Maybe she didn’t think he really meant that about leaving her on Joe’s Island. She’d likely be good and mad when she found he did.
Well, there was plenty of room to be mad in. Four miles from anywhere. Nothing but fishing boats ever went near Joe’s Island when no one was there and they never landed. No light would show through the solid shutters and if anybody saw smoke coming through the chimneys they’d think it was only he, Timothy, airing the house.
Golly, but it was a masterly trick, this!
“Stars are quite common in Glen St. Mary,” he said shortly.
The Winkworth woman did not speak again. She sat and looked at that confounded star until they were close to the boat pier on Joe’s Island.
“Now, miss,” said Timothy briskly, “here we are.”
“Oh, Mr. Randebush, do you really mean that you are going to maroon me on this lonely place? Is there nothing I can say will make you change your mind? Think what Mrs. Dr. Blythe will think of your conduct.”
“Miss,” said Timothy sternly ... all the more sternly because there was no doubt in the world that there was a fascination about her and he really did care a good deal about the Blythes’ opinion ... “Try molding granite if you want an easy job, but don’t try to change a Randebush when he has once deter-mined on a course of action.”
“Mrs. Blythe told me you were all very stubborn,” she said meekly as she stepped out on the pier. A very beguiling fragrance seemed to exhale from her ... another advertisement for the beauty shop, no doubt ... though Mrs. Blythe did smell the same when she came into church.
The Kenneth Ford house was built on the high rocky point on the north of the little island. All the windows were shuttered with good strong wooden shutters. Doors and shutters were securely locked and Timothy had all the keys ... or thought he had. He felt quite sure that even the Blythes did not have one. There was everything in the house one wanted for comfort ... canned foods, coffee, tea, running water.
“You can be quite comfortable here, miss. It’s dark, of course, but there’s plenty of lamps and coal oil. The bed in the north room upstairs is aired ... I saw to that yesterday.”
Timothy’s face was red. He suddenly felt that it was a most indelicate thing to talk about beds to a lady.
Without another word he went out and locked the door. As he did so he felt a twinge of compunction.
It was too much like locking the door of a jail.
“But don’t get maudlin, Timothy Randebush,” he told himself sternly. “Amos has got to be saved and this is the only way. You know she can’t be let run loose. She’d signal some fishing boat quicker than a wink. The boats sometimes run close to Joe’s Island when the wind is east.”
Halfway across the bay he suddenly thought, Blue cats! Were there any matches in the Ford house? He had lighted a lamp when he went in but when she had to refill it it would go out and what then?
To his wrath and amazement Timothy found himself unable to sleep. Well, you didn’t kidnap a woman every night. No doubt it did something to your nervous system. If he could only stop wondering if she had any matches!
Blue cats! If she hadn’t she couldn’t light a fire to cook with! She’d starve to death. No, she wouldn’t. The meat in the cans was already cooked. Even if it was cold it would sustain life.
Turn over and go to sleep, Timothy Randebush. Timothy turned over but he did not go to sleep.
The worst of it was he could not take her matches in the morning. The wheat had to be got in and for him to start off on a cruise to Joe’s Island, which would take the best part of the forenoon, would be to arouse Amos’ suspicions ... or so thought Timothy’s guilty conscience.
The day seemed endless. When the last load was in, Timothy shaved and dressed in a hurry and not waiting for supper under the pretence of having to see a man at Harbour Mouth on business, got out his car and started for the shore, stopping at one of the village stores to get matches.
The evening had turned cold and foggy and a raw wind was blowing up the Harbour. Timothy was chilled to the bone when he landed on Joe’s Island. But when he unlocked the kitchen door after a preliminary knock ... for manners’ sake ... a most delightful sight greeted his eyes and a most delightful smell his nostrils.
A cheery fire was burning in the range and Alma Winkworth, in a trailing, lacy, blue dress, protected by a rose-coloured apron, was frying codfish cakes on it. The whole kitchen was filled with their appetizing aroma, blent with the odour of coffee. A plate of golden-brown muffins was atop of the warming oven.
