I. AUNT CYNTHIA'S PERSIAN CAT
II. THE MATERIALIZING OF CECIL
III. HER FATHER'S DAUGHTER
IV. JANE'S BABY
V. THE DREAM-CHILD
VI. THE BROTHER WHO FAILED
VII. THE RETURN OF HESTER
VIII. THE LITTLE BROWN BOOK OF MISS EMILY
IX. SARA'S WAY
X. THE SON OF HIS MOTHER
XI. THE EDUCATION OF BETTY
XII. IN HER SELFLESS MOOD
XIII. THE CONSCIENCE CASE OF DAVID BELL
XIV. ONLY A COMMON FELLOW
XV. TANNIS OF THE FLATS
INTRODUCTION
It
is no exaggeration to say that what Longfellow did for Acadia, Miss
Montgomery has done for Prince Edward Island. More than a million
readers, young people as well as their parents and uncles and
aunts,
possess in the picture-galleries of their memories the exquisite
landscapes of Avonlea, limned with as poetic a pencil as Longfellow
wielded when he told the ever-moving story of Grand Pre.Only
genius of the first water has the ability to conjure up such a
character as Anne Shirley, the heroine of Miss Montgomery's first
novel, "Anne of Green Gables," and to surround her with
people so distinctive, so real, so true to psychology. Anne is as
lovable a child as lives in all fiction. Natasha in Count Tolstoi's
great novel, "War and Peace," dances into our ken, with
something of the same buoyancy and naturalness; but into what a
commonplace young woman she develops! Anne, whether as the gay
little
orphan in her conquest of the master and mistress of Green Gables,
or
as the maturing and self-forgetful maiden of Avonlea, keeps up to
concert-pitch in her charm and her winsomeness. There is nothing in
her to disappoint hope or imagination.Part
of the power of Miss Montgomery—and the largest part—is due to
her skill in compounding humor and pathos. The humor is honest and
golden; it never wearies the reader; the pathos is never
sentimentalized, never degenerates into bathos, is never morbid.
This
combination holds throughout all her works, longer or shorter, and
is
particularly manifest in the present collection of fifteen short
stories, which, together with those in the first volume of the
Chronicles of Avonlea, present a series of piquant and fascinating
pictures of life in Prince Edward Island.The
humor is shown not only in the presentation of quaint and unique
characters, but also in the words which fall from their mouths.
Aunt
Cynthia "always gave you the impression of a full-rigged ship
coming gallantly on before a favorable wind;" no further
description is needed—only one such personage could be found in
Avonlea. You would recognize her at sight. Ismay Meade's
disposition
is summed up when we are told that she is "good at having
presentiments—after things happen." What cleverer embodiment
of innate obstinacy than in Isabella Spencer—"a wisp of a
woman who looked as if a breath would sway her but was so set in
her
ways that a tornado would hardly have caused her to swerve an inch
from her chosen path;" or than in Mrs. Eben Andrews (in "Sara's
Way") who "looked like a woman whose opinions were always
very decided and warranted to wear!"This
gift of characterization in a few words is lavished also on
material
objects, as, for instance; what more is needed to describe the
forlornness of the home from which Anne was rescued than the
statement that even the trees around it "looked like
orphans"?The
poetic touch, too, never fails in the right place and is never too
frequently introduced in her descriptions. They throw a glamor over
that Northern land which otherwise you might imagine as rather cold
and barren. What charming Springs they must have there! One sees
all
the fruit-trees clad in bridal garments of pink and white; and what
a
translucent sky smiles down on the ponds and the reaches of bay and
cove!"The
Eastern sky was a great arc of crystal, smitten through with
auroral
crimsonings.""She
was as slim and lithe as a young white-stemmed birch-tree; her hair
was like a soft dusky cloud, and her eyes were as blue as Avonlea
Harbor in a fair twilight, when all the sky is a-bloom over
it."Sentiment
with a humorous touch to it prevails in the first two stories of
the
present book. The one relates to the disappearance of a valuable
white Persian cat with a blue spot in its tail. "Fatima" is
like the apple of her eye to the rich old aunt who leaves her with
two nieces, with a stern injunction not to let her out of the
house.
Of course both Sue and Ismay detest cats; Ismay hates them, Sue
loathes them; but Aunt Cynthia's favor is worth preserving. You
become as much interested in Fatima's fate as if she were your own
pet, and the climax is no less unexpected than it is natural,
especially when it is made also the last act of a pretty comedy of
love.Miss
Montgomery delights in depicting the romantic episodes hidden in
the
hearts of elderly spinsters as, for instance, in the case of
Charlotte Holmes, whose maid Nancy would have sent for the doctor
and
subjected her to a porous plaster while waiting for him, had she
known that up stairs there was a note-book full of original poems.
