The Blythes Are Quoted (25 page)

The old clock ticks behind the door,

The shadows lurk and chase,

The driftwood firewood makes the room

A homely, pleasant place.

A haven from the hungry wind,

A shelter from the sea,

But in this twilight silence it

Is full of ghosts for me.

Here Dorothea dances yet,

That dark and vivid girl,

Though many a year the graveyard dust

Has shrouded cheek and curl.

Here Allan tells a tale of love

That brings its olden thrill,

Though Allan’s lips are mute and cold,

And Allan’s heart is still.

Here Will’s wild strains of music yet

In witching cadence fall,

Though Will’s old fiddle long untouched

Hangs soundless on the wall.

Edith and Howard, Jen and Joe,

They come, a friendly host,

I hear their laughter and their jests ...

Even laughter has its ghost.

Pulsating joys and starry hopes,

Unshadowed by regrets,

Surround me like the fragrance of

Wind-shaken violets,

And out of all that come and go

Is one I cannot miss ...

The faded little spectre of

One unforgotten kiss.

Anne Blythe

DR. BLYTHE
:- “One unforgotten kiss! One of Roy Gardiner’s, I presume?”

ANNE
,
indignantly:
- “Roy never kissed me. And most of the poem is pure imagination.”

SUSAN
:- “Oh, do not be talking of kisses before the children, Mrs. Dr. dear ... begging your pardon for interfering.”

JEM
,
aside to Diana:
- “Listen to her! As if we had never seen or heard of a kiss!”

DIANA
,
teasingly:
- “You, anyhow. I saw you kissing Faith Meredith in school last week ... and Mary Vance, too.”

JEM
:- “For mercy’s sake, don’t let Susan hear you say that. She might forgive it with Faith but never with Mary Vance.”

DR. BLYTHE
:- “Do you know, Anne, there’s an old fiddle hanging on the wall of a parlour in the Upper Glen. It never seems to be taken down. I’ve often wondered what its story is, if it has one.”

ANNE
:- “You may be sure it has. You can’t write
anything
, Gilbert, but it touches a chord somewhere.”

SUSAN
,
to herself:
-“I could tell them the story of that fiddle if I liked. But I won’t. It’s too sad.”

Fast tonight the frost is holding over all the world we know,

Fields we love are grim and barren underneath the woven snow,

And our forest, palled in purple, seems far less a friend than foe.

But at twilight we foregather by the red and purring flame,

Springtime long ago forsaken, summer but a golden name,

By the hearth as in the woodland comradeship remains the same.

Gone the violet of the valley, gone the rose and daffodil,

Song has left our hills of roaming very lonely, very chill,

Secret glens have ceased to call us and our river’s voice is still.

But our shabby books are with us and our dreams are never o’er,

On the gleam of stark midwinter we will shut our sturdy door,

At our own fireside the love light burns and beckons evermore.

Anne Blythe

DR. BLYTHE
:- “The old, old love light that was kindled so many years ago in Avonlea ... and burns yet, Anne ... at least for me.”

ANNE
:- “And for me, too. And will burn forever, Gilbert.” dr. blythe:- “There is something about that poem of yours I especially like, Anne.”

SUSAN
,
to herself:
- “And me, too. It is well to have a roof over your head and a warm fire to snuggle by on a night like this.”

Penelope Craig went home early from Mrs. Elston’s bridge. She had the notes to prepare for her lecture on Child Psychology that evening and there were several pressing problems demanding her attention ... especially the drafting of a child’s diet with the proper number of vitamins in it. The other ladies were sorry to see her go, for Penelope was popular with her friends, but that did not prevent them from laughing a little after she had gone.

“The idea,” said Mrs. Collins, “of Penelope Craig adopting a child.”

“But why not?” asked Mrs. Dr. Blythe, who was visiting friends in town. “Isn’t she a recognized authority on child training?”

“Oh, yes, of course. And she is also president of our S.P.C.A., and convenor of our child welfare committee and lecturer under the National Association of Women’s Clubs; and in spite of it all, she’s the sweetest thing that ever breathed. But
still
I say ... the idea of her adopting a child.”

