Chapter 7 How Betty Shermon Won a Husband — The Story Girl by Lucy Montgomery
The rest of us did not share the Story Girl’s enthusiasm regarding our call on Mr. Campbell. We secretly dreaded it. If, as was said, he detested children, who knew what sort of a reception we might meet?
Mr. Campbell was a rich, retired farmer, who took life easily. He had visited New York and Boston, Toronto and Montreal; he had even been as far as the Pacific coast. Therefore he was regarded in Carlisle as a much travelled man; and he was known to be “well read” and intelligent. But it was also known that Mr. Campbell was not always in a good humour. If he liked you there was nothing he would not do for you; if he disliked you—well, you were not left in ignorance of it. In short, we had the impression that Mr. Campbell resembled the famous little girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead. “When he was good, he was very, very good, and when he was bad he was horrid.” What if this were one of his horrid days?
“He can’t DO anything to us, you know,” said the Story Girl. “He may be rude, but that won’t hurt any one but himself.”
“Hard words break no bones,” observed Felicity philosophically.
“But they hurt your feelings. I am afraid of Mr. Campbell,” said Cecily candidly.
“Perhaps we’d better give up and go home,” suggested Dan.
“You can go home if you like,” said the Story Girl scornfully. “But I am going to see Mr. Campbell. I know I can manage him. But if I have to go alone, and he gives me anything, I’ll keep it all for my own collection, mind you.”
That settled it. We were not going to let the Story Girl get ahead of us in the manner of collecting.
Mr. Campbell’s housekeeper ushered us into his parlour and left us. Presently Mr. Campbell himself was standing in the doorway, looking us over. We took heart of grace. It seemed to be one of his good days, for there was a quizzical smile on his broad, clean-shaven, strongly-featured face. Mr. Campbell was a tall man, with a massive head, well thatched with thick, black hair, gray-streaked. He had big, black eyes, with many wrinkles around them, and a thin, firm, long-lipped mouth. We thought him handsome, for an old man.
His gaze wandered over us with uncomplimentary indifference until it fell on the Story Girl, leaning back in an arm-chair. She looked like a slender red lily in the unstudied grace of her attitude. A spark flashed into Mr. Campbell’s black eyes.
“Is this a Sunday School deputation?” he inquired rather ironically.
“No. We have come to ask a favour of you,” said the Story Girl.
The magic of her voice worked its will on Mr. Campbell, as on all others. He came in, sat down, hooked his thumb into his vest pocket, and smiled at her.
“What is it?” he asked.
“We are collecting for our school library, and we have called to ask you for a contribution,” she replied.
“Why should I contribute to your school library?” demanded Mr. Campbell.
This was a poser for us. Why should he, indeed? But the Story Girl was quite equal to it. Leaning forward, and throwing an indescribable witchery into tone and eyes and smile, she said,
“Because a lady asks you.”
Mr. Campbell chuckled.
“The best of all reasons,” he said. “But see here, my dear young lady, I’m an old miser and curmudgeon, as you may have heard. I HATE to part with my money, even for a good reason. And I NEVER part with any of it, unless I am to receive some benefit from the expenditure. Now, what earthly good could I get from your three by six school library? None whatever. But I shall make you a fair offer. I have heard from my housekeeper’s urchin of a son that you are a ‘master hand’ to tell stories. Tell me one, here and now. I shall pay you in proportion to the entertainment you afford me. Come now, and do your prettiest.”
There was a fine mockery in his tone that put the Story Girl on her mettle instantly. She sprang to her feet, an amazing change coming over her. Her eyes flashed and burned; crimson spots glowed in her cheeks.
“I shall tell you the story of the Sherman girls, and how Betty Sherman won a husband,” she said.
We gasped. Was the Story Girl crazy? Or had she forgotten that Betty Sherman was Mr. Campbell’s own great-grandmother, and that her method of winning a husband was not exactly in accordance with maidenly traditions.
