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The Greatest Works of L. M. Montgomery

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Chapter XVI.
Adjusted Relationships

Table of Contents

“It’s the homiest spot I ever saw — it’s homier than home,” avowed Philippa Gordon, looking about her with delighted eyes. They were all assembled at twilight in the big livingroom at Patty’s Place — Anne and Priscilla, Phil and Stella, Aunt Jamesina, Rusty, Joseph, the Sarah-Cat, and Gog and Magog. The firelight shadows were dancing over the walls; the cats were purring; and a huge bowl of hothouse chrysanthemums, sent to Phil by one of the victims, shone through the golden gloom like creamy moons.

It was three weeks since they had considered themselves settled, and already all believed the experiment would be a success. The first fortnight after their return had been a pleasantly exciting one; they had been busy setting up their household goods, organizing their little establishment, and adjusting different opinions.

Anne was not over-sorry to leave Avonlea when the time came to return to college. The last few days of her vacation had not been pleasant. Her prize story had been published in the Island papers; and Mr. William Blair had, upon the counter of his store, a huge pile of pink, green and yellow pamphlets, containing it, one of which he gave to every customer. He sent a complimentary bundle to Anne, who promptly dropped them all in the kitchen stove. Her humiliation was the consequence of her own ideals only, for Avonlea folks thought it quite splendid that she should have won the prize. Her many friends regarded her with honest admiration; her few foes with scornful envy. Josie Pye said she believed Anne Shirley had just copied the story; she was sure she remembered reading it in a paper years before. The Sloanes, who had found out or guessed that Charlie had been “turned down,” said they didn’t think it was much to be proud of; almost any one could have done it, if she tried. Aunt Atossa told Anne she was very sorry to hear she had taken to writing novels; nobody born and bred in Avonlea would do it; that was what came of adopting orphans from goodness knew where, with goodness knew what kind of parents. Even Mrs. Rachel Lynde was darkly dubious about the propriety of writing fiction, though she was almost reconciled to it by that twenty-five dollar check.

“It is perfectly amazing, the price they pay for such lies, that’s what,” she said, half-proudly, half-severely.

All things considered, it was a relief when going-away time came. And it was very jolly to be back at Redmond, a wise, experienced Soph with hosts of friends to greet on the merry opening day. Pris and Stella and Gilbert were there, Charlie Sloane, looking more important than ever a Sophomore looked before, Phil, with the Alec-and-Alonzo question still unsettled, and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson. Moody Spurgeon had been teaching school ever since leaving Queen’s, but his mother had concluded it was high time he gave it up and turned his attention to learning how to be a minister. Poor Moody Spurgeon fell on hard luck at the very beginning of his college career. Half a dozen ruthless Sophs, who were among his fellow-boarders, swooped down upon him one night and shaved half of his head. In this guise the luckless Moody Spurgeon had to go about until his hair grew again. He told Anne bitterly that there were times when he had his doubts as to whether he was really called to be a minister.

Aunt Jamesina did not come until the girls had Patty’s Place ready for her. Miss Patty had sent the key to Anne, with a letter in which she said Gog and Magog were packed in a box under the spare-room bed, but might be taken out when wanted; in a postscript she added that she hoped the girls would be careful about putting up pictures. The living room had been newly papered five years before and she and Miss Maria did not want any more holes made in that new paper than was absolutely necessary. For the rest she trusted everything to Anne.

How those girls enjoyed putting their nest in order! As Phil said, it was almost as good as getting married. You had the fun of homemaking without the bother of a husband. All brought something with them to adorn or make comfortable the little house. Pris and Phil and Stella had knick-knacks and pictures galore, which latter they proceeded to hang according to taste, in reckless disregard of Miss Patty’s new paper.

“We’ll putty the holes up when we leave, dear — she’ll never know,” they said to protesting Anne.

Diana had given Anne a pine needle cushion and Miss Ada had given both her and Priscilla a fearfully and wonderfully embroidered one. Marilla had sent a big box of preserves, and darkly hinted at a hamper for Thanksgiving, and Mrs. Lynde gave Anne a patchwork quilt and loaned her five more.

“You take them,” she said authoritatively. “They might as well be in use as packed away in that trunk in the garret for moths to gnaw.”

