The Blythes Are Quoted

  When he raked and burned leaves on Sara Allenby’s lawn he was fighting Indians on old frontiers; while he painted George Robinson’s barn he was discovering a gold mine on the Rand; while he helped Marshall Elliott haul in his hay he was rescuing a beauteous maiden from drowning at great risk to himself; while he was putting up the storm windows at Ingleside he was blazing trails through primeval forests, treading where no other foot had trod; when he unloaded Augustus Palmer’s coal he was being taken captive by a cannibal king on some savage island; while he helped Trench Moore cut ice he was stalking tigers in equatorial jungles; while he chopped wood and puttered about the garden he was in splendid peril exploring Polar seas; when he sat in church by the side of his impeccable Clara, in her honey-coloured Sunday crimps, he was robbing temples in Burma of emeralds as large as pigeon eggs ... or should it be rubies?

  But his dreams, though they satisfied some dramatic urge in him, left him always with a mournful conviction that he had missed the best in life. Dreams would never make Caroline Wilkes look at him admiringly. And that was, and always had been, the master dream of Anthony Fingold’s life ... the one he could never have spoken about to anyone ... to make Caroline Wilkes ... nee Caroline Mallard ... look at him admiringly. All poor Clara’s years of devotion were as nothing compared to that never-seen, never-to-be-seen admiration in Caroline’s eyes.

  Anthony heard a bit of news at the store which made him decide to return to the Upper Glen by the lower road. It was much longer than the upper road and much less interesting, there being no house along it, except Westlea ... the summer home the Wilkes family had built for themselves.

  But Carter Flagg said the Wilkes were already at Westlea, coming early on account of the old lady’s health. When Anthony anxiously enquired what was the matter with her Flagg said carelessly he had heard it was some kind of attacks ... a heart condition, so Susan Baker had been heard to say ... and this year, said Carter Flagg, she must be worse than common for they had brought a nurse with them and it was rumoured Dr. Blythe had been there more than once. He added that old lady Wilkes had always thought there was no one like Dr. Blythe, though she had been to specialists all over the world.

  Anthony thought that, if he went home by the lower road, he might get a glimpse of Caroline if she happened to be about the grounds.

  It was, he reflected sadly, a long time since he had seen her. She had not been in any of the churches around there for years. For the last two summers she had never been seen outside of Westlea ... that is, since it had been built.

  Caroline Wilkes was ... and always had been ... the deeply cherished romantic passion of Anthony Fingold’s life. When she had been little Caroline Mallard, going to Lowbridge school, he had worshipped her from afar. The Fingolds lived in Lowbridge then, and all the little boys of the school had worshipped Caroline Mallard.

  When she had grown up naturally she moved in a far higher circle of society ... she was the leading merchant’s daughter ... he still worshipped her from afar. Never did the slightest idea of trying to “court” her enter his head, save in his romantic dreams. He knew he might as well aspire to a king’s daughter.

  He suffered secret agonies when she married one of the wealthy Wilkes of Montreal ... whose people were really furious because he had stooped so low ... and he did not think Ned Wilkes worthy to tie her shoelaces.

  But then, who would be? He went on worshipping her just the same. He saw her rarely ... only when she came home to visit her people in Lowbridge. He always made it a point to be in Lowbridge church those Sundays.

  He read everything he could find in the papers about her ... his family thought him crazy and extravagant because he insisted on taking a weekly Montreal paper that ran a society column.

  There was often something ... she was entertaining a foreign nobleman or going to Europe or having a baby. She never seemed to grow old. In her photographs, as in his recollections of her, she was always stately and beautiful, seemingly untouched by time or trouble.

  Yet she had her troubles, if rumour spoke truly. Ned Wilkes had hit the high spots in life, according to all accounts. But he had been dead for years and all her children were married ... two of them to English lords ... and she must be close on sixty now to all the world, except Anthony Fingold ... who still thought himself quite a young man.

  In between times Anthony had courted and married Clara Bryant ... whose people thought she was throwing herself away. Anthony was very fond of Clara. She had always been a good, if unexciting wife, and in her youth she had been plump and pretty.

