An hour later a weary, aching Anthony, still clad in wet orange and purple pyjamas, crept into his own kitchen. He was very tired. His heart might be as young as it used to be but he had discovered that his legs were not.
He had hoped that Clara would be asleep but Clara was not. The tasty little snack she had always left out for Anthony when he was out late was spread on the kitchen table but it was untouched. For the first time in their married life he found Clara ... calm, placid Clara ... on the verge of hysterics.
The story had reached her over the telephone that Anthony had been seen driving at a terrific rate with old Caroline Wilkes, who was not right in her head, as everybody knew. A distracted Abe Saunders had telephoned. A distracted George Mallard had called. Clara had practically spent the evening at the telephone, making or answering calls. Everybody at Ingleside seemed away, as she could get no answer from them, or she might have had some comfort. She had just decided to get the neighbours out searching when Anthony shambled in.
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.
The Sixth Evening
FAREWELL TO AN OLD ROOM
In the gold of sunset bloom
I must leave my old, old room,
Bid good-bye and shut the door
Never to repass it more.
Tender things my lips would say
To it as I go away,
For this room has seemed to be
In itself a friend to me.
Here I knew how sweet was sleep ...
Sweeter still to lie in deep
Wakefulness of joy that came
Touched with youth’s enchanted flame.
Lovely laughter has been here
Moonlit dreaming, very dear,
And the waking rapture when
Morn came dancing up the glen.
Here I sought to make me fair,
Looped and coaxed and bound my hair,
Slipped the sheen of kissing silk
Over shoulders white as milk,
Loved myself because I knew
Seeing, he would love me, too.
Waited at this window ... so ...
For a hurrying step below.
Here have I aforetime lain
Cheek to cheek with biting pain,
Death came here one shuddering day,
Looked on me but went away;
Good and evil, rest and strife,
All the wonderment of life,
All its lavish pageantry
Have been here a part of me.
So I say good-bye with tears
To my room of happy years,
And if she who comes to stay
Here when I have gone away
Be a girl I leave her, too,
All the fairy dreams I knew,
All my fancies, all the hosts
Of my little friendly ghosts.
May she have as I have had
Many things to make her glad,
Beckoning sunshine, singing showers,
Long, serene, contented hours,
Muted wind in boughs of fir,
Nights that will be kind to her,
And a room that still will be
Friend as it has been to me.
Anne Blythe
DR. BLYTHE:- “It isn’t hard to guess the inspiration of that poem, A
nne. Your old room at Green Gables?”
ANNE:- “Yes, mostly. I thought it out the night before our wedding day. And I felt every word of it. That room was the first I ever had of my own in my life.”
DR. BLYTHE:- “But you did repass it often.”
ANNE, dreamily:- “No, never. I was a wife, not a girl when I went back. And it was a friend to me ... you can’t guess what a friend.”
DR. BLYTHE, teasingly:- “Did you ever think of me in your ‘wakefulness of joy’?”
ANNE:- “Perhaps. And when I got up early to see the sun rise over the Haunted Wood.”
WALTER:- “I love to see it rise over Rainbow Valley.”
JEM:- “I didn’t think you ever got up early enough for that!”
DR. BLYTHE:- “Did you really ‘dress up’ for me?”
ANNE:- “After we were engaged of course I did. I wanted you to think me as pretty as possible. And even in our schooldays when we were such enemies I think I wanted you to see me looking as nice as could be.”
JEM:- “Do you mean to say, mums, that you and dad were on bad terms when you went to school?”
DR. BLYTHE:- “Your mother thought she had a grudge against me, but I always wanted to be friends. However, that is all ancient history now. When did death come and look at you?”
ANNE:- “Not my death. It was the shadow of your death I was thinking of ... when everybody thought you were dying of typhoid. I thought I would die, too. And the night after I had heard you had taken a turn for the better ... ah, that was the ‘wakefulness of joy’!”
DR. BLYTHE:- “It couldn’t have been anything to mine the night after I found you loved me!”
JEM, aside to Nan:- “When dad and mums get to talking like that we find out a lot about their early days we never knew.”
SUSAN, who is making pies in the kitchen:-“Isn’t it beautiful to see how they love each other? I can understand a good deal of that poem, old maid as I am.”
THE HAUNTED ROOM
The old clock ticks behind the door,
The shadows lurk and chase,
The driftwood firewood makes the room
A homely, pleasant place.
A haven from the hungry wind,
A shelter from the sea,
But in this twilight silence it
Is full of ghosts for me.
Here Dorothea dances yet,
That dark and vivid girl,
Though many a year the graveyard dust
Has shrouded cheek and curl.
Here Allan tells a tale of love
That brings its olden thrill,
Though Allan’s lips are mute and cold,
And Allan’s heart is still.
Here Will’s wild strains of music yet
In witching cadence fall,
Though Will’s old fiddle long untouched
Hangs soundless on the wall.
Edith and Howard, Jen and Joe,
They come, a friendly host,
I hear their laughter and their jests ...
Even laughter has its ghost.
Pulsating joys and starry hopes,
Unshadowed by regrets,
Surround me like the fragrance of
Wind-shaken violets,
And out of all that come and go
Is one I cannot miss ...
The faded little spectre of
One unforgotten kiss.
Anne Blythe
DR. BLYTHE:- “One unforgotten kiss! One of Roy Gardiner’s, I presume?”
ANNE, indignantly:- “Roy never kissed me. And most of the poem is pure imagination.”
SUSAN:- “Oh, do not be talking of kisses before the children, Mrs. Dr. dear ... begging your pardon for interfering.”
JEM, aside to Diana:- “Listen to her! As if we had never seen or heard of a kiss!”
DIANA, teasingly:- “You, anyhow. I saw you kissing Faith Meredith in school last week ... and Mary Vance, too.”
JEM:- “For mercy’s sake, don’t let Susan hear you say that. She might forgive it with Faith but never with Mary Vance.”
DR. BLYTHE:- “Do you know, Anne, there’s an old fiddle hanging on the wall of a parlour in the Upper Glen. It never seems to be taken down. I’ve often wondered what its story is, if it has one.”
ANNE:- “You may be sure it has. You can’t write anything, Gilbert, but it touches a chord somewhere.”
SUSAN, to herself:-“I could tell them the story of that fiddle if I liked. But I won’t. It’s too sad.”
SONG OF WINTER
Fast tonight the frost is holding over all the world we know,
Fields we love are grim and barren underneath the woven snow,
And our forest, palled in purple, seems far less a friend than foe.
But at twilight we foregather by the red and purring flame,
Springtime long ago forsaken, summer but a golden name,
By the hearth as in the woodland comradeship remains the same.
Gone the violet of the valley, gone the rose and daffodil,
Song has left our hills of roaming very lonely, very chill,
Secret glens have ceased to call us and our river’s voice is still.
But our shabby books are with us and our dreams are never o’er,
On the gleam of stark midwinter we will shut our sturdy door,
At our own fireside the love light burns and beckons evermore.
Anne Blythe
DR. BLYTHE:- “The old, old love light that was kindled so many years ago in Avonlea ... and burns yet, Anne ... at least for me.”
ANNE:- “And for me, too. And will burn forever, Gilbert.” dr. blythe:- “There is something about that poem of yours I especially like, Anne.”
SUSAN, to herself:- “And me, too. It is well to have a roof over your head and a warm fire to snuggle by on a night like this.”
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 dislik
e 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.