The Blythes Are Quoted (24 page)

Caroline Mallard was calmly admitting to him that she had been “gone” on him when they went to school together ... when he had thought she was hardly aware of his existence ... and now the only word of her speech that made much impression on him was “police.”

He looked at the car behind. He was sure the driver was in uniform. And no one but police or lunatics would be travelling at such a rate. The police were after him and Caroline. He did not know whether the thought was a comfort or a torture. And what would happen? Caroline, he felt sure, would not stop for a policeman or anything else. Oh, what a story for the
Enterprise
! What a tale for the Glens! He would never dare to show his face in Carter Flagg’s store again. As for Clara ... she might and probably would leave him. In Prince Edward Island people did not get divorces ... but they “separated.” He was sure Clara’s Aunt Ellen had “left” her husband.

“A-ha, we’re gaining on them,” said Caroline exultantly.

The car ahead had slowed down as they spun around a hairpin curve and saw it crossing a creek bridge ahead of them. It
had
slowed down a little and Anthony could see plainly, by the light of a moth-eaten old moon that was just rising above the horizon, that someone in it threw a bag over the railing of the bridge as they whirled across it. Perhaps the remains of the chopped-up George were in it. By this time Anthony had so nearly lost his own reason that any wild idea seemed plausible to him.

Caroline saw the bag go over, too. In her excitement she pushed heavily on the accelerator and Anthony’s long-awaited catastrophe came. The Wilkes car banged into the decrepit old railing ... the railing gave way ... and they went over.

To the last day of his life Anthony Fingold firmly believed in the truth of the adage that no harm could befall a lunatic.

The big car was smashed to bits but he crawled out of the wreck unharmed, to find himself standing in the middle of a shallow, muddy, deep-banked stream. Caroline was already
beside him. Behind them the third car had stopped at the edge of a cow path that led down to the brook. Two men and a woman were scrambling down it, one of them in a chauffeur’s uniform which Anthony had mistaken and still mistook for a policeman’s. All three, even the chauffeur, smelled to high heaven of what Clara would have called “grog.”

“Now you’ll catch it for kidnapping me,” said Caroline. “You might have drowned me. And where did you get my son’s pyjamas? You are a thief, that is what
you
are, Anthony Fingold. And look what you have done to my car!”

She came threateningly towards him with that infernal dagger still in her hand. Anthony quaked with terror. He caught up the first protective thing that came to hand ... a bag that was lying high and dry on the edge of a log ... a bag that rustled oddly as he struck blindly at Caroline’s uplifted arm.

The poisoned dagger ... it was really an old paper cutter ... flew from her grasp and spun away into the darkness.

“Upon my word the little fellow has spunk after all,” said Caroline admiringly.

But Anthony did not see that long-desired admiration. Nor would he have cared if he had. It no longer mattered to him ... never would matter again ... what Caroline Wilkes thought of him.

He was scrambling up the opposite bank of the brook, still keeping an unconscious hold on the bag. They should not catch him ... he
would not
be arrested for kidnapping a crazy old woman who ought to be in an asylum.

As he disappeared in the shadows of the trees the other people gave their attention to Caroline Wilkes, whom they knew slightly, and took her home. She went meekly enough, her “spell” being over.

Poor Anthony had run for the best part of a mile before he realized that no one was pursuing him. Then he pulled up, quite out of breath, and gazed around him, hardly daring to believe his good fortune. For such it certainly seemed, after the horrors of the preceding hours.

He was in the blueberry barrens behind the Upper Glen. In all that wild racing and chasing along side roads they must have doubled back until he was within five miles of home. Home! Never had the word seemed so sweet to Anthony Fingold ... if, indeed, he still had a home! He had read of men spending what they thought was a few hours somewhere and finding that a hundred years had passed. He felt that it would not surprise him to find that a century had elapsed since he had gone to Carter Flagg’s store to get that liniment for Clara.

Beloved Clara! Worth a hundred Caroline Mallards. Of course he would get a scolding from her but he felt he deserved it. He wished he might appear before her clad in something else than Norman Wilkes’ pyjamas. But there were no houses in the barrens and he would not have had the spunk to call at them if there had been. Besides, the fewer times he had to tell the tale the better.

