“He will. And,” added Penelope to herself, “a father, too. Laugh away, Dr. Blythe. I suppose your own children are such perfect ...”
“They are very far from being perfect,” said Dr. Blythe, who had stopped laughing. “In fact, they ... the boys at least ... are very much like Lionel and Theodore in many ways. But they have three people to correct them. So we keep them in fair order. When a spanking is indicated we wait till Susan Baker is out of the house. And ... will you let me say it? ... I am very glad you have made up your mind to marry Dr. Galbraith at last.”
“Who told you I had?” blushed Penelope.
“I heard what he said. And I knew it when I heard you forbid Miss Valdez to interfere. We doctors are wise old fellows. And I am not running down your studies in child psychology, Miss Craig. There is a wonderful lot of wisdom in them. Mrs. Blythe has a bookcase full of volumes about it. But every once in so long ...”
“Something else is required,” admitted Penelope. “I’ve been a perfect idiot, Dr. Blythe. I hope you and Mrs. Blythe will come to Willow Run the next time you are in town. I ... I should like to become better acquainted with her.”
“I can’t answer for myself ... I generally come in on professional business only. But I’m sure Mrs. Blythe will be delighted. She was charmed with you the day she met you at Mrs. Elston’s party.”
“Really?” said Penelope, wondering why she should feel so highly gratified. “I’m sure we have many things in common.”
The sounds from the garage had ceased.
“Will Dr. Galbraith whip us often?” inquired Lionel curiously.
“I am sure he will not,” said Dr. Blythe. “For one thing, you will not require it. For another, I am sure your Aunt Penelope would not allow it.”
“As if she could stop him when he had made up his mind,” said Lionel. “I’ll bet Mrs. Blythe couldn’t stop you.”
“Oh, couldn’t she! You don’t know as much about matrimony now as you will some day, my lad. But I recommend it for all that. And I’m sure you’ll like Dr. Galbraith for an uncle.”
“I’ve always liked him ... and I think Aunt Penelope should have married him long ago,” said Lionel.
“How did you know he wanted to marry me?” cried Penelope.
“Red told me. ‘Sides, everyone knows it. I like a man round. He’ll keep Marta in her place.”
“Oh, you mustn’t talk of your Aunt Marta like that, Lionel.”
“I’ll bet he won’t call me Lionel.”
“Why don’t you like Lionel?” inquired Penelope curiously.
“It’s such a sissy name,” said Lionel.
“It was the name your dear mother chose for you,” said Penelope reproachfully. “Of course, she may have been a wee bit romantic ...”
“Don’t you dast say a word against my mother,” said Lionel angrily.
Penelope could never have told why, but this pleased her. And Red and Dr. Galbraith were looking as if they were quite good friends. After all, the thrashing had not likely been a very severe one. Roger was not that kind of a man. And even Mrs. Blythe studied books on child culture. The world was not such a bad place after all. And Red and Bumps were not worse than other boys after all. She would wager they were just about as good as the Ingleside boys ... only the latter had had the advantages of a father.
Well, Red and Bumps ...
The Seventh Evening
SUCCESS
Come, drain the cup held to our lips at last,
Though it may yield the briny taste of tears,
For this we have foregone our joy of youth,
For this we have lived bitter, patient years ...
What tang does brew of fig and thistle keep?
Let us drink deep!
Oh, shudder not ... the goblet is of gold!
For this we bent our knee at a grim shrine
While others danced to kind and merry gods!
For this we put aside life’s choicest wine,
To slake our still unsated thirst lift up
This sacramental cup!
Surely ’twill pay for all that we have missed ...
Laughter unlaughed, sweet hours of love and sleep,
Hungers unsatisfied and barren dreams,
How the sly years are mocking us! Drink deep
And vaunt ... for who can guess it is a lie? ...
The price was not too high.
Was it for such a devil’s jorum we
Bartered our precious things and turned from ease,
Winning by dint of many a gallant day
Splendid defeats and abject victories?
