The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  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.

  Penelope Struts Her Theories

  Penelope Craig went home early from Mrs. Elston’s bridge. She had the notes to prepare for her lecture on Child Psychology that evening and there were several pressing problems demanding her attention... especially the drafting of a child’s diet with the proper number of vitamins in it. The other ladies were sorry to see her go, for Penelope was popular with her friends, but that did not prevent them from laughing a little after she had gone.

  “The idea,” said Mrs. Collins, “of Penelope Craig adopting a child.”

  “But why not?” asked Mrs. Dr. Blythe, who was visiting friends in town. “Isn’t she a recognized authority on child training?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. And she is also president of our S.P.C.A., and convenor of our child welfare committee and lecturer under the National Association of Women’s Clubs; and in spite of it all, she’s the sweetest thing that ever breathed. But still I say... the idea of her adopting a child.”

  “But why?” said the persistent Mrs. Blythe, who had once been an adopted child herself and knew that people thought Marilla Cuthbert at old Green Gables stark crazy for taking her.

  “Why!” Mrs. Collins threw out her hands expressively. “If you had known Penelope Craig as long as we have, Mrs. Blythe, you’d understand. She is full of theories but when it comes to putting them into practice... and with a boy at that!”

  Anne remembered that the Cuthberts had sent for a boy in the first place. She found herself wondering how Marilla would have got along with a boy.

  “She might manage a girl... after all, there’s probably something in all those theories and it’s easier to experiment with girls,” continued Mrs. Collins. “But a boy! Just fancy Penelope Craig bringing up a boy!”

  “How old is he?” asked Anne.

  “About eight, I’m told. He’s really no relation to Penelope... he’s merely the son of an old school friend of hers who died recently. His father died soon after he was born and the boy never had any contacts with men, so Penelope says.”

  “Which is an advantage in her eyes, of course,” laughed Mrs. Crosby.

  “Does Miss Craig dislike men?” It was Mrs. Blythe again.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as to say she dislikes them... no, not actually dislikes them. I would rather put it that she can’t be bothered with them. Dr. Galbraith could tell you that. Poor Dr. Galbraith! I suppose your husband knows him.”

  “I think I’ve heard him speak of him. He’s very clever, isn’t he? And is he in love with Miss Craig?”

  What an outspoken person this Mrs. Blythe was! On her part she was thinking how hard it was to find out simple things. People took it so for granted that you must know all they did.

  “I should say so. He’s been proposing to Penelope off and on for... it must be ten years or so. Let me see... yes, it’s thirteen years since his wife died.”

  “He must be a very persistent man,” smiled Mrs. Blythe.

  “I should say so. The Galbraiths never give up. And Penelope just goes on refusing him so sweetly that he’s sure she’ll relent the next time.”

  “And don’t you suppose she will... sometime?” Mrs. Blythe smiled, recalling some incidents of her own romance.

  “I don’t think there’s a chance.
Penelope will never marry... Roger Galbraith or anybody else.”

  “Roger Galbraith,” thought Anne. “Yes, that is the man. I remember Gilbert saying that when he set his mind on anything there was no moving it.”

  “They are the best of friends,” said Mrs. Loree. “And friends they will remain... nothing more.”

  “Sometimes you find out that what you thought was friendship is really love,” said Mrs. Blythe. “She’s very handsome”... recalling Miss Craig’s beautiful blue-black hair in little dark curls around her wide, low, cream-white brow. Anne had never grown really reconciled to her own ruddy tresses.

  “Handsome and clever and competent,” agreed Mrs. Collins. “Too clever and competent. That is why she has no patience with men.”

  “I suppose she thinks she doesn’t need them,” smiled Anne.

  “Likely that is the reason. But I confess it annoys me to see a man like Roger Galbraith dangling after her for ten years when there is any number of lovely girls he could get. Why, half the unmarried women in Charlottetown would jump at him.”

  “How old is Miss Craig?”