“But why?” said the persistent Mrs. Blythe, who had once been an adopted child herself and knew that people thought Marilla Cuthbert at old Green Gables stark crazy for taking her.

“Why!” Mrs. Collins threw out her hands expressively. “If you had known Penelope Craig as long as we have, Mrs. Blythe, you’d understand. She is full of theories but when it comes to putting them into practice ... and with a boy at that!”

Anne remembered that the Cuthberts had sent for a boy in the first place. She found herself wondering how Marilla would have got along with a boy.

“She
might
manage a girl ... after all, there’s probably something in all those theories and it’s easier to experiment with girls,” continued Mrs. Collins. “But a boy!
Just
fancy Penelope Craig bringing up a boy!”

“How old is he?” asked Anne.

“About eight, I’m told. He’s really no relation to Penelope ... he’s merely the son of an old school friend of hers who died recently. His father died soon after he was born and the boy never had any contacts with men, so Penelope says.”

“Which is an advantage in her eyes, of course,” laughed Mrs. Crosby.

“Does Miss Craig dislike men?” It was Mrs. Blythe again.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as to say she dislikes them ... no, not actually dislikes them. I would rather put it that she can’t be bothered with them. Dr. Galbraith could tell you that. Poor Dr. Galbraith! I suppose your husband knows him.”

“I think I’ve heard him speak of him. He’s very clever, isn’t he? And is he in love with Miss Craig?”

What an outspoken person this Mrs. Blythe was! On her part she was thinking how hard it was to find out simple things. People took it so for granted that you must know all they did.

“I should say so. He’s been proposing to Penelope off and on for ... it must be ten years or so. Let me see ... yes, it’s thirteen years since his wife died.”

“He must be a very persistent man,” smiled Mrs. Blythe.

“I should say so. The Galbraiths never give up. And Penelope just goes on refusing him so sweetly that he’s sure she’ll relent the next time.”

“And don’t you suppose she will ... sometime?” Mrs. Blythe smiled, recalling some incidents of her own romance.

“I don’t think there’s a chance. Penelope will never marry ... Roger Galbraith or anybody else.”

“Roger Galbraith,” thought Anne. “Yes, that is the man. I remember Gilbert saying that when he set his mind on anything there was no moving it.”

“They are the best of friends,” said Mrs. Loree. “And friends they will remain ... nothing more.”

“Sometimes you find out that what you thought was friendship is really love,” said Mrs. Blythe. “She’s very handsome” ... recalling Miss Craig’s beautiful blue-black hair in little dark curls around her wide, low, cream-white brow. Anne had never grown really reconciled to her own ruddy tresses.

“Handsome and clever and competent,” agreed Mrs. Collins. “
Too
clever and competent. That is why she has no patience with men.”

“I suppose she thinks she doesn’t need them,” smiled Anne.

“Likely that is the reason. But I confess it annoys me to see a man like Roger Galbraith dangling after her for ten years when there is any number of lovely girls he could get. Why, half the unmarried women in Charlottetown would jump at him.”

“How old is Miss Craig?”

“Thirty-five ... though she doesn’t look it, does she? She has never had a worry in her life ... or any sorrow, for her mother died when she was born. Since then she has lived in that apartment with old Marta ... a third or fourth cousin or something like that. Marta worships her and she devotes her time to club work of all kinds. Oh, she’s clever and competent,
as I’ve said, but she’s going to find that bringing up a child in practice is a very different thing from bringing it up in theory.”

“Oh, theories!” Mrs. Tweed laughed, as the successful mother of six children felt she had to. “Penelope has theories in abundance. Do you remember that talk she gave us last year on ‘patterns’ in child training?”

Anne recalled Marilla and Mrs. Lynde. What would they have said to such talk?

“One point she stressed,” continued Mrs. Tweed, “was that children should be trained to go ahead and take the consequences. They shouldn’t be forbidden to do anything. ‘I believe in letting children find out things for themselves,’ she said.”

