The Blythes Are Quoted (11 page)

“They don’t. But they let me have one because Dr. Blythe said every boy ought to have a dog. So my aunts gave in. They don’t even say anything when he sleeps on my bed at nights. They don’t approve of it, you know, but they let him stay. I’m glad because I don’t like going to sleep in the dark.”

“Do they make you do that?”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Timothy quickly. He wasn’t going to have anyone imagine that he was finding fault with his aunts. “I’m quite old enough to go to sleep in the dark. Only ... only ...”

“Yes?”

“It’s only that when the light goes out I can’t help imagining faces looking in at the window ... awful faces ... hateful faces. I heard Aunt Kathleen say once that she was always expecting to look at the window and ‘see his face.’ I don’t know who she meant ... but after that I began to see faces in the dark.”

“Your mother was like that,” said the man absently. “She hated the dark. They shouldn’t make you sleep in it.”

“They should,” cried Timothy. “My aunts are bricks. I love them. And I wish they weren’t so worried.”

“Oh, so they’re worried?”

“Terribly. I don’t know what it is about. I can’t think it’s me ... though they look at me sometimes ... Do you see anything about me to worry them?”

“Not a thing. So your aunts are pretty good to you? Give you everything you want?”

“Almost everything,” said Timothy cautiously. “Only they won’t have raisins in the rice pudding on Fridays. I can’t imagine why. They always have it at Ingleside. The doctor is especially fond of it, so it must be healthy. Aunt Edith would be willing but Aunt Kathleen says the Norrises have never put raisins in the rice pudding. Oh, are you going?” The man had stood up. He was very tall but he stooped a little. Timothy was sorry he was going although there was something about him he didn’t like, just as there was something he did. And it was nice to have a man to talk to.

“I’m going down to the lake,” said the man. “Would you like to come with me?”

Timothy stared.

“Do you want me to?”

“Very much. We’ll ride on the ponies and eat hot dogs and drink pop ... and anything you like.”

It was an irresistible temptation.

“But ... but,” stammered Timothy, “Aunt Kathleen said I wasn’t to go off the grounds.”

“Not alone,” said the man. “She meant not alone. I’m sure she’d think it quite ... lawful ... to go with me.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Quite,” said the man ... and laughed again.

“About the money,” faltered Timothy. “You see I’ve only ten cents. Of course I’ve got a quarter from my allowance but I can’t spend it. I must get Aunt Edith a birthday present with it. But I can spend the ten cents ... I’ve had it a long time. I found it on the road.”

“This is my treat,” said the man.

“I must go and shut Merrylegs up,” said Timothy, relieved, “and wash my face and hands. You won’t mind waiting a few minutes?”

“Not at all.”

Timothy flew up the driveway and disposed rather regret-fully of Merrylegs. Then he scrubbed himself, giving special attention to his ears. He hoped they were clean. Why couldn’t ears have been made plain? When Jem Blythe asked Susan Baker the same question one day she told him it was the will of God.

“It would be more convenient if I knew your name,” he hinted, as they walked along.

“You may call me Mr. Jenkins,” said the man.

Timothy had a wonderful afternoon. A glorious afternoon. All the merry-go-rounds he wanted ... and something better than hot dogs.

“I want a decent meal,” said Mr. Jenkins. “I didn’t have any lunch. Here’s a restaurant. Shall we go in and eat?”

“It’s an expensive place,” said Timothy. “Can you afford it?”

“I think so.” Mr. Jenkins laughed mirthlessly.

It was expensive ... and exclusive. Mr. Jenkins told Timothy to order what he wanted and never think of expense. Timothy was in the seventh heaven of delight. It had been a glorious afternoon ... Mr. Jenkins had been a very jolly comrade. And now to have a meal with a real man ... to sit opposite him and order a meal from the bill of fare like a man himself. Timothy sighed with rapture.

“Tired, son?” asked Mr. Jenkins.

“Oh, no.”

“You’ve had a good time?”

“Splendid. Only ...”

“Yes ... what?”

“I didn’t feel as if you were having a good time,” said Timothy slowly.

“Well,” said Mr. Jenkins as slowly, “I wasn’t, if it comes to that. I kept thinking of ... of a friend of mine and it rather spoiled things for me.”

“Isn’t he well?”

“Quite well. Too well. Too likely to live. And ... you see ... he isn’t happy.”

“Why not?” asked Timothy.

“Well, you see, he was a fool ... and worse. Oh, he was a very big fool. He took a lot of money that didn’t belong to him.”

“You mean he ... stole it?” queried Timothy, rather shocked.

“Well, let’s say embezzled. That sounds better. But the bank thought it bad any way you pronounced it. He was sent to prison for ten years. They let him out a little sooner ... because he behaved rather well. And he found himself quite rich. An old uncle had died when he was in prison and left him a pot of money. But what good will it do him? He is branded.”

“I’m sorry for your friend,” said Timothy. “But nine years is a very long time. Haven’t people forgotten?”

“Some people never forget. His wife’s sisters for instance. They were very hard on him. How he hated them! He brooded all those years on getting square with them when he came out.”

“How?”

“There is a way. He could take something from them that they want very much to keep. And he’s lonely ... he wants companionship ... he’s very lonely. I’ve been thinking about him all afternoon. But you mustn’t think I haven’t enjoyed myself. It’s been something to remember for a long time. Now, I suppose you want to get back before your aunts come home?”

“Yes. But just so they won’t get worried. I’m going to tell them about this, of course.”

“Won’t they scold you?”

“Likely they will. But scolding doesn’t break any bones, as Linda says,” remarked Timothy philosophically.

“I don’t think they will scold you much ... not if you get the head start of them with a message I’m sending them by you. You got that present for your aunt’s birthday, didn’t you?”

