The Blythes Are Quoted (10 page)

Here everything still speaks of you ... the waters lisp your name,

My listening heart repeats it as it used to when you came.

Your laughter in the breezes rings more clearly than your own,

The whispers in the fir boughs seem the echo of your tone,

The summer skies above the sea are as your deep eyes blue

The sweet wild roses on the bank are waiting, dear, for you.

But rose and lover wait in vain for you will come no more

To walk, the world forgetting, on the old path round the shore.

And I must go my way alone adown the shining strand,

And miss the kisses of your lips, the pressure of your hand,

And watch with lonely eyes the gleam of purple seas afar,

And shadowy sails that drift across the misty harbour bar;

I wonder if in distant lands where rarer roses blow,

You ever think of me and of those moments long ago,

And if did fate permit it you would gladly come once more

And walk with me at sunset on the old path round the shore.

Anne Blythe

DR. BLYTHE
:- “Who were you thinking of when you wrote that, Anne?”

ANNE
:- “Gilbert, if you keep on speaking in such a jealous tone I’ll give up reading my poems to you. This one was written ages ago and was prompted by the love story of Mary Royce. Don’t you remember? And of course the old path round the shore was the one at Avonlea. I’m sure you and I walked it often enough.”

DR. BLYTHE
:- “Yes, we did. And my heart ached often enough after you had let somebody else walk home with you the night before.”

SUSAN
baker
(over her darning, thinks):
- “The very idea of her letting anyone walk home with her when she might have had the doctor! I have never had a real beau but boys
have
walked home with me time and again. I wasn’t entirely overlooked. It doesn’t seem to have the significance today that it had then, though. Nowadays the girls run around with anybody.”

Old friend, who art my guest tonight,

The moonshine makes your pillow white,

A low wind at the eaves will sing

Of many a secret far-off thing ...

Blue hills where shining fountains hide,

Dim shores that love the creeping tide ...

And may a cool whiff of the dew

Come in to minister to you.

There will be leafy rumours still

About your open window sill.

And in the silence you may hear

A grey owl calling to his dear,

Or catch from where you lie a spark

Of goblin firefly in the dark ...

And may you learn with certainty

What a good friend a bed can be.

Anne Blythe

DR. BLYTHE
:- “I’ll say it is when you’re dead beat. And yet ... I’ve been in some guest rooms ... whew!”

SUSAN
BAKER
:- “I should say so! They say that anyone who sleeps in Mrs. Abel Sawyer’s spare room, Mrs. Dr. dear, catches his death with damp sheets in summer and too few blankets in winter. Well, thank heaven, they can’t say that of our spare room here.”

Timothy yawned. If eight years knew anything about such a word, Timothy was bored. Saturday was a rather stupid day at any time and he could not go down to the Glen. He was not allowed to go out of the home grounds when his aunts were away ... not even to Ingleside to play with Jem Blythe. Of course, Jem could come up to his aunts’ place as often as he pleased but Jem often had other fish to fry on Saturday afternoons and Timothy never was allowed away from home alone now at all. His aunts had been more fussy than ever about this lately.

Timothy was very fond of his aunts, especially his Aunt Edith, but he secretly thought they were entirely
too
fussy about it. He couldn’t understand it. Surely a big boy of eight, who had been going to school two years alone, even if he didn’t altogether like going to sleep in the dark, didn’t need to be cooped up at home just because his aunts had gone to Charlottetown.

They had gone that morning early and Timothy felt sure they were worried. More than usual, that is, for they were always worried over something. Timothy didn’t know what it was, but he sensed it in everything they did or said of late. It hadn’t been so years ago, Timothy reflected with the air of an octogenarian recalling his youth. He could remember them as laughing and jolly, especially Aunt Edith, who was really very jolly for an old maid, as the boys in school called her. And they were great friends with the Ingleside people
and thought Dr. and Mrs. Blythe the finest people in the world.

But they had laughed less and less these past two years, and Timothy had an odd feeling that this was somehow connected with him, although he couldn’t understand how that could be. He wasn’t a bad boy. Not even Aunt Kathleen, who, perhaps because she was a widow, thought rather poorly of boys, ever said he was a bad boy. And Jem Blythe had told him that Susan Baker had said he was really one of the best-behaved boys she knew, outside of the Ingleside group.