Rather than bear the stigma of never having had a love-affair, this
sentimental lady invents one to tell her mocking young friends. The
dramatic and unexpected denouement is delightful fun.Another
note-book reveals a deeper romance in the case of Miss Emily; this
is
related by Anne of Green Gables, who once or twice flashes across
the
scene, though for the most part her friends and neighbors at White
Sands or Newbridge or Grafton as well as at Avonlea are the persons
involved.In
one story, the last, "Tannis of the Flats," the secret of
Elinor Blair's spinsterhood is revealed in an episode which carries
the reader from Avonlea to Saskatchewan and shows the unselfish
devotion of a half-breed Indian girl. The story is both poignant
and
dramatic. Its one touch of humor is where Jerome Carey curses his
fate in being compelled to live in that desolate land in "the
picturesque language permissible in the far Northwest."Self-sacrifice,
as the real basis of happiness, is a favorite theme in Miss
Montgomery's fiction. It is raised to the nth power in the story
entitled, "In Her Selfless Mood," where an ugly, misshapen
girl devotes her life and renounces marriage for the sake of
looking
after her weak and selfish half-brother. The same spirit is found
in
"Only a Common Fellow," who is haloed with a certain
splendor by renouncing the girl he was to marry in favor of his old
rival, supposed to have been killed in France, but happily
delivered
from that tragic fate.Miss
Montgomery loves to introduce a little child or a baby as a solvent
of old feuds or domestic quarrels. In "The Dream Child," a
foundling boy, drifting in through a storm in a dory, saves a
heart-broken mother from insanity. In "Jane's Baby," a
baby-cousin brings reconciliation between the two sisters, Rosetta
and Carlotta, who had not spoken for twenty years because "the
slack-twisted" Jacob married the younger of the two.Happiness
generally lights up the end of her stories, however tragic they may
set out to be. In "The Son of His Mother," Thyra is a stern
woman, as "immovable as a stone image." She had only one
son, whom she worshipped; "she never wanted a daughter, but she
pitied and despised all sonless women." She demanded absolute
obedience from Chester—not only obedience, but also utter
affection, and she hated his dog because the boy loved him: "She
could not share her love even with a dumb brute." When Chester
falls in love, she is relentless toward the beautiful young girl
and
forces Chester to give her up. But a terrible sorrow brings the old
woman and the young girl into sympathy, and unspeakable joy is born
of the trial.Happiness
also comes to "The Brother who Failed." The Monroes had all
been successful in the eyes of the world except Robert: one is a
millionaire, another a college president, another a famous singer.
Robert overhears the old aunt, Isabel, call him a total failure,
but,
at the family dinner, one after another stands up and tells how
Robert's quiet influence and unselfish aid had started them in
their
brilliant careers, and the old aunt, wiping the tears from her
eyes,
exclaims: "I guess there's a kind of failure that's the best
success."In
one story there is an element of the supernatural, when Hester, the
hard older sister, comes between Margaret and her lover and, dying,
makes her promise never to become Hugh Blair's wife, but she comes
back and unites them. In this, Margaret, just like the delightful
Anne, lives up to the dictum that "nothing matters in all God's
universe except love." The story of the revival at Avonlea has
also a good moral.There
is something in these continued Chronicles of Avonlea, like the
delicate art which has made "Cranford" a classic: the
characters are so homely and homelike and yet tinged with beautiful
romance! You feel that you are made familiar with a real town and
its
real inhabitants; you learn to love them and sympathize with them.
Further Chronicles of Avonlea is a book to read; and to
know.NATHAN
HASKELL DOLE.