  But his secret homage had always been given to Caroline Mallard ... Caroline Mallard of the sea-blue eyes and proud, cold, queen-like face. At least, that was how he recalled her. Most people thought her a good-looking girl who had been lucky enough to catch a rich husband.

  But to Anthony she was a grand lady if ever there was one. An aristocrat to her backbone. It was a privilege to have loved her, even hopelessly ... a privilege to dream of serving her. He pitied the other boys who had loved and forgotten her. He had been faithful. He often told himself he would be willing to die any death you could think of if he could but once have touched her beautiful hand.

  He never dared ask himself the question ... Would he have been willing to have worn pyjamas for her sake? Of course Ned Wilkes wore them. But then Ned Wilkes would do anything.

  It would have amazed Anthony not a little if he had known that Clara knew all about his passion for Caroline Wilkes ... and did not care. She knew all that it amounted to. Just one of those crazy fancies of his. And she knew what Caroline Wilkes was like now and what ailed her. And why the Wilkes family had come to Prince Edward Island that year so early. Everyone knew. It would have amazed Anthony had he known how much Clara knew. Perhaps it would amaze most husbands.

  The years had not cooled his passion, thought Anthony proudly, as he started for home by the long lower road on the faint chance of getting a distant glimpse of her. Hearts never grew old. Caroline had never even known he loved her and yet he had spent his life worshipping her. Not but that he was very fond of Clara. He considered that he had been a very good husband to her ... as he had, and as Clara would have been the first to admit, except in one small matter ... a matter that made her sigh every time she drove past Ingleside and saw Susan Baker’s washing hanging on the line. But then as Clara prudently reflected, you couldn’t have everything. Poor old Susan was an old maid and the fact that Dr. Blythe wore pyjamas could never make up for that.

  When Anthony stopped by the Westlea gates, for a sentimental look at the house which held his divinity, Abe Saunders came scurrying down the driveway. Abe was the general caretaker at Westlea, while his wife looked after the house. The Wilkes really spent very little time there. Abe and Anthony had never been on really friendly terms, partly because of some obscure old feud dating back to schooldays ... neither of them could have told you how it began ... and partly because Abe had once wanted Clara Bryant himself. He had forgotten that, too, being very well satisfied with the wife he had, but the feeling was there and both knew it.

  So Anthony was much surprised when Abe buttonholed him rather distractedly and exclaimed,

  “Tony, will you do me a favour? The wife and I have just got word that our girl over at the Narrows has been hurt in a car accident ... broke her leg, so they say ... and we’ve got to go over and see her. They are going to take her to the Charlotte-town hospital, and Dr. Blythe is in charge of the case. But still, when it’s your own flesh and blood! Will you set in the house till Mr. Norman Wilkes comes home? He ought to be along any time now. He’s motoring out from Charlottetown. The old lady is in bed asleep ... or pretending to be ... but that scalawag of a George has disappeared and we don’t dast leave the house with no one in it.”

  “Ain’t there a nurse?” gasped Anthony in amazement.

  “She’s got the evening off. Gave the old lady a hypo. That’s all right ... Dr. Blythe’s orders. All you’ll have to do will be just to se
t in the sun porch till somebody comes. Most likely George will soon turn up ... if he hasn’t gone to see some girl down at the village. But for pity’s sake don’t take all the evening making up your mind.”

  “But what if she ... if Mrs. Wilkes ... takes one of her sinking spells?” gasped Anthony.

  “She don’t have sinking spells,” said Abe impatiently. “It’s ... it’s something quite different. I ain’t allowed to talk. But she won’t have any kind of spell after the hypo. It puts her to sleep” ... “if that goose of a nurse didn’t forget to give it to her,” he reflected but was not going to say to Anthony ... “She’ll sleep like a log till the morning ... always does. Will you or won’t you? I didn’t think you were the man to hesitate when a friend was in trouble. They may have whisked Lula off to the hospital before we get there.”

  Hesitate! When Abe and a distracted Mrs. Abe ... what if Clara went into hysterics like that? ... had whirled away in their wheezy old car, Anthony Fingold was sitting in the sunroom in a dream of bliss. He could hardly believe it was not all a dream.

