
them, too. He is entirely too sociable with them, believe _me_. Why, he
went to the Jacob Drews’ silver-wedding supper and got into a nice
scrape as a result.”
“What was it?”
“Mrs. Drew asked him to carve the roast goose—for Jacob Drew never did
or could carve. Well, Mr. Meredith tackled it, and in the process he
knocked it clean off the platter into Mrs. Reese’s lap, who was sitting
next him. And he just said dreamily. ‘Mrs. Reese, will you kindly
return me that goose?’ Mrs. Reese ‘returned’ it, as meek as Moses, but
she must have been furious, for she had on her new silk dress. The
worst of it is, she was a Methodist.”
“But I think that is better than if she was a Presbyterian,”
interjected Susan. “If she had been a Presbyterian she would mostly
likely have left the church and we cannot afford to lose our members.
And Mrs. Reese is not liked in her own church, because she gives
herself such great airs, so that the Methodists would be rather pleased
that Mr. Meredith spoiled her dress.”
“The point is, he made himself ridiculous, and _I_, for one, do not
like to see my minister made ridiculous in the eyes of the Methodists,”
said Miss Cornelia stiffly. “If he had had a wife it would not have
happened.”
“I do not see if he had a dozen wives how they could have prevented
Mrs. Drew from using up her tough old gander for the wedding-feast,”
said Susan stubbornly.
“They say that was her husband’s doing,” said Miss Cornelia. “Jacob
Drew is a conceited, stingy, domineering creature.”
“And they do say he and his wife detest each other—which does not seem
to me the proper way for married folks to get along. But then, of
course, I have had no experience along that line,” said Susan, tossing
her head. “And _I_ am not one to blame everything on the men. Mrs. Drew
is mean enough herself. They say that the only thing she was ever known
to give away was a crock of butter made out of cream a rat had fell
into. She contributed it to a church social. Nobody found out about the
rat until afterwards.”
“Fortunately, all the people the Merediths have offended so far are
Methodists,” said Miss Cornelia. “That Jerry went to the Methodist
prayer-meeting one night about a fortnight ago and sat beside old
William Marsh who got up as usual and testified with fearful groans.
‘Do you feel any better now?’ whispered Jerry when William sat down.
Poor Jerry meant to be sympathetic, but Mr. Marsh thought he was
impertinent and is furious at him. Of course, Jerry had no business to
be in a Methodist prayer-meeting at all. But they go where they like.”
“I hope they will not offend Mrs. Alec Davis of the Harbour Head,” said
Susan. “She is a very touchy woman, I understand, but she is very well
off and pays the most of any one to the salary. I have heard that she
says the Merediths are the worst brought up children she ever saw.”
“Every word you say convinces me more and more that the Merediths
belong to the race that knows Joseph,” said Mistress Anne decidedly.
“When all is said and done, they _do_,” admitted Miss Cornelia. “And
that balances everything. Anyway, we’ve got them now and we must just
do the best we can by them and stick up for them to the Methodists.
Well, I suppose I must be getting down harbour. Marshall will soon be
home—he went over-harbour to-day—and wanting his super, man-like. I’m
sorry I haven’t seen the other children. And where’s the doctor?”