But see you not how bright the diamonds wink?
Be brave ... once more ... and drink!
Anne Blythe
ANNE:- “Boys, I’ve written a poem today your father won’t like.” (Reads it.)
JEM:- “Mums, what made you write such a thing? I’m sure you and dad have made a success of your lives.”
ANNE:- “Oh, I was just expressing a mood ... picturing a man who had sacrificed everything for a certain kind of success and then found it wasn’t worth winning but wouldn’t admit it. There are plenty such in the world.”
JEM:- “Wasn’t it because their desire for success was selfish and their sacrifices did them no good in the end?”
SUSAN:- “Well, your father is a most successful doctor and has made sacrifices galore. I’m sure he doesn’t regret them or think it wasn’t worthwhile.”
ANNE:- “Of course he doesn’t. He always wanted to help people.”
WALTER:- “Don’t let him see that poem, mother. He might think you meant him.”
SUSAN:- “Your father has too much sense for that, Walter. He would understand what your mother meant. I do myself, in my humble way. Old Tom Scott over at Mowbray Narrows spent all his life squeezing and saving and denied his family everything. And on his deathbed he said, ‘I guess it wasn’t worthwhile, boys. You’ll only waste the money having a good time.’ And they did. But you and the doctor, Mrs. Dr. dear, have had your good times and yet you are successful. You haven’t missed much, as I reckon it.”
ANNE, dreamily:-“If Shakespeare had only kept a diary! What did he think of success? I remember old Richard Clark of Carmody had a queer habit of saying, ‘When I meet Moses in heaven I’m going to ask him, etc.’ So when I meet Shakespeare in heaven there are a million questions I mean to ask him.”
SUSAN:- “From what I remember learning about him when I went to school I doubt very much if he did go to heaven. And whether or no, Walter, I wish you would remember that while writing poetry is a very good amusement for a woman it is no real occupation for a man.”
THE GATE OF DREAM
I seek a little hidden gate
That will swing wide to me,
Haply beneath a sunset cloud,
Or moonrise wizardry,
Or in some winking vale of noon
And shadow I may find it soon.
A star-like moth may be my guide
Where dear, dim pathways run,
Or a sweet something beckon me,
Fragrance and song in one,
Or a west wind may pipe me on
To it in some pale amber dawn.
Beside it blooms a single rose
By dews ambrosial fed,
Some say it is all ivory white,
But I know it is red,
And Memory fond and Hope elate
Are the twin warders of the gate.
Beyond it in the crystal sky
My Spanish castle towers,
And all its ways are garlanded
With my ungathered flowers,
While haunting music faintly sings
Of exquisite, immortal things.
Some halcyon days I never lived
And waiting there for me,
And laughter that I somehow missed
Echoes elusively ...
Oh, poignant quest! Oh, lure supreme!
When shall I find my gate of dream?
Anne Blythe
ANNE:- “I composed that in Lover’s Lane when I was teaching school in Avonlea ... thanks to you, Gilbert. There seemed so many gates of dream then.”
SUSAN:- “Will you please tell me, Mrs. Dr. dear, what a Spanish castle is and was there really one in Avonlea?”
ANNE:- “A Spanish castle is just something you hope to possess one day. That is all. Mine eventually turned out to be our darling House of Dreams.”
DR. BLYTHE:- “Lover’s Lane was a lovely spot. It is lovely still. My Spanish castle seems to have been the same as yours, Anne. And we all ask in youth when we shall find our gate of dream.”
ANNE:- “Well, we found ours, after much misunderstanding.”
SUSAN:- “Ingleside seems to me like a castle, after that miserable pantry in your House of Dreams which I shall never forget. If Spanish castles have as many good pantries as Ingleside I approve of them.”
AN OLD FACE
Calm as a reaped harvest height
Lying in the dim moonlight,
Yet with wrinkles round the eyes,
Jolly, tolerant and wise:
Beauty gone but in its place
Such a savour, such a grace
Won from the fantastic strife
Of this odd business we call life.