  “Thirty-five... though she doesn’t look it, does she? She has never had a worry in her life... or any sorrow, for her mother died when she was born. Since then she has lived in that apartment with old Marta... a third or fourth cousin or something like that. Marta worships her and she devotes her time to club work of all kinds. Oh, she’s clever and competent, as I’ve said, but she’s going to find that bringing up a child in practice is a very different thing from bringing it up in theory.”

  “Oh, theories!” Mrs. Tweed laughed, as the successful mother of six children felt she had to. “Penelope has theories in abundance. Do you remember that talk she gave us last year on ‘patterns’ in child training?”

  Anne recalled Marilla and Mrs. Lynde. What would they have said to such talk?

  “One point she stressed,” continued Mrs. Tweed, “was that children should be trained to go ahead and take the consequences. They shouldn’t be forbidden to do anything. ‘I believe in letting children find out things for themselves,’ she said.”

  “Up to a point she’s right,” said Mrs. Blythe. “But when that point is reached...”

  “She said that children should be allowed to express their individuality,” said Mrs. Parker reminiscently.

  “Most of them do,” laughed Mrs. Blythe. “Does Miss Craig like children? It seems to me that that is a very important point.”

  “I asked her that once,” said Mrs. Collins, “and all she said was, ‘My dear Nora, why don’t you ask me if I like grown-up people?’ Now, what do you make out of that?”

  “Well, she was right,” said Mrs. Fulton. “Some children are likeable and some aren’t.”

  A memory of Josie Pye drifted across Anne’s mind.

  “We all know that,” she said, “in spite of sentimental piffle.”

  “Could anybody like that fat, dribbly Paxton child?” demanded Mrs. MacKenzie.

  “His mother probably thinks him the most beautiful thing on earth,” said Anne, smiling.

  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew the whalings she gives him,” said Mrs. Lawrence bluntly. “She doesn’t believe in sparing the rod and spoiling the child.”

  “I’ve lived on buttermilk for five weeks and I’ve gained four pounds,” said Mrs. Williams bitterly. She thought it was time the subject was changed. After all, Mrs. Blythe was a B.A. even if she did live in some out-of-the-way place in the country.

  But the others ignored her. Who cared if Mrs. Williams were fat or lean? What was diet to the fact of Penelope Craig adopting a boy?

  “I’ve heard her say no child should ever be whipped,” said Mrs. Rennie.

  “She and Susan would find themselves kindred spirits,” thought Anne amusedly.

  “I agree with her there,” said Mrs. Fulton.

  “H’m!” Mrs. Tweed pursed her lips. “Five of my children I never whipped. But Johnny... I found a sound spanking about once in so long was necessary if we were to live with him. What do you think about it, Mrs. Blythe?”

  Anne, recalling Anthony Pye, was spared the embarrassment of a reply by Mrs. Gaynor, who had hitherto said not a word and thought it high time she asserted herself.

  “Fancy Penelope Craig spanking a child,” she said.

  Nobody could fancy it so they returned to their game.

  “Roger Galbraith will never get Penelope Craig,” said Dr. Blythe at Ingleside that evening, when Anne told him about the conversation. “And it’s the better luck for him. She is one of these strong-minded women no man really cares for.”

  “I have a feeling in my bones,” said Anne, “that he will win her yet.”

  “The wind is in the east,” said Gilbert. “That is what is the matter with your bones. And thank goodness this is a matter you can’t meddle in, you inveterate matchmaker.”

  “That is no way for a man to talk to his wife,” thought Susan Baker, the Ingleside maid-of-all-work, indignantly. “I have long since given up hopes of marriage but if I were married my husband should at least refer to my bones respectfully. No one could think more highly of Dr. Blythe than I do but there are times when, if I were Mrs. Blythe, I should deem it my duty to administer a snub. Women should not put up with everything and that I will tie to.”

  Dr. Roger Galbraith was in Penelope’s living room when she reached home, and Marta, who adored him, was giving him tea, with some of her big fat doughnuts.

  “What’s this I hear about your adopting a boy, Penny? All the town seems to be talking about it.”

  “I have begged her not to adopt a boy,” said Marta, in a tone which implied she had done it on her knees.