Now and then, of course ... but it was hard to be perfect. Why, then, did they worry so about him? Maybe just because they were women. Maybe women had to worry. But Mrs. Blythe seemed to worry very little and Susan Baker not much more. So why?

Men, now ... he never perceived that Dr. Blythe worried. If father had lived! But in that case he, Timothy, might not have been living with Aunt Edith in the little place the Glen St. Mary people called “The Corner.” And Timothy loved The Corner. He felt sure he could never live anywhere else. But when he said this to Aunt Kathleen one day she had sighed and looked at Aunt Edith.

She hadn’t said anything but Aunt Edith had replied passionately,

“I can’t believe God could be so unjust. Surely he ... even
he
couldn’t be so heartless.”

Were they talking about the God whom the Ingleside people said was Love? Even Susan Baker admitted that.

“S-sh,” said Aunt Kathleen warningly.

“He’ll have to know sometime,” said Aunt Edith bitterly.

Why, he knew about God now. Everybody he knew did. So why so much mystery?

“He’ll have to know sometime,” went on Aunt Edith bitterly. “The ten years will soon be up ... and probably shortened for good behaviour.”

Aunt Edith’s “he’s” puzzled Timothy hopelessly. He knew now it was not God they were talking about. And what would “he” have to know sometime and in any case why should it be all “s-sh-ed” away? Aunt Kathleen immediately began talking about his music lessons and the possibility of securing Professor Harper of Lowbridge as a teacher. Now Timothy hated the very thought of music lessons. Jem Blythe laughed at the mere idea. Yet he knew he would have to take them. Nothing ever made Aunt Kathleen change her mind.

Timothy felt aggrieved. Aunt Edith had promised to take him to the little lake that was a Lowbridge summer resort. They would go in the car ... cars were very new things and Timothy loved riding in them. Dr. Blythe had one and often gave him a “lift” in it. And at the lake he would be let ride a horse on the merry-go-round ... another thing he loved and very seldom got because Aunt Kathleen did not approve of it. But he knew Aunt Edith would.

But there had been a letter that morning for Aunt Kathleen. She had turned dreadfully pale when she read it. Then she had said something to Aunt Edith in a queer choking voice and Aunt Edith had turned pale, too, and they had gone out of the room. Timothy heard them having a long conversation with Dr. Blythe on the telephone. Was Aunt Kathleen sick?

After a little while Aunt Edith came back and told Timothy she was very sorry but she could not take him to the lake after all. She and Aunt Kathleen must go to Charlotte-town on some very important business. Dr. Blythe was going to take them.

“Then one of you
is
sick?” said Timothy anxiously.

“No, neither of us is sick. It ... it is worse than that,” said Aunt Edith.

“You’ve been crying, Aunt Edith,” said a troubled Timothy. He got up out of his chair and hugged her. “Just you wait till I grow up and when I’m a man nothing’ll ever make you cry.”

And then the tears welled up in Aunt Edith’s sweet brown eyes again.

But Aunt Kathleen was not crying. She was pale and stern. And she told Timothy very shortly and unsympathetically that he must not go outside the gate until they returned.

“Can’t I go down to Ingleside for a little stroll?” implored Timothy. He wanted to buy something for Aunt Edith’s birthday tomorrow. He had a whole quarter saved out of his allowance and he meant to spend it all on her. There were pretty things in Lowbridge but Carter Flagg kept a glass case with some rather nice things in it. Timothy remembered a lace collar he admired.

But Aunt Kathleen was inexorable. Timothy did not sulk. He never sulked, which was more than could be said of even Jem Blythe, although you would have taken your life in your hands if you had said so to Susan Baker. But he put in a rather dismal forenoon. He ran races with Merrylegs. He counted and re-arranged his birds’ eggs, finding a little comfort in the thought that he had more than Jem had. He tried to jump from one gatepost to the other ... and fell in the dust ignominiously. But he would do it some day. He had eaten all the lunch old Linda had set out for him. He also tried to talk to Linda, for Timothy was a sociable little soul. But Linda was grumpy, too. What was the matter with all the folks that day? Linda was usually good-natured, though he did not like her
quite so well as Susan Baker at Ingleside. Timothy could not see how he was going to put in the afternoon.

