Anne of Ingleside

  By this time Nan was crazy with curiosity. Life wouldn't be worth living if she couldn't find out what Dovie's mysterious knowledge was. She had a sudden inspiration.

  'Dovie, I can't give you my stag, but if you'll tell me what you know about me I'll give you my red parasol.'

  Dovie's gooseberry eyes gleamed. She had been eaten up by envy of that parasol.

  'The new red parasol your mother brought you from town last week?' she bargained.

  Nan nodded. Her breath came quickly. Was it... Oh, was it possible that Dovie would really tell her?

  'Will your mother let you?' demanded Dovie.

  Nan nodded again, but a little uncertainly. She was none too sure of it. Dovie scented the uncertainty.

  'You'll have to have that parasol right here,' she said firmly, 'before I can tell you. No parasol, no secret.'

  'I'll bring it tomorrow,' promised Nan hastily. She just had to know what Dovie knew about her, that was all there was to it.

  'Well, I'll think it over,' said Dovie doubtfully. 'Don't get your hopes up. I don't expect I'll tell you after all. You're too young... I've told you so often enough.'

  'I'm older than I was yesterday,' pleaded Nan. 'Oh, come, Dovie, don't be mean.'

  'I guess I've got a right to my own knowledge,' said Dovie crushingly. 'You'd tell Anne... that's your mother...'

  'Of course I know my own mother's name,' said Nan, a trifle on her dignity. Secrets or no secrets, there were limits. 'I told you I wouldn't tell anybody at Ingleside.'

  'Will you swear it?'

  'Swear it!'

  'Don't be a poll parrot. Of course I mean just promising solemnly.'

  'I promise solemnly.'

  'Solemner than that.'

  Nan didn't see how she could be any solemner. Her face would set if she was.

  'Clasp your hands, look at the sky,

  Cross your heart and hope to die,'

  said Dovie.

  Nan went through the ritual.

  'You'll bring the parasol tomorrow and we'll see,' said Dovie.

  'What did your mother do before she was married, Nan?'

  'She taught school... and taught it well,' said Nan.

  'Well, I was just wondering. Mother thinks it was a mistake for your Dad to marry her. Nobody knew anything about her family. And the girls he might have had, Mother says. I must be going now. O revor.'

  Nan knew that meant 'till tomorrow'. She was very proud of having a chum who could talk French. She continued to sit on the wharf long after Dovie had gone home. She liked to sit on the wharf and watch the fishing-boats going out and coming in, and sometimes a ship drifting down the harbour bound to fair lands far away... 'far, far away'; Nan repeated the words to herself with a relish. They savoured of magic. Like Jem, she often wished she could sail away in a ship... down the blue harbour, past the bar of shadowy dunes, past the lighthouse point where at night the revolving Four Winds Light became an outpost of mystery, out, out to the blue mist that was the summer gulf, on, on to enchanted islands in golden morning seas. Nan flew on the wings of her imagination all over the world as she squatted there on the old sagging wharf.

  But this afternoon she was all keyed up over Dovie's secret. Would Dovie really tell her? What would it be... what could it be? And what about those girls Father might have married? Nan liked to speculate about those girls. One of them might have been her mother. But that was horrible. Nobody could be her mother except Mother. The thing was simply unthinkable.

  'I think Dovie Johnson is going to tell me a secret,' Nan confided to Mother that night when she was being kissed bye-bye. 'Of course I won't be able to tell even you, Mummy, because I've promised I wouldn't. You won't mind, will you, Mummy?'

  'Not at all,' said Anne, much amused.

  When Nan went down to the wharf the next day she took the parasol. It was her parasol, she told herself. It had been given to her, so she had a perfect right to do what she liked with it. Having quieted her conscience with this sophistry, she slipped away when nobody could see her. It gave her a pang to think of giving her her dear, gay little parasol, but by this time the craze to find out what Dovie knew had become too strong to be resisted.

  'Here's the parasol, Dovie,' she said breathlessly. 'And now tell me the secret.'

  Dovie was really taken aback. She had never meant matters to go as far as this... she had never believed Nan Blythe's mother would let her give away her red parasol. She pursed her lips.

  'I don't know as that shade of red will suit my complexion after all. It's rather gaudy. I guess I won't tell.'

  Nan had a spirit of her own and Dovie had not yet quite charmed it into blind submission. Nothing roused it more quickly than injustice.

