“It would be more convenient if I knew your name,” he hinted, as they walked along.
“You may call me Mr. Jenkins,” said the man.
Timothy had a wonderful afternoon. A glorious afternoon. All the merry-go-rounds he wanted... and something better than hot dogs.
“I want a decent meal,” said Mr. Jenkins. “I didn’t have any lunch. Here’s a restaurant. Shall we go in and eat?”
“It’s an expensive place,” said Timothy. “Can you afford it?”
“I think so.” Mr. Jenkins laughed mirthlessly.
It was expensive... and exclusive. Mr. Jenkins told Timothy to order what he wanted and never think of expense. Timothy was in the seventh heaven of delight. It had been a glorious afternoon... Mr. Jenkins had been a very jolly comrade. And now to have a meal with a real man... to sit opposite him and order a meal from the bill of fare like a man himself. Timothy sighed with rapture.
“Tired, son?” asked Mr. Jenkins.
“Oh, no.”
“You’ve had a good time?”
“Splendid. Only...”
“Yes... what?”
“I didn’t feel as if you were having a good time,” said Timothy slowly.
“Well,” said Mr. Jenkins as slowly, “I wasn’t, if it comes to that. I kept thinking of... of a friend of mine and it rather spoiled things for me.”
“Isn’t he well?”
“Quite well. Too well. Too likely to live. And... you see... he isn’t happy.”
“Why not?” asked Timothy.
“Well, you see, he was a fool... and worse. Oh, he was a very big fool. He took a lot of money that didn’t belong to him.”
“You mean he... stole it?” queried Timothy, rather shocked.
“Well, let’s say embezzled. That sounds better. But the bank thought it bad any way you pronounced it. He was sent to prison for ten years. They let him out a little sooner... because he behaved rather well. And he found himself quite rich. An old uncle had died when he was in prison and left him a pot of money. But what good will it do him? He is branded.”
“I’m sorry for your friend,” said Timothy. “But nine years is a very long time. Haven’t people forgotten?”
“Some people never forget. His wife’s sisters for instance. They were very hard on him. How he hated them! He brooded all those years on getting square with them when he came out.”
“How?”
“There is a way. He could take something from them that they want very much to keep. And he’s lonely... he wants companionship... he’s very lonely. I’ve been thinking about him all afternoon. But you mustn’t think I haven’t enjoyed myself. It’s been something to remember for a long time. Now, I suppose you want to get back before your aunts come home?”
“Yes. But just so they won’t get worried. I’m going to tell them about this, of course.”
“Won’t they scold you?”
“Likely they will. But scolding doesn’t break any bones, as Linda says,” remarked Timothy philosophically.
“I don’t think they will scold you much... not if you get the head start of them with a message I’m sending them by you. You got that present for your aunt’s birthday, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But there is one thing. I’ve got that ten cents yet, you know. I’d like to buy some flowers with it and go over to the park and put them at the base of the soldier’s monument. Because my father was a brave soldier, you know.”
“Was he killed in South Africa?”
“Oh, no. He came back and married mother. He was in a bank, too. Then he died.”
“Yes, he died,” said Mr. Jenkins, when they had reached The Corner. “And,” he added, “I fancy he’ll stay dead.”
Timothy was rather shocked. It seemed a queer way to speak of anyone... what Aunt Kathleen would call flippant. Still, he couldn’t help liking Mr. Jenkins.
“Well, good-bye, son,” said Mr. Jenkins.
“Won’t I see you again?” asked Timothy wistfully. He felt that he would like to see Mr. Jenkins again.
“I’m afraid not. I’m going away... far away. That friend of mine... he’s going far away... to some new land... and I think I’ll go, too. He’s lonely, you know. I must look after him a bit.”
“Will you tell your friend I’m sorry he’s lonely... and I hope he won’t be always lonely.”
“I’ll tell him. And will you give your aunts a message for me?”
“Can’t you give it to them yourself? You said you were coming back to see them.”