No moths would ever have ventured near those quilts, for they reeked of mothballs to such an extent that they had to be hung in the orchard of Patty’s Place a full fortnight before they could be endured indoors. Verily, aristocratic Spofford Avenue had rarely beheld such a display. The gruff old millionaire who lived “next door” came over and wanted to buy the gorgeous red and yellow “tulip-pattern” one which Mrs. Rachel had given Anne. He said his mother used to make quilts like that, and by Jove, he wanted one to remind him of her. Anne would not sell it, much to his disappointment, but she wrote all about it to Mrs. Lynde. That highly-gratified lady sent word back that she had one just like it to spare, so the tobacco king got his quilt after all, and insisted on having it spread on his bed, to the disgust of his fashionable wife.

Mrs. Lynde’s quilts served a very useful purpose that winter. Patty’s Place for all its many virtues, had its faults also. It was really a rather cold house; and when the frosty nights came the girls were very glad to snuggle down under Mrs. Lynde’s quilts, and hoped that the loan of them might be accounted unto her for righteousness. Anne had the blue room she had coveted at sight. Priscilla and Stella had the large one. Phil was blissfully content with the little one over the kitchen; and Aunt Jamesina was to have the downstairs one off the livingroom. Rusty at first slept on the doorstep.

Anne, walking home from Redmond a few days after her return, became aware that the people that she met surveyed her with a covert, indulgent smile. Anne wondered uneasily what was the matter with her. Was her hat crooked? Was her belt loose? Craning her head to investigate, Anne, for the first time, saw Rusty.

Trotting along behind her, close to her heels, was quite the most forlorn specimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld. The animal was well past kittenhood, lank, thin, disreputable looking. Pieces of both ears were lacking, one eye was temporarily out of repair, and one jowl ludicrously swollen. As for color, if a once black cat had been well and thoroughly singed the result would have resembled the hue of this waif’s thin, draggled, unsightly fur.

Anne “shooed,” but the cat would not “shoo.” As long as she stood he sat back on his haunches and gazed at her reproachfully out of his one good eye; when she resumed her walk he followed. Anne resigned herself to his company until she reached the gate of Patty’s Place, which she coldly shut in his face, fondly supposing she had seen the last of him. But when, fifteen minutes later, Phil opened the door, there sat the rusty-brown cat on the step. More, he promptly darted in and sprang upon Anne’s lap with a half-pleading, half-triumphant “miaow.”

“Anne,” said Stella severely, “do you own that animal?”

“No, I do NOT,” protested disgusted Anne. “The creature followed me home from somewhere. I couldn’t get rid of him. Ugh, get down. I like decent cats reasonably well; but I don’t like beasties of your complexion.”

Pussy, however, refused to get down. He coolly curled up in Anne’s lap and began to purr.

“He has evidently adopted you,” laughed Priscilla.

“I won’t BE adopted,” said Anne stubbornly.

“The poor creature is starving,” said Phil pityingly. “Why, his bones are almost coming through his skin.”

“Well, I’ll give him a square meal and then he must return to whence he came,” said Anne resolutely.

The cat was fed and put out. In the morning he was still on the doorstep. On the doorstep he continued to sit, bolting in whenever the door was opened. No coolness of welcome had the least effect on him; of nobody save Anne did he take the least notice. Out of compassion the girls fed him; but when a week had passed they decided that something must be done. The cat’s appearance had improved. His eye and cheek had resumed their normal appearance; he was not quite so thin; and he had been seen washing his face.

“But for all that we can’t keep him,” said Stella. “Aunt Jimsie is coming next week and she will bring the Sarah-cat with her. We can’t keep two cats; and if we did this Rusty Coat would fight all the time with the Sarah-cat. He’s a fighter by nature. He had a pitched battle last evening with the tobacco-king’s cat and routed him, horse, foot and artillery.”

“We must get rid of him,” agreed Anne, looking darkly at the subject of their discussion, who was purring on the hearth rug with an air of lamb-like meekness. “But the question is — how? How can four unprotected females get rid of a cat who won’t be got rid of?”

“We must chloroform him,” said Phil briskly. “That is the most humane way.”

“Who of us knows anything about chloroforming a cat?” demanded Anne gloomily.

 

“I do, honey. It’s one of my few — sadly few — useful accomplishments. I’ve disposed of several at home. You take the cat in the morning and give him a good breakfast. Then you take an old burlap bag — there’s one in the back porch — put the cat on it and turn over him a wooden box. Then take a two-ounce bottle of chloroform, uncork it, and slip it under the edge of the box. Put a heavy weight on top of the box and leave it till evening. The cat will be dead, curled up peacefully as if he were asleep. No pain — no struggle.”