Many a wild, adventurous year
Wrote its splendid record here,
Stars of many an old romance
Shine in that ironic glance;
Many a hideous vital day
Came and smote and passed away,
Now this face is ripe and glad,
Patient, sane, a little sad.
Friend to life yet with no fear
Of the darkness drawing near;
Those so-gallant eyes must see
Dawnlight of eternity,
See the Secret Vision still
High on some supernal hill ...
Tis a daring hope I hold
To look like this when I am old.
Anne Blythe
DR. BLYTHE:- “One of your best, Anne. And I think I know the inspiration. Old Captain Jim, wasn’t it?”
ANNE, dreamily:- “Partly. But there were others, too ... all blended together.”
SUSAN:- “It reminds me of an uncle of my mother’s.”
DR. BLYTHE:- “Do you really think life a fantastic business, Anne?”
ANNE, smiling:- “Parts of it are, don’t you think?”
SUSAN, to herself:- “Well, I never had any beauty to lose, so as far as that goes, getting old won’t matter to me. And if that queer old fellow they call Whiskers-on-the-Moon gets old he won’t lose much beauty either. But he is fantastic enough.”
The Reconciliation
Miss Shelley was going over to Lowbridge to forgive Lisle Stephens for stealing Ronald Evans from her thirty years ago.
She had had a hard struggle to bring herself to do it. Night after night she had wrestled with herself. She looked so pale and wan that her niece secretly consulted Dr. Blythe about her and got the tonic he recommended.
But Miss Shelley would not take the tonic. The struggle continued. Yet morning after morning she confessed herself defeated. And she knew quite well that she could not look the Rev. Mr. Meredith in the face until she had won the battle. He lived on such a high spiritual plane ... to quote Mrs. Blythe ... that it was hard for him to understand things like the quarrel between herself and Lisle Stephens.
“We must forgive ... we must not cherish old bitternesses and grievances and wrongs,” he had said, looking like an inspired prophet.
The Presbyterians of Glen St. Mary worshipped him ... especially Miss Shelley. He was a widower and had a family but she would not let herself remember that. Neither did she think any more highly of Mrs. Dr. Blythe after hearing her say to her husband as they had come down the church steps, “I suppose I’ll have to forgive Josie Pye after that sermon.”
Miss Shelley had no idea who Josie Pye was or what had been the nature of the quarrel between her and Mrs. Blythe. But it could never have been as bitter as the one between her and Lisle Stephens.
Miss Shelley could not conceive of Mrs. Blythe cherishing bitterness for thirty years. She liked her but she thought her too shallow for that. She had been heard to say that it was a pity Dr. Blythe had not selected a woman of deeper nature for his wife.
Miss Shelley’s neighbours had said that she thought he ought to have waited for her niece. But Miss Shelley did not know that and in due time she came to like Mrs. Blythe very well.
And at last she had brought herself to forgive Lisle and not only forgive her but to go and tell her she forgave her.
She felt indescribably uplifted over her victory. If only Mr. Meredith might know of it! But there was no chance of that. She could never tell him and she was very sure Lisle would not. She drew her shabby fur coat around her withered throat and looked at all travellers who passed her with condescending pity. It was not likely one of them knew the triumph of thus conquering their baser selves.
Lisle Stephens and she had been friends all through childhood and girlhood. Lisle had no end of beaus, but she, Myrtle Shelley, a little, thin, red-haired girl with large blue eyes, never had any until Ronald Evans came. Lisle had been away then on a visit to her aunt in Toronto.
It was apparently love at first sight with them both. Ronald was handsome. Slim-waisted and lean-hipped, with sleek, dark hair and dark, heavy-lidded eyes. There had never been anyone like him in Glen St. Mary.
Then came the barn dance.
Grey Myrtle Shelley recalled that dance as of yesterday. She had looked forward to it so eagerly. It would be the first time she had danced with Ronald. They would go home together beneath the moon which seemed waiting for the miracle.