She came forward to meet him eagerly, a warm, friendly smile on her face ... a smile that somehow reminded him of Mrs. Dr. Blythe’s. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove, her rich hair curled in tendrils around her forehead and her eyes shone. Timothy actually thought this and then was horribly ashamed of such a thought.
Maudlin ... that’s what it was ... worse than Amos. Blue cats! There was something the matter with the pit of his stomach. It had been the spine before, now it was the pit of his stomach.
It must be the smell of that supper. He hadn’t had a mouthful to eat since twelve o’clock.
“Oh, Mr. Randebush, I’m so glad to see you,” she was saying.
“It occurred to me that you mightn’t have any matches and I thought I’d better bring you some,” said Timothy gruffly.
“Oh, wasn’t that clever of you!” she said gratefully.
Timothy didn’t see where the cleverness came in but she contrived to make him feel like a wonder man.
“Won’t you sit down awhile, Mr. Randebush?” she said.
“No, thanks.” Timothy was gruffer than ever. “I’ve got to get back and get my supper.”
“Oh, Mr. Randebush, won’t you have a bite with me? There’s plenty for two ... and it’s so lonely eating alone. Besides, these cakes are made after Susan Baker’s famous recipe. She imparted it to me as a special favour.”
Timothy told himself that it was the smell of the coffee that was weakening him. The dishwater that Matilda Merry called coffee!
He found that his hat was taken and he was gently pushed into a chair.
“Just sit there until I lift my codfish cakes. I know better than to try to talk to a hungry man.”
Such codfish cakes ... such muffins ... such coffee! And such common sense! No bothering you with conversation. She just let you eat your fill in comfort.
To be sure, that queer sensation still persisted, even though his stomach was no longer empty. But what matter? Dr. Blythe always said the less attention you paid to your stomach the better. Not many doctors knew as much as Dr. Blythe.
“It’s really very nice to have a man in the house,” said Alma Winkworth after Timothy’s second cup of coffee.
“I s’pose you find it rather lonesome,” said Timothy gruffly. Then he reproached himself for his gruffness. It was necessary, of course, to save Amos from her clutches, but one didn’t need to be a clown.
The Randebushes had always prided themselves on their good manners. But she wasn’t going to get around him with her blarney and her lonesomeness. He had cut his eyeteeth.
“A little,” she said wistfully. “You might sit awhile and talk to me, Mr. Randebush.”
“Can’t do it, miss. You must get your gossip from Mrs. Knapp and Mrs. Blythe.”
“But Mrs. Blythe never gossips and Mrs. Knapp is a newcomer.”
“Can’t do it, miss. Thank you for the supper. Susan Baker herself couldn’t have beaten those cakes. But I must be getting along.”
She was looking at him admiringly, with her hands clasped under her chin. It was years, he thought, since a woman had looked admiringly at him.
“I suppose you haven’t an aspirin about you,” she said wistfully again. “I’m afraid I’ve a headache coming on. I take one occasionally.”
Timothy had no aspirin. He thought about it all the way home and most of the night.
Suppose she was there alone, suffering. There was no help for it
... he’d have to go again the next night and take her a supply of aspirin.
He took the aspirin. He also took a brown paper parcel containing two pork chops and two bounds of butter wrapped in a rhubarb leaf. Matilda Merry missed it but never knew what became of it.
He found Alma Winkworth sitting by a rock maple fire in the living room. She wore a cherry-red dress with little red drops in her ears. Blue cats! What women could carry in packaways!
She ran to meet him with lovely dimpled hands outstretched.
“Oh, I’ve been waiting for you all the evening, Mr. Randebush, hoping you would come. I had such a dreadful night without the aspirin. And you’ve brought some!”
“I hope it’s fresh. I had to get it at the store since Dr. Blythe wasn’t home.”