I. AUNT CYNTHIA'S PERSIAN CAT
Max
always blesses the animal when it is referred to; and I don't deny
that things have worked together for good after all. But when I
think
of the anguish of mind which Ismay and I underwent on account of
that
abominable cat, it is not a blessing that arises uppermost in my
thoughts.I
never was fond of cats, although I admit they are well enough in
their place, and I can worry along comfortably with a nice,
matronly
old tabby who can take care of herself and be of some use in the
world. As for Ismay, she hates cats and always did.But
Aunt Cynthia, who adored them, never could bring herself to
understand that any one could possibly dislike them. She firmly
believed that Ismay and I really liked cats deep down in our
hearts,
but that, owing to some perverse twist in our moral natures, we
would
not own up to it, but willfully persisted in declaring we
didn't.Of
all cats I loathed that white Persian cat of Aunt Cynthia's. And,
indeed, as we always suspected and finally proved, Aunt herself
looked upon the creature with more pride than affection. She would
have taken ten times the comfort in a good, common puss that she
did
in that spoiled beauty. But a Persian cat with a recorded pedigree
and a market value of one hundred dollars tickled Aunt Cynthia's
pride of possession to such an extent that she deluded herself into
believing that the animal was really the apple of her eye.It
had been presented to her when a kitten by a missionary nephew who
had brought it all the way home from Persia; and for the next three
years Aunt Cynthia's household existed to wait on that cat, hand
and
foot. It was snow-white, with a bluish-gray spot on the tip of its
tail; and it was blue-eyed and deaf and delicate. Aunt Cynthia was
always worrying lest it should take cold and die. Ismay and I used
to
wish that it would—we were so tired of hearing about it and its
whims. But we did not say so to Aunt Cynthia. She would probably
never have spoken to us again and there was no wisdom in offending
Aunt Cynthia. When you have an unencumbered aunt, with a fat bank
account, it is just as well to keep on good terms with her, if you
can. Besides, we really liked Aunt Cynthia very much—at times. Aunt
Cynthia was one of those rather exasperating people who nag at and
find fault with you until you think you are justified in hating
them,
and who then turn round and do something so really nice and kind
for
you that you feel as if you were compelled to love them dutifully
instead.So
we listened meekly when she discoursed on Fatima—the cat's name was
Fatima—and, if it was wicked of us to wish for the latter's
decease, we were well punished for it later on.One
day, in November, Aunt Cynthia came sailing out to Spencervale. She
really came in a phaeton, drawn by a fat gray pony, but somehow
Aunt
Cynthia always gave you the impression of a full rigged ship coming
gallantly on before a favorable wind.That
was a Jonah day for us all through. Everything had gone wrong.
Ismay
had spilled grease on her velvet coat, and the fit of the new
blouse
I was making was hopelessly askew, and the kitchen stove smoked and
the bread was sour. Moreover, Huldah Jane Keyson, our tried and
trusty old family nurse and cook and general "boss," had
what she called the "realagy" in her shoulder; and, though
Huldah Jane is as good an old creature as ever lived, when she has
the "realagy" other people who are in the house want to get
out of it and, if they can't, feel about as comfortable as St.
Lawrence on his gridiron.And
on top of this came Aunt Cynthia's call and request."Dear
me," said Aunt Cynthia, sniffing, "don't I smell smoke?You
girls must manage your range very badly. Mine never smokes.But
it is no more than one might expect when two girls try tokeep
house without a man about the place.""We
get along very well without a man about the place," I said
loftily. Max hadn't been in for four whole days and, though nobody
wanted to see him particularly, I couldn't help wondering why. "Men
are nuisances.""I
dare say you would like to pretend you think so," said Aunt
Cynthia, aggravatingly. "But no woman ever does really think so,
you know. I imagine that pretty Anne Shirley, who is visiting Ella
Kimball, doesn't. I saw her and Dr. Irving out walking this
afternoon, looking very well satisfied with themselves. If you
dilly-dally much longer, Sue, you will let Max slip through your
fingers yet."That
was a tactful thing to say to ME, who had refused Max Irving so
often
that I had lost count. I was furious, and so I smiled most sweetly
on
my maddening aunt."Dear
Aunt, how amusing of you," I said, smoothly. "You talk as
if I wanted Max.""So
you do," said Aunt Cynthia."If
so, why should I have refused him time and again?" I asked,
smilingly. Right well Aunt Cynthia knew I had. Max always told
her."Goodness
alone knows why," said Aunt Cynthia, "but you may do it
once too often and find yourself taken at your word. There is
something very fascinating about this Anne Shirley.""Indeed
there is," I assented. "She has the loveliest eyes I ever
saw. She would be just the wife for Max, and I hope he will marry
her.""Humph,"
said Aunt Cynthia. "Well, I won't entice you into telling any
more fibs. And I didn't drive out here to-day in all this wind to
talk sense into you concerning Max. I'm going to Halifax for two
months and I want you to take charge of Fatima for me, while I am
away.""Fatima!"
I exclaimed."Yes.
