The Complete Anne of Green (169 page)

21

When Gilbert and Anne went to dinner with friends in Charlottetown one evening in late March Anne put on a new dress of ice-green encrusted with silver around neck and arms: and she wore Gilbert’s emerald ring and Jem’s necklace.

‘Haven’t I got a handsome wife, Jem?’ asked Dad proudly.

Jem thought Mother was very handsome and her dress very lovely. How pretty the pearls looked on her white throat! He always liked to see Mother dressed up, but he liked it still better when she took off a splendid dress. It had transformed her into an alien. She was not really Mother in it.

After supper Jem went to the village to do an errand for Susan and it was while he was waiting in Mr Flagg’s store… rather afraid that Sissy might come in as she sometimes did and be entirely too friendly… that the blow fell… the shattering blow of disillusionment which is so terrible to a child because so unexpected and so seemingly inescapable.

Two girls were standing before the glass showcase where Mr Carter Elagg kept necklaces and chain bracelets and hair barettes.

‘Aren’t those pearl strings pretty?’ said Abbie Russell.

‘You’d almost think they were real,’ said Leona Reese.

They passed on then, quite unwitting of what they had done to the small boy sitting on the nail keg. Jem continued to sit there for some time longer. He was incapable of movement.

‘What’s the matter, sonny?’ inquired Mr Flagg. ‘You seem kind of low in your mind.’

Jem looked at Mr Flagg with tragic eyes. His mouth was strangely dry.

‘Please, Mr Flagg… are those… those necklaces… they
are
real pearls, aren’t they?’

Mr Flagg laughed.

‘No, Jem, I’m afraid you can’t get real pearls for fifty cents, you know. A real pearl necklace like that would cost hundreds of dollars. They’re just pearl beads, very good ones for the price, too. I got ’em at a bankrupt sale, that’s why I can sell ’em so cheap. Ordinarily they run up to a dollar. Only one left… they went like hot cakes.’

Jem slid off the keg and went out, totally forgetting what Susan had sent him for. He walked blindly up the frozen road home. Overhead was a hard, dark, wintry sky; there was what Susan called ‘a feel’ of snow in the air, and a skim of ice over the puddles. The harbour lay black and sullen between its bare banks. Before Jem reached home a snow squall was whitening over them. He wished it would snow… and snow… and snow… till he was buried and everybody was buried… fathoms deep. There was no justice anywhere in the world.

Jem was heart-broken. And let no one scoff at his heartbreak for scorn of its cause. His humiliation was utter and complete. He had given Mother what he and she had supposed was a pearl necklace… and it was only an old imitation. What would she say, what would she feel like, when she knew? For, of course, she must be told. It never occurred to Jem to think for a moment that she need not be told. Mother must not be ‘fooled’ any longer. She must know that her pearls weren’t real. Poor Mother! She had been so proud of them… had he not seen the pride shining in her eyes when she had kissed him and thanked him for them?

Jem slipped in by the side door and went straight to bed, where Walter was already sound asleep. But Jem could not sleep; he was awake when Mother came home and slipped in to see that Walter and he were warm.

‘Jem, dear, are you awake at this hour? You’re not sick?’

‘No, but I’m very unhappy
here
, Mother dearwums,’ said Jem, putting his hand on his stomach, fondly believing it to be his heart.

‘What is the matter, dear?’

‘I… I… there is something I must tell you, Mother… you’ll be awful disappointed, Mother… but I didn’t mean to deceive you, Mother, truly I didn’t.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t, dear. What is it? Don’t be afraid.’

‘Oh, Mother dearwums, those pearls aren’t real pearls… I thought they were… I
did
think they were I
did
…’

Jem’s eyes were full of tears. He couldn’t go on.

If Anne wanted to smile there was no sign of it on her face. Shirley had bumped his head that day, Nan had sprained her ankle, Di had lost her voice with a cold. Anne had kissed and bandaged and soothed; but
this
was different… this needed all the secret wisdom of mothers.

‘Jem, I never thought you supposed they were real pearls. I knew they weren’t… at least in one sense of real. In another, they are the most real things I’ve ever had given me. Because there was love and work and self-sacrifice in them… and
that
makes them more precious to me than all the gems that divers have fished up from the sea for queens to wear. Darling, I wouldn’t exchange my pretty beads for the necklace I read of last night which some millionaire gave his bride and which cost half a million. So
that
shows you what your gift is worth to me, dearest of dear little sons. Do you feel better now?’

Jem was so happy he was ashamed of it. He was afraid it was babyish to be so happy. ‘Oh, life is
bearable
again,’ he said cautiously.

