Anne of Windy Poplars - L. M. Montgomery [34]
‘What would you think,’ kept on Trix, ‘of a man who opens and reads his wife’s letters?’
‘What would you think of a man who would go to a funeral – his father’s funeral – in overalls?’ asked Pringle.
What would they think of next? Mrs Cyrus was crying openly, and Esme was quite calm with despair. Nothing mattered any more. Esme turned and looked squarely at Dr Carter, whom she had lost for ever. For once in her life she was stung into saying a really clever thing.
‘What,’ she asked quietly, ‘would you think of a man who spent a whole day hunting for the kittens of a poor cat who had been shot because he couldn’t bear to think of them starving to death?’
A strange silence descended on the room. Trix and Pringle looked suddenly ashamed of themselves. And then Mrs Cyrus piped up, feeling it her wifely duty to back up Esme’s unexpected defence of her father.
‘And he can crochet so beautifully. He made the loveliest centrepiece for the parlour table last winter, when he was laid up with lumbago.’
Everyone has some limit of endurance, and Cyrus Taylor had reached his. He gave his chair such a furious backward push that it shot across the polished floor and struck the table on which the vase stood. The table went over and the vase broke into the traditional thousand pieces. Cyrus, his bushy white eyebrows fairly bristling with wrath, stood up and exploded at last.
‘I don’t crochet, woman! Is one contemptible doily going to blast a man’s reputation for ever? I was so bad with that blamed lumbago I didn’t know what I was doing. And I’m deaf, am I, Miss Shirley? I’m deaf.’
‘She didn’t say you were, Papa,’ cried Trix, who was never afraid of her father when his temper was vocal.
‘Oh, no, she didn’t say it! None of you said anything! You didn’t say I was sixty-eight when I’m only sixty-two, did you? You didn’t say I wouldn’t let your mother have a dog! Good Lord, woman, you can have forty thousand dogs if you want to, and you know it! When did I ever deny you anything you wanted – when?’
‘Never, Poppa, never!’ sobbed Mrs Cyrus brokenly. ‘And I never wanted a dog. I never even thought of wanting a dog, Poppa.’
‘When did I open your letters? When have I ever kept a diary? A diary! When did I ever wear overalls to anybody’s funeral? When did I pasture a cow in the graveyard? What aunt of mine is in the poorhouse? Did I ever throw a roast at anybody? Did I ever make you live on fruit and eggs?’
‘Never, Poppa, never!’ wept Mrs Cyrus. ‘You’ve always been a good provider – the best.’
‘Didn’t you tell me you wanted goloshes last Christmas?’
‘Yes, oh, yes, of course I did, Poppa. And my feet have been so nice and warm all winter.’
‘Well, then!’ Cyrus threw a triumphant glance round the room. His eyes encountered Anne’s. Suddenly the unexpected happened. Cyrus chuckled. His cheeks actually dimpled. Those dimples worked a miracle with his whole expression. He brought his chair back to the table and sat down.
‘I’ve got a very bad habit of sulking, Dr Carter. Everyone has some bad habit. That’s mine. The only one. Come, come, Momma, stop crying. I admit I deserved all I got, except that crack of yours about the crocheting. Esme, my girl, I won’t forget that you were the only one who stood up for me. Tell Maggie to come and clear up that mess – I know you’re all glad the darn’ thing is smashed – and bring on the pudding.’
Anne could never have believed that an evening which began so terribly could end up so pleasantly. Nobody could have