“It sounds easy,” said Anne dubiously.

“It IS easy. Just leave it to me. I’ll see to it,” said Phil reassuringly.

Accordingly the chloroform was procured, and the next morning Rusty was lured to his doom. He ate his breakfast, licked his chops, and climbed into Anne’s lap. Anne’s heart misgave her. This poor creature loved her — trusted her. How could she be a party to this destruction?

“Here, take him,” she said hastily to Phil. “I feel like a murderess.”

“He won’t suffer, you know,” comforted Phil, but Anne had fled.

The fatal deed was done in the back porch. Nobody went near it that day. But at dusk Phil declared that Rusty must be buried.

“Pris and Stella must dig his grave in the orchard,” declared Phil, “and Anne must come with me to lift the box off. That’s the part I always hate.”

The two conspirators tiptoed reluctantly to the back porch. Phil gingerly lifted the stone she had put on the box. Suddenly, faint but distinct, sounded an unmistakable mew under the box.

“He — he isn’t dead,” gasped Anne, sitting blankly down on the kitchen doorstep.

“He must be,” said Phil incredulously.

Another tiny mew proved that he wasn’t. The two girls stared at each other.

“What will we do?” questioned Anne.

“Why in the world don’t you come?” demanded Stella, appearing in the doorway. “We’ve got the grave ready. ‘What silent still and silent all?’” she quoted teasingly.

“‘Oh, no, the voices of the dead Sound like the distant torrent’s fall,’” promptly counter-quoted Anne, pointing solemnly to the box.

A burst of laughter broke the tension.

“We must leave him here till morning,” said Phil, replacing the stone. “He hasn’t mewed for five minutes. Perhaps the mews we heard were his dying groan. Or perhaps we merely imagined them, under the strain of our guilty consciences.”

But, when the box was lifted in the morning, Rusty bounded at one gay leap to Anne’s shoulder where he began to lick her face affectionately. Never was there a cat more decidedly alive.

“Here’s a knot hole in the box,” groaned Phil. “I never saw it. That’s why he didn’t die. Now, we’ve got to do it all over again.”

“No, we haven’t,” declared Anne suddenly. “Rusty isn’t going to be killed again. He’s my cat — and you’ve just got to make the best of it.”

“Oh, well, if you’ll settle with Aunt Jimsie and the Sarah-cat,” said Stella, with the air of one washing her hands of the whole affair.

From that time Rusty was one of the family. He slept o’nights on the scrubbing cushion in the back porch and lived on the fat of the land. By the time Aunt Jamesina came he was plump and glossy and tolerably respectable. But, like Kipling’s cat, he “walked by himself.” His paw was against every cat, and every cat’s paw against him. One by one he vanquished the aristocratic felines of Spofford Avenue. As for human beings, he loved Anne and Anne alone. Nobody else even dared stroke him. An angry spit and something that sounded much like very improper language greeted any one who did.

“The airs that cat puts on are perfectly intolerable,” declared Stella.

“Him was a nice old pussens, him was,” vowed Anne, cuddling her pet defiantly.

“Well, I don’t know how he and the Sarah-cat will ever make out to live together,” said Stella pesimistically. “Cat-fights in the orchard o’nights are bad enough. But cat-fights here in the livingroom are unthinkable.” In due time Aunt Jamesina arrived. Anne and Priscilla and Phil had awaited her advent rather dubiously; but when Aunt Jamesina was enthroned in the rocking chair before the open fire they figuratively bowed down and worshipped her.

Aunt Jamesina was a tiny old woman with a little, softly-triangular face, and large, soft blue eyes that were alight with unquenchable youth, and as full of hopes as a girl’s. She had pink cheeks and snow-white hair which she wore in quaint little puffs over her ears.

“It’s a very old-fashioned way,” she said, knitting industriously at something as dainty and pink as a sunset cloud. “But I am old-fashioned. My clothes are, and it stands to reason my opinions are, too. I don’t say they’re any the better of that, mind you. In fact, I daresay they’re a good deal the worse. But they’ve worn nice and easy. New shoes are smarter than old ones, but the old ones are more comfortable. I’m old enough to indulge myself in the matter of shoes and opinions. I mean to take it real easy here. I know you expect me to look after you and keep you proper, but I’m not going to do it. You’re old enough to know how to behave if you’re ever going to be. So, as far as I am concerned,” concluded Aunt Jamesina, with a twinkle in her young eyes, “you can all go to destruction in your own way.”

