Anne of Ingleside - L. M. Montgomery [101]
After supper they went home. Jane Burr walked as far as the village with Mrs Simon Millison.
‘I must remember all the fixings to tell Ma,’ said Jane wistfully, not knowing that Susan was counting the spoons. ‘She never gets out since she’s bed-rid, but she loves to hear about things. That table will be a real treat to her.’
‘It was just like a picture you’d see in a magazine,’ agreed Mrs Simon with a sigh. ‘I can cook as good a supper as anyone, if I do say it, but I can’t fix up a table with a single prestige of style. As for that young Walter, I could spank his bottom with a relish. Such a turn as he gave me!’
‘And I suppose Ingleside is strewn with dead characters?’ the Doctor was saying.
‘I wasn’t quilting,’ said Anne, ‘so I didn’t hear any gossip.’
‘You never do, dearie,’ said Miss Cornelia, who had lingered to help Susan bind the quilts. ‘When you are at the quilt they never let themselves go. They think you don’t approve of gossip.’
‘It all depends on the kind,’ said Anne.
‘Well, nobody really said anything too terrible today. Most of the people they talked about were dead… or ought to be,’ said Miss Cornelia, recalling the story of Abner Cromwell’s abortive funeral with a grin. ‘Only Mrs Millison had to drag in that gruesome old murder story again about Madge Carey and her husband. I remember it all. There wasn’t a vestige of proof that Madge did it… except that a cat died after eating some of the soup. The animal had been sick for a week. If you ask me, Roger Carey died of appendicitis, though, of course, nobody knew they had appendixes then.’
‘And, indeed, I think it is a great pity they ever found out,’ said Susan. ‘The spoons are all intact, Mrs Doctor dear, and nothing happened to the tablecloth.’
‘Well, I must be getting home,’ said Miss Cornelia. ‘I’ll send you up some spare ribs next week when Marshall kills the pig.’
Walter was again sitting on the steps with eyes full of dreams. Dusk had fallen. Where, he wondered, had it fallen from? Did some great spirit with bat-like wings pour it all over the world from a purple jar? The moon was rising and three wind-twisted old spruces looked like three lean, humpbacked old witches hobbling up a hill against it. Was that a little faun with furry ears crouching in the shadows? Suppose he opened the door in the brick wall now wouldn’t he step, not into the well-known garden, but into some strange land of faery, where princesses were waking from enchanted sleeps, where perhaps he might find and follow echo as he so often longed to do? One dared not speak. Something would vanish if one did.
‘Darling,’ said Mother, coming out, ‘you mustn’t sit here any longer. It is getting cold. Remember your throat.’
The spoken word had broken the spell. Some magic light had gone. The lawn was still a beautiful place, but it was no longer fairyland. Walter got up.
‘Mother, will you tell me what happened at Peter Kirk’s funeral?’
Anne thought for a moment… then shivered.
‘Not now, dear. Perhaps… some time…’
35
Anne, alone in her room… for Gilbert had been called out… sat down at her window for a few minutes of communion with the tenderness of the night and of enjoyment of the eerie charm of her moonlit room. ‘Say what you will,’ thought Anne, ‘there is always something a little strange about a moonlit room. Its whole personality is changed. It is not so friendly… so human. It is remote and aloof and wrapped up in itself. Almost it regards you as an intruder.’
She was a little tired after her busy day and everything was so beautifully quiet now… the children asleep, Ingleside restored to order. There was no sound in the house except a faint rhythmic thumping from the kitchen where Susan was setting her bread.
But through the open window came the sounds of the night, every one of which Anne knew and loved. Low laughter drifted up from the harbour on the still air. Someone was singing down in the Glen and it sounded like the haunting notes of some song heard long ago. There were silvery moonlight paths over the water, but Ingleside was hooded