Anne of Ingleside (36 page)

‘Why, I’ve seen Diana Blythe wearing that ring often,’ said Peggy MacAllister contemptuously.

‘And I don’t believe one single word you’ve been saying about Ingleside, Delilah Green,’ said Laura Carr.

Before Delilah could reply Diana, who had recovered her powers of locomotion and speech, dashed into the schoolroom.

‘Judas!’ she said. Afterwards she thought repentantly that it had not been a very lady-like thing to say. But she had been stung to the heart, and when your feelings are all stirred up you can’t pick and choose your words.

‘I ain’t Judas,’ muttered Delilah, flushing, probably for the first time in her life.

‘You are! There isn’t one spark of sincerity in you! Don’t you ever speak to me again as long as you live.’

Diana rushed out of the schoolhouse and ran home. She couldn’t stay in school that afternoon… she just couldn’t! The Ingleside front door was banged as it had never been banged before.

‘Darling, what is the matter?’ asked Anne, interrupted in her kitchen conference with Susan by a weeping daughter who flung herself stormily against the maternal shoulder.

The whole story was sobbed out, somewhat disjointedly.

‘I’ve been hurt in all my
finer feelings
, Mother. And I’ll never believe in anyone again.’

‘My dear, all your friends won’t be like this. Pauline wasn’t.’

‘This is
twice
,’ said Diana bitterly, still smarting under the sense of betrayal and loss. ‘There isn’t going to be any third time.’

‘I’m sorry Di has lost her faith in humanity,’ said Anne rather ruefully, when Di had gone upstairs. ‘This is a real tragedy for her. She
has
been unlucky in some of her chums. Jenny Penny… and now Delilah Green. The trouble is Di always falls for the girls who can tell interesting stories. And Delilah’s martyr pose was very alluring.’

‘If you ask me, Mrs Doctor dear, that Green child is a perfect minx,’ said Susan, all the more implacably because she had been so nearly fooled herself by Delilah’s eyes and manners. ‘The idea of her calling our cats mangy! I am not saying that there are not such things as tom cats, Mrs Doctor dear, but little girls should not talk of them. I am no lover of cats, but the Shrimp is seven years old and should at least be
respected
. And as for my potato pot…’

But Susan really couldn’t express her feelings about the potato pot!

In her room Di was reflecting that perhaps it was not too late to be ‘best friends’ with Laura Carr after all. Laura was
true
, even if she wasn’t very exciting. Di sighed. Some colour
had
gone out of life with her belief in Delilah’s piteous lot.

A bitter east wind was snarling around Ingleside like a shrewish old woman. It was one of those chill, drizzly, late August days that take the heart out of you, one of those days when everything goes wrong… what in old Avonlea days had been called ‘a Jonah day’. The new pup Gilbert had brought home for the boys had gnawed the enamel off the dining-table leg… Susan had found that the moths had been having a Roman holiday in the blanket closet… Nan’s new kitten had ruined the choicest fern… Jem and Bertie Shakespeare had been making the most abominable racket in the garret all the afternoon with tin pails for drums… Anne herself had broken a painted glass lamp shade. But somehow it had done her just good to hear it smash! Rilla had earache and Shirley had a mysterious rash on his neck which worried Anne but at which Gilbert only glanced casually and said in an absent-minded voice that he didn’t think it meant anything. Of course it didn’t mean anything to
him
! Shirley was only his own son. And it didn’t matter to him either that he had invited the Trents to dinner one evening last week and forgotten to tell Anne until they arrived. She and Susan had had an extra busy day and had planned a pick-up supper. And Mrs Trent with the reputation of being Charlottetown’s smartest hostess!
Where
were Walter’s stockings with the black tops and the blue toes? ‘Do you think, Walter, that you could,
just for once
, put a thing where it belongs? Nan, I
don’t
know where the Seven Seas are. For mercy’s sake stop asking questions! I don’t wonder they poisoned Socrates. They
ought
to have.’

Walter and Nan stared. Never had they heard their mother speak in such a tone before. Walter’s look annoyed Anne still more.

‘Diana, is it necessary to be forever reminding you not to twist your legs around the piano stool? Shirley, if you haven’t got that new magazine all sticky with jam! And perhaps
somebody
would be kind enough to tell me where the prisms of the hanging lamp have gone!’

