“At eighty-seven!” said Rebecca Dew, whisking away a plate.
“And you know three score and ten is the Bible limit,” said Aunt Chatty cheerfully.
Cousin Ernestine helped herself to a third teaspoonful of sugar and stirred her tea sadly.
“So King David said, Charlotte, but I’m afraid David wasn’t a very nice man in some respects.”
Anne caught Aunt Chatty’s eye and laughed before she could help herself.
Cousin Ernestine looked at her disapprovingly.
“I’ve heerd you was a great girl to laugh. Well, I hope it’ll last, but I’m afraid it won’t. I’m afraid you’ll find out all too soon that life’s a melancholy business. Ah well, I was young myself once.”
“Was you really?” inquired Rebecca Dew sarcastically, bringing in the muffins. “Seems to me you must always have been afraid to be young. It takes courage, I can tell you that, Miss Bugle.”
“Rebecca Dew has such an odd way of putting things,” complained Cousin Ernestine. “Not that I mind her of course. And it’s well to laugh when you can, Miss Shirley, but I’m afraid you’re tempting Providence by being so happy. You’re awful like our last minister’s wife’s aunt … she was always laughing and she died of a parralattic stroke. The third one kills you. I’m afraid our new minister out at Lowvale is inclined to be frivolous. The minute I saw him I sez to Louisy, ‘I’m afraid a man with legs like that must be addicted to dancing.’ I s’pose he’s give it up since he turned minister, but I’m afraid the strain will come out in his family. He’s got a young wife and they say she’s scandalously in love with him. I can’t seem to git over the thought of any one marrying a minister for love. I’m afraid it’s awful irreverent. He preaches pretty fair sermons, but I’m afraid from what he said of Elijah the Tidbit last Sunday that he’s far too liberal in his views of the Bible.”
“I see by the papers that Peter Ellis and Fanny Bugle were married last week,” said Aunt Chatty.
“Ah, yes. I’m afraid that’ll be a case of marrying in haste and repenting at leisure. They’ve only known each other three years. I’m afraid Peter’ll find out that fine feathers don’t always make fine birds. I’m afraid Fanny’s very shiftless. She irons her table napkins on the right side first and only. Not much like her sainted mother. Ah, she was a thorough woman if ever there was one. When she was in mourning she always wore black nightgowns. Said she felt as bad in the night as in the day. I was down at Andy Bugle’s, helping them with the cooking, and when I come downstairs on the wedding morning if there wasn’t Fanny eating an egg for her breakfast … and her gitting married that day. I don’t s’pose you’ll believe that … I wouldn’t if I hadn’t a-seen it with my own eyes. My poor dead sister never et a thing for three days afore she was married. And after her husband died we was all afraid she was never going to eat again. There are times when I feel I can’t understand the Bugles any longer. There was a time when you knew where you was with your own connection, but it ain’t that way now.”
“Is it true that Jean Young is going to be married again?” asked Aunt Kate.
“I’m afraid it is. Of course Fred Young is supposed to be dead, but I’m dreadful afraid he’ll turn up yet. You could never trust that man. She’s going to marry Ira Roberts. I’m afraid he’s only marrying her to make her happy. His Uncle Philip once wanted to marry me, but I sez to him, sez I, ‘Bugle I was born and Bugle I will die. Marriage is a leap in the dark,’ sez I, ‘and I ain’t going to be drug into it.’ There’s been an awful lot of weddings in Lowvale this winter. I’m afraid there’ll be funerals all summer to make up for it. Annie Edwards and Chris Hunter were married last month. I’m afraid they won’t be as fond of each other in a few years’ time as they are now. I’m afraid she was just swept off her feet by his dashing ways. His Uncle Hiram was crazy … he belieft he was a dog for years.”
“If he did his own barking nobody need have grudged him the fun of it,” said Rebecca Dew, bringing in the pear preserves and the layer cake.
“I never heerd that he barked,” said Cousin Ernestine. “He just gnawed bones and buried them when nobody was looking. His wife felt it.”
“Where is Mrs. Lily Hunter this winter?” asked Aunt Chatty.
“She’s been spending it with her son in San Francisco and I’m awful afraid there’ll be another earthquake afore she gits out of it. If she does, she’ll likely try to smuggle and have trouble at the border. If it ain’t one thing, it’s another when you’re traveling. But folks seem to be crazy for it. My cousin Jim Bugle spent the winter in Florida. I’m afraid he’s gitting rich and worldly. I said to him afore he went, sez I … I remember it was the night afore the Colemans’ dog died … or was it? … yes, it was … ‘Pride goeth afore destruction and a haughty spirit afore a fall,’ sez I. His daughter is teaching over in the Bugle Road school and she can’t make up her mind which of her beaus to take. ‘There’s one thing I can assure you of, Mary Annetta,’ sez I, ‘and that is you’ll never git the one you love best. So you’d better take the one as loves you … if you kin be sure he does.’ I hope she’ll make a better choice than Jessie Chipman did. I’m afraid she’s just going to marry Oscar Green because he was always round. ‘Is that what you’ve picked out?’ I sez to her. His brother died of galloping consumption. ‘And don’t be married in May,’ sez I, ‘for May’s awful unlucky for a wedding.’”
“How encouraging you always are!” said Rebecca Dew, bringing in a plate of macaroons.
“Can you tell me,” said Cousin Ernestine, ignoring Rebecca Dew and taking a second helping of pears, “if a calceolaria is a flower or a disease?”
“A flower,” said Aunt Chatty.
Cousin Ernestine looked a little disappointed.
“Well, whatever it is, Sandy Bugle’s widow’s got it. I heerd her telling her sister in church last Sunday that she had a calceolaria at last. Your geraniums are dreadful scraggy, Charlotte. I’m afraid you don’t fertilize them properly. Mrs. Sandy’s gone out of mourning and poor Sandy only dead four years. Ah well, the dead are soon forgot nowadays. My sister wore crape for her husband twenty-five years.”
“Did you know your placket was open?” said Rebecca, setting a coconut pie before Aunt Kate.
“I haven’t time to be always staring at my face in the glass,” said Cousin Ernestine acidly. “What if my placket is open? I’ve got three petticoats on, haven’t I? They tell me the girls nowadays only wear one. I’m afraid the world is gitting dreadful gay and giddy. I wonder if they ever think of the judgment day.”
“Do you s’pose they’ll ask us at the judgment day how many petticoats we’ve got on?” asked Rebecca Dew, escaping to the kitchen before any one could register horror. Even Aunt Chatty thought Rebecca Dew really had gone a little too far.
“I s’pose you saw old Alec Crowdy’s death last week in the paper,” sighed Cousin Ernestine. “His wife died two years ago, lit’rally harried into her grave, poor creetur. They say he’s been awful lonely since she died, but I’m afraid that’s too good to be true. And I’m afraid they’re not