Further Chronicles of Avonlea

by L. M. Montgomery

black street cat to Aunt Cynthia, and swear that it is

  Fatima. I'll get you out of the scrape, if I have to

  prove that you never had Fatima, that she is safe in

  your possession at the present time, and that there

  never was such an animal as Fatima anyhow. I'll do

  anything, say anything - but it must be for my future

  wife."

  "Will nothing else content you?" I said helplessly.

  "Nothing."

  I thought hard. Of course Max was acting abominably -

  but - but - he was really a dear fellow - and this was

  the twelfth time - and there was Anne Shirley! I knew

  in my secret soul that life would be a dreadfully

  dismal thing if Max were not around somewhere. Besides,

  I would have married him long ago had not Aunt Cynthia

  thrown us so pointedly at each other's heads ever since

  he came to Spencervale.

  "Very well," I said crossly.

  Max left for Halifax in the morning. Next day we got a

  wire saying it was all right. The evening of the

  following day he was back in Spencervale. Ismay and I

  put him in a chair and glared at him impatiently.

  Max began to laugh and laughed until he turned blue.

  "I am glad it is so amusing," said Ismay severely. "If

  Sue and I could see the joke it might be more so."

  "Dear little girls, have patience with me," implored

  Max. "If you knew what it cost me to keep a straight

  face in Halifax you would forgive me for breaking out

  now."

  "We forgive you - but for pity's sake tell us all about

  it," I cried.

  "Well, as soon as I arrived in Halifax I hurried to 110

  Hollis Street, but - see here! Didn't you tell me your

  Aunt's address was 10 Pleasant Street?"

  "So it is."

  "'T isn't. You look at the address on a telegram next

  time you get one. She went a week ago to visit another

  friend who lives at 110 Hollis."

  "Max!"

  "It's a fact. I rang the bell, and was just going to

  ask the maid for 'Persian' when your Aunt Cynthia

  herself came through the hall and pounced on me."

  "'Max,' she said, 'have you brought Fatima?'

  "'No,' I answered, trying to adjust my wits to this new

  development as she towed me into the library. 'No, I -

  I - just came to Halifax on a little matter of

  business.'

  "'Dear me,' said Aunt Cynthia, crossly, 'I don't know

  what those girls mean. I wired them to send Fatima at

  once. And she has not come yet and I am expecting a

  call every minute from some one who wants to buy her.'

  "'Oh!' I murmured, mining deeper every minute.

  "'Yes,' went on your aunt, 'there is an advertisement

  in the Charlottetown Enterprise for a Persian cat, and

  I answered it. Fatima is really quite a charge, you

  know - and so apt to die and be a dead loss,' - did

  your aunt mean a pun, girls? - 'and so, although I am

  considerably attached to her, I have decided to part

  with her.'

  "By this time I had got my second wind, and I promptly

  decided that a judicious mixture of the truth was the

  thing required.

  "'Well, of all the curious coincidences,' I exclaimed.

  'Why, Miss Ridley, it was I who advertised for a

  Persian cat - on Sue's behalf. She and Ismay have

  decided that they want a cat like Fatima for

  themselves.'

  "You should have seen how she beamed. She said she knew

  you always really liked cats, only you would never own

  up to it. We clinched the dicker then and there. I

  passed her over your hundred and ten dollars - she took

  the money without turning a hair - and now you are the

  joint owners of Fatima. Good luck to your bargain!"

  "Mean old thing," sniffed Ismay. She meant Aunt

  Cynthia, and, remembering our shabby furs, I didn't

  disagree with her.

  "But there is no Fatima," I said, dubiously. "How shall

  we account for her when Aunt Cynthia comes home?"

  "Well, your aunt isn't coming home for a month yet.

  When she comes you will have to tell her that the cat -

  is lost - but you needn't say when it happened. As for

  the rest, Fatima is your property now, so Aunt Cynthia

  can't grumble. But she will have a poorer opinion than

  ever of your fitness to run a house alone."