Nobody could tell her… Susan having unhooked them and taken them out to wash them… and Anne whisked herself upstairs to escape from the grieved eyes of her children. In her own room she paced up and down feverishly.
What
was the matter with her? Was she turning into one of those peevish creatures who had no patience with anybody? Everything annoyed her these days. A little mannerism of Gilbert’s she had never minded before got on her nerves. She was sick and tired of never-ending, monotonous duties… sick and tired of catering to her family’s whims. Once everything she did for her house and household gave her delight. Now she did not seem to care what she did. She felt all the time like a creature in a nightmare, trying to overtake someone with fettered feet.

The worst of it all was that Gilbert never noticed that there was any change in her. He was busy night and day and seemed to care for nothing but his work. The only thing he had said at dinner that day had been, ‘Pass the mustard, please.’

‘
I
can talk to the chairs and tables, of course,’ thought Anne bitterly. ‘We’re just getting to be a sort of
habit
with each other… nothing else. He never noticed that I had on a new dress last night. And it’s so long since he called me “Anne-girl” that I’ve forgotten when. Well, I suppose all marriages come to this in the end. Probably most women go through this. He just takes me for granted. His work is the only thing that means anything to him now.
Where
is my handkerchief?’

Anne got her handkerchief and sat down in her chair to torture herself luxuriantly. Gilbert didn’t love her any more. When he kissed her he kissed her absently… just ‘habit’. All the glamour was gone. Old jokes they had laughed together over came up in recollection, charged with tragedy now. How could she ever have thought them funny? Monty Turner, who kissed his wife systematically once a week… made a memorandum to remind him.
(Would any wife want such kisses?)
Curtis Ames, who met his wife in a new bonnet and didn’t know her. Mrs Clancy Dare, who had said, ‘I don’t care an awful lot about my husband, but I’d miss him if he wasn’t around.’
(I suppose Gilbert would miss me if I weren’t around! Has it come to that with us?)
Nat Elliott, who told his wife after ten years of marriage, ‘If you must know I’m just tired of being married.’
(And we’ve been married fifteen years!)
Well, perhaps all men were like that. Probably Miss Cornelia would say that they were. After a time they were hard to hold.
(If my husband has to be ‘held’ I don’t want to hold him.)
But there was Mrs Theodore Clow, who had said proudly at a Ladies’ Aid, ‘We’ve been married twenty years and my husband loves me as much as he did on our wedding day.’ But perhaps she was deceiving herself or only ‘keeping face’ – and she looked every day of her age and more.
(I wonder if I am beginning to look old.)

For the first time her years felt like a weight. She went to the mirror and looked at herself critically. There
were
some tiny crows-feet around her eyes, but they were only visible in a strong light. Her chin lines were yet unblurred. She had always been pale. Her hair was thick and wavy, without a grey thread. But did anybody
really
like red hair? Her nose was still definitely good. Anne patted it as a friend, recalling certain moments of life when her nose was all that carried her through. But Gilbert just took her nose for granted now. It might be crooked or pug for all it mattered to him. Likely he had forgotten that she
had
a nose. Like Mrs Dare, he might miss it if it wasn’t there.

‘Well, I must go and see to Rilla and Shirley,’ thought Anne drearily. ‘At least,
they
need me still, poor darlings. What made me so snappish with them? Oh, I suppose they’re all saying behind my back, “How cranky poor Mother is getting!” ’

It continued to rain and the wind continued to wail. The fantasia of tin pans in the garret had stopped, but the ceaseless chirping of a solitary cricket in the living-room nearly drove her mad.

The noon mail brought her two letters. One was from Marilla… but Anne sighed as she folded it up. Marilla’s handwriting was getting so frail and shaky. The other letter was from Mrs Barrett Fowler of Charlottetown, whom Anne knew very slightly. And Mrs Barrett Fowler wanted Dr and Mrs Blythe to dine with her next Tuesday night at seven o’clock ‘to meet your old friend, Mrs Andrew Dawson of Winnipeg,
née
Christine Stuart’.

Anne dropped the letter. A flood of old memories poured over her… some of them decidedly unpleasant. Christine Stuart of Redmond… the girl to whom people had once said Gilbert was engaged… the girl of whom she had once been so bitterly jealous… yes, she admitted it now, twenty years after… she
had
been jealous… she had hated Christine Stuart. She had not thought of Christine for years, but she remembered her distinctly. A tall, ivory-white girl with great dark-blue eyes and blue-black masses of hair. And a certain air of distinction. But with a long nose… yes, definitely a long nose. Handsome… oh, you couldn’t deny that Christine had been very handsome. She remembered hearing many years ago that Christine had ‘married well’ and gone west.