  'A bargain is a bargain, Dovie Johnson. You said the parasol for the secret. Here is the parasol and you've got to keep your promise.'

  'Oh, very well,' said Dovie in a bored way.

  Everything grew very still. The gusts of wind had died away. The water stopped glug-glugging round the piles of the wharf. Nan shivered with delicious ecstasy. She was going to find out at last what Dovie knew.

  'You know the Jimmy Thomases down at the Harbour Mouth,' said Dovie. 'Six-toed Jimmy Thomas?'

  Nan nodded. Of course she knew the Thomases... at least, knew of them. Six-toed Jimmy sometimes called at Ingleside selling fish. Susan said you never could be sure of getting good ones from him. Nan did not like the look of him. He had a bald head, with a fluff of curly white hair on either side of it, and a red, hooked nose. But what could the Thomases possibly have to do with the matter?

  'And you know Cassie Thomas?' went on Dovie.

  Nan had seen Cassie Thomas once when Six-toed Jimmy had brought her round with him in his fish-wagon. Cassie was just about her own age, with a mop of red curls and bold, greenish-grey eyes. She had stuck her tongue out at Nan.

  'Well...' Dovie drew a long breath... 'this is the truth about you. You are Cassie Thomas and she is Nan Blythe.'

  Nan stared at Dovie. She hadn't the faintest glimmer of Dovie's meaning. What she had said made no sense.

  'I... I... what do you mean?'

  'It's plain enough, I should think,' said Dovie with a pitying smile. Since she had been forced to tell this she was going to make it worth the telling. 'You and her were born the same night. It was when the Thomases lived in the Glen. The nurse took her down to Thomases and put her in your cradle and took you back to her ma. She didn't dare take Di too, or she would have. She hated your ma and she took that way of getting even. And that is why you are really Cassie Thomas and you ought to be living down there at the Harbour Mouth and poor Cass ought to be up at Ingleside instead of being banged about by that old stepmother of hers. I feel so sorry for her many's the time.'

  Nan believed every word of this preposterous yarn. She had never been lied to in her life, and not for the moment did she doubt the truth of Dovie's tale. It never occurred to her that anyone, much less her beloved Dovie, would or could make up such a story. She gazed at Dovie with anguished, disillusioned eyes.

  'How... how did your Aunt Kate find it out?' she gasped through dry lips.

  'The nurse told her on her death-bed,' said Dovie solemnly. 'I s'pose her conscience troubled her. Aunt Kate never told anyone but me. When I came to the Glen and saw Cassie Thomas... Nan Blythe, I mean... I took a good look at her. She's got red hair and eyes the same colour as your mother's. You've got brown eyes and brown hair. That's why you don't look like Di... twins always look exactly alike. And Cass has just the same kind of ears as your father... lying so nice and flat against her head. I don't s'pose anything can be done about it now. But I've often thought it wasn't fair, you having such an easy time and being kept like a doll and poor Cass... Nan... in rags, and not even getting enough to eat, many's the time. And old Six-toed beating her when he comes home drunk! Why, what are you looking at me like that for?'

  Nan's pain was greater than she could bear. All was horribly clear to her now. Folks had always thought
it funny she and Di didn't look one bit alike. This was why.

  'I hate you for telling me this, Dovie Johnson!'

  Dovie shrugged her fat shoulders.

  'I didn't tell you you'd like it, did I? You made me tell. Where are you going?'

  For Nan, white and dizzy, had risen to her feet.

  'Home... to tell Mother,' she said miserably.

  'You mustn't... you dassn't. Remember you swore you wouldn't tell,' cried Dovie.

  Nan stared at her. It was true she had promised not to tell. And Mother always said you mustn't break a promise.

  'I guess I'll be getting home myself,' said Dovie, not altogether liking the look of Nan.

  She snatched up the parasol and ran off, her plump bare legs twinkling along the old wharf. Behind her she left a broken-hearted child, sitting amid the ruins of her small universe. Dovie didn't care. Soft was no name for Nan. It really wasn't much fun to fool her. Of course, she would tell her mother as soon as she got home and find out she had been hoaxed.

  'Just as well I'm going home Sunday,' reflected Dovie.