An hour later a weary, aching Anthony, still clad in wet orange and purple pyjamas, crept into his own kitchen. He was very tired. His heart might be as young as it used to be but he had discovered that his legs were not.

He had hoped that Clara would be asleep but Clara was not. The tasty little snack she had always left out for Anthony when he was out late was spread on the kitchen table but it was untouched. For the first time in their married life he found Clara ... calm, placid Clara ... on the verge of hysterics.

The story had reached her over the telephone that Anthony had been seen driving at a terrific rate with old
Caroline Wilkes, who was not right in her head, as everybody knew. A distracted Abe Saunders had telephoned. A distracted George Mallard had called. Clara had practically spent the evening at the telephone, making or answering calls. Everybody at Ingleside seemed away, as she could get no answer from them, or she might have had some comfort. She had just decided to get the neighbours out searching when Anthony shambled in.

He did not know what she would say. He was prepared for a real scolding ... the first she had ever administered to him, he reflected. But anything she might say was well-deserved. He had never appreciated her.

Clara whirled from the telephone and said the last thing Anthony expected her to say ... did the last thing Anthony expected her to do. Clara, who never indulged in any outward display of feeling, suddenly broke into a fit of wild tears.

“That woman,” she sobbed, “has been able to get you to wear pyjamas when I never could. And after all the years I’ve tried to be a good wife to you! Oh, such an evening as I have spent! Didn’t you know she has been out of her head for years?”

“You never told me that!” cried Anthony.

“Tell you! I’d have died before I mentioned her name to you. I’ve always known it was her you wanted. But I thought someone else would. It’s common knowledge. And now you’ve been spending the whole evening with her ... and come home in pyjamas ... I won’t stand for it ... I’ll get a divorce ... I’ll ...”

“Clara, please listen to me,” implored Anthony. “I’ll tell you the whole story ... I swear every word of it is true. But let me get into some dry things first ... you don’t want me to die of pneumonia, do you? Though I know I deserve it.”

Beloved Clara! Never did any man have such a wife. She was worth a million of what he had believed Caroline Mallard to be. Without another word she wiped her eyes, brought him a warm dressing gown, rubbed his sprained back, anointed his bruises, and made him a cup of hot tea. In short, she almost restored his self-respect.

Then he told her the whole story. And Clara believed every word of it. Would any other woman in the world have done so?

Finally, they thought of the bag, which was lying on the floor.

“Might as well see what’s in it,” said Clara, her own calm, composed self once more. Men were men and you couldn’t make them into anything else. And it really hadn’t been Anthony’s fault. Caroline Wilkes could always do as she liked with them. The old harridan.

When they saw what was in the bag they stared at each other in amazement, rather aghast.

“There ... there’s sixty thousand dollars if there is a cent,” gasped Anthony. “Clara, what are we to do?”

“Susan Baker phoned up from Ingleside just after you left that the Bank of Nova Scotia in Charlottetown had been robbed,” said Clara. “I guess the robbers thought you and Caroline were after them and they’d better get rid of their loot. They must have been out of ammunition. There’s a reward offered for the capture of the bandits or the recovery of the money. Maybe we’ll get it, Anthony. They couldn’t give it to the Wilkes gang. It was you who found and brought home the money. We’ll see what Dr. Blythe has to say about it.”

Anthony was too tired to feel excited over the prospect of a reward.

“It’s too late to phone anyone about it tonight,” he said. “I’ll bury it under the pile of potatoes in the cellar.”

“It’ll be safe enough locked up in the spare room closet,” said Clara. “And now the wisest thing for us to do is to go to bed. I’m sure you need a rest.”

Anthony stretched himself in bed until his still cold toes were cosy against the hot-water bottle. Beside him was a rosy, comely Clara, in the crimpers he had often despised but which were certainly a thousandfold more beautiful than Caroline Wilkes’ elf-locks.

The very next day he would start making that herbaceous border she had wanted so long ... she deserved it if ever a woman did. And he had seen some blue-and-white striped flannel in Carter Flagg’s store that would make very tasty pyjamas. Yes, Clara was a jewel among women. She had never turned a hair over some parts of that wild yarn of his which any woman might have been excused for disbelieving.

