The Blythes Are Quoted (27 page)

“I’ve always had coffee,” he said.

“Coffee is not good for little boys, darling,” she said, and stuck to it. But she did not enjoy her own. Especially as Lionel said,

“You must be awful old. You can’t seem to remember that my name isn’t darling.”

Penelope never forgot those first two weeks of Lionel’s existence at Willow Run. By dint of giving him some bacon with his egg he was induced to refrain from demanding sausages, and, apart from that, his appetite seemed normal enough. He even ate his spinach without bribes, apparently to save argument. But the problem of his meals being partially solved there remained the problem of amusing him. For it had come to that. He would not make friends with any of the neighbouring youngsters and he sat on the porch steps and stared into vacancy or wandered idly around the grounds of Willow Run. Penelope took him out to Ingleside one day and he seemed to hit it off with Jem Blythe, whom he called a “good bean,” but you couldn’t go to Ingleside every day. He never looked at the squirrels and the swing which Penelope had erected for him in the backyard he disdained. He would not talk. He would not play with the mechanical donkey or the electric train or the toy airplane she bought him. Only once he threw a stone. Unluckily he picked the exact time when Mrs. Raynor, the wife of the Anglican minister, was coming in at the gate. It just missed her nose by an inch.

“You mustn’t throw stones at people, dar ... Lionel,” said Penelope miserably (forgetting that you “mustn’t” use “mustn’t”) after a very stately lady had gone.

“I didn’t throw it at her,” said Lionel dourly. “I just threw it. It wasn’t my fault she was there.”

Penelope took to going into the sleeping porch every night ... Lionel refused to sleep anywhere else ... and “suggesting.” Marta thought it was some kind of witchcraft. Penelope “suggested” that Lionel should feel happy ... should not want sausages or coffee ... should like spinach ... should realize they loved him ...

“Old Marta doesn’t,” said Lionel one night suddenly, when she had supposed him sound asleep.

“He won’t
let
us love him,” said Penelope despairingly. “And as for letting him do what he wants to do, he doesn’t want to do
anything
. He doesn’t want to go driving ... he won’t play with his toys ... and he doesn’t laugh enough. He doesn’t laugh
at all
, Marta. Do you notice that?”

“Well, some kids don’t,” said Marta. “What that kind want is a man to bring them up. They don’t take to women.”

Penelope disdained to reply. But it was after this that she suggested a dog. She had always rather hankered for a dog herself but her father had not liked dogs. Neither did Marta and an apartment was really no place for a dog. Surely Lionel would like a dog ... a boy should have a dog.

“I’m going to get you a dog, dar ... Lionel.”

She hoped to see Lionel’s face light up for once. But he only looked at her out of lacklustre black eyes.

“A dog? Who wants a dog?” he said sulkily.

“I thought all boys liked dogs,” faltered Penelope.

“I don’t. A dog bit me once. I’d like a kitten,” said Lionel. “They have heaps of kittens at Ingleside.”

Neither Penelope nor Marta liked cats but this was the first thing Lionel had wanted apart from sausages. Penelope was afraid it would not do to thwart him.

“If you thwart a child you don’t know what kind of a fixation you may set up,” she remembered.

The kitten was procured ... Mrs. Blythe sent one in from Ingleside and Lionel announced that he would call it George.

“But, dar ... Lionel, it’s a lady kitten,” faltered Penelope. “Susan Baker told me so. Better call it Fluffy ... its fur is so soft ... or Topsy ...”

“Its name is George,” said Lionel.

Lionel kept George by him and took her to bed with him ... much to Penelope’s horror ... but he still prowled darkly about Willow Run and refused to enjoy himself. They had got used to his silence ... evidently he was a taciturn child by nature ... but Penelope could not get used to his smouldering discon-tent. She felt it to the marrow of her bones. Suggestion seemed of no avail. Ella’s child was not happy. She had tried everything. She had tried amusing him ... she had tried leaving him alone.

“When he begins to go to school it will be better,” she told Marta hopefully. “He will mingle with other boys then and have playmates. He seemed quite different that day we spent at Ingleside.”

“The doctor and Mrs. Blythe have no theories, I’m told,” said Marta.

“They must have some. Their children are very well behaved ... I admit that. I’d have had some boys in before but the children hereabouts have some kind of spots ... I don’t know if it’s catching ... but I thought it best not to expose Lionel to it. I ... I wish Roger were back.”