But Mr. Campbell chuckled again.
“An excellent test,” he said. “If you can amuse ME with that story you must be a wonder. I’ve heard it so often that it has no more interest for me than the alphabet.”
“One cold winter day, eighty years ago,” began the Story Girl without further parley, “Donald Fraser was sitting by the window of his new house, playing his fiddle for company, and looking out over the white, frozen bay before his door. It was bitter, bitter cold, and a storm was brewing. But, storm, or no storm, Donald meant to go over the bay that evening to see Nancy Sherman. He was thinking of her as he played ‘Annie Laurie,’ for Nancy was more beautiful than the lady of the song. ‘Her face, it is the fairest that e’er the sun shone on,’ hummed Donald—and oh, he thought so, too! He did not know whether Nancy cared for him or not. He had many rivals. But he knew that if she would not come to be the mistress of his new house no one else ever should. So he sat there that afternoon and dreamed of her, as he played sweet old songs and rollicking jigs on his fiddle.
“While he was playing a sleigh drove up to the door, and Neil Campbell came in. Donald was not overly glad to see him, for he suspected where he was going. Neil Campbell, who was Highland Scotch and lived down at Berwick, was courting Nancy Sherman, too; and, what was far worse, Nancy’s father favoured him, because he was a richer man than Donald Fraser. But Donald was not going to show all he thought—Scotch people never do—and he pretended to be very glad to see Neil and made him heartily welcome.
“Neil sat down by the roaring fire, looking quite well satisfied with himself. It was ten miles from Berwick to the bay shore, and a call at a half way house was just the thing. Then Donald brought out the whisky. They always did that eighty years ago, you know. If you were a woman, you could give your visitors a dish of tea; but if you were a man and did not offer them a ‘taste’ of whisky, you were thought either very mean or very ignorant.
“‘You look cold,’ said Donald, in his great, hearty voice. ‘Sit nearer the fire, man, and put a bit of warmth in your veins. It’s bitter cold the day. And now tell me the Berwick news. Has Jean McLean made up with her man yet? And is it true that Sandy McQuarrie is to marry Kate Ferguson? ‘Twill be a match now! Sure, with her red hair, Sandy will not be like to lose his bride past finding.’
“Neil had plenty of news to tell. And the more whisky he drank the more he told. He didn’t notice that Donald was not taking much. Neil talked on and on, and of course he soon began to tell things it would have been much wiser not to tell. Finally he told Donald that he was going over the bay to ask Nancy Sherman that very night to marry him. And if she would have him, then Donald and all the folks should see a wedding that WAS a wedding.
“Oh, wasn’t Donald taken aback! This was more than he had expected. Neil hadn’t been courting Nancy very long, and Donald never dreamed he would propose to her QUITE so soon.
“At first Donald didn’t know what to do. He felt sure deep down in his heart, that Nancy liked HIM. She was very shy and modest, but you know a girl can let a man see she likes him without going out of her way. But Donald knew that if Neil proposed first he would have the best chance. Neil was rich and the Shermans were poor, and old Elias Sherman would have the most to say in the matter. If he told Nancy she must take Neil Campbell she would never dream of disobeying him. Old Elias Sherman was a man who had to be obeyed. But if Nancy had only promised some one else first her father would not make her break her word.
“Wasn’t it a hard plight for poor Donald? But he was a Scotchman, you know, and it’s pretty hard to stick a Scotchman long. Presently a twinkle came into his eyes, for he remembered that all was fair in love and war. So he said to Neil, oh, so persuasively,
“‘Have some more, man, have some more. ‘Twill keep the heart in you in the teeth of that wind. Help yourself. There’s plenty more where that came from.’
“Neil didn’t want MUCH persuasion. He took some more, and said slyly,
“‘Is it going over the bay the night that yourself will be doing?’
“Donald shook his head.