  When Max left I went to the window to watch him down

  the path. He was really a handsome fellow, and I was

  proud of him. At the gate he turned to wave me good-by,

  and, as he did, he glanced upward. Even at that

  distance I saw the look of amazement on his face. Then

  he came bolting back.

  "Ismay, the house is on fire!" I shrieked, as I flew to

  the door.

  "Sue," cried Max, "I saw Fatima, or her ghost, at the

  garret window a moment ago!"

  "Nonsense!" I cried. But Ismay was already half way up

  the stairs and we followed. Straight to the garret we

  rushed. There sat Fatima, sleek and complacent, sunning

  herself in the window.

  Max laughed until the rafters rang.

  "She can't have been up here all this time," I

  protested, half tearfully. "We would have heard her

  meowing."

  "But you didn't," said Max.

  "She would have died of the cold," declared Ismay.

  "But she hasn't," said Max.

  "Or starved," I cried.

  "The place is alive with mice," said Max. "No, girls,

  there is no doubt the cat has been here the whole

  fortnight. She must have followed Huldah Jane up here,

  unobserved, that day. It's a wonder you didn't hear her

  crying - if she did cry. But perhaps she didn't, and,

  of course, you sleep downstairs. To think you never

  thought of looking here for her!"

  "It has cost us over a hundred dollars," said Ismay,

  with a malevolent glance at the sleek Fatima.

  "It has cost me more than that," I said, as I turned to

  the stairway.

  Max held me back for an instant, while Ismay and Fatima

  pattered down.

  "Do you think it has cost too much, Sue?" he whispered.

  I looked at him sideways. He was really a dear.

  Niceness fairly exhaled from him.

  "No-o-o," I said, "but when we are married you will

  have to take care of Fatima, I won't."

  "Dear Fatima," said Max gratefully.

  Chapter II

  The Materalizing Of Cecil

  IT had never worried me in the least that I wasn't

  married, although everybody in Avonlea pitied old

  maids; but it did worry me, and I frankly confess it,

  that I had never had a chance to be. Even Nancy, my old

  nurse and servant, knew that, and pitied me for it.

  Nancy is an old maid herself, but she has had two

  proposals. She did not accept either of them because

  one was a widower with seven children, and the other a

  very shiftless, good-for-nothing fellow; but, if

  anybody twitted Nancy on her single condition, she

  could point triumphantly to those two as ev
idence that

  "she could an she would." If I had not lived all my

  life in Avonlea I might have had the benefit of the

  doubt; but I had, and everybody knew everything about

  me - or thought they did.

  I had really often wondered why nobody had ever fallen

  in love with me. I was not at all homely; indeed, years

  ago, George Adoniram Maybrick had written a poem

  addressed to me, in which he praised my beauty quite

  extravagantly; that didn't mean anything because George

  Adoniram wrote poetry to all the good-looking girls and

  never went with anybody but Flora King, who was cross-

  eyed and red-haired, but it proves that it was not my

  appearance that put me out of the running. Neither was

  it the fact that I wrote poetry myself - although not

  of George Adoniram's kind - because nobody ever knew

  that. When I felt it coming on I shut myself up in my

  room and wrote it out in a little blank book I kept

  locked up. It is nearly full now, because I have been

  writing poetry all my life. It is the only thing I have

  ever been able to keep a secret from Nancy. Nancy, in

  any case, has not a very high opinion of my ability to

  take care of myself; but I tremble to imagine what she

  would think if she ever found out about that little

  book. I am convinced she would send for the doctor

  post-haste and insist on mustard plasters while waiting

  for him.

  Nevertheless, I kept on at it, and what with my flowers

  and my cats and my magazines and my little book, I was

  really very happy and contented. But it did sting that

  Adella Gilbert, across the road, who has a drunken

  husband, should pity "poor Charlotte" because nobody

  had ever wanted her. Poor Charlotte indeed! If I had

  thrown myself at a man's head the way Adella Gilbert

  did at - but there, there, I must refrain from such

  thoughts. I must not be uncharitable.

