Anne of Ingleside

by L. M. Montgomery

  'With lotth of gravy, Thuthan?'

  'Lashings of it.'

  'And may I have a brown egg for breakfath, Thuthan. I don't detherve it...'

  'You shall have two brown eggs if you want them. And now you must eat your bun and go to sleep, little pet.'

  Rilla ate her bun, but before she went to sleep she slipped out of bed and knelt down. Very earnestly she said:

  'Dear God, pleathe make me a good and obedient child alwayth, no matter what I'm told to do. And bleth dear Mith Emmy and all the poor orphanth.'

  37

  The Ingleside children played together and walked together and had all kinds of adventures together; and each of them, in addition to this, had his and her own inner life of dream and fancy. Especially Nan, who from the very first had fashioned secret drama for herself out of everything she heard or saw or read, and sojourned in realms of wonder and romance quite unsuspected in her household circle. At first she wove patterns of pixy dances and elves in haunted valleys and dryads in birch-trees. She and the great willow at the gate had secrets only they knew, and the old empty Bailey house at the upper end of Rainbow Valley was the ruin of a haunted tower. For weeks she might be a king's daughter imprisoned in a lonely castle by the sea... for months she was a nurse in a leper colony in India or some land 'far, far away'. 'Far, far away' were still words of magic to Nan... like faint music over a windy hill.

  As she grew older she built up her dramas about the real people she saw in her little life. Especially the people in church. Nan liked to look at the people in church because every one was so nicely dressed. It was almost miraculous. They looked so different from what they did on week-days.

  The quiet, respectable occupants of the various family pews would have been amazed and perhaps a little horrified if they had known the romances the demure, brown-eyed maiden in the Ingleside pew was concocting about them. Black-browed, kind-hearted Annetta Millison would have been thunderstruck to know that Nan Blythe pictured her as a kidnapper of children, boiling them alive to make potions that would keep her young for ever. Nan pictured this so vividly that she was half frightened to death when she met Annetta Millison once, in a twilight lane astir with the golden whisper of buttercups. She was positively unable to reply to Annetta's friendly greeting, and Annetta reflected that Nan Blythe was really getting to be a proud and saucy little puss and needed a bit of training in good manners. Pale Mrs Rod Palmer never dreamed that she had poisoned someone and was dying of remorse. Elder Gordon MacAllister of the solemn face, had no notion that a curse had been put on him at birth by a witch, the result being that he could never smile. Dark-moustached Fraser Palmer, of a blameless life, little knew that when Nan Blythe looked at him she was thinking, 'I believe that man has committed a dark and desperate deed. He looks as if he had some dreadful secret on his conscience.' And Archibald Fyfe had no suspicion that when Nan Blythe saw him coming she was busy making up a rhyme as a reply to any remark he might make because he was never to be spoken to except in rhyme. He never did speak to her, being exceedingly afraid of children, but Nan got no end of fun out of desperately and quickly inventing a rhyme.

  I'm very well, thank you, Mr Fyfe.

  How are you yourself and your wife?

  or

  Yes, it is a very fine day,

  Just the right kind for making hay.

  There is no knowing what Mrs Morton Kirk would have said if she had been told that Nan Blythe would never come to her house... supposing she had ever been invited... because there was a red footprint on her doorstep, and her sister-in-law, placid, kind, unsought Elizabeth Kirk, did not dream she was an old maid because her lover had dropped dead at the altar just before the wedding ceremony.

  It was all very amusing and interesting, and Nan never lost her way between fact and fiction until she became possessed with the Lady of the Mysterious Eyes.

  It is no use asking how dreams grow. Nan herself could never have told you how it came about. It started with the GLOOMY HOUSE... Nan saw it always just like that, spelled in capitals. She liked to spin her romances about places as well as people, and the GLOOMY HOUSE was the only place around, except the old Bailey house, which lent itself to romance. Nan had never seen the HOUSE itself... she only knew that it was there, behind a thick, dark spruce wood on the Lowbridge side-road, and had been vacant from time immemorial. So Susan said. Nan didn't know what time immemorial was, but it was a most fascinating phrase, just suited to gloomy houses.