“I’m sure it will be all right. You are really so kind and thoughtful. You must sit down and talk to me for a little while.”
Timothy, who had come to the conclusion that the feeling in the pit of his stomach was chronic and that he’d better consult Dr. Blythe about it, sat down slowly.
“Amos worked his first wife to death,” Timothy found himself saying, without the least idea why he said it.
Then he was overcome with remorse.
“No, he didn’t. She worked herself to death. But he didn’t prevent her.”
Again, remorse. Blue cats! What sort of a man was he, slandering his brother like this?
“I don’t suppose he could have prevented her. Some women are like that.”
Alma Winkworth was laughing. Her laugh, like everything else about her, was pleasant.
“You have such a knack of putting things, Mr. Randebush.”
The firelight sparkled and shimmered over her shining hair and beautiful dress. Timothy could see her thus quite clearly all the way home.
She had thanked him so appealingly for his visit and asked him if he couldn’t come again. Well, he might ... after a night or two. Of course it was mighty lonesome for her there with not even a dog to talk to. Suppose he took her a dog. No, that would never do. A dog might attract attention by barking. But a cat, now. The very thing. She had mentioned she was fond of cats ... also that she had heard a rat. He’d take her a cat. He’d better take it the next evening. Rats sometimes did a lot of damage.
By four o’clock the next day Timothy was skimming across the Harbour. In the bow was a yowling, squirming, shapeless thing ... Matilda Merry’s cat tied up in a potato bag.
Timothy suspected that Matilda Merry would raise Cain when she missed her pet but after kidnapping women you grew callous in respect to cats.
Alma insisted that Timothy have supper with her and vowed she was delighted with the cat. While they sat and talked after supper she held the creature on her lap and caressed it.
Timothy had a spasm of horror when he realized that he was envying the cat.
The next day Amos suddenly announced that he was starting for Toronto on Monday instead of Wednesday. There was some fox business to be attended to before the Exhibition came on. Timothy was relieved. Amos had not been a very cheerful housemate of late ... worried because Alma Winkworth was lingering so long in Charlottetown, most likely. He didn’t know her address so he couldn’t hunt her up.
Well, Amos would soon be gone so he could set Alma free. The thought plunged him into gloom instead of exultation.
It took him some little time to realize what had happened to him. He did not go to Joe’s Island that night or the next night ... would not have gone for a million dollars, he told himself.
But he had to go the third night for Amos was safely on his way to Toronto and there was no longer the slightest need for keeping Alma Winkworth mewed up. Besides, the Blythes were back and he mistrusted Mrs. Blythe. She was entirely too clever for a woman.
“I thought you were never coming back,” said Alma with tender reproach. “I’ve missed you so.”
With one look of those soft eyes Alma could say more things than most women could utter in a year. Their sorcery had undone Timothy and he knew it at last ... and did not care.
“I’m a wreck ... shattered fore and aft,” he thought dismally. He had really felt it since the moment she looked at the star. It was a kind of relief to admit it ... though everyone would laugh at him ... except Mrs. Blythe. Somehow he felt she would not laugh.
“Amos has gone to Toronto and I’ve come to let you out,” he said desperately.
For a fleeting second it struck him that she didn’t look overjoyed. Then she said slowly,
“Would you mind telling me now why you brought me here in the first place?”
“To keep Amos from proposing to you,” Timothy blurted out. She might as well know the worst of him.
“Your brother asked me to marry him the night before you kidnapped me,” she was saying quietly. “I ... I said ‘no.’ I felt I didn’t ... couldn’t ... marry anybody unless I really loved him ... I really couldn’t ... much as I’d like to have a home of my own.”
She had said it ... but it didn’t make sense. Timothy stared blankly at her. She smiled mischievously at him.
“Of course it would have been nice to have been related to you, dear Mr. Randebush.”
Timothy cleared his throat.
“Miss Winkworth ... Alma ... I never was one to beat about the bush. Mrs. Blythe would tell you that if she was here.”