The years had vanished from his sparkling eyes. All was well. Mother’s arms were about him… Mother
did
like her necklace… nothing else mattered. Some day he would give her one that would cost no mere half, but a whole million. Meanwhile, he was tired… his bed was very warm and cosy… Mother’s hands smelled like roses… and he didn’t hate Leona Reese any more.

‘Mother dearwums, you do look so sweet in that dress,’ he said sleepily. ‘Sweet and pure… pure as Epps cocoa.’

Anne smiled as she hugged him, and thought of a ridiculous thing she had read in a medical journal that day, signed Dr V. Z. Tomachowsky. ‘You must never kiss your little son lest you set up a Jocasta complex.’ She had laughed over it at the time and been a little angry as well. Now she only felt pity for the writer of it. Poor, poor man! For of course V. Z. Tomachowsky was a man. No woman would ever write anything so silly and wicked.

22

April came tiptoeing in beautifully that year with sunshine and soft winds for a few days; and then a driving north-east snowstorm dropped a white blanket over the world again. ‘Snow in April is abominable,’ said Anne. ‘Like a slap in the face when you expected a kiss.’ Ingleside was fringed with icicles and for two long weeks the days were raw and the nights hard-bitten. Then the snow grudgingly disappeared, and when the news went round that the first robin had been seen in the Hollow Ingleside plucked up heart and ventured to believe that the miracle of spring was really going to happen again.

‘Oh, Mummy, it
smells
like spring today,’ cried Nan, delightedly snuffing the fresh moist air. ‘Mummy, isn’t spring an exciting time!’

Spring was trying out her paces that day… like an adorable baby just learning to walk. The winter pattern of trees and fields was beginning to be overlaid with hints of green, and Jem had again brought in the first mayflowers. But an enormously fat lady, sinking puffingly into one of the Ingleside easy-chairs, sighed, and said sadly that the springs weren’t so nice as they were when she was young.

‘Don’t you think perhaps the change is in us… not in the springs, Mrs Mitchell?’ smiled Anne.

‘Mebbe so. I know
I
am changed all too well. I don’t suppose to look at me now you’d think I was once the prettiest girl in these parts?’

Anne reflected that she certainly wouldn’t. The thin, stringy, mouse-coloured hair under Mrs Mitchell’s crêpe bonnet and long sweeping ‘widow’s veil’ was streaked with grey; her blue, expressionless eyes were faded and hollow; and to call her double chinned erred on the side of charity. But Mrs Anthony Mitchell was feeling quite contented with herself just then, for nobody in Four Winds had finer weeds. Her voluminous black dress was crêpe to the knees. One wore mourning in those days with a vengeance.

Anne was spared the necessity of saying anything, for Mrs Mitchell gave her no chance.

‘My soft water system went dry this week… there’s a leak in it… so I kem down to the village this morning to get Raymond Russell to come and fix it. And thinks I to myself, “Now that I’m here I’ll just run up to Ingleside and ask Mrs Doctor Blythe to write an obitchery for Anthony.” ’

‘An obituary?’ said Anne blankly.

‘Yes… them things they put in the papers about dead people, you know,’ explained Mrs Anthony. ‘I want Anthony should have a real good one… something out of the common. You write things, don’t you?’

‘Occasionally I do write a little story,’ admitted Anne. ‘But a busy mother hasn’t much time for that. I had wonderful dreams once, but now I’m afraid I’ll never be in
Who’s Who
, Mrs Mitchell. And I never wrote an obituary in my life.’

‘Oh, they can’t be hard to write. Old Uncle Charlie Bates over our way writes most of them for the Lower Glen, but he ain’t a bit poetical, and I’ve set my heart on a piece of poetry for Anthony. My, but he was always so fond of poetry. I was up to hear you give that talk on bandages to the Glen Institute last week and thinks I to myself, “Anyone who can talk as glib as that can likely write a real poetical obitchery.” You will do it for me, won’t you, Mrs Blythe? Anthony would have liked it. He always admired you. He said once that when you come into a room you made all the other women look “common and undistinguished”. He sometimes talked real poetical, but he meant well. I’ve been reading a lot of obitcheries… I have a big scrapbook full of them, but it didn’t seem to me he’d have liked any of them. He used to laugh at them so much. And it’s time it was done. He’s been dead two months. He died lingering, but painless. Coming on spring’s an inconvenient time for anyone to die, Mrs Blythe, but I’ve made the best of it. I s’pose Uncle Charlie will be hopping mad if I get anyone else to write Anthony’s obitchery, but I don’t care. Uncle Charlie has a wonderful flow of language, but him and Anthony never hit it off any too well, and the long and short of it is I’m
not
going to have him write Anthony’s obitchery. I’ve been Anthony’s wife… his faithful and loving wife for thirty-five years… thirty-five years, Mrs Blythe’… as if she were afraid Anne might think it only thirty-four… ‘and I’m going to have an obitchery he’d like, if it takes a leg. That was what my daughter Seraphine said to me; she’s married at Lowbridge, you know… nice name, Seraphine, isn’t it?… I got it off a gravestone. Anthony didn’t like it, he wanted to call her Judith, after his mother. But I said it was too solemn a name, and he gave in real kindly. He weren’t no hand at arguing… though he always called her Seraph… where was I?’