“There are plenty other doctors in town,” said Marta. “And you can’t keep a child wrapped up in cotton wool all his life. I may be an old maid but I know
that
. Anyhow, it’s two months yet till school opens.”

Marta was taking things easily. Marta rather approved of Lionel, in spite of his calling her an ugly old woman.

He didn’t get into mischief and he didn’t say impolite things to you if you left him alone. He had to be bribed to drink his nightly glass of milk sometimes ... Marta did that oftener than Penelope had any idea of ... but he hoarded the dimes he got.

Once he asked Marta how much a ticket to Winnipeg cost and would not eat any lunch after he had been told. That night he told Marta he was “through with guzzling milk.”

“I ain’t a baby,” he said.

“What will your Aunt Penelope say?” admonished Marta.

“Do you think I care?” said Lionel.

“You ought to care. She is very good to you,” said Marta.

Penelope came to a certain decision on the day Lionel came in with a bad bruise on his knee. Not that he made any fuss over it but when he was asked how he got hurt he said the church steeple fell on him.

“Oh, but Lionel, that isn’t true,” said Penelope, horrified. “You couldn’t expect us to believe that.”

“I know it ain’t true. When Walter Blythe says things that ain’t true his mother calls it imagination.”

“But there is a difference. He doesn’t expect her to believe them true.”

“I didn’t expect you to either,” said Lionel. “But nothing ever happens here. You’ve just got to pretend things happen.”

Penelope gave up the argument. She bathed and disinfected the knee. She was conscious as she did so of a queer desire to kiss it. It was such an adorable, fat, little brown knee. But she was afraid if she did it Lionel would look at her with that fine trickle of disdain which sometimes appeared so disconcertingly in his expression.

He refused to let her put a bandage on it although Penelope felt sure it should be done to prevent possible infection.

“I’ll rub some toad spit on it,” said Lionel.

“Where did you ever hear of such a thing?” exclaimed Penelope in horror.

“Jem Blythe told me. But he wouldn’t tell his father,” added Lionel. “His father has some queer notions just like you and Marta.”

“If only Roger were here!” came unbidden and unwelcomely into Penelope’s mind.

She thought hard that afternoon and announced the result to Marta at night, after Lionel and George were in bed.

“Marta, I have come to the conclusion that what Lionel needs is a companion ... a chum ... a pal. All boys should have one. The Ingleside boys are all too far away ... and really, after what Jem told Lionel about toad spit ... But you know they say a child with no one but grown-ups around him will have an inferiority complex. Or do I mean a superiority complex?”

“
I
think you don’t know what you mean yourself,” said Marta. “Have a talk with Mrs. Blythe. She is in town, I hear.”

“Mrs. Blythe is a B.A., but I have never heard that she was an authority on child psychology ...”

“Her children are the best behaved I’ve ever seen,” said Marta.

“Well, anyhow I have decided that Lionel needs a companion.”

“You don’t mean that you are going to adopt
another
boy!” said Marta in a tone of consternation.

“Not
adopt
exactly ... oh, dear me no, not adopt, Marta. But I simply mean to get one for the summer ... till school opens. Mrs. Elwood was talking about one yesterday ... I think his name is Theodore Wells ...”

“Jim Wells’ nephew! Why, Penelope Craig! Wasn’t his mother an actress or something?”

“Yes ... Sandra Valdez. Jim Wells’ brother married her ten years ago in New York or London or somewhere. They soon parted and Sidney came home with his boy. He died at Jim’s
farm. Jim has looked after the boy but you know he died last month and his wife says she has enough to do to look after her own.”

“He was never very welcome there, from all I’ve heard,” muttered Marta.

“She wants to find a home for him until she can get in touch with Sandra Valdez ... and I feel it is Providential, Marta ...”

“
I
feel the old Scratch has had more to do with it,” said Marta.

“Marta ... Marta ... you really mustn’t. Mrs. Elwood says he is a dear little chap ... looks just like an angel ...”

“Mrs. Elwood would say anything. She is a sister of Mrs. Jim Wells. Penelope, you don’t know what that child is like ... or what he may teach Lionel ...”

“Mrs. Elwood says the Wells children are all well behaved and well brought up ...”

“Oh, she said that, did she? Well, they’re her own nephews and nieces. She ought to know ...”

“Suppose he is a little mischievous ...”

“Oh, she admitted that, did she? Well, children should be mischievous. I may be an old maid but I know that. They say those Blythe youngsters you’re so fond of quoting ...”