“I’m afraid I can’t manage it after all. Tell them not to worry over that letter you got this morning. They needn’t go to their lawyer again to see... if the person who wrote it has the power to do what he threatened to do. I know him quite well and he has changed his mind. Tell them he is going away and will never bother them again. You can remember that, can’t you?”
“Oh, yes. And they won’t be worried any more?”
“Not by that person. Only there’s this... tell them they must cut out those music lessons and put raisins in the Friday pudding and let you have a light to go to sleep by. If they don’t... that person might bother them again.”
“I’ll tell them about the music lessons and the pudding, but,” said Timothy sturdily, “not about the light if it’s all the same to that person. You see, I mustn’t be a coward. My dad wasn’t a coward. If you see that person will you please tell him that?”
“Well, perhaps you’re right. Ask Dr. Blythe about it. I went to college with him and I fancy he knows what’s what. And this is for your own ear, son. We’ve had a fine time and it’s all right as it happens. But take my advice and never go off with a stranger again.”
Timothy squeezed Mr. Jenkins’ hard hand.
“But you aren’t a stranger,” he said wistfully.
Retribution
Clarissa Wilcox was on her way to Lowbridge. She had heard that David Anderson was dying. Susan Baker of Ingleside had told her. Dr. Blythe of Glen St. Mary was David Anderson’s doctor in spite of the fact that Dr. Parker lived in Lowbridge. But years ago David Anderson had quarrelled with Dr. Parker and would never have him again.
Clarissa Wilcox was determined that she would see David Anderson before he died. There were some things she must say to him. She had been waiting for forty years to say them... and her chance had come at last. Thanks to Susan Baker whom she hated... there had been an age-old feud between the Bakers of Glen St. Mary and the Wilcoxes of Mowbray Narrows and she and Susan Baker never did more than nod coldly when they met. Besides, Susan Baker put on such ridiculous airs because she was the hired girl at Ingleside. As if that was any great thing! None of the Wilcoxes ever had to hire out to earn their living. They had been wealthy once and had looked down on the Bakers. That time had long since passed. They were poor now but they still looked down on the Bakers. Nevertheless, she was grateful to Susan Baker for telling her about David Anderson.
He must be very close to death indeed or Susan Baker would not have mentioned it. They were a close-mouthed lot at Ingleside when it came to the doctor’s patients. Susan was always being pumped but she was as bad as the rest of them... as if she belonged to the family, thought Clarissa scornfully.
Such airs as some people gave themselves. But what else would you expect of a Baker?
The main thing was that she had found out in time that David Anderson was really dying.
She had known this chance must come. Amid all the injustices of life this one monstrous injustice could never be permitted... that David Anderson, with whom she had danced in youth, should die without hearing what she had to tell him. Susan Baker had wondered at the strange flash that had come into Clarissa Wilcox’s old, faded face when she had happened to mention his approaching death. Susan wondered uneasily if she should have mentioned it at all. Would the doctor be offended?
But everybody knew it. There was no secret about it. Susan decided she was being overscrupulous. None the less she was careful to mention it to Mrs. D
r. Blythe.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Blythe had said carelessly. “The doctor says he may go out at any moment.”
Which set Susan’s conscience at rest.
Clarissa Wilcox knew that David Anderson could still hear her... so much gossip said. In fact, Dr. Parker had said so. The sudden, unheralded stroke that had laid her hated enemy low... everybody in Lowbridge and Mowbray Narrows and Glen St. Mary had forgotten for generations that there was any enmity or cause of enmity between them but to Clarissa Wilcox it was still a thing of yesterday... well, the stroke had robbed him of speech and movement... even of sight, since he could not lift his eyelids... but he could still hear and was quite conscious.
Clarissa was glad he could not see her... could not see the changes time had wrought in her once fair face... yes, she had been good-looking once in spite of the Bakers’ sneers... something few Bakers had ever been... certainly not poor Susan, who, however, belonged to a younger generation. Yes, she could say what she liked to David Anderson without any risk of seeing the old laughing scorn in his eyes.