‘Your daughter was saying?’

‘Oh, yes. Seraphine said to me, “Mother, whatever else you have or don’t have, have a real, nice obitchery for father.” Her and her father were always real thick, though he poked a bit of fun at her now and then, just as he did at me. Now, won’t you, Mrs Blythe?’

‘I really don’t know a great deal about your husband. Mrs Mitchell.’

‘Oh, I can tell you all about him… if you don’t want to know the colour of his eyes. Do you know, Mrs Blythe, when Seraphine and me was talking things over after the funeral I couldn’t tell the colour of his eyes, after living with him thirty-five years. They was kind of soft and dreamy anyhow. He used to look so pleading with them when he was courting me. He had a real hard time to get me, Mrs Blythe. He was mad about me for years. I was full of bounce then and meant to pick and choose. My life story would be real thrilling if you ever get short of material, Mrs Blythe. Ah, well, them days are gone. I had more beaux than you could shake a stick at. But they kept coming and going… and Anthony just kept coming. He was kind of good-looking, too… such a nice, lean man. I never could abide pudgy men… and he was a cut or two above me… I’d be the last one to deny that. “It’ll be a step up for a Plummer if you marry a Mitchell,” Ma said… I was a Plummer, Mrs Blythe… John A. Plummer’s daughter. And he paid me such nice romantic compliments, Mrs Blythe. Once he told me I had the ethereal charm of moonlight. I knew it meant something else, though I don’t know yet what “ethereal” means. I’ve always been meaning to look it up in the dictionary, but I never get around to it. Well, anyway, in the end I passed my word of honour that I would be his bride. That is… I mean… I said I’d take him. My, but I wish you could have seen me in my wedding-dress, Mrs Blythe. They all said I was a picture. Slim as a trout, with hair yaller as gold, and such a complexion. Ah, time makes turrible changes in us.
You
haven’t come to that yet, Mrs Blythe. You’re real pretty still… and a highly eddicated woman into the bargain. Ah, well, we can’t all be clever, some of us have to do the cooking. That dress you’ve got on is real handsome, Mrs Blythe. You never wear black I notice… you’re right… you’ll have to wear it soon enough. Put if off till you have to, I say. Well, where was I?’

‘You were… trying to tell me something about Mr Mitchell.’

‘Oh, yes. Well, we were married. There was a big comet that night… I remember seeing it as we drove home. It’s a real pity you couldn’t have seen that comet, Mrs Blythe. It was simply pretty. I don’t suppose you could work it into the obitchery, could you?’

‘It… might be rather difficult…

‘Well,’ Mrs Mitchell surrendered the comet with a sigh, ‘you’ll have to do the best you can. He hadn’t a very exciting life. He got drunk once, he said he just wanted to see what it was like for once… he was always of an inquiring turn of mind. But, of course, you couldn’t put that in an obitchery. Nothing much else ever happened to him. Not to complain, but just to state facts, he was a bit shiftless and easy-going. He would sit for an hour looking into a hollyhock. My, but he was fond of flowers… hated to mow down the buttercups. No matter if the wheat crop failed as long as there was farewell-summers and golden-rod. And trees… that orchard of his… I always told him, joking like, that he cared far more for his trees than for me. And his farm… my, but he loved his bit of land. He seemed to think it was a human being. Many’s the time I’ve heard him say, “I think I’ll go out and have a little talk to my farm.”

‘When we got old I wanted him to sell, seeing as we had no boys, and retire to Lowbridge, but he would say, “I can’t sell my farm… I can’t sell my heart.” Ain’t men funny? Not long before he died he took a notion to have a boiled hen for dinner, “Cooked in that way you have,” sez he. He was always partial to my cooking, if I do say it. The only thing he couldn’t abide was my lettuce salad with nuts in it. He said the nuts were so durned unexpected. But there wasn’t a hen to spare… they was all laying good… and there was only one rooster left, and of course I couldn’t kill him. My, but I like to see the roosters strutting round. Ain’t anything much handsomer than a fine rooster, do you think, Mrs Blythe? Well, where was I?’