  “I did not happen to have any choice in the matter of sex,” retorted Penelope, in her soft, lovely voice, which made even impatience seem charming. “Poor Ella’s child could not be left to the care of strangers. She wrote to me on her deathbed. I regard it as a sacred trust... though I am sorry he is not a girl.”

  “Do you think this is any place to bring up a boy?” said Dr. Galbraith, looking around the dainty little room and running his fingers dubiously through his mop of tawny hair.

  “Of course not, Mr. Medicine-man,” said Penelope coolly. “I realize quite as clearly as you do how very important the background of a child’s life is. So I have bought a storybook cottage over at Keppoch... I mean to call it Willow Run. It’s a delightful spot. Even Marta admits that.”

  “Plenty of skunks, I suppose,” said Dr. Galbraith. “And mosquitoes.”

  “There is a large summer colony of boarders there,” said Penelope, ignoring his reference to skunks. “Lionel will have plenty of companions. And there are some drawbacks to every place. But I think it is as nearly an ideal place for children as can be found. Plenty of sunshine and fresh air... room to play... room to develop individuality... a sleeping porch for Lionel looking out on a hill of spruce...”

  “For whom?”

  “Lionel. Yes, of course it is an absurd name. But Ella was rather given to romance.”

  “He’ll be a regular sissy with such a name. But he’d be that anyway, pampered and petted by a widowed mother,” said Dr. Galbraith, getting up. His six feet of lean muscle did seem far too big for the little room. “Will you take me out and let me see this Willow Run of yours? What is the sanitation like?”

  “Excellent. Did you suppose I would overlook that?”

  “And the water? You get it from a well, I suppose? There was a lot of typhoid at Keppoch one summer a few years ago.”

  “I’m sure it’s all right now. Perhaps you’d better come out and look it over.”

  Penelope was slightly meeker. She knew all about bringing up those glad, simple little creatures, children, but typhoid was a different matter... for this was before the days of its comparative conquest. A doctor was not without his legitimate uses.

  Dr. Galbraith came along in his car the next afternoon and they went out to Willow Run.

  “I m
et a Mrs. Blythe at Mrs. Elston’s yesterday,” said Penelope. “Her husband is a doctor, I believe. Do you know him?”

  “Gilbert Blythe? Of course I do. One of the best. And his wife is a most charming person.”

  “Oh... well, I didn’t see much of her, of course,” said Penelope, wondering why Dr. Galbraith’s evident approval of Mrs. Blythe rather grated on her. As if it mattered a pin’s worth! But then she had never fancied red-haired women.

  Dr. Galbraith approved the well and almost everything else about Willow Run. It was impossible to deny that it was charming. Penelope was nobody’s fool when it came to buying a place. There was a quaint, old, roomy house, surrounded by maples and willows, with a rose-trellis entrance to the garden and a stone walk, bordered with white quahog shells where daffodils bloomed all the spring. Now and then a break in the trees gave a glimpse of the blue bay. There was a white gate in the red brick wall surrounding it, with blooming apple trees branching over it.

  “Almost as beautiful as Ingleside,” said Dr. Galbraith.

  “Ingleside?”

  “That is what the Blythes call their place out at Glen St. Mary. I like the fashion of giving names to places. It seems to confer an individuality on them.”

  “Oh!” Again Penelope’s voice seemed a trifle cold. She seemed to be running up against those Blythes at every moment now. And she did not believe that this what-do-you-call-it... Ingel-something... could be as beautiful as Willow Run.

  The interior of the house was equally charming.

  “It should develop the right sort of attitude in Lionel, I think,” said Penelope complacently. “A child’s attitude towards his home is very important. I want Lionel to love his home. I am glad the dining room looks out on the delphinium walk. Fancy sitting and eating and gazing out at delphiniums.”

  “Perhaps a boy would rather look at something else... though Walter Blythe...”

  “Look at these squirrels,” said Penelope hastily. For some unknown reason she felt she would scream if Dr. Galbraith mentioned any of the Blythes again. “They are quite tame. Surely a boy would like squirrels.”