“Oh, will somebody separate those cats?” pleaded Stella, shudderingly.

Aunt Jamesina had brought with her not only the Sarah-cat but Joseph. Joseph, she explained, had belonged to a dear friend of hers who had gone to live in Vancouver.

“She couldn’t take Joseph with her so she begged me to take him. I really couldn’t refuse. He’s a beautiful cat — that is, his disposition is beautiful. She called him Joseph because his coat is of many colors.”

It certainly was. Joseph, as the disgusted Stella said, looked like a walking rag-bag. It was impossible to say what his ground color was. His legs were white with black spots on them. His back was gray with a huge patch of yellow on one side and a black patch on the other. His tail was yellow with a gray tip. One ear was black and one yellow. A black patch over one eye gave him a fearfully rakish look. In reality he was meek and inoffensive, of a sociable disposition. In one respect, if in no other, Joseph was like a lily of the field. He toiled not neither did he spin or catch mice. Yet Solomon in all his glory slept not on softer cushions, or feasted more fully on fat things.

Joseph and the Sarah-cat arrived by express in separate boxes. After they had been released and fed, Joseph selected the cushion and corner which appealed to him, and the Sarah-cat gravely sat herself down before the fire and proceeded to wash her face. She was a large, sleek, gray-and-white cat, with an enormous dignity which was not at all impaired by any consciousness of her plebian origin. She had been given to Aunt Jamesina by her washerwoman.

“Her name was Sarah, so my husband always called puss the Sarah-cat,” explained Aunt Jamesina. “She is eight years old, and a remarkable mouser. Don’t worry, Stella. The Sarah-cat NEVER fights and Joseph rarely.”

“They’ll have to fight here in self-defense,” said Stella.

At this juncture Rusty arrived on the scene. He bounded joyously half way across the room before he saw the intruders. Then he stopped short; his tail expanded until it was as big as three tails. The fur on his back rose up in a defiant arch; Rusty lowered his head, uttered a fearful shriek of hatred and defiance, and launched himself at the Sarah-cat.

The stately animal had stopped washing her face and was looking at him curiously. She met his onslaught with one contemptuous sweep of her capable paw. Rusty went rolling helplessly over on the rug; he picked himself up dazedly. What sort of a cat was this who had boxed his ears? He looked dubiously at the Sarah-cat. Would he or would he not? The Sarah-cat deliberately turned her back on him and resumed her toilet operations. Rusty decided that he would not. He never did. From that time on the Sarah-cat ruled the roost. Rusty never again interfered with her.

But Joseph rashly sat up and yawned. Rusty, burning to avenge his disgrace, swooped down upon him. Joseph, pacific by nature, could fight upon occasion and fight well. The result was a series of drawn battles. Every day Rusty and Joseph fought at sight. Anne took Rusty’s part and detested Joseph. Stella was in despair. But Aunt Jamesina only laughed.

“Let them fight it out,” she said tolerantly. “They’ll make friends after a bit. Joseph needs some exercise — he was getting too fat. And Rusty has to learn he isn’t the only cat in the world.”

Eventually Joseph and Rusty accepted the situation and from sworn enemies became sworn friends. They slept on the same cushion with their paws about each other, and gravely washed each other’s faces.

“We’ve all got used to each other,” said Phil. “And I’ve learned how to wash dishes and sweep a floor.”

“But you needn’t try to make us believe you can chloroform a cat,” laughed Anne.

“It was all the fault of the knothole,” protested Phil.

“It was a good thing the knothole was there,” said Aunt Jamesina rather severely. “Kittens HAVE to be drowned, I admit, or the world would be overrun. But no decent, grownup cat should be done to death — unless he sucks eggs.”

“You wouldn’t have thought Rusty very decent if you’d seen him when he came here,” said Stella. “He positively looked like the Old Nick.”

“I don’t believe Old Nick can be so very, ugly” said Aunt Jamesina reflectively. “He wouldn’t do so much harm if he was. I always think of him as a rather handsome gentleman.”

Chapter XVII.
A Letter From Davy

Table of Contents

“It’s beginning to snow, girls,” said Phil, coming in one November evening, “and there are the loveliest little stars and crosses all over the garden walk. I never noticed before what exquisite things snowflakes really are. One has time to notice things like that in the simple life. Bless you all for permitting me to live it. It’s really delightful to feel worried because butter has gone up five cents a pound.”