I don't dare to trust her with the servants. Mind you always warm
her
milk before you give it to her, and don't on any account let her
run
out of doors."I
looked at Ismay and Ismay looked at me. We knew we were in for it.
To
refuse would mortally offend Aunt Cynthia. Besides, if I betrayed
any
unwillingness, Aunt Cynthia would be sure to put it down to
grumpiness over what she had said about Max, and rub it in for
years.
But I ventured to ask, "What if anything happens to her while
you are away?""It
is to prevent that, I'm leaving her with you," said Aunt
Cynthia. "You simply must not let anything happen to her. It
will do you good to have a little responsibility. And you will have
a
chance to find out what an adorable creature Fatima really is.
Well,
that is all settled. I'll send Fatima out to-morrow.""You
can take care of that horrid Fatima beast yourself," said Ismay,
when the door closed behind Aunt Cynthia. "I won't touch her
with a yard-stick. You had no business to say we'd take
her.""Did
I say we would take her?" I demanded, crossly. "Aunt
Cynthia took our consent for granted. And you know, as well as I
do,
we couldn't have refused. So what is the use of being
grouchy?""If
anything happens to her Aunt Cynthia will hold us responsible,"
said Ismay darkly."Do
you think Anne Shirley is really engaged to Gilbert Blythe?"I
asked curiously."I've
heard that she was," said Ismay, absently. "Does she eat
anything but milk? Will it do to give her mice?""Oh,
I guess so. But do you think Max has really fallen in love with
her?""I
dare say. What a relief it will be for you if he has.""Oh,
of course," I said, frostily. "Anne Shirley or Anne Anybody
Else, is perfectly welcome to Max if she wants him.
I certainly do not.
Ismay Meade, if that stove doesn't stop smoking I shall fly into
bits. This is a detestable day. I hate that creature!""Oh,
you shouldn't talk like that, when you don't even know her,"
protested Ismay. "Every one says Anne Shirley is lovely—""I
was talking about Fatima," I cried in a rage."Oh!"
said Ismay.Ismay
is stupid at times. I thought the way she said "Oh" was
inexcusably stupid.Fatima
arrived the next day. Max brought her out in a covered basket,
lined
with padded crimson satin. Max likes cats and Aunt Cynthia. He
explained how we were to treat Fatima and when Ismay had gone out
of
the room—Ismay always went out of the room when she knew I
particularly wanted her to remain—he proposed to me again. Of
course I said no, as usual, but I was rather pleased. Max had been
proposing to me about every two months for two years. Sometimes, as
in this case, he went three months, and then I always wondered why.
I
concluded that he could not be really interested in Anne Shirley,
and
I was relieved. I didn't want to marry Max but it was pleasant and
convenient to have him around, and we would miss him dreadfully if
any other girl snapped him up. He was so useful and always willing
to
do anything for us—nail a shingle on the roof, drive us to town,
put down carpets—in short, a very present help in all our
troubles.So
I just beamed on him when I said no. Max began counting on his
fingers. When he got as far as eight he shook his head and began
over
again."What
is it?" I asked."I'm
trying to count up how many times I have proposed to you," he
said. "But I can't remember whether I asked you to marry me that
day we dug up the garden or not. If I did it makes—""No,
you didn't," I interrupted."Well,
that makes it eleven," said Max reflectively. "Pretty near
the limit, isn't it? My manly pride will not allow me to propose to
the same girl more than twelve times. So the next time will be the
last, Sue darling.""Oh,"
I said, a trifle flatly. I forgot to resent his calling me darling.