  Nan always ran madly past the lane that led up to the GLOOMY HOUSE when she went along the side-road to visit her chum, Dora Clow. It was a long, dark, tree-arched lane with thick grass growing between its ruts and ferns waist-high under the spruces. There was a long grey maple bough near the tumbledown gate locked exactly like a crooked old arm reaching down to encircle her. Nan never knew when it might reach a wee bit farther and grab her. It gave her such a thrill to escape it.

  One day Nan, to her astonishment, heard Susan saying that Thomasine Fair had come to live in GLOOMY HOUSE... or, as Susan unromantically phrased it, the old MacAllister place.

  'She will find it rather lonely I should imagine,' Mother had said. 'It's so out-of-the-way.'

  'She will not mind that,' said Susan. 'She never goes anywhere, not even to church. Hasn't gone anywhere for years... though they say she walks in her garden at night. Well, well, to think what she has come to... her that was so handsome and such a terrible flirt. The hearts she broke in her day! And look at her now! Well, it is a warning and that you may tie to.'

  Just to whom it was a warning Susan did not explain and nothing more was said for nobody at Ingleside was very much interested in Thomasine Fair. But Nan, who had grown a little tired of all her old dream lives and was agog for something new, seized on Thomasine Fair in the GLOOMY HOUSE. Bit by bit, day after day, night after night... one could believe anything at night... she built up a legend about her until the whole thing flowered out unrecognizably and became a dearer dream to Nan than any she had hitherto known. Nothing before had ever seemed so entrancing, so real, as this vision of the Lady with the Mysterious Eyes. Great black velvet eyes... hollow eyes... haunted eyes... filled with remorse for the heart she had broken. Wicked eyes... anyone who broke hearts and never went to church must be wicked. Wicked people were so interesting. The Lady was burying herself from the world as a penance for her crimes. Could she be a princess? No, princesses were too scarce in P.E. Island. But she was tall, slim, remote, icily beautiful like a princess, with long jet-black hair in two thick braids over her shoulders, right to her feet. She would have a clear-cut ivory face, a beautiful Grecian nose, like the nose of Mother's Artemis of the Silver Bow, and white lovely hands which she would wring as she walked in the garden at night, waiting for the one true lover she had disdained and learned too late to love... you perceive how the legend was growing?... while her long black velvet skirts trailed over the grass. She would wear a golden girdle and great pearl earrings in her ears and she must live her life of shadow and mystery until the lover came to set her free. Then she would repent of her old wickedness and heartlessness and hold out her beautiful hands to him and bend her proud head in submission at last. They would sit by the fountain... there was a fountain by this time... and pledge their vows anew and she would follow him, 'over the hills and far away, beyond their utmost purple rim', just as the Sleeping Princess did in the poem Mother read to her one night from the old volume of Tennyson Father had given her long, long ago. But the lover of the Mysterious Eyed gave her jewels beyond all compare.

  The GLOOMY HOUSE would be beautifully furnished, of course, and there would be secret rooms and staircases, and the Lady with the Mysterious Eyes would sleep on a bed made of mother-of-pearl under a canopy of purple velvet. She would be attended by a greyhound... a brace of them... a whole retinue of them... and she would always be listening... listening... listening... for the music of a very far-off harp. But she could not hear it as long as she was wicked... not until she repented an
d her lover came and forgave her... and there you were.

  Of course it sounds very foolish. Dreams do sound so foolish when they are put into cold, brutal words. Ten-year-old Nan never put hers into words, she only lived them. This dream of the wicked lady with the Mysterious Eyes became as real to her as the life that went on around her. It took possession of her. For two years now it had been part of her... she had somehow come, in some strange way, to believe it. Not for worlds would she have told anyone, not even Mother, about it. It was her own peculiar treasure, her inalienable secret, without which she could no longer imagine life going on. She would rather steal off by herself to dream of the Lady with the Mysterious Eyes than play in Rainbow Valley. Anne noticed this tendency and worried a little over it. Nan was getting too much that way. Gilbert wanted to send her up to Avonlea for a visit, but Nan, for the first time, pleaded passionately not to be sent. She didn't want to leave home, she said piteously. To herself she said she would just die if she had to go so far away from the strange, sad, lovely woman of the mysterious eyes. True, the Mysterious Eyed never went out anywhere. But she might go out some day, and if she, Nan, were away she would miss seeing her. How wonderful it would be to get just a glimpse of her. Why, the very road along which she passed would be for ever romantic. The day on which it happened would be different from all other days. She would make a ring around it in the calendar. Nan had got to the point when she greatly desired to see her just once. She knew quite well that much she had imagined about her was nothing but imagination. But she hadn't the slightest doubt that Thomasine Fair was young and lovely and wicked and alluring... Nan was by this time absolutely certain she had heard Susan say so, and as long as she was that Nan could go on imagining things about her for ever.