Perhaps he would kiss her. She knew the Glen St. Mary girls were often kissed by the boys ... she had even heard some of them boast of it ... but she, Myrtle Shelley, had never been kissed.
She remembered the gown she had worn to the dance. Her mother thought it very frivolous. It was of pale green nun’s veiling with a red belt. She thought it became her. Ronald had once told her her skin was like a flower. That had been flattery but it was pleasant to hear. She had not had a great many compliments in her life.
When she reached the barn the first thing she had seen was Ronald dancing with Lisle, who had returned home that day. Ronald waved his hand to Myrtle but he did not ask her to dance. He danced with Lisle most of the evening and when they were not dancing they were sitting out in one of the buggies behind the barn.
He ate supper with her and after supper they disappeared. He never even looked at Myrtle with his handsome, careless eyes.
She came face to face with them later under the gay Chinese lanterns strung outside the barn. Lisle was flushed and excited. Her thick, wheat-hued hair was tied close to her head with a fillet of blue ribbon. Her tilted, golden-brown eyes were shining. What chance had anyone against eyes like that?
“Hello, darling,” she said to Myrtle, breezily and brazenly. “I just got home today. What have you been doing with yourself while I was away? Busy as a bee, as usual, I suppose, you industrious little creature. Mr. Evans, have you met my friend, Miss Shelley? We’ve always been great chums.”
Myrtle had lifted her hand and slapped Lisle across her face.
“What on earth do you mean, Myrtle Shelley?” Lisle had exclaimed indignantly.
To do Lisle justice she had not the faintest idea why she had been slapped. She had never heard that Ronald Evans was “beauing” Myrtle Shelley ... though it might not have made much difference if she had!
Myrtle said nothing ... had simply turned her back and gone home.
“Well, of all the jealous creatures!” Lisle had exclaimed when Ronald had made some lame explanation.
Lisle had flaunted Ronald for several weeks after that, then dropped him before he went away. She said he had nothing in either his head or his pocket. She tried to make up with Myrtle but was icily repulsed.
Th
e next spring Lisle had married Justin Rogers, a Lowbridge merchant, who had been “after her” for years, and had gone to Lowbridge to live. Myrtle Shelley had never seen her since, though she had heard ten years ago of Justin Rogers’ death.
But now, thirty years after that dreadful night, she was going to forgive Lisle, fully and freely, at last. She revelled in her luxury of forgiveness.
It was quite a distance from the Glen to Lowbridge and Miss Shelley refused all offers of a “lift.” Her feet ached and the nipping wind brought tears into her faded blue eyes. She also knew that the tip of her nose was red. But she kept on resolutely.
Lisle’s house was a trim, well-groomed one. It was said Justin Rogers had left his widow well provided for. The bay window was full of very fine geraniums and begonias. Miss Shelley had never had any luck with begonias, though Susan Baker had given her slips from the finest plants at Ingleside.
Lisle came to the door. Miss Shelley knew her at once. The same sleek curves, the same tilted eyes, the same golden hair, with hardly a thread of grey in it.
“Just as flippant as ever,” thought Myrtle virtuously. “Lipstick! And her fifty!”
But she noted that Lisle was beginning to have pouches under her eyes. There was some satisfaction in that ... until she remembered Mr. Meredith.
“I ... I feel that I should know that face,” said Lisle. Her voice had not changed. It was still smooth and creamy.
“I am Myrtle Shelley.”
“Myrtle ... darling! Why, I’d never have known you ... how many years is it since I’ve seen you? Of course I hardly ever leave home ... but I am glad to see you again. We used to be such chums, didn’t we? Come right in. You don’t mean to tell me you’ve walked all the way down here from the Glen! You poor lamb! Aren’t you just dead? Surely somebody might have given you a lift. I always say people are getting more selfish all the time.”
“I didn’t want a lift,” said Myrtle.
“You were always so independent ... and a good walker, too. Do you remember the long walks we used to take together around the harbour?”