Well, he would go down to the gate again and watch the cars and buggies going by. That wasn’t forbidden anyhow. He wished he had some raisins to eat. Every Sunday afternoon he was given a handful of big, juicy raisins to eat as a “Sunday treat.”

But this was only Saturday and when Linda was grumpy there was no use in asking her for anything. Though, if he had but known it, Linda would gladly have given him the raisins today.

“What are you thinking of, son?” asked a voice.

Timothy jumped. Where had the man come from? There hadn’t been any sound ... any footstep. Yet there he was, just outside the gate, looking down at him with a peculiar expression on a handsome, sulky, deep-lined face. He wasn’t a tramp ... he was too well-dressed for that. And Timothy, who was always feeling things he couldn’t have explained, had an idea that he wasn’t used to being so well-dressed.

The man’s eyes were grey and smouldering and Timothy felt, too, that he was cross about something ... very cross ... cross enough to do anything mean that occurred to him. This certainly must be what Mrs. Dr. Blythe called “a Jonah day.”

And yet there was something about the man that Timothy liked.

“I was thinking what a splendid day it would have been for the lake at Lowbridge,” he explained, rather stiffly, for he had always been warned not to talk to strangers.

“Oh, the lake! Yes, I remember what a fascinating spot it was for small boys ... though it was not a ‘resort’ then and a good many people called it the pond. Did you want to go there?”

“Yes. Aunt Edith was going to take me. Then she couldn’t. She had to go to town on important business. Dr. Blythe took them.”

“Dr. Blythe! Is he still in Glen St. Mary?”

“Yes, but they live at Ingleside now.”

“Oh! And is your Aunt Kathleen at home?”

Timothy thawed. This man knew Aunt Kathleen, therefore it was allowable to talk to him.

“No, she went, too.”

“When will they be back?”

“Not till the evening. They went to town to see a lawyer. I heard Linda say so.”

“Oh!” The man reflected a moment and then gave a queer inward chuckle. Timothy didn’t like the sound of it particularly.

“Are you a friend of Aunt Kathleen?” he inquired politely.

The man laughed again.

“A friend. Oh, yes, a very near and dear friend. I’m sure she’d have been delighted to see me.”

“You must call again,” said Timothy persuasively.

“It’s quite likely I shall,” said the man.

He sat down on the big red boulder by the gate, lighted a cigarette with fingers that were strangely rough and callous, and looked Timothy over in a cool, appraising manner.

A trim little lad ... well set up ... curly brown hair ... dreamy eyes and a good chin.

“Whom do you look like, boy?” he said abruptly. “Your dad?”

Timothy shook his head.

“No. I wish I did. But I don’t know what he looked like. He’s dead ... and there isn’t any picture.”

“There wouldn’t be,” said the man. Again Timothy didn’t like it.

“My dad was a very brave man,” he said quickly. “He was a soldier in the Boer War and he won the Distinguished Service Medal.”

“Who told you that?”

“Aunt Edith. Aunt Kathleen won’t talk of him ever. Aunt Edith won’t either ... much ... but she told me that.”

“Edith was always a bit of a good scout,” muttered the man. “You don’t look like your ... your ... mother either.”

“No, I can see that. I have a picture of mother. She died when I was born. Aunt Edith says I look like Grandfather Norris ... her father. I’m called after him.”

“Are your aunts good to you?” asked the man.

“They are,” said Timothy emphatically. He would have said the same thing if they had not been. Timothy had a fine sense of loyalty. “Of course ... you know ... they’re bringing me up. I have to be scolded sometimes ... and I have to take music lessons ...”

“You don’t like that,” said the man, amused.

“No. But I guess maybe it’s good dis ... cipline.”

“You have a dog, I see,” said the man, indicating Merrylegs. “Good breed, too. I thought Kathleen and Edith never liked dogs.”