“Yes. But there is one thing. I’ve got that ten cents yet, you know. I’d like to buy some flowers with it and go over to the park and put them at the base of the soldier’s monument. Because my father was a brave soldier, you know.”

“Was he killed in South Africa?”

“Oh, no. He came back and married mother. He was in a bank, too. Then he died.”

“Yes, he died,” said Mr. Jenkins, when they had reached The Corner. “And,” he added, “I fancy he’ll stay dead.”

Timothy was rather shocked. It seemed a queer way to speak of anyone ... what Aunt Kathleen would call flippant. Still, he couldn’t help liking Mr. Jenkins.

“Well, good-bye, son,” said Mr. Jenkins.

“Won’t I see you again?” asked Timothy wistfully. He felt that he would like to see Mr. Jenkins again.

“I’m afraid not. I’m going away ... far away. That friend of mine ... he’s going far away ... to some new land ... and I think I’ll go, too. He’s lonely, you know. I must look after him a bit.”

“Will you tell your friend I’m sorry he’s lonely ... and I hope he won’t be always lonely.”

“I’ll tell him. And will you give your aunts a message for me?”

“Can’t you give it to them yourself? You said you were coming back to see them.”

“I’m afraid I can’t manage it after all. Tell them not to worry over that letter you got this morning. They needn’t go to their lawyer again to see ... if the person who wrote it has the power to do what he threatened to do. I know him quite well and he has changed his mind. Tell them he is going away and will never bother them again. You can remember that, can’t you?”

“Oh, yes. And they won’t be worried any more?”

“Not by that person. Only there’s this ... tell them they must cut out those music lessons and put raisins in the Friday pudding and let you have a light to go to sleep by. If they don’t ... that person might bother them again.”

“I’ll tell them about the music lessons and the pudding, but,” said Timothy sturdily, “not about the light if it’s all the same to that person. You see, I mustn’t be a coward. My dad wasn’t a coward. If you see that person will you please tell him that?”

“Well, perhaps you’re right. Ask Dr. Blythe about it. I went to college with him and I fancy he knows what’s what. And this is for your own ear, son. We’ve had a fine time and it’s all right as it happens. But take my advice and never go off with a stranger again.”

Timothy squeezed Mr. Jenkins’ hard hand.

“But you aren’t a stranger,” he said wistfully.

Milk-white against the hills of pine

Behind your aspens’ shaking gold

You wait for me; I fondly hold

Your key and know that you are mine,

And all your lovely ghosts I see

Of days and years that are to be.

Grey twilights sweet with April rain,

The August madness of the moon,

October’s dear autumnal croon,

December’s storm against your pane,

Must all enchant and mellow you

O house, as yet too proudly new.

There must be laughter here and tears,

There must be victory and defeat,

Sweet hours and hours of bittersweet,

High raptures, loyalties and fears ...

All these must blend in you to give

A soul to you and make you live.

Music of children at your door,

And white brides glimmering down your stair,

Girls with May-blossoms in their hair,

And dancing feet upon your floor,

And lovers in the whispering night

For you, the house of friendly light.

There must be fireside councils here,

Partings and meetings, death and birth,

Vigils of sorrow as of mirth ...

All these will make you year by year

A home for all who live in you,

Dear house as yet too proudly new.

Anne Blythe

DR. BLYTHE
:- “Is that the new house Tom Lacey has built on the Lowbridge road? I saw you looking at it very intently.”

SUSAN BAKER
:- “They say it has cost him more than he will ever be able to pay. But a new house
is
interesting and that I will tie to. I have sometimes thought ...”
Breaks off, thinking it may be wiser not to tell what an old maid thinks about new houses.

When winds blow soft from far away

Among the orchard trees,

The robins whistle out the day

With mellow minstrelsies.

When dews are falling cool and still

In valleys dim and far,

The robins flute upon the hills

To greet the evening star.

Hark, hear them in the beechen glade

And in the sunset woods!

Hark, hear them in the haunted shade

Of fern-sweet solitudes,

Where little pixy people creep

To learn the silver notes

That in one twilight rapture leaps

From scores of answering throats.

One must be glad to hear them so,

They are so glad themselves;

Some darling secret they must know

Shared by the tree-top elves,

Some secret they would fain repeat

To us ere darkness falls,

When far and sweet and near and sweet

We list the robin calls.

Anne Blythe

SUSAN BAKER
:-
“I
do
like to hear the robins whistling at evening.”

ANNE
:- “Sometimes the maple grove and Rainbow Valley seem just alive with them.”

DR. BLYTHE
:- “Do you remember how they used to whistle over in the Haunted Wood and at Orchard Slope?”

ANNE
,
softly:
-“I’ve forgotten nothing, Gilbert ... nothing.”

DR. BLYTHE
:- “Nor I.”

JEM BLYTHE
,
shouting in at the window:
- “Spoons! Spoons! Say, Susan, was there any of that pie left? I’d appreciate it more than all the robin vespers in the world.”

SUSAN
:- “Ain’t that like a boy? I wish Walter was more like that.”

A pale, enchanted moon is sinking low

Behind the dunes that fringe the shadowy lea,

And there is haunted starlight on the flow

Of immemorial sea.

I am alone and need no more pretend

Laughter or smile to hide a hungry heart,

I walk with solitude as with a friend,

Enfolded and apart.

We tread an eerie road across the moor,

Where shadows weave upon their ghostly looms,

And winds sing an old lyric that might lure

Sad queens from ancient tombs.

I am a sister to the loveliness

Of cool, far hill and long-remembered shore,

Finding in it a sweet forgetfulness

Of all that hurt before.

The world of day, its bitterness and cark,

No longer have the power to make me weep ...

I welcome this communion of the dark

As toilers welcome sleep.