  The Sewing Circle met at Mary Gillespie's on my

  fortieth birthday. I have given up talking about my

  birthdays, although that little scheme is not much good

  in Avonlea where everybody knows your age - or if they

  make a mistake it is never on the side of youth. But

  Nancy, who grew accustomed to celebrating my birthdays

  when I was a little girl, never gets over the habit,

  and I don't try to cure her, because, after all, it's

  nice to have some one make a fuss over you. She brought

  me up my breakfast before I got up out of bed - a

  concession to my laziness that Nancy would scorn to

  make on any other day of the year. She had cooked

  everything I like best, and had decorated the tray with

  roses from the garden and ferns from the woods behind

  the house. I enjoyed every bit of that breakfast, and

  then I got up and dressed, putting on my second best

  muslin gown. I would have put on my really best if I

  had not had the fear of Nancy before my eyes; but I

  knew she would never condone that, even on a birthday.

  I watered my flowers and fed my cats, and then I locked

  myself up and wrote a poem on June. I had given up

  writing birthday odes after I was thirty.

  In the afternoon I went to the Sewing Circle. When I

  was ready for it I looked in my glass and wondered if I

  could really be forty. I was quite sure I didn't look

  it. My hair was brown and wavy, my cheeks were pink,

  and the lines could hardly be seen at all, though

  possibly that was because of the dim light. I always

  have my mirror hung in the darkest corner of my room.

  Nancy cannot imagine why. I know the lines are there,

  of course; but when they don't show very plain I forget

  that they are there.

  We had a large Sewing Circle, young and old alike

  attending. I really cannot say I ever enjoyed the

  meetings - at least not up to that time - although I

  went religiously because I thought it my duty to go.

  The married women talked so much of their husbands and

  children, and of course I had to be quiet on those

  topics; and the young girls talked in corner groups

  about their beaux, and stopped it when I joined them,

  as if they felt sure that an old maid who had never had

  a beau couldn't understand at all. As for the other old

  maids, they talked gossip about every one, and I did

  not like that either. I knew the minute my back was

  turned they would fasten into me and hint that I used

  hair-dye and declare it was perfectly ridiculous for a

  woman of fifty to wear a pink muslin dress with lace-

  trimmed frills.

  There was a full attendance that day, for we were

  getting ready for a sale of fancy work in aid of

  parsonage repairs. The young girls were merrier and

  noisier than usual. Wilhelmina Mercer was there, and

  she kept them going. The Mercers were quite new to

  Avonlea, having come here only two months previously.

  I was sitting by the window and Wilhelmina Mercer,

  Maggie Henderson, Susette Cross and Georgie Hall were

  in a little group just before me. I wasn't listening to

  their chatter at all, but presently Georgie exclaimed

  teasingly:

  "Miss Charlotte is laughing at us. I suppose she thinks

  we are awfully silly to be talking about beaux."

  The truth was that I was simply smiling over some very

  pretty thoughts that had come to me about the roses

  which were climbing over Mary Gillespie's sill. I meant

  to inscribe them in the little blank book when I went

  home. Georgie's speech brought me back to harsh

  realities with a jolt. It hurt me, as such speeches

  always did.

  "Didn't you ever have a beau, Miss Holmes?" said

  Wilhelmina laughingly.

  Just as it happened, a silence had fallen over the room

  for a moment, and everybody in it heard Wilhelmina's

  question.

  I really do not know what got into me and possessed me.

  I have never been able to account for what I said and

  did, because I am naturally a truthful person and hate

  all deceit. It seemed to me that I simply could not say

  "No" to Wilhelmina before that whole roomful of women.

  It was too humiliating. I suppose all the prickles and

  stings and slurs I had endured for fifteen years on

  account of never having had a lover had what the new

  doctor calls "a cumulative effect" and came to a head

  then and there.

  "Yes, I had one once, my dear," I said calmly.

  For once in my life I made a sensation. Every woman in

  that room stopped sewing and stared at me. Most of

  them, I saw, didn't believe me, but Wilhelmina did. Her

  pretty face lighted up with interest.

  "Oh, won't you tell us about him, Miss Holmes?" she

  coaxed, "and why didn't you marry him?"