“‘I had thought of it,’ he owned, ‘but it looks a wee like a storm, and my sleigh is at the blacksmith’s to be shod. If I went it must be on Black Dan’s back, and he likes a canter over the ice in a snow-storm as little as I. His own fireside is the best place for a man to-night, Campbell. Have another taste, man, have another taste.’
“Neil went on ‘tasting,’ and that sly Donald sat there with a sober face, but laughing eyes, and coaxed him on. At last Neil’s head fell forward on his breast, and he was sound asleep. Donald got up, put on his overcoat and cap, and went to the door.
“‘May your sleep be long and sweet, man,’ he said, laughing softly, ‘and as for the waking, ‘twill be betwixt you and me.’
“With that he untied Neil’s horse, climbed into Neil’s sleigh, and tucked Neil’s buffalo robe about him.
“‘Now, Bess, old girl, do your bonniest,’ he said. ‘There’s more than you know hangs on your speed. If the Campbell wakes too soon Black Dan could show you a pair of clean heels for all your good start. On, my girl.’
“Brown Bess went over the ice like a deer, and Donald kept thinking of what he should say to Nancy—and more still of what she would say to him. SUPPOSE he was mistaken. SUPPOSE she said ‘no!’
“‘Neil would have the laugh on me then. Sure he’s sleeping well. And the snow is coming soon. There’ll be a bonny swirl on the bay ere long. I hope no harm will come to the lad if he starts to cross. When he wakes he’ll be in such a fine Highland temper that he’ll never stop to think of danger. Well, Bess, old girl, here we are. Now, Donald Fraser, pluck up heart and play the man. Never flinch because a slip of a lass looks scornful at you out of the bonniest dark-blue eyes on earth.’
“But in spite of his bold words Donald’s heart was thumping as he drove into the Sherman yard. Nancy was there milking a cow by the stable door, but she stood up when she saw Donald coming. Oh, she was very beautiful! Her hair was like a skein of golden silk, and her eyes were as blue as the gulf water when the sun breaks out after a storm. Donald felt more nervous than ever. But he knew he must make the most of his chance. He might not see Nancy alone again before Neil came. He caught her hand and stammered out,
“‘Nan, lass, I love you. You may think ‘tis a hasty wooing, but that’s a story I can tell you later maybe. I know well I’m not worthy of you, but if true love could make a man worthy there’d be none before me. Will you have me, Nan?’
“Nancy didn’t SAY she would have him. She just LOOKED it, and Donald kissed her right there in the snow.
“The next morning the storm was over. Donald knew Neil must be soon on his track. He did not want to make the Sherman house the scene of a quarrel, so he resolved to get away before the Campbell came. He persuaded Nancy to go with him to visit some friends in another settlement. As he brought Neil’s sleigh up to the door he saw a black speck far out on the bay and laughed.
“‘Black Dan goes well, but he’ll not be quick enough,’ he said.
“Half an hour later Neil Campbell rushed into the Sherman kitchen and oh, how angry he was! There was nobody there but Betty Sherman, and Betty was not afraid of him. She was never afraid of anybody. She was very handsome, with hair as brown as October nuts and black eyes and crimson cheeks; and she had always been in love with Neil Campbell herself.
“‘Good morning, Mr. Campbell,’ she said, with a toss of her head. ‘It’s early abroad you are. And on Black Dan, no less! Was I mistaken in thinking that Donald Fraser said once that his favourite horse should never be backed by any man but him? But doubtless a fair exchange is no robbery, and Brown Bess is a good mare in her way.’
“‘Where is Donald Fraser?’ said Neil, shaking his fist. ‘It’s him I’m seeking, and it’s him I will be finding. Where is he, Betty Sherman?’