Gilbert came in for a hurried bite of supper… there was an epidemic of measles in the Upper Glen… and Anne silently handed him Mrs Fowler’s letter.

‘Christine Stuart! Of course we’ll go. I’d like to see her for old time’s sake,’ he said, with the first appearance of animation he had shown for weeks. ‘Poor girl, she has had her own troubles. She lost her husband four years ago, you know.’

Anne didn’t know. And how came Gilbert to know? Why had he never told her? And had he forgotten that next Tuesday was the anniversary of their own wedding day? A day on which they had never accepted any invitation, but went off on a little bat of their own. Well,
she
wouldn’t remind him. He could see his Christine if he wanted to. What had a girl at Redmond once said to her darkly? ‘There was a good deal more between Gilbert and Christine than you ever knew, Anne.’ She had merely laughed at it at the time… Claire Hallett was a spiteful thing. But perhaps there had been something in it. Anne suddenly remembered, with a little chill of the spirit, that not long after her marriage she had found a small photograph of Christine in an old pocket-book of Gilbert’s. Gilbert had seemed quite indifferent and said he’d wondered where that old snap had got to. But… was it one of those unimportant things that are significant of things tremendously important? Was it possible… had Gilbert ever loved Christine? Was she, Anne, only a second choice? The consolation prize?

‘Surely I’m not… jealous,’ thought Anne, trying to laugh. It was all very ridiculous. What more natural than that Gilbert should like the idea of meeting an old Redmond friend? What more natural than that a busy man, married for fifteen years, should forget times and seasons and days and months? Anne wrote to Mrs Fowler, accepting her invitation… and then put in the three days before Tuesday hoping desperately that somebody in the Upper Glen would start having a baby Tuesday afternoon about half-past five.

The hoped-for baby arrived too soon. Gilbert was sent for at nine Monday night. Anne wept herself to sleep and wakened at three. It used to be delicious to wake in the night… to lie and look out of her window at the night’s enfolding loveliness… to hear Gilbert’s regular breathing beside her… to think of the children across the hall and the beautiful new day that was coming. But now! Anne was still awake when the dawn, clear and green as fluor spar, was in the eastern sky and Gilbert came home at last. ‘Twins,’ he said hollowly as he flung himself into bed and was asleep in a minute. Twins, indeed! The dawn of the fifteenth anniversary of your wedding day and all your husband could say to you was ‘Twins’. He didn’t even remember it
was
an anniversary.

Gilbert apparently didn’t remember it any better when he came down at eleven. For the first time he did not mention it; for the first time he had no gift for her. Very well,
he
shouldn’t get his gift either. She had had it ready for weeks… a silver-handled pocketknife with the date on one side and his initials on the other. Of course, he must buy it from her with a cent, lest it cut their love. But since he had forgotten she would forget too, with a vengeance.

Gilbert seemed in a sort of daze all day. He hardly spoke to anyone and moped about the library. Was he lost in glamorous anticipation of seeing his Christine again? Probably he had been hankering after her all these years in the back of his mind. Anne knew quite well this idea was absolutely unreasonable, but when was jealousy ever reasonable? It was no use trying to be philosophical. Philosophy had no effect on her mood.

They were going to town on the five o’clock train. ‘Can we come in and watch you dreth, Mummy?’ asked Rilla.

‘Oh, if you want to,’ said Anne… then pulled herself up sharply. Why, her voice was getting querulous. ‘Come along, darling,’ she added repentantly.

Rilla had no greater delight than watching Mummy dress. But even Rilla thought Mummy was not getting much fun out of it that night.

Anne took some thought as to what dress she should wear. Not that it mattered, she told herself bitterly, what she put on. Gilbert never noticed now. The mirror was no longer her friend… she looked pale and tired… and
unwanted
. But she must not look too countrified and passé before Christine.
(I won’t have her sorry for me.)
Was it to be her new apple-green net over a slip with rosebuds in it? Or her cream silk gauze with its Eton jacket of Cluny lace? She tried both of them on and decided on the net. She experimented with several hair-do’s and concluded that the new drooping pompadour was very becoming.