  "That is right, Miss Mercer," said Josephine Cameron,

  with a nasty little laugh. "Make her tell. We're all

  interested. It's news to us that Charlotte eve
r had a

  beau."

  If Josephine had not said that, I might not have gone

  on. But she did say it, and, moreover, I caught Mary

  Gillespie and Adella Gilbert exchanging significant

  smiles. That settled it, and made me quite reckless.

  "In for a penny, in for a pound," thought I, and I said

  with a pensive smile:

  "Nobody here knew anything about him, and it was all

  long, long ago."

  "What was his name?" asked Wilhelmina.

  "Cecil Fenwick," I answered promptly. Cecil had always

  been my favorite name for a man; it figured quite

  frequently in the blank book. As for the Fenwick part

  of it, I had a bit of newspaper in my hand, measuring a

  hem, with "Try Fenwick's Porous Plasters" printed

  across it, and I simply joined the two in sudden and

  irrevocable matrimony.

  "Where did you meet him?" asked Georgie.

  I hastily reviewed my past. There was only one place to

  locate Cecil Fenwick. The only time I had ever been far

  enough away from Avonlea in my life was when I was

  eighteen and had gone to visit an aunt in New

  Brunswick.

  "In Blakely, New Brunswick," I said, almost believing

  that I had when I saw how they all took it in

  unsuspectingly. "I was just eighteen and he was twenty-

  three."

  "What did he look like?" Susette wanted to know.

  "Oh, he was very handsome." I proceeded glibly to

  sketch my ideal. To tell the dreadful truth, I was

  enjoying myself; I could see respect dawning in those

  girls' eyes, and I knew that I had forever thrown off

  my reproach. Henceforth I should be a woman with a

  romantic past, faithful to the one love of her life - a

  very, very different thing from an old maid who had

  never had a lover.

  "He was tall and dark, with lovely, curly black hair

  and brilliant, piercing eyes. He had a splendid chin,

  and a fine nose, and the most fascinating smile!"

  "What was he?" asked Maggie.

  "A young lawyer," I said, my choice of profession

  decided by an enlarged crayon portrait of Mary

  Gillespie's deceased brother on an easel before me. He

  had been a lawyer.

  "Why didn't you marry him?" demanded Susette.

  "We quarreled," I answered sadly. "A terribly bitter

  quarrel. Oh, we were both so young and so foolish. It

  was my fault. I vexed Cecil by flirting with another

  man" - wasn't I coming on! - "and he was jealous and

  angry. He went out West and never came back. I have

  never seen him since, and I do not even know if he is

  alive. But - but - I could never care for any other

  man."

  "Oh, how interesting!" sighed Wilhelmina. "I do so love

  sad love stories. But perhaps he will come back some

  day yet, Miss Holmes."

  "Oh, no, never now," I said, shaking my head. "He has

  forgotten all about me, I dare say. Or if he hasn't, he

  has never forgiven me."

  Mary Gillespie's Susan Jane announced tea at this

  moment, and I was thankful, for my imagination was

  giving out, and I didn't know what question those girls

  would ask next. But I felt already a change in the

  mental atmosphere surrounding me, and all through

  supper I was thrilled with a secret exultation.

  Repentant? Ashamed? Not a bit of it! I'd have done the

  same thing over again, and all I felt sorry for was

  that I hadn't done it long ago.

  When I got home that night Nancy looked at me

  wonderingly, and said:

  "You look like a girl to-night, Miss Charlotte."

  "I feel like one," I said laughing; and I ran to my

  room and did what I had never done before - wrote a

  second poem in the same day. I had to have some outlet

  for my feelings. I called it "In Summer Days of Long

  Ago," and I worked Mary Gillespie's roses and Cecil

  Fenwick's eyes into it, and made it so sad and

  reminiscent and minor-musicky that I felt perfectly

  happy.

  For the next two months all went well and merrily. Nobody

  ever said anything more to me about Cecil

  Fenwick, but the girls all chattered freely to me of

  their little love affairs, and I became a sort of

  general confidant for them. It just warmed up the