“Up to a point she’s right,” said Mrs. Blythe. “But when that point is reached ...”

“She said that children should be allowed to express their individuality,” said Mrs. Parker reminiscently.

“Most of them do,” laughed Mrs. Blythe. “Does Miss Craig
like
children? It seems to me that that is a very important point.”

“
I
asked her that once,” said Mrs. Collins, “and all she said was, ‘My dear Nora, why don’t you ask me if I like grown-up people?’ Now, what do you make out of that?”

“Well, she was right,” said Mrs. Fulton. “Some children are likeable and some aren’t.”

A memory of Josie Pye drifted across Anne’s mind.

“We all know that,” she said, “in spite of sentimental piffle.”

“
Could
anybody like that fat, dribbly Paxton child?” demanded Mrs. MacKenzie.

“His mother probably thinks him the most beautiful thing on earth,” said Anne, smiling.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew the whalings she gives him,” said Mrs. Lawrence bluntly. “
She
doesn’t believe in sparing the rod and spoiling the child.”

“I’ve lived on buttermilk for five weeks and I’ve gained four pounds,” said Mrs. Williams bitterly. She thought it was time the subject was changed. After all, Mrs. Blythe was a B.A. even if she did live in some out-of-the-way place in the country.

But the others ignored her. Who cared if Mrs. Williams were fat or lean? What was diet to the fact of Penelope Craig adopting a boy?

“I’ve heard her say no child should ever be whipped,” said Mrs. Rennie.

“She and Susan would find themselves kindred spirits,” thought Anne amusedly.

“I agree with her there,” said Mrs. Fulton.

“H’m!” Mrs. Tweed pursed her lips. “Five of my children I never whipped. But Johnny ... I found a sound spanking about once in so long was necessary if we were to live with him. What do you think about it, Mrs. Blythe?”

Anne, recalling Anthony Pye, was spared the embarrassment of a reply by Mrs. Gaynor, who had hitherto said not a word and thought it high time she asserted herself.

“Fancy Penelope Craig spanking a child,” she said.

Nobody could fancy it so they returned to their game.

“Roger Galbraith will never get Penelope Craig,” said Dr. Blythe at Ingleside that evening, when Anne told him about the conversation. “And it’s the better luck for him. She is one of these strong-minded women no man really cares for.”

“I have a feeling in my bones,” said Anne, “that he will win her yet.”

“The wind is in the east,” said Gilbert. “That is what is the matter with your bones. And thank goodness this is a matter you can’t meddle in, you inveterate matchmaker.”

“That is no way for a man to talk to his wife,” thought Susan Baker, the Ingleside maid-of-all-work, indignantly. “I have long since given up hopes of marriage but if I were married my husband should at least refer to my bones respectfully. No one could think more highly of Dr. Blythe than I do but there are times when, if I were Mrs. Blythe, I should deem it my duty to administer a snub. Women should not put up with everything and that I will tie to.”

Dr. Roger Galbraith was in Penelope’s living room when she reached home, and Marta, who adored him, was giving him tea, with some of her big fat doughnuts.

“What’s this I hear about your adopting a boy, Penny? All the town seems to be talking about it.”

“I have begged her not to adopt a
boy
,” said Marta, in a tone which implied she had done it on her knees.

“I did not happen to have any choice in the matter of sex,” retorted Penelope, in her soft, lovely voice, which made even impatience seem charming. “Poor Ella’s child could not be left to the care of strangers. She wrote to me on her deathbed. I regard it as a sacred trust ... though I
am
sorry he is not a girl.”

“Do you think this is any place to bring up a boy?” said Dr. Galbraith, looking around the dainty little room and running his fingers dubiously through his mop of tawny hair.

“Of course not, Mr. Medicine-man,” said Penelope coolly. “I realize quite as clearly as you do how very important the background of a child’s life is. So I have bought a storybook cottage over at Keppoch ... I mean to call it Willow Run. It’s a delightful spot. Even Marta admits that.”