  Here he was in the same house with his long-worshipped Caroline ... on guard while she slumbered. Could anything be more romantic? Of course it would be just as well if Clara never heard of it ... and she would hear of it most likely. But he would have had the enjoyment of it in any case.

  How he blessed George ... who was the orphan son of a poor cousin of the Mallards ... for disappearing! He hoped nobody would come home for hours. Smoke a pipe! Perish the irreverent thought! Nobody but a Saunders would think of suggesting such a thing. He would just sit there and try to remember all the poetry he knew. Clara would think he was at the store so she wouldn’t be worried. Somehow he didn’t want Clara to be worried in spite of his happiness.

  “What are you doing there, little man?”

  Anthony Fingold sprang up as if he had been shot and gazed in absolute consternation at the object standing in the sunroom doorway!

  It couldn’t be ... it couldn’t be his Caroline ... simply could not ... his beautiful, romantic, glamorous, adored Caroline. In the last photograph of her he had seen in a Montreal paper she had been almost as young and handsome as ever.

  But, if it was not Caroline, who was it ... this raddled old dame in a flannel nightdress ... a nightdress not half so pretty as the ones Clara wore ... which did not conceal her bony ankles? Thin grey hair hung in wisps about her wrinkled face and her mouth was drawn inward over toothless gums. Fancy Clara appearing before anyone without her false teeth! She would have died first.

  There was a weird light in her sunken blue eyes and she was looking at him in a way that made his skin crinkle. And in one hand she held an implement which couldn’t be anything but a dagger. Anthony had never seen a dagger but he had seen pictures of them and a thousand times he had imagined himself carrying one and running people through with it. But the reality was very different.

  Who was it? There was no housekeeper at Westlea that he had ever heard of. In the few short summer weeks the Wilkes occasionally spent there the Saunders “did” for them. Had he fallen asleep and was dreaming? No, he was awake ... broad awake. Then had he suddenly lost his mind? His mother’s great-grandfather had been insane. Yet he did not feel crazy. But then crazy people never did, he had been told. If George would only come! If the Saunders would only return!

  “Well, now, if it isn’t little Anthony Fingold who used to be so much in love with me!” said the apparition, brandishing her dagger. “Do you remember those good old days, Anthony? If I’d had the sense of a cat I’d have married you instead of Ned Wilkes. But we never have sense when we are young. Of course you will say you never asked me. But I could have easily made you. Every woman knows that. And how is Clara? How jealous she used to be of me!”

  It was ... it must be ... Caroline. Poor Anthony put a hand to his head. When all your dreams come tumbling about you in one fell swoop it is hard to bear. He still hoped he was in a nightmare and that Clara would have sense enough to wake him.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded Caroline again. “Tell me at once or ...” She brandished the dagger.

  “I’m here ... I’m ... Abe Saunders asked me to stay till him and his wife got back,” stammered Anthony. “They had to go ... his daughter had been in an accident and was going to the hospital ... and he didn’t like to leave you alone.”

  “Who said his daughter had to go to the hospital?”

  “Dr. Blythe, I believe ... I ...”

  “Then she probably had to go. Dr. Blythe is the only man with any sense on Prince Edward Island. As for me, poor old Abe needn’t have been worried. Nobody could have run off with the house ... and don’t you think this would keep any robber at bay?”

  Anthony looked at the gleaming dagger and thought it would.

  “That gadabout of a nurse is out ... on the trail of some man,” said Caroline. “Oh, I know their tricks! You men are so easily fooled.”

  “And George ...”

  “Oh, I’ve hung George in the closet,” said Caroline. She suddenly shook with laughter. “I’ve always had a hankering to kill a man and at last I’ve done it. It’s a sensation, Anthony Fingold. Did you ever kill anybody?”

  “No ... no ...”

  “Ah, you don’t know what you’ve missed! It’s fun, Anthony ... great fun. You should have seen George kicking. And do you mean to tell me that you’ve never wanted to kill Clara? Especially when she begged of you to wear pyjamas?”