Mrs. Blythe had told Alma a good many things about Timothy but she kept her own counsel.
“Will you marry me?” said Timothy. “I ... I am very fond of stars. Mrs. Blythe could tell you that. I’ve got a good house on my own farm ... if it’s fixed up a bit and a veranda built on. I’d like to take care of you ...”
Alma Winkworth smiled again ... with a little relief in it. No more insolent and absurd customers for renewed beauty ... no more lean vacations in cheap boarding houses. And the fine-looking man she had admired so much the first time she had seen him in Glen St. Mary Church.
“Why don’t you set your cap for Timothy Randebush?” Mrs. Blythe had said once teasingly. “He’s away ahead of Amos in every way.”
She came close to him. Timothy Randebush, tingling with the thrills of the first love in all his forty-five years, found himself clasping her in his arms.
An hour ... or a century ... later, Timothy, carrying the cat and the packaway ... Matilda Merry often wondered where her cat had been so long but then cats had their ways ... turned down the hall to the side door.
“We’ll go out this way, Miss Winkworth ... Alma ... dear. It’ll be easier for you walking down to the beach than from the other doors.”
He set down the packaway and the cat, selected a key and tried to open it. It would not turn. He tried the knob. The door opened easily.
“Blue cats! The door is unlocked!” he exclaimed.
“It has been unlocked ever since I came here,” said Alma Winkworth demurely. “Mrs. Blythe and I were over here one day and I suppose we forgot to lock it. She has a key to it, you know.”
The Second Evening
THE WIND
Out in the ways of the wind went I,
And its elfin voices sang to me,
I heard it calling from far and nigh
In wild sweet notes that rang to me.
Wind of the east and wind of the west,
Whichever blows I love it the best,
Wind of the night and wind of the day,
’Tis a very good friend of mine alway.
Came the wind of the salt grey seas,
With a bite and a tang in the breath of it,
Binding with bitter sorceries
Those who walk in the path of it.
Told me many a ghostly tale
Of ragged rock and vanished sail,
Told me of mystery shores afar
Where islands of enchantment are.
Out of a solitude free as thought
Came the wind of the waste to me,
The wind of the waste where man is not,
By the way of the stars it
raced to me.
Whispered to me of a lonely land,
Leagues of unbroken, moon-washed sand,
Great serenities, sunset born,
Midnoon hush and unfettered morn.
Came the wind of the long green hill,
A vagabond wind to the heart of it,
Loud or low as it listeth, still
Courage and laughter are part of it.
A madcap wind that knows full well
Where the fairy folk of the upland dwell,
A wind that knows a mortal’s quest
Must lead to the gateways of the west.
But I loved the wind of the valley more
With the homely wholesome croon of it,
The wind of the hearth and the open door,
Friendship and love were the boon of it.
Wind of a garden of balm and musk,
Wind of the midnight, wind of the dusk,
Wind of the valley, blow for me
Wherever my own fireside may be.
Anne Blythe
DR. BLYTHE:- “I’ve always liked the wind, as I think I’ve remarked before.” susan:- “I can’t say as much. It sounds so dismal at night, yowling round the eaves.”
JEM BLYTHE:- “I like that verse about ‘my own fireside,’ mother. When I was in the trenches I used to think of the wind blowing up the harbour around Ingleside.”
DR. BLYTHE:- “Your poem reminds me curiously of Walter’s, although it is quite different in a way. I think that it is one of your best efforts, Anne-girl. That you can write so well shows the wound is healing.”
ANNE, sadly:- “But the scar will always be there, Gilbert.”
DR. BLYTHE:- “Yes, with us all. Don’t think I don’t realize that, darling.”
THE BRIDE DREAMS
Love, is it dawn that creeps in so grey,
Like the timid ghost,
All shrinking and pale, of the dead sweet night,
Lived and enjoyed to the uttermost
Of its swift delight!
Love, hold me close for I am a-cold
With the grave’s own chill,
The Blythes Are Quoted Page 34