“‘Donald Fraser is far enough away by this time,’ mocked Betty. ‘He is a prudent fellow, and has some quickness of wit under that sandy thatch of his. He came here last night at sunset, with a horse and sleigh not his own, or lately gotten, and he asked Nan in the stable yard to marry him. Did a man ask ME to marry him at the cow’s side with a milking pail in my hand, it’s a cold answer he’d get for his pains. But Nan thought differently, and they sat late together last night, and ‘twas a bonny story Nan wakened me to hear when she came to bed—the story of a braw lover who let his secret out when the whisky was above the wit, and then fell asleep while his rival was away to woo and win his lass. Did you ever hear a like story, Mr. Campbell?’
“‘Oh, yes,’ said Neil fiercely. ‘It is laughing at me over the country side and telling that story that Donald Fraser will be doing, is it? But when I meet him it is not laughing he will be doing. Oh, no. There will be another story to tell!’
“‘Now, don’t meddle with the man,’ cried Betty. ‘What a state to be in because one good-looking lass likes sandy hair and gray eyes better than Highland black and blue! You have not the spirit of a wren, Neil Campbell. Were I you, I would show Donald Fraser that I could woo and win a lass as speedily as any Lowlander of them all; that I would! There’s many a girl would gladly say ‘yes’ for your asking. And here stands one! Why not marry ME, Neil Campbell? Folks say I’m as bonny as Nan—and I could love you as well as Nan loves her Donald—ay, and ten times better!’
“What do you suppose the Campbell did? Why, just the thing he ought to have done. He took Betty at her word on the spot; and there was a double wedding soon after. And it is said that Neil and Betty were the happiest couple in the world—happier even than Donald and Nancy. So all was well because it ended well!”
The Story Girl curtsied until her silken skirts swept the floor. Then she flung herself in her chair and looked at Mr. Campbell, flushed, triumphant, daring.
The story was old to us. It had once been published in a Charlottetown paper, and we had read in Aunt Olivia’s scrapbook, where the Story Girl had learned it. But we had listened entranced. I have written down the bare words of the story, as she told it; but I can never reproduce the charm and colour and spirit she infused into it. It LIVED for us. Donald and Neil, Nancy and Betty, were there in that room with us. We saw the flashes of expression on their faces, we heard their voices, angry or tender, mocking or merry, in Lowland and Highland accent. We realized all the mingled coquetry and feeling and defiance and archness in Betty Sherman’s daring speech. We had even forgotten all about Mr. Campbell.
That gentleman, in silence, took out his wallet, extracted a note therefrom, and handed it gravely to the Story Girl.
“There are five dollars for you,” he said, “and your story was well worth it. You ARE a wonder. Some day you will make the world realize it. I’ve been about a bit, and heard some good things, but I’ve never enjoyed anything more than that threadbare old story I heard in my cradle. And now, will you do me a favour?”
“Of course,” said the delighted Story Girl.
“Recite the multiplication table for me,” said Mr. Campbell.
We stared. Well might Mr. Campbell be called eccentric. What on earth did he want the multiplication table recited for? Even the Story Girl was surprised. But she began promptly, with twice one and went through it to twelve times twelve. She repeated it simply, but her voice changed from one tone to another as each in succession grew tired. We had never dreamed that there was so much in the multiplication table. As she announced it, the fact that three times three was nine was exquisitely ridiculous, five times six almost brought tears to our eyes, eight times seven was the most tragic and frightful thing ever heard of, and twelve times twelve rang like a trumpet call to victory.
Mr. Campbell nodded his satisfaction.
“I thought you could do it,” he said. “The other day I found this statement in a book. ‘Her voice would have made the multiplication table charming!’ I thought of it when I heard yours. I didn’t believe it before, but I do now.”
Then he let us go.
“You see,” said the Story Girl as we went home, “you need never be afraid of people.”
“But we are not all Story Girls,” said Cecily.
That night we heard Felicity talking to Cecily in their room.
“Mr. Campbell never noticed one of us except the Story Girl,” she said, “but if I had put on MY best dress as she did maybe she wouldn’t have taken all the attention.”
“Could you ever do what Betty Sherman did, do you suppose?” asked Cecily absently.
“No; but I believe the Story Girl could,” answered Felicity rather snappishly.