I
wondered if things wouldn't be rather dull when Max gave up
proposing
to me. It was the only excitement I had. But of course it would be
best—and he couldn't go on at it forever, so, by the way of
gracefully dismissing the subject, I asked him what Miss Shirley
was
like."Very
sweet girl," said Max. "You know I always admired those
gray-eyed girls with that splendid Titian hair."I
am dark, with brown eyes. Just then I detested Max. I got up and
said
I was going to get some milk for Fatima.I
found Ismay in a rage in the kitchen. She had been up in the
garret,
and a mouse had run across her foot. Mice always get on Ismay's
nerves."We
need a cat badly enough," she fumed, "but not a useless,
pampered thing, like Fatima. That garret is literally swarming with
mice. You'll not catch me going up there again."Fatima
did not prove such a nuisance as we had feared. Huldah Jane liked
her, and Ismay, in spite of her declaration that she would have
nothing to do with her, looked after her comfort scrupulously. She
even used to get up in the middle of the night and go out to see if
Fatima was warm. Max came in every day and, being around, gave us
good advice.Then
one day, about three weeks after Aunt Cynthia's departure, Fatima
disappeared—just simply disappeared as if she had been dissolved
into thin air. We left her one afternoon, curled up asleep in her
basket by the fire, under Huldah Jane's eye, while we went out to
make a call. When we came home Fatima was gone.Huldah
Jane wept and was as one whom the gods had made mad. She vowed that
she had never let Fatima out of her sight the whole time, save once
for three minutes when she ran up to the garret for some summer
savory. When she came back the kitchen door had blown open and
Fatima
had vanished.Ismay
and I were frantic. We ran about the garden and through the
out-houses, and the woods behind the house, like wild creatures,
calling Fatima, but in vain. Then Ismay sat down on the front
doorsteps and cried."She
has got out and she'll catch her death of cold and AuntCynthia
will never forgive us.""I'm
going for Max," I declared. So I did, through the spruce woods
and over the field as fast as my feet could carry me, thanking my
stars that there was a Max to go to in such a predicament.Max
came over and we had another search, but without result. Days
passed,
but we did not find Fatima. I would certainly have gone crazy had
it
not been for Max. He was worth his weight in gold during the awful
week that followed. We did not dare advertise, lest Aunt Cynthia
should see it; but we inquired far and wide for a white Persian cat
with a blue spot on its tail, and offered a reward for it; but
nobody
had seen it, although people kept coming to the house, night and
day,
with every kind of a cat in baskets, wanting to know if it was the
one we had lost."We
shall never see Fatima again," I said hopelessly to Max and
Ismay one afternoon. I had just turned away an old woman with a
big,
yellow tommy which she insisted must be ours—"cause it kem to
our place, mem, a-yowling fearful, mem, and it don't belong to
nobody
not down Grafton way, mem.""I'm
afraid you won't," said Max. "She must have perished from
exposure long ere this.""Aunt
Cynthia will never forgive us," said Ismay, dismally. "I
had a presentiment of trouble the moment that cat came to this
house."We
had never heard of this presentiment before, but Ismay is good at
having presentiments—after things happen."What
shall we do?" I demanded, helplessly. "Max, can't you find
some way out of this scrape for us?""Advertise
in the Charlottetown papers for a white Persian cat," suggested
Max. "Some one may have one for sale. If so, you must buy it,
and palm it off on your good Aunt as Fatima. She's very
short-sighted, so it will be quite possible.""But
Fatima has a blue spot on her tail," I said."You
must advertise for a cat with a blue spot on its tail,"
saidMax."It
will cost a pretty penny," said Ismay dolefully. "Fatima
was valued at one hundred dollars.""We
must take the money we have been saving for our new furs," I
said sorrowfully. "There is no other way out of it. It will cost
us a good deal more if we lose Aunt Cynthia's favor. She is quite
capable of believing that we have made away with Fatima
deliberately
and with malice aforethought."So
we advertised. Max went to town and had the notice inserted in the
most important daily. We asked any one who had a white Persian cat,
with a blue spot on the tip of its tail, to dispose of, to
communicate with M. I., care of the
Enterprise.We
really did not have much hope that anything would come of it, so we
were surprised and delighted over the letter Max brought home from
town four days later. It was a type-written screed from Halifax
stating that the writer had for sale a white Persian cat answering
to
our description. The price was a hundred and ten dollars, and, if
M.
I. cared to go to Halifax and inspect the animal, it would be found
at 110 Hollis Street, by inquiring for "Persian.""Temper
your joy, my friends," said Ismay, gloomily. "The cat may
not suit. The blue spot may be too big or too small or not in the
right place. I consistently refuse to believe that any good thing
can
come out of this deplorable affair."Just
at this moment there was a knock at the door and I hurried out. The
postmaster's boy was there with a telegram. I tore it open, glanced
at it, and dashed back into the room."What
is it now?" cried Ismay, beholding my face.I
held out the telegram. It was from Aunt Cynthia. She had wired us
to
send Fatima to Halifax by express immediately.For
the first time Max did not seem ready to rush into the breach with
a
suggestion. It was I who spoke first."Max,"
I said, imploringly, "you'll see us through this, won't you?