  Nan sat on the wharf for what seemed hours... blind, crushed, despairing. She wasn't Mother's child! She was Six-toed Jimmy's child... Six-toed Jimmy, of whom she had always had a secret dread simply because of his six toes. She had no business to be living at Ingleside, loved by Mother and Dad. 'Oh!' Nan gave a piteous little moan. Mother and Dad wouldn't love her any more if they knew. All their love would go to Cassie Thomas.

  Nan put her hand to her head. 'It makes me dizzy,' she said.

  33

  'What is the reason you are not eating anything, pet?' asked Susan at the supper table.

  'Were you out in the sun too long, dear?' asked Mother anxiously. 'Does your head ache?'

  'Ye-e-s,' said Nan. But it wasn't her head that ached. Was she telling a lie to Mother? And if so, how many more would she have to tell? For Nan knew she would never be able to eat again... never so long as this horrible knowledge was hers. And she knew she could never tell Mother. Not so much because of the promise... hadn't Susan said once that a bad promise was better broken than kept?... but because it would hurt Mother. Somehow, Nan knew beyond any doubt that it would hurt Mother horribly. And Mother mustn't... shouldn't... be hurt. Nor Dad.

  And yet... there was Cassie Thomas. She wouldn't call her Nan Blythe. It made Nan feel awful beyond description to think of Cassie Thomas as being Nan Blythe. She felt as if it blotted her out altogether. If she wasn't Nan Blythe she wasn't anybody. She would not be Cassie Thomas.

  But Cassie Thomas haunted her. For a week Nan was beset by her, a wretched week during which Anne and Susan were really worried over the child, who wouldn't eat and wouldn't play and, as Susan said, 'just moped around'. Was it because Dovie Johnson had gone home? Nan said it wasn't. Nan said it wasn't anything. She just felt tired. Dad looked her over and prescribed a dose which Nan took meekly. It was not so bad as castor oil, but even castor oil meant nothing now. Nothing meant anything except Cassie Thomas... and the awful question which had emerged from her confusion of mind and taken possession of her.

  Shouldn't Cassie Thomas have her rights?

  Was it fair that she, Nan Blythe... Nan clung to her identity frantically... should have all the things Cassie Thomas was denied and which were hers by rights? No, it wasn't fair. Nan was despairingly sure it wasn't fair. Somewhere in Nan there was a very strong sense of justice and fair play. And it became increasingly borne in upon her that it was only fair that Cassie Thomas should be told.

  After all, perhaps nobody would care very much. Mother and Dad would be a little upset at first, of course, but as soon as they knew that Cassie Thomas was their own child all their love would go to Cassie, and she, Nan, would be of no account to them. Mother would kiss Cassie Thomas and sing to her in the summer twilights... sing the song Nan liked best...

  I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing on the sea,

  And oh, it was all laden with pretty things for me.

  Nan and Di had often talked about the day their ship would come in. But now the pretty things, her share of them anyhow, would belong to Cassie Thomas. Cassie Thomas would take her part as fairy queen in the forthcoming Sunday School concert and wear her dazzling band of tinsel. How Nan had looked forward to that! Susan would make fruit puffs for Cassie Thomas and Pussy-willow would purr for her. She would play with Nan's dolls in Nan's moss-carpeted play-house in the maple grove, and sleep in her bed. Would Di like that? Would Di like Cassie Thomas for a sister?

  There came a day when Nan knew she could bear it no longer. She must do what was fair. She would go down to the Harbour Mouth and tell the Thomases the truth. They could tell Mother and Dad. Nan felt that she simply could not do that.

  Nan felt a little better when she had come to this decision, but very, very sad. She tried to eat a little supper because it would be the last meal she would ever eat at Ingleside.

  'I'll always call Mother "Mother",' thought Nan desperately. 'And I won't call Six-toed Jimmy "Father". I'll just say "Mr Thomas" very respectfully. Surely he won't mind that.'

  But something choked her. Looking up, she read castor oil in Susan's eye. Little Susan thought she wouldn't be here at bed-time to take it. Cassie Thomas would have to swallow it. That was the one thing Nan didn't envy Cassie Thomas.

  Nan went off immediately after supper. She must go before it was dark or her courage would fail her. She went in her checked gingham play-dress, not daring to change it, lest Susan or Mother ask why. Besides, all her nice dresses really belonged to Cassie Thomas. But she did put on the new apron Susan had made for her... such a smart little scalloped apron, the scallops bound in turkey red. Nan loved that apron. Surely Cassie Thomas wouldn't grudge her that much.