“Has it?” demanded Stella, who kept the household accounts.

“It has — and here’s your butter. I’m getting quite expert at marketing. It’s better fun than flirting,” concluded Phil gravely.

“Everything is going up scandalously,” sighed Stella.

“Never mind. Thank goodness air and salvation are still free,” said Aunt Jamesina.

“And so is laughter,” added Anne. “There’s no tax on it yet and that is well, because you’re all going to laugh presently. I’m going to read you Davy’s letter. His spelling has improved immensely this past year, though he is not strong on apostrophes, and he certainly possesses the gift of writing an interesting letter. Listen and laugh, before we settle down to the evening’s study-grind.”

“Dear Anne,” ran Davy’s letter, “I take my pen to tell you that we are all pretty well and hope this will find you the same. It’s snowing some today and Marilla says the old woman in the sky is shaking her feather beds. Is the old woman in the sky God’s wife, Anne? I want to know.

“Mrs. Lynde has been real sick but she is better now. She fell down the cellar stairs last week. When she fell she grabbed hold of the shelf with all the milk pails and stewpans on it, and it gave way and went down with her and made a splendid crash. Marilla thought it was an earthquake at first.

“One of the stewpans was all dinged up and Mrs. Lynde straned her ribs. The doctor came and gave her medicine to rub on her ribs but she didn’t under stand him and took it all inside instead. The doctor said it was a wonder it dident kill her but it dident and it cured her ribs and Mrs. Lynde says doctors dont know much anyhow. But we couldent fix up the stewpan. Marilla had to throw it out. Thanksgiving was last week. There was no school and we had a great dinner. I et mince pie and rost turkey and frut cake and donuts and cheese and jam and choklut cake. Marilla said I’d die but I dident. Dora had earake after it, only it wasent in her ears it was in her stummick. I dident have earake anywhere.

“Our new teacher is a man. He does things for jokes. Last week he made all us third-class boys write a composishun on what kind of a wife we’d like to have and the girls on what kind of a husband. He laughed fit to kill when he read them. This was mine. I thought youd like to see it.

 

“‘The kind of a wife I’d like to Have.

“‘She must have good manners and get my meals on time and do what I tell her and always be very polite to me. She must be fifteen yers old. She must be good to the poor and keep her house tidy and be good tempered and go to church regularly. She must be very handsome and have curly hair. If I get a wife that is just what I like Ill be an awful good husband to her. I think a woman ought to be awful good to her husband. Some poor women haven’t any husbands.

“‘THE END.’”

“I was at Mrs. Isaac Wrights funeral at White Sands last week. The husband of the corpse felt real sorry. Mrs. Lynde says Mrs. Wrights grandfather stole a sheep but Marilla says we mustent speak ill of the dead. Why mustent we, Anne? I want to know. It’s pretty safe, ain’t it?

“Mrs. Lynde was awful mad the other day because I asked her if she was alive in Noah’s time. I dident mean to hurt her feelings. I just wanted to know. Was she, Anne?

“Mr. Harrison wanted to get rid of his dog. So he hunged him once but he come to life and scooted for the barn while Mr. Harrison was digging the grave, so he hunged him again and he stayed dead that time. Mr. Harrison has a new man working for him. He’s awful okward. Mr. Harrison says he is left handed in both his feet. Mr. Barry’s hired man is lazy. Mrs. Barry says that but Mr. Barry says he aint lazy exactly only he thinks it easier to pray for things than to work for them.

“Mrs. Harmon Andrews prize pig that she talked so much of died in a fit. Mrs. Lynde says it was a judgment on her for pride. But I think it was hard on the pig. Milty Boulter has been sick. The doctor gave him medicine and it tasted horrid. I offered to take it for him for a quarter but the Boulters are so mean. Milty says he’d rather take it himself and save his money. I asked Mrs. Boulter how a person would go about catching a man and she got awful mad and said she dident know, shed never chased men.

“The A.V.I.S. is going to paint the hall again. They’re tired of having it blue.

“The new minister was here to tea last night. He took three pieces of pie. If I did that Mrs. Lynde would call me piggy. And he et fast and took big bites and Marilla is always telling me not to do that. Why can ministers do what boys can’t? I want to know.

“I haven’t any more news. Here are six kisses. xxxxxx. Dora sends one. Heres hers. x.

“Your loving friend DAVID KEITH”

“P.S. Anne, who was the devils father? I want to know.”