Neither Ismay nor I can rush off to Halifax at once. You must go
to-morrow morning. Go right to 110 Hollis Street and ask for
'Persian.' If the cat looks enough like Fatima, buy it and take it
to
Aunt Cynthia. If it doesn't—but it must! You'll go, won't
you?""That
depends," said Max.I
stared at him. This was so unlike Max."You
are sending me on a nasty errand," he said, coolly. "How do
I know that Aunt Cynthia will be deceived after all, even if she be
short-sighted. Buying a cat in a joke is a huge risk. And if she
should see through the scheme I shall be in a pretty mess.""Oh,
Max," I said, on the verge of tears."Of
course," said Max, looking meditatively into the fire, "if
I were really one of the family, or had any reasonable prospect of
being so, I would not mind so much. It would be all in the day's
work
then. But as it is—"Ismay
got up and went out of the room."Oh,
Max, please," I said."Will
you marry me, Sue?" demanded Max sternly. "If you will
agree, I'll go to Halifax and beard the lion in his den
unflinchingly. If necessary, I will take a black street cat to Aunt
Cynthia, and swear that it is Fatima. I'll get you out of the
scrape,
if I have to prove that you never had Fatima, that she is safe in
your possession at the present time, and that there never was such
an
animal as Fatima anyhow. I'll do anything, say anything—but it must
be for my future wife.""Will
nothing else content you?" I said helplessly."Nothing."I
thought hard. Of course Max was acting abominably—but—but—he
was really a dear fellow—and this was the twelfth time—and there
was Anne Shirley! I knew in my secret soul that life would be a
dreadfully dismal thing if Max were not around somewhere. Besides,
I
would have married him long ago had not Aunt Cynthia thrown us so
pointedly at each other's heads ever since he came to
Spencervale."Very
well," I said crossly.Max
left for Halifax in the morning. Next day we got a wire saying it
was
all right. The evening of the following day he was back in
Spencervale. Ismay and I put him in a chair and glared at him
impatiently.Max
began to laugh and laughed until he turned blue."I
am glad it is so amusing," said Ismay severely. "If Sue and
I could see the joke it might be more so.""Dear
little girls, have patience with me," implored Max. "If you
knew what it cost me to keep a straight face in Halifax you would
forgive me for breaking out now.""We
forgive you—but for pity's sake tell us all about it," I
cried."Well,
as soon as I arrived in Halifax I hurried to 110 Hollis Street,
but—see here! Didn't you tell me your Aunt's address was 10
Pleasant Street?""So
it is.""'T
isn't. You look at the address on a telegram next time you get one.
She went a week ago to visit another friend who lives at 110
Hollis.""Max!""It's
a fact. I rang the bell, and was just going to ask the maid for
'Persian' when your Aunt Cynthia herself came through the hall and
pounced on me.""'Max,'
she said, 'have you brought Fatima?'"'No,'
I answered, trying to adjust my wits to this new development as she
towed me into the library. 'No, I—I—just came to Halifax on a
little matter of business.'"'Dear
me,' said Aunt Cynthia, crossly, 'I don't know what those girls
mean.
I wired them to send Fatima at once. And she has not come yet and I
am expecting a call every minute from some one who wants to buy
her.'"'Oh!'
I murmured, mining deeper every minute."'Yes,'
went on your aunt, 'there is an advertisement in the
Charlottetown
Enterprise for a
Persian cat, and I answered it. Fatima is really quite a charge,
you
know—and so apt to die and be a dead loss,'—did your aunt mean a
pun, girls?—'and so, although I am considerably attached to her, I
have decided to part with her.'"By
this time I had got my second wind, and I promptly decided that a
judicious mixture of the truth was the thing required."'Well,
of all the curious coincidences,' I exclaimed. 'Why,Miss
Ridley, it was I who advertised for a Persian cat—on Sue'sbehalf.
She and Ismay have decided that they want a cat likeFatima
for themselves.'"You
should have seen how she beamed. She said she knew you always
really
liked cats, only you would never own up to it. We clinched the
dicker
then and there. I passed her over your hundred and ten dollars—she
took the money without turning a hair—and now you are the joint
owners of Fatima. Good luck to your bargain!""Mean
old thing," sniffed Ismay. She meant Aunt Cynthia, and,
remembering our shabby furs, I didn't disagree with her."But
there is no Fatima," I said, dubiously. "How shall we
account for her when Aunt Cynthia comes home?""Well,
your aunt isn't coming home for a month yet. When she comes you
will
have to tell her that the cat—is lost—but you needn't say WHEN it
happened. As for the rest, Fatima is your property now, so Aunt
Cynthia can't grumble. But she will have a poorer opinion than ever
of your fitness to run a house alone."When
Max left I went to the window to watch him down the path. He was
really a handsome fellow, and I was proud of him. At the gate he
turned to wave me good-by, and, as he did, he glanced upward. Even
at
that distance I saw the look of amazement on his face. Then he came
bolting back."Ismay,
the house is on fire!" I shrieked, as I flew to the door."Sue,"
cried Max, "I saw Fatima, or her ghost, at the garret window a
moment ago!""Nonsense!"
