Anne of Windy Poplars - L. M. Montgomery [62]
The golden day was spoiled for Anne. Somehow the Little Fellow had won her heart in their brief meeting. She and Lewis drove in silence down the Glencove road and up the grassy lane. Carlo was lying on the stone before the blue door. He got up and came over to them as they descended from the buggy, licking Anne’s hand and looking up at her with big, wistful eyes, as if asking for news of his little playmate. The door was open, and in the dim room beyond they saw a man with his head bowed on the table.
At Anne’s knock he started up and came to the door. She was shocked at the change in him. He was hollow-cheeked, haggard, and unshaven, and his deep-set eyes flashed with a fitful fire.
She expected a repulse at first, but he seemed to recognize her, for he said listlessly, ‘So you’re back? The Little Fellow said you talked to him and kissed him. He liked you. I was sorry I’d been so churlish to you. What is it you want?’
‘We want to show you something,’ said Anne gently.
‘Will you come in and sit down?’ he said drearily.
Without a word Lewis took the Little Fellow’s picture from its wrappings and held it out to him. He snatched it up, gave it one amazed, hungry look, then dropped in his chair and burst into tears. Anne had never before seen a man weep as he did. She and Lewis stood aside in mute sympathy until he had regained his self-control.
‘Oh, you don’t know what this means to me,’ he said brokenly at last. ‘I hadn’t any picture of him. And I’m not like other folks: I can’t recall a face. I can’t see faces as most folks can in their minds. It’s been awful since the Little Fellow died. I couldn’t even remember what he looked like. And now you’ve brought me this – after I was so rude to you. Sit down! Sit down! I wish I could express my thanks in some way. I guess you’ve saved my reason – maybe my life. Oh, miss, isn’t it like him? You’d think he was going to speak. My dear Little Fellow! How am I going to live without him? I’ve nothing to live for now. First his mother, now him.’
‘He was a dear little lad,’ said Anne tenderly.
‘That he was. Little Teddy – Theodore, his mother named him. Her “gift of God” she said he was. Such a cruel death for him, too. He was so bright and full of life – and to be crushed out like that! And he was so patient, and never complained. Once he smiled up in my face and said, “Dad, I think you’ve been mistaken in one thing – just one. I guess there is a heaven, isn’t there? Isn’t there, Dad?” I said to him, yes, there was. God forgive me for ever trying to teach him anything else. He smiled again, contented-like, and said, “Well, Dad, I’m going there, and Mother and God are there, so I’ll be pretty well off. But I’m worried about you, Dad. You’ll be so awful lonesome without me. But just do the best you can, and be polite to folks, and come to us by and by.” He made me promise I’d try, but when he was gone I couldn’t stand the blankness of it. I’d have gone mad if you hadn’t brought me this. It won’t be so hard now…’
He talked about his Little Fellow for some time, as if he found relief and pleasure in it. His reserve and gruffness seemed to have fallen from him like a garment. Finally Lewis produced the small, faded photograph of himself and showed it to him.
‘Have you ever seen anybody who looked like that, Mr Armstrong?’ asked Anne.
Mr Armstrong peered at it in perplexity. ‘It’s awful like the Little Fellow,’ he said at last. ‘Whose might it be?’
‘Mine,’ said Lewis, ‘when I was seven years old. It was because of the strange resemblance to Teddy that Miss Shirley made me bring it to show you. I thought it possible that you and I or the Little Fellow might be distant relations. My name is Lewis Allen, and my father was George Allen. I was born in New Brunswick.’
James Armstrong shook his head. Then he said, ‘What was your mother’s name?’
‘Mary Gardiner.’
James Armstrong looked at him for a moment in silence. ‘She was my half-sister,’ he said at last. ‘I hardly knew her – never saw her but once. I was brought up in an uncle’s family