He was helpless... he was at her mercy... she could tell him what had burned in her heart for years. He would have to listen to her. He could not escape from her... could not walk away with his suave, courtly, inscrutable smile.
She would avenge Blanche at last... beautiful, beloved Blanche, dead in her dark young loveliness. Did anybody remember Blanche but her? Susan Baker’s old aunt, perhaps. Had Susan ever heard the story? Not likely. The matter had been hushed up.
Clarissa, as usual, was shrouded in black, and was bent and smileless. She had worn black ever since Blanche died... a Wilcox peculiarity, so the Bakers said. Her long, heart-shaped face, with its intense, unfaded blue eyes, was covered with minute wrinkles... Susan Baker had thought that afternoon how strange that old Clarissa Wilcox had kept her eyes so young when those of all her contemporaries were sunken and faded. Susan thought herself quite young compared with Clarissa, who, she had been told, had been quite a beauty in her youth but had got sadly over it, poor thing. Well, the Wilcoxes had always had a great opinion of themselves.
“Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan, as they concocted a fruitcake together, “is it better to be beautiful when you are young and have it to remember always, even though it must be hard to see your good looks fade, than to be always plain and so have nothing much to regret when you grow old?”
“What strange questions you ask sometimes, Susan,” said Anne, deftly snipping candied peel into slender strips. “For my own part, I think it would be nice to be beautiful when you were young and remember it.”
“But then you were always beautiful, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan with a sigh.
“Me beautiful... with my red hair and freckles,” laughed Anne. “You don’t know how I longed to be beautiful, Susan. They tell me that that old Miss Wilcox who called this afternoon was quite a beauty in her youth.”
“The Wilcoxes all thought they were handsome,” said Susan with a sniff. “I never thought Clarissa was but I have told you that her sister Blanche was really quite handsome. However, though I am far from young, Mrs. Dr. dear, I do not remember her.”
“You Bakers have never seemed to be very friendly with the Wilcoxes, Susan,” said Anne, curiously. “Some old family feud, I suppose?”
“I have been told so,” answered Susan, “but to tell the plain truth, Mrs. Dr. dear, I have never really known how it started. I only know that the Wilcoxes thought themselves much better than the Bakers...”
“And I suppose the Bakers thought themselves much better than the Wilcoxes,” teased the doctor, who had come in.
“The Wilcoxes had more money,” retorted Susan, “but I do not think they were any better than the Bakers for all that. This Clarissa, now, was said to have been quite a belle in her youth... but she did not get a husband any more than some of the rest of us.”
“Perhaps she was more particular,” said the doctor. He knew that would enrage Susan, and it did. Without a word she picked up her pan of raisins and marched into the house.
“Why will you tease her so, Gilbert?” said Anne reproachfully.
“It’s such fun,” said the doctor. “Well, old David Anderson of Lowbridge is dying... I doubt if he survives the night. They say he was a gay blade in his youth. You wouldn’t think so to see him now.”
“The things time does to us!” sighed Anne.
“You’re a bit young to be thinking of that yet,” said Gilbert. “Clarissa Wilcox looks rather young for her age. Those eyes, and hardly a thread of grey hair. Do you know who his wife was?”
“No... Rose Somebody. Of course I’ve seen it on her monument in the Lowbridge cemetery. And it seems to me that there was some scandal about David Anderson and this Clarissa’s sister Blanche.”
“Who is talking scandal now?” asked Gilbert.
“A thing that is so old ceases to be scandal and becomes history. Well, I must go and placate Susan and get this cake in the oven. It’s for Kenneth Ford’s birthday... they’ll be at the House of Dreams Wednesday, you know.”
“Have you got reconciled to exchanging the House of Dreams for Ingleside?”
“Long ago,” said Anne. But she sighed. After all, there would never be any place for her quite like the House of Dreams.
Meanwhile Clarissa Wilcox walked along the road to Lowbridge with the step of a young girl. Her dark hair, as the doctor had said, had few grey hairs in it, but looked rather unnatural around her wrinkled face. It was covered by a crocheted fascinator, as it used to be called, which Blanche had made for her long ago. She seldom went anywhere so it had lasted well. She never cared... now... what she wore. She had a long, thin mouth and a dreadful smile when she smiled at all. Very few people, if they had thought about it, had ever seen Clarissa Wilcox smile.