  So everybody knew it! Susan Baker, of course. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now. Suppose Caroline, having done away with George and wanting to repeat the sensation, attacked him, Anthony, with that dagger!

  But Caroline was laughing.

  “Why don’t you kiss me, little man?” she demanded. “People always kiss me. And you know very well you would have given your soul for a kiss from me a hundred years ago.”

  Yes, Anthony knew it. Only it wasn’t a hundred years. How he had dreamed of kissing Caroline ... of snatching her up in his manly arms and covering her lovely face with kisses. He remembered with shame amid all his horror that when he used to kiss Clara he was wont to shut his eyes and imagine it was Caroline.

  “Well, come and kiss me,” said Caroline, pointing the dagger at him. “I’d rather like it, you know. I always would have.”

  “I ... I ... it wouldn’t be proper,” stammered Anthony.

  The nightmare was getting worse. Why didn’t somebody have the sense to wake him up? Kiss that ... even without taking the dagger and the murdered George into account! Was this how dreams came true?

  “Who cares for propriety at our age?” asked Caroline, polishing her dagger on the tail of her nightdress. “Please don’t think this is my nightdress, Anthony. They had locked up all my clothes and I spilled some tea on the blue silk one I had on ... so I borrowed one of Mrs. Abe’s. Well, if you won’t kiss me ... you were always a stubborn little devil ... all the Fingolds were ... I’ll have to kiss you.”

  She came across the sunroom and kissed him. Anthony staggered back. Was this how dreams came true? But he had the oddest sense of relief that the nightdress didn’t belong to Caroline.

  “Stop staring, Anthony darling,” said Caroline. “Did Clara ever kiss you like that?”

  No, thank God, she never had ... never would! Clara didn’t go about with daggers, kissing men.

  “I must be getting home,” gasped Anthony, forgetting all about his promise to Abe.

  He was filled with terror. Caroline Wilkes was out of her mind. That was what was the matter with her, not sinking spells. And she might become violent at any moment ... no doubt that was what her “spells” meant. Confound Abe Saunders! He’d get square with him yet. Abe must have known perfectly well what ailed her. And Dr. Blythe, too. Even Clara. They were all in the plot to have him murdered.

  “And leave me alone in this big house with a murdered boy in my closet?” said Caroline, glaring at him and flourishing her dagger in his very face.

&
nbsp; “He won’t hurt you if he is dead ... and you say you killed him yourself,” said Anthony, gathering courage from the extremity of fear.

  “How do you know what dead people can or cannot do?” demanded Caroline. “Were you ever dead, Anthony Fingold?”

  “No,” said Anthony, wondering how soon he might be.

  “Then stop talking about something you know nothing of,” said Caroline. “You are not going home until Abe Saunders comes back. But you can go to bed if you want to. Yes, that will be the best plan, from every point of view. Clara won’t worry. She knows she can trust her little Anthony. Go to bed in the north gable.”

  “I’d rather ... not ...” said Anthony feebly.

  “I am accustomed to be obeyed,” said Caroline, putting on the high and mighty manner she could always assume like a garment. How well he remembered it. It had gone admirably with silk dresses and marcelled hair and jewels ... but with dingy old flannel nightgowns! And daggers!

  “Do you see this dagger?” continued Caroline, holding it up in a hand bonier than her ankles, if that were possible. Anthony thought of Clara’s plump, pink, if somewhat work-worn hands.

  “It is a poisoned dagger from Ned’s collection,” said Caroline. “One tiny prick and you are a dead man. I’ll stick it into you if you don’t go up to the north gable at once.”

  Anthony Fingold skipped up the stairs and into the north gable and stood not upon the order of his skipping. He only wanted to get a door shut between himself and Caroline. If there would only be a key in it! But to his horror she followed him and yanked open a bureau drawer.

  “Here is a pair of my son’s pyjamas,” she said, tossing them into his arms. “Put them on and get into bed and sleep like a Christian. I’ll look in presently to see if you’ve done as you’re told. Clara has always given you too much of your own way. If you had married me you would have worn pyjamas from the start.”

  “How ... how did you hear about Clara wanting me to wear pyjamas?” stammered Anthony, his curiosity getting the better of his terror.