‘You were saying your husband wanted you to cook a hen for him.’

‘Oh, yes. And I’ve been so sorry ever since I didn’t. I wake up in the night and think of it. But I didn’t know he was going to die, Mrs Blythe. He never complained much, and always said he was better. And interested in things to the last. If I’d-a-known he was going to die, Mrs Blythe, I’d have cooked a hen for him, eggs or no eggs.’

Mrs Mitchell removed her rusty black lace mits and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, black-bordered a full two inches.

‘He’d have enjoyed it,’ she sobbed. ‘He had his own teeth to the last, poor dear. Well, anyway’ – folding the handkerchief and putting on the mits – ‘he was sixty-five so he weren’t far from the allotted span. And I’ve got another coffin plate. Mary Martha Plummer and me started collecting coffin plates at the same time, but she soon got ahead of me… so many of her relations died, not to speak of her three children. She’s got more coffin plates than anyone in these parts. I didn’t seem to have much luck, but I’ve got a full mantelpiece at last. My cousin, Thomas Bates, was buried last week, and I wanted his wife to give me the coffin plate, but she had it buried with him. Said collecting coffin plates was a relic of barbarism. She was a Hampson, and the Hampsons were always odd. Well, where was I?’

Anne really could not tell Mrs Mitchell where she was this time. The coffin plates had dazed her.

‘Oh, well, anyway, poor Anthony died. “I go gladly and in quietness,” was all that he said, but he smiled just at the last… at the ceiling, not at me nor Seraphine. I’m so glad he was so happy just afore he died. There were times I used to think perhaps he wasn’t quite happy, Mrs Blythe… he was so terrible high-strung and sensitive. But he looked real noble and sublime in his coffin. We had a grand funeral. It was just a lovely day. He was buried with loads of flowers. I took a sinking spell at the last, but otherwise everything went off very well. We buried him in the Upper Glen graveyard, though all his family were buried in Lowbridge. But he picked out his graveyard long ago… said he wanted to be buried near his farm and where he could hear the sea and the wind in the trees… there’s trees around three sides of that graveyard, you know. I was glad, too, I always thought it was such a cosy little graveyard, and we can keep geraniums growing on his grave. He was a good man… he’s likely in heaven now, so that needn’t trouble you. I always think it must be some chore to write an obitchery when you
don’t
know where the departed is. I can depend on you then, Mrs Blythe?’

Anne consented, feeling that Mrs Mitchell would stay there and talk until she did consent. Mrs Mitchell, with another sigh of relief, heaved herself out of her chair.

‘I must be stepping. I’m expecting a hatching of turkey poults today. I’ve enjoyed my conversation with you and I wish I could have stayed longer. It’s lonesome being a widow woman. A man mayn’t amount to an awful lot, but you sort of miss him when he goes.’

Anne politely saw her down the walk. The children were stalking robins on the lawn and daffodil tips were poking up everywhere.

‘You’ve got a nice proud house here… a real, nice, proud house, Mrs Blythe. I’ve always felt I’d like a big house. But with only us and Seraphine… and where was the money to come from? And, anyway, Anthony’d never hear of it. He had an awful affection for that old house. I’m meaning to sell if I get a fair offer and live either in Lowbridge or Mowbray Narrows. Whichever I decide would be the best place to be a widow in. Anthony’s insurance will come in handy. Say what you like, it’s easier to bear a full sorrow than an empty one. You’ll find that out when you’re a widow yourself… though I hope that’ll be a good few years yet. How is the doctor getting on? It’s been a real sickly winter so he ought to have done pretty well. My, what a nice little family you’ve got! Three girls! Nice now, but wait you till they come to the boy-crazy age. Not that I’d much trouble with Seraphine. She was quiet… like her father… and stubborn like him. When she fell in love with John Whitaker, have him she would in spite of all I could say. A rowan-tree? Whyn’t you have it planted by the front door? It would keep the fairies out.’

‘But who would want to keep the fairies out, Mrs Mitchell?’

‘Now you’re talking like Anthony. I was only joking. O’ course I don’t believe in fairies… but if they did happen to exist I’ve heard they were pesky mischievous. Well, goodbye, Mrs Blythe. I’ll call round next week for the obitchery.’