I cried. But Ismay was already half way up the stairs and we
followed. Straight to the garret we rushed. There sat Fatima, sleek
and complacent, sunning herself in the window.Max
laughed until the rafters rang."She
can't have been up here all this time," I protested, half
tearfully. "We would have heard her meowing.""But
you didn't," said Max."She
would have died of the cold," declared Ismay."But
she hasn't," said Max."Or
starved," I cried."The
place is alive with mice," said Max. "No, girls, there is
no doubt the cat has been here the whole fortnight. She must have
followed Huldah Jane up here, unobserved, that day. It's a wonder
you
didn't hear her crying—if she did cry. But perhaps she didn't, and,
of course, you sleep downstairs. To think you never thought of
looking here for her!""It
has cost us over a hundred dollars," said Ismay, with a
malevolent glance at the sleek Fatima."It
has cost me more than that," I said, as I turned to the
stairway.Max
held me back for an instant, while Ismay and Fatima pattered
down."Do
you think it has cost too much, Sue?" he whispered.I
looked at him sideways. He was really a dear. Niceness fairly
exhaled
from him."No-o-o,"
I said, "but when we are married you will have to take care of
Fatima, I
won't.""Dear
Fatima," said Max gratefully.
II. THE MATERIALIZING OF CECIL
It had never worried me in the least that I wasn't married,
although everybody in Avonlea pitied old maids; but it DID worry
me, and I frankly confess it, that I had never had a chance to be.
Even Nancy, my old nurse and servant, knew that, and pitied me for
it. Nancy is an old maid herself, but she has had two proposals.
She did not accept either of them because one was a widower with
seven children, and the other a very shiftless, good-for-nothing
fellow; but, if anybody twitted Nancy on her single condition, she
could point triumphantly to those two as evidence that "she could
an she would." If I had not lived all my life in Avonlea I might
have had the benefit of the doubt; but I had, and everybody knew
everything about me—or thought they did.
I had really often wondered
why nobody had ever fallen in love with me. I was not at all
homely; indeed, years ago, George Adoniram Maybrick had written a
poem addressed to me, in which he praised my beauty quite
extravagantly; that didn't mean anything because George Adoniram
wrote poetry to all the good-looking girls and never went with
anybody but Flora King, who was cross-eyed and red-haired, but it
proves that it was not my appearance that put me out of the
running. Neither was it the fact that I wrote poetry
myself—although not of George Adoniram's kind—because nobody ever
knew that. When I felt it coming on I shut myself up in my room and
wrote it out in a little blank book I kept locked up. It is nearly
full now, because I have been writing poetry all my life. It is the
only thing I have ever been able to keep a secret from Nancy.
Nancy, in any case, has not a very high opinion of my ability to
take care of myself; but I tremble to imagine what she would think
if she ever found out about that little book. I am convinced she
would send for the doctor post-haste and insist on mustard plasters
while waiting for him.
Nevertheless, I kept on at
it, and what with my flowers and my cats and my magazines and my
little book, I was really very happy and contented. But it DID
sting that Adella Gilbert, across the road, who has a drunken
husband, should pity "poor Charlotte" because nobody had ever
wanted her. Poor Charlotte indeed! If I had thrown myself at a
man's head the way Adella Gilbert did at—but there, there, I must
refrain from such thoughts. I must not be uncharitable.
The Sewing Circle met at
Mary Gillespie's on my fortieth birthday. I have given up talking
about my birthdays, although that little scheme is not much good in
Avonlea where everybody knows your age—or if they make a mistake it
is never on the side of youth. But Nancy, who grew accustomed to
celebrating my birthdays when I was a little girl, never gets over
the habit, and I don't try to cure her, because, after all, it's
nice to have some one make a fuss over you. She brought me up my
breakfast before I got up out of bed—a concession to my laziness
that Nancy would scorn to make on any other day of the year. She
had cooked everything I like best, and had decorated the tray with
roses from the garden and ferns from the woods behind the house. I
enjoyed every bit of that breakfast, and then I got up and dressed,
putting on my second best muslin gown. I would have put on my
really best if I had not had the fear of Nancy before my eyes; but
I knew she would never condone THAT, even on a birthday. I watered
my flowers and fed my cats, and then I locked myself up and wrote a
poem on June. I had given up writing birthday odes after I was
thirty.