  Nan could hardly believe her ears when Susan said to her one morning, 'There is a parcel I want to send up to Thomasine Fair at the old MacAllister place. Your father brought it out from town last night. Will you run up with it this afternoon, pet?'

  Just like that! Nan caught her breath. Would she? Did dreams really come true in such fashion? She would see the GLOOMY HOUSE... she would see her beautiful, wicked lady with the Mysterious Eyes. Actually see her... perhaps hear her speak... perhaps... oh, bliss!... touch her slender white hand. As for the greyhounds and the fountain and so forth, Nan knew she had only imagined them, but surely the reality would be equally wonderful.

  Nan watched the clock all the forenoon, seeing the time draw slowly, oh, so slowly, nearer and nearer. When a thundercloud rolled up ominously and rain began to fall she could hardly keep the tears back.

  'I don't see how God could let it rain today,' she whispered rebelliously.

  But the shower was soon over and the sun shone again. Nan could eat hardly any dinner for excitement.

  'Mummy, may I wear my yellow dress?'

  'Why do you want to dress up like that to call on a neighbour, child?'

  A neighbour! But of course Mother didn't understand... couldn't understand.

  'Please, Mummy.'

  'Very well,' said Anne. The yellow dress would be outgrown very soon. May as well let Nan get the good of it.

  Nan's legs were fairly trembling as she set off, the precious small parcel in her hand. She took a short cut through Rainbow Valley, up the hill, to the side-road. The raindrops were still lying on the nasturtium leaves like great pearls; there was a delicious freshness in the air; the bees were buzzing in the white clover that edged the brook: slim blue dragonflies were glittering over the water... devil's darning needles, Susan called them; in the hill pasture the daisies nodded to her... swayed to her... waved to her... laughed to her, with the cool gold-and-silver laughter. Everything was so lovely and she was going to see the WICKED LADY WITH THE MYSTERIOUS EYES. What would the Lady say to her? And was it quite safe to go to see her? Suppose you stayed a few minutes with her and found that a hundred years had gone by, as in the story she and Walter had read last week?

  38

  Nan felt a queer tickly sensation in her spine as she turned into the lane. Did the dead maple bough move? No, she had escaped it... she was past. Aha, old witch, you didn't catch me! She was walking up the lane of which the mud and the ruts had no power to blight her anticipation. Just a few steps more... the GLOOMY HOUSE was before her, amid and behind those dark dripping trees. She was going to see it at last. She shivered a little... and did not know that it was because of a secret unadmitted fear of losing her dream. Which is always, for youth or maturity or age, a catastrophe.

  She pushed her way through a gap in the wild growth of young spruces that was choking up the end of the lane: her eyes were shut; could she dare to open them? For a moment sheer terror possessed her and for two pins she would have turned and run. After all... the Lady was wicked. Who knew what she might do to you? She might even be a witch. How was it that it had never occurred to her before that the wicked lady might be a witch?

  Then she resolutely opened her eyes and stared piteously.

  Was this the GLOOMY HOUSE... the dark, stately, towered and turreted mansion of her dream. This!

  It was a big house, once white, now a muddy grey. Here and there, broken shutters, once green, were swinging loose. The front steps were broken. A forlorn glassed-in porch had most of its panes shattered. The scrolled trimming around the veranda was broken. Why, it was only a tired old house worn out with living.

  Nan looked about desperately. There was no fountain... no garden... well, nothing you could really call a garden. The space in front of the house, surrounded by a ragged paling, was full of weeds and twitch grass. A lank pig rooted beyond the paling. Burdocks grew along the mid-walk. Straggly clumps of golden glow were in the corners, but there was one splendid clump of militant tiger lilies and, just by the worn steps, a gay bed of marigolds.