But she was smiling now. David Anderson was sick... sick unto death... and her hour had come. The Wilcoxes had always hated the Bakers but Clarissa forgave them everything now, for the sake of what Susan had told her. In Clarissa’s eyes Susan Baker was a young upstart, who put on silly airs because she was employed at Ingleside... “Quite a step up in the world for a Baker,” thought Clarissa scornfully... but she forgave her for being a Baker. If she had not told her she might not have known till it was too late that David Anderson was sick or dying.
The magic light of a long, blue evening was sifting in from the Four Winds Harbour but the wind was rising rapidly. It sighed in the tall old spruces along the road and it seemed to Clarissa that ghostly years were calling to her in its voice. It was not an ordinary wind... it was a wind of death blowing for David Anderson. What if he died before she got to him? Susan Baker had said he might pass out any minute. She hurried faster along the road to Lowbridge.
In the distance two ships were sailing out of the Four Winds Harbour... likely his ships, she thought, forgetting that David Anderson had retired from business years ago. To be sure, some nephews of his carried it on. Where were they going? Ceylon... Singapore... Mandalay? Once the names would have thrilled her... once she had longed to see those alluring places.
But it was Rose who saw them with him... Rose instead of Blanche as it should have been... and Rose was dead, too. But the ships still went out, although David Anderson, who had been a shipbuilder and owner all his life, carrying on trade in ports all over the world, had long ceased to go in them.
He left that to his son. His son! Perhaps!
Clarissa did not even know that his son was a ship surgeon and seldom was ever seen in Lowbridge.
Lowbridge was before her... and David. There on the Main Street was David Anderson’s rich, splendid house, where Rose had queened it for years. It was still rich and splendid in Clarissa Wilcox’s eyes, although the younger generation were beginning to call it old-fashioned and out-of-date. Little white cherry blossoms were fluttering down on the walks through the cool spring air.
The wide door was open and she went in unseen... across the hall... up the wide, velvet stairs where her foots
teps made no sound. All about her were empty rooms. Dr. Blythe had just made his last call on David Anderson and now he was standing at the gate talking to the white-garbed nurse whom both he and Dr. Parker wanted at the same time.
“I really think I ought to go to Dr. Parker’s case,” she was saying slowly. She would really much rather have taken on Dr. Blythe’s. He was much more reasonable than Dr. Parker, who, for instance, would have disapproved of her leaving David Anderson for a moment, as long as the breath was in his body. As if it made any difference now!
“Go to Parker’s, by all means,” said Dr. Blythe. “I can get Lucy Marks, who is on a visit with her mother over at Mowbray Narrows. You will not be needed here much longer,” he added significantly.
“Young fools,” thought Clarissa. “She is trying to get up a flirtation with Dr. Blythe.”
To old Clarissa Wilcox both of them seemed mere children. But she did not care what they did. The only thing that mattered to her was that she was alone with David Anderson... her longed-for chance had come at last, after years of waiting. All about her were empty rooms... the dead and the dying were soon forgotten, she reflected bitterly. Even the nurse had left the dying man alone. Blanche, she thought, should have reigned in those rooms. She would not have left her husband to die alone. It did not occur to Clarissa that Blanche might have died before him as Rose had done. The Wilcoxes had good constitutions, she reflected proudly.
As she had come up the stairs she had glanced through the portieres of dull gold velvet that hung in the library doorway. They were old and worn but to Clarissa they seemed as splendid as ever. She saw the portrait of Rose hanging over the fireplace... where Blanche’s should have hung.
Rose had been painted in her wedding gown of ivory satin. David Anderson had had it painted by a visiting artist and Clarissa well remembered the local sensation it had made in Lowbridge, which was just a small village then where even photographs were taken once in a lifetime. When it was painted and hung David Anderson had given a party to celebrate it. It was talked of for months.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 573