“I very seldom mention them, Marta! But Dr. Galbraith ... well, that is one thing that worried me about Lionel. He isn’t half mischievous enough. In fact, he is not mischievous at all. It isn’t normal. When Theodore comes ...”

“Theodore! That is even worse than Lionel.”

“Now, Marta, be nice,” said Penelope pleadingly. “You
know
I’m right.”

“If you had a husband, Penelope, I wouldn’t care how many children you adopted. But for two old maids to start bringing up boys ...”

“That will do, Marta. A woman who has made a study of child psychology as I have knows more about bringing up children than many a mother. My mind is made up.”

“Oh, how I wish Dr. Roger was home!” groaned Marta to herself. “Not that I suppose he would have the slightest influence either.”

Theodore looked as Lionel should have looked. He was slender and had delicate features, with red-gold hair and astonishingly lustrous grey eyes.

“So this is Theodore,” said Penelope graciously.

“Yes’m,” said Theodore with a charming smile. There was evidently nothing of Lionel’s gruffness about him.

“And this is Lionel,” smiled Penelope.

“I’ve heard about him,” said Theodore. “Hello, Bumps!”

“Hello, Red,” condescended Lionel.

“Suppose you go out into the garden and get acquainted before dinner,” suggested Penelope, still smiling. Things were going much better than she had dared hope.

Marta sniffed. She knew something about the said Theodore Wells.

A few minutes later bloodcurdling howls came from the backyard. Penelope and Marta both rushed out in dismay to find the two boys in a furious clinch on the gravelled walk, kicking, clawing and yelling. Penelope and Marta dragged them apart with difficulty. Their faces were covered with dirt. Theodore had a cut lip and another of Lionel’s teeth was missing. George was up on a maple tree, apparently wondering if her tail really belonged to her.

“Oh, darlings, darlings,” cried Penelope distractedly. “This is dreadful ... you mustn’t fight ... you
mustn’t
...”

It was evident that for the moment, at least, Penelope had forgotten the rules of child psychology.

“He pulled George’s tail,” snarled Lionel. “Nobody ain’t going to pull
my
cat’s tail.”

“How did I know it was your cat?” demanded Red. “You hit first. Look at my lip, Miss Craig.”

“It’s bleeding,” said Penelope with a shudder. She could never endure the sight of blood. It turned her sick.

“It’s only a scratch,” said Marta. “I’ll put some vaseline on it.”

“Kiss the place and make it well,” jeered Theodore. Lionel said nothing. He was busy hunting for his lost tooth.

“At least he isn’t a crybaby,” Penelope comforted herself. “Neither of them is a crybaby.”

Marta took Lionel to the kitchen. He went willingly because he had found his tooth. Penelope took Theodore to the bathroom, where she washed his face, much against his will, and discovered that his neck and body were in deplorable need of attention also. A bath was indicated.

“Gee, I’d hate to be as clean as you all the time,” said Theodore, looking himself over afterwards. “Do you wash yourself over every day?”

“Of course, dear.”

“
All
over?”

“Of course.”

“If I wash my face at the pump once a week ... thorrerly ... won’t that be enough?” demanded Theodore. “And can I call you momma? You smell nice.”

“I think ... Aunty would be better,” faltered Penelope.

“I’ve got all the aunts I want,” objected Theodore. “But I ain’t got no momma. Just as you say, though. Say, that tooth of Bumps was ready to come out anyhow. What are cats’ tails for if they ain’t to be pulled?”

“But you don’t want to hurt poor little animals, do you? If you were a kitten and had a tail, would you like to have it pulled?”

“If I was a kitten and had a tail,” sang Theodore. He really sang it ... in a delightfully clear, true, sweet voice. Lionel could sing, too, it appeared. The two sat on the steps after dinner and sang all kinds of songs together. Some of the songs Penelope thought rather terrible for small boys but it was such a comfort to find Lionel taking an interest in something at last. She had been right. All Lionel really needed was a companion.

“Did you hear how they ended up that bee-i-ee-iee song?” demanded Marta. “They
didn’t
end it with ‘way down yonder in the field.’ What if Mrs. Raynor had heard them?”

Mrs. Raynor had not heard them. But a certain Mrs. Embree, who was passing at that moment, had. It was all over the neighbourhood by next day. Someone telephoned it to Penelope. Did she really think Theodore Wells a fit companion for her nephew?