  Nan went slowly up the walk to the marigold bed. The GLOOMY HOUSE was gone for ever. But the Lady with the Mysterious Eyes remained. Surely she was real... she must be? What had Susan really said about her so long ago?

  'Laws-a-mercy, ye nearly scared the liver out of me!' said a rather mumbly though friendly voice.

  Nan looked at the figure that had suddenly risen up from beside the marigold bed. Who was it? It could not be... Nan refused to believe that this was Thomasine Fair. It would be just too terrible.

  'Why,' thought Nan, heart-sick with disappointment, 'she... she's old!'

  Thomasine Fair, if Thomasine Fair it was... and she knew now it was Thomasine Fair... was certainly old. And fat! She looked like the feather bed with the string tied round its middle to which angular Susan was always comparing stout ladies. She was barefooted, wore a green dress that had faded yellowish, and a man's old felt hat on her sparse, sandy-grey hair. Her face was round as an O, ruddy and wrinkled, with a snub nose. Her eyes were a faded blue, surrounded by great, jolly-looking crows-feet.

  Oh, my Lady... my charming, wicked Lady of the Mysterious Eyes, where are you? What has become of you? You did exist!

  'Well, now, and what nice little girl are you?' asked Thomasine Fair.

  Nan clutched after her manners.

  'I'm... I'm Nan Blythe. I came up to bring you this.'

  Thomasine pounced on the parcel joyfully.

  'Well, if I ain't glad to get my specs back,' she said. 'I've missed 'em turrible for reading that almanac on Sundays. And you're one of the Blythe girls? What pretty hair you've got! I've always wanted to see some of you. I've heered your ma was bringing you up scientific. Do you like it?'

  'Like... what?' Oh, wicked, charming Lady, you did not read the almanac on Sundays. Nor did you talk of 'ma's.'

  'Why, bein' brought up scientific.'

  'I like the way I'm being brought up,' said Nan, trying to smile and barely succeeding.

  'Well, your ma is a real, fine woman. She's holding her own. I declare the first time I saw her at Libby Taylor's funeral I thought she was a bride, she looked so happy. I always think when I see your ma come into a room that everyone perks up as if they expec
ted something to happen. The new fashions set her, too. Most of us just ain't made to wear 'em. But come in and set awhile... I'm glad to see someone... it gets kinder lonesome by spells. I can't afford a telephone. Flowers is company... did ye ever see finer merry-gold?... and I've got a cat.'

  Nan wanted to flee to the uttermost parts of the earth, but she felt it would never do to hurt the old lady's feelings by refusing to go in. Thomasine, her petticoat showing below her skirt, led the way up the sagging steps into a room which was evidently kitchen and living-room combined. It was scrupulously clean and gay with thrifty house plants. The air was full of the pleasant fragrance of newly cooked bread.

  'Set here,' said Thomasine kindly, pushing forward a rocker with a gay patched cushion. 'I'll move that callow lily out of your way. Wait till I get my lower plate in. I look funny with it out, don't I? But it hurts me a mite. There, I'll talk clearer now.'

  A spotted cat, uttering all kinds of fancy meows, came forward to greet them. Oh, for the greyhounds of a vanished dream!

  'That cat's a fine ratter,' said Thomasine. 'This place is overrun with rats. But it keeps the rain out, and I got sick of living round with relations. Couldn't call my soul my own. Ordered round as if I was dirt. Jim's wife was the worst. Complained because I was making faces at the moon one night. Well, what if I was? Did it hurt the moon? Sez I, "I ain't going to be a pin-cushion any longer." So I come here on my own, and here I'll stay as long as I have the use of my legs. Now, what'll you have? Can I make you an onion sandwich?'

  'No... no, thank you.'

  'They're fine when you have a cold. I've been having one... notice how hoarse I am? But I just tie a piece of red flannel with turpentine and goose-grease on it round my throat when I go to bed. Nothing better.'

  Red flannel and goose-grease! Not to speak of turpentine!

  'If you won't have a sandwich... sure you won't?... I'll see what's in the cookie box.'

  The cookies, cut in the shape of roosters and ducks, were surprisingly good and fairly melted in your mouth. Mrs Fair beamed at Nan out of her round, faded eyes.