  She walked down to the village, through the village, past the wharf road, and down the harbour road, a gallant, indomitable little figure. Nan had no idea that she was a heroine. On the contrary, she felt very much ashamed of herself because it was so hard to do what was right and fair, so hard to keep from hating Cassie Thomas, so hard to keep from fearing Six-toed Jimmy, so hard to keep from turning round and running back to Ingleside.

  It was a lowering evening. Out to sea hung a heavy black cloud, like a great dark bat. Fitful lightning played over the harbour and the wooded hills beyond. The cluster of fishermen's houses at the Harbour Mouth lay flooded in a red light that escaped from under the cloud. Pools of water here and there glowed like great rubies. A ship, silent, white-sailed, was drifting past the dim, misty dunes to the mysterious calling ocean, the gulls were crying strongly.

  Nan did not like the smell of the fishing house or the groups of dirty children who were playing and fighting and yelling on the sands. They looked curiously at Nan when she stopped to ask them which was Six-toed Jimmy's house.

  'That one over there,' said a boy pointing. 'What's your business with him?'

  'Thank you,' said Nan, turning away.

  'Have ye got no more manners than that?' yelled a girl. 'Too stuck-up to answer a civil question!'

  The boy got in front of her.

  'See that house back of Thomases?' he said. 'I've got a sea-serpent in it, and I'll lock you up in it if you don't tell me what you want with Six-toed Jimmy.'

  'Come now, Miss Proudy,' taunted a big girl. 'You're from the Glen, and the Glenners all think they're the cheese. Answer Bill's question.'

  'If you don't, look out,' said another boy. 'I'm going to drown some kittens and I'll quite likely pop you in, too.'

  'If you've got a dime about you I'll sell you a tooth,' said a black-browed girl, grinning. 'I had one pulled yesterday.'

  'I haven't got a dime and your tooth wouldn't be of any use to me,' said Nan, plucking up a little spirit. 'You let me alone.'

  'None of your lip,' said the black-browed.

  Nan started to run. The sea-serpent boy stuck out a foot and tripped her up. She fell her length on the tide-rippled sand.

  The others screamed with laughter.

&nbs
p; 'You won't hold your head so high now, I reckon,' said the black-browed. 'Strutting about here with your red scallops!'

  Then someone exclaimed, 'There's Blue Jack's boat coming in,' and away they all ran.

  The black cloud had dropped lower and every ruby pool was grey.

  Nan picked herself up. Her dress was plastered with sand and her stockings were soiled. But she was free from her tormentors. Would these be her playmates in the future?

  She must not cry... she must not! She climbed the rickety board steps that led up to Six-toed Jimmy's door. Like all the Harbour Mouth houses, Six-toed Jimmy's was raised on blocks of wood to be out of the reach of any unusually high tide, and the space underneath it was filled with a medley of broken dishes, empty cans, old lobster traps, and all kinds of rubbish. The door was open, and Nan looked into a kitchen the like of which she had never seen in her life. The bare floor was dirty, the ceiling was stained and smoked, the sink was full of dirty dishes. The remains of a meal were on the rickety old wooden table, and horrid big black flies were swarming over it. A woman with an untidy mop of greyish hair was sitting on a rocker nursing a fat lump of a baby... a baby grey with dirt.

  'My sister,' thought Nan.

  There was no sign of Cassie or Six-toed Jimmy, for which latter fact Nan felt grateful.

  'Who are you and what do you want?' said the woman rather ungraciously.

  She did not ask Nan in but Nan walked in. It was beginning to rain outside and a peal of thunder made the house shake. Nan knew she must say what she had come to say before her courage failed her, or she would turn and run from that dreadful house and from that dreadful baby and those dreadful flies.

  'I want to see Cassie, please,' she said. 'I have something important to tell her.'

  'Indeed, now!' said the woman. 'It must be important from the size of you. Well, Cass isn't home. Her dad took her to the Upper Glen for a ride, and with this storm coming up there's no telling when they'll be back. Sit down.'

  Nan sat down on a broken chair. She had known the Harbour Mouth folks were poor, but she had not known any of them were like this. Mrs Tom Fitch in the Glen was poor, but Mrs Tom Fitch's house was as neat and tidy as Ingleside. Of course, every one knew that Six-toed Jimmy drank up everything he made. And this was to be her home henceforth!