In the afternoon I went to
the Sewing Circle. When I was ready for it I looked in my glass and
wondered if I could really be forty. I was quite sure I didn't look
it. My hair was brown and wavy, my cheeks were pink, and the lines
could hardly be seen at all, though possibly that was because of
the dim light. I always have my mirror hung in the darkest corner
of my room. Nancy cannot imagine why. I know the lines are there,
of course; but when they don't show very plain I forget that they
are there.
We had a large Sewing
Circle, young and old alike attending. I really cannot say I ever
enjoyed the meetings—at least not up to that time—although I went
religiously because I thought it my duty to go. The married women
talked so much of their husbands and children, and of course I had
to be quiet on those topics; and the young girls talked in corner
groups about their beaux, and stopped it when I joined them, as if
they felt sure that an old maid who had never had a beau couldn't
understand at all. As for the other old maids, they talked gossip
about every one, and I did not like that either. I knew the minute
my back was turned they would fasten into me and hint that I used
hair-dye and declare it was perfectly ridiculous for a woman of
FIFTY to wear a pink muslin dress with lace-trimmed
frills.
There was a full attendance
that day, for we were getting ready for a sale of fancy work in aid
of parsonage repairs. The young girls were merrier and noisier than
usual. Wilhelmina Mercer was there, and she kept them going. The
Mercers were quite new to Avonlea, having come here only two months
previously.
I was sitting by the window
and Wilhelmina Mercer, Maggie Henderson, Susette Cross and Georgie
Hall were in a little group just before me. I wasn't listening to
their chatter at all, but presently Georgie exclaimed
teasingly:
"Miss Charlotte is laughing
at us. I suppose she thinks we are awfully silly to be talking
about beaux."
The truth was that I was
simply smiling over some very pretty thoughts that had come to me
about the roses which were climbing over Mary Gillespie's sill. I
meant to inscribe them in the little blank book when I went home.
Georgie's speech brought me back to harsh realities with a jolt. It
hurt me, as such speeches always did.
"Didn't you ever have a
beau, Miss Holmes?" said Wilhelmina laughingly.
Just as it happened, a
silence had fallen over the room for a moment, and everybody in it
heard Wilhelmina's question.
I really do not know what
got into me and possessed me. I have never been able to account for
what I said and did, because I am naturally a truthful person and
hate all deceit. It seemed to me that I simply could not say "No"
to Wilhelmina before that whole roomful of women. It was TOO
humiliating. I suppose all the prickles and stings and slurs I had
endured for fifteen years on account of never having had a lover
had what the new doctor calls "a cumulative effect" and came to a
head then and there.
"Yes, I had one once, my
dear," I said calmly.
For once in my life I made a
sensation. Every woman in that room stopped sewing and stared at
me. Most of them, I saw, didn't believe me, but Wilhelmina did. Her
pretty face lighted up with interest.
"Oh, won't you tell us about
him, Miss Holmes?" she coaxed, "and why didn't you marry
him?"
"That is right, Miss
Mercer," said Josephine Cameron, with a nasty little laugh. "Make
her tell. We're all interested. It's news to us that Charlotte ever
had a beau."
If Josephine had not said
that, I might not have gone on. But she did say it, and, moreover,
I caught Mary Gillespie and Adella Gilbert exchanging significant
smiles. That settled it, and made me quite reckless. "In for a
penny, in for a pound," thought I, and I said with a pensive
smile:
"Nobody here knew anything
about him, and it was all long, long ago."
"What was his name?" asked
Wilhelmina.
"Cecil Fenwick," I answered
promptly. Cecil had always been my favorite name for a man; it
figured quite frequently in the blank book. As for the Fenwick part
of it, I had a bit of newspaper in my hand, measuring a hem, with
"Try Fenwick's Porous Plasters" printed across it, and I simply
joined the two in sudden and irrevocable matrimony.
"Where did you meet him?"
asked Georgie.
I hastily reviewed my past.
There was only one place to locate Cecil Fenwick. The only time I
had ever been far enough away from Avonlea in my life was when I
was eighteen and had gone to visit an aunt in New
Brunswick.
"In Blakely, New Brunswick,"
I said, almost believing that I had when I saw how [...]