He supposed the Wilkes gang would send his clothes home. Of course it would get out everywhere that he had been seen joyriding with old Caroline in pyjamas. But there were some humiliating things no one would ever know. He could trust his Clara. If Caroline Wilkes told anyone she kissed him no one would believe her. The rest didn’t matter so much, although Anthony could hardly repress a groan when he thought of what Old Maid Bradley would say of it. She would write it up for what she called her “syndicate” ... no doubt of that. Well, there would be a few humiliating weeks and then people would forget it. And the reward the bank offered might ease them up. He might even be thought a hero instead of a ... well, a dod-gasted fool.

“But no more adventures for me,” thought Anthony Fingold as he drifted into sleep. “Enough’s enough. I was never really in love with Caroline Mallard. It was just a case of calf love. Clara has really been the only woman in my life.”

He honestly believed it. And perhaps it was true.

In the gold of sunset bloom

I must leave my old, old room,

Bid good-bye and shut the door

Never to repass it more.

Tender things my lips would say

To it as I go away,

For this room has seemed to be

In itself a friend to me.

Here I knew how sweet was sleep ...

Sweeter still to lie in deep

Wakefulness of joy that came

Touched with youth’s enchanted flame.

Lovely laughter has been here

Moonlit dreaming, very dear,

And the waking rapture when

Morn came dancing up the glen.

Here I sought to make me fair,

Looped and coaxed and bound my hair,

Slipped the sheen of kissing silk

Over shoulders white as milk,

Loved myself because I knew

Seeing, he would love me, too.

Waited at this window ... so ...

For a hurrying step below.

Here have I aforetime lain

Cheek to cheek with biting pain,

Death came here one shuddering day,

Looked on me but went away;

Good and evil, rest and strife,

All the wonderment of life,

All its lavish pageantry

Have been here a part of me.

So I say good-bye with tears

To my room of happy years,

And if she who comes to stay

Here when I have gone away

Be a girl I leave her, too,

All the fairy dreams I knew,

All my fancies, all the hosts

Of my little friendly ghosts.

May she have as I have had

Many things to make her glad,

Beckoning sunshine, singing showers,

Long, serene, contented hours,

Muted wind in boughs of fir,

Nights that will be kind to her,

And a room that still will be

Friend as it has been to me.

Anne Blythe

DR. BLYTHE
:- “It isn’t hard to guess the inspiration of that poem, Anne. Your old room at Green Gables?”

ANNE
:- “Yes, mostly. I thought it out the night before our wedding day. And I felt every word of it. That room was the first I ever had of my own in my life.”

DR. BLYTHE
:- “But you
did
repass it often.”

ANNE
,
dreamily:
- “No, never. I was a wife, not a girl when I went back. And it
was
a friend to me ... you can’t guess what a friend.”

DR. BLYTHE
,
teasingly:
- “Did you ever think of me in your ‘wakefulness of joy’?”

ANNE
:- “Perhaps. And when I got up early to see the sun rise over the Haunted Wood.”

WALTER
:- “I love to see it rise over Rainbow Valley.”

JEM
:- “I didn’t think you ever got up early enough for that!”

DR. BLYTHE
:- “Did you really ‘dress up’ for me?”

ANNE
:- “After we were engaged of course I did. I wanted you to think me as pretty as possible. And even in our schooldays when we were such enemies I think I wanted you to see me looking as nice as could be.”

JEM
:- “Do you mean to say, mums, that you and dad were on bad terms when you went to school?”

DR. BLYTHE
:- “Your mother thought she had a grudge against me, but I always wanted to be friends. However, that is all ancient history now. When did death come and look at you?”

ANNE
:- “Not my death. It was the shadow of your death I was thinking of ... when everybody thought you were
dying of typhoid. I thought I would die, too. And the night after I had heard you had taken a turn for the better ... ah, that was the ‘wakefulness of joy’!”

DR. BLYTHE
:- “It couldn’t have been anything to mine the night after I found you loved me!”

JEM
,
aside to Nan:
- “When dad and mums get to talking like that we find out a lot about their early days we never knew.”

SUSAN
,
who is making pies in the kitchen:
-“Isn’t it beautiful to see how they love each other? I can understand a good deal of that poem, old maid as I am.”