Anne of Windy Poplars - L. M. Montgomery [48]
Sally detached herself from a mob and whisked Anne upstairs.
‘We’ve saved the north gable room for you. Of course, you’ll have to share it with at least three others. There’s a perfect riot here. Father’s having a tent put up for the boys down among the spruces, and later on we can have cots in the glassed-in porch at the back. And we can pack most of the children in the hay-loft, of course. Oh, Anne, I’m so excited! It’s really no end of fun getting married. My wedding-dress just came from Montreal today. It’s a dream! Cream corded silk, with a lace bertha and pearl embroidery. The loveliest gifts have come. This is your bed. Mamie Gray and Dot Fraser and Sis Palmer have the others. Mother wanted to put Amy Stewart here, but I wouldn’t let her. Amy hates you, because she wanted to be my bridesmaid. But I couldn’t have anyone so fat and dumpy, could I, now? Besides, she looks like somebody seasick in Nile green. Oh, Anne, Aunt Mouser is here! She came just a few minutes ago, and we’re simply horror-stricken. Of course, we had to invite her, but we never thought of her coming before tomorrow.’
‘Who in the world is Aunt Mouser?’
‘Dad’s aunt, Mrs James Jennedy. Oh, of course, she’s really Aunt Grace, but Tommy nicknamed her “Aunt Mouser”, because she’s always mousing round pouncing on things we don’t want her to find out. There’s no escaping her. She even gets up early in the morning for fear of missing something, and she’s the last to go to bed at night. But that isn’t the worst. If there’s a wrong thing to say she’s certain to say it, and she’s never learned that there are questions that mustn’t be asked. Dad calls her speeches “Aunt Mouser’s felicities”. I know she’ll spoil the dinner. Here she comes, now.’
The door opened and Aunt Mouser came in – a fat brown, pop-eyed little woman, moving in an aroma of moth-balls and wearing a chronically worried expression. Except for the expression, she really did look a good deal like a hunting pussy-cat.
‘So you’re the Miss Shirley I’ve always heard so much of. You ain’t a bit like a Miss Shirley I once knew. She had such beautiful eyes. Well, Sally, so you’re to be married at last. Poor Nora is the only one left. Well, your mother is lucky to be rid of five of you. Eight years ago I said to her, “Jane,” sez I, “do you think you’ll ever get all those girls married off?” Well, a man is nothing but trouble, as I sees it, and of all the uncertain things marriage is the uncertainest; but what else is there for a woman in this world? That’s what I’ve just been saying to poor Nora. “Mark my words, Nora,” I said to her, “there isn’t much fun in being an old maid. What’s Jim Wilcox thinking of?” I said to her.’
‘Oh, Aunt Grace, I wish you hadn’t! Jim and Nora had some sort of a quarrel last January, and he’s never been round since.’
‘I believe in saying what I think. Things is better said. I heard of that quarrel. That’s why I asked her about him. “It’s only right,” I told her, “that you should know they say he’s driving Eleanor Pringle.” She got red and mad, and flounced off. What’s Vera Johnson doing here? She ain’t any relation.’
‘Vera’s always been a great friend of mine, Aunt Grace. She’s going to play the Wedding March.’
‘Oh, she is, is she? Well, all I hope is she won’t make a mistake and play the Dead March, like Mrs Tom Scott did at Dora Best’s wedding. Such a bad omen. I don’t know where you’re going to put the mob you’ve got here for the night. Some of us will have to sleep on the clothes-line, I reckon.’
‘Oh, we’ll find a place for everyone, Aunt Grace.’
‘Well, Sally, all I hope is you won’t change your mind at the last moment, like Helen Summers did. It clutters things up so. Your father is in terrible high spirits. I never was one to go looking for trouble, but all I hope is it ain’t the forerunner of a stroke. I’ve seen it happen that way.’
‘Oh, Dad’s fine, Aunt Grace. He’s just a bit excited.’
‘Ah, you’re too young, Sally, to know all that can happen. Your mother