black street cat to Aunt Cynthia, and swear that it is
Fatima. I'll get you out of the scrape, if I have to
prove that you never had Fatima, that she is safe in
your possession at the present time, and that there
never was such an animal as Fatima anyhow. I'll do
anything, say anything - but it must be for my future
wife."
"Will nothing else content you?" I said helplessly.
"Nothing."
I thought hard. Of course Max was acting abominably -
but - but - he was really a dear fellow - and this was
the twelfth time - and there was Anne Shirley! I knew
in my secret soul that life would be a dreadfully
dismal thing if Max were not around somewhere. Besides,
I would have married him long ago had not Aunt Cynthia
thrown us so pointedly at each other's heads ever since
he came to Spencervale.
"Very well," I said crossly.
Max left for Halifax in the morning. Next day we got a
wire saying it was all right. The evening of the
following day he was back in Spencervale. Ismay and I
put him in a chair and glared at him impatiently.
Max began to laugh and laughed until he turned blue.
"I am glad it is so amusing," said Ismay severely. "If
Sue and I could see the joke it might be more so."
"Dear little girls, have patience with me," implored
Max. "If you knew what it cost me to keep a straight
face in Halifax you would forgive me for breaking out
now."
"We forgive you - but for pity's sake tell us all about
it," I cried.
"Well, as soon as I arrived in Halifax I hurried to 110
Hollis Street, but - see here! Didn't you tell me your
Aunt's address was 10 Pleasant Street?"
"So it is."
"'T isn't. You look at the address on a telegram next
time you get one. She went a week ago to visit another
friend who lives at 110 Hollis."
"Max!"
"It's a fact. I rang the bell, and was just going to
ask the maid for 'Persian' when your Aunt Cynthia
herself came through the hall and pounced on me."
"'Max,' she said, 'have you brought Fatima?'
"'No,' I answered, trying to adjust my wits to this new
development as she towed me into the library. 'No, I -
I - just came to Halifax on a little matter of
business.'
"'Dear me,' said Aunt Cynthia, crossly, 'I don't know
what those girls mean. I wired them to send Fatima at
once. And she has not come yet and I am expecting a
call every minute from some one who wants to buy her.'
"'Oh!' I murmured, mining deeper every minute.
"'Yes,' went on your aunt, 'there is an advertisement
in the Charlottetown Enterprise for a Persian cat, and
I answered it. Fatima is really quite a charge, you
know - and so apt to die and be a dead loss,' - did
your aunt mean a pun, girls? - 'and so, although I am
considerably attached to her, I have decided to part
with her.'
"By this time I had got my second wind, and I promptly
decided that a judicious mixture of the truth was the
thing required.
"'Well, of all the curious coincidences,' I exclaimed.
'Why, Miss Ridley, it was I who advertised for a
Persian cat - on Sue's behalf. She and Ismay have
decided that they want a cat like Fatima for
themselves.'
"You should have seen how she beamed. She said she knew
you always really liked cats, only you would never own
up to it. We clinched the dicker then and there. I
passed her over your hundred and ten dollars - she took
the money without turning a hair - and now you are the
joint owners of Fatima. Good luck to your bargain!"
"Mean old thing," sniffed Ismay. She meant Aunt
Cynthia, and, remembering our shabby furs, I didn't
disagree with her.
"But there is no Fatima," I said, dubiously. "How shall
we account for her when Aunt Cynthia comes home?"
"Well, your aunt isn't coming home for a month yet.
When she comes you will have to tell her that the cat -
is lost - but you needn't say when it happened. As for
the rest, Fatima is your property now, so Aunt Cynthia
can't grumble. But she will have a poorer opinion than
ever of your fitness to run a house alone."
When Max left I went to the window to watch him down
the path. He was really a handsome fellow, and I was
proud of him. At the gate he turned to wave me good-by,
and, as he did, he glanced upward. Even at that
distance I saw the look of amazement on his face. Then
he came bolting back.
"Ismay, the house is on fire!" I shrieked, as I flew to
the door.
"Sue," cried Max, "I saw Fatima, or her ghost, at the
garret window a moment ago!"
"Nonsense!" I cried. But Ismay was already half way up
the stairs and we followed. Straight to the garret we
rushed. There sat Fatima, sleek and complacent, sunning
herself in the window.
Max laughed until the rafters rang.
"She can't have been up here all this time," I
protested, half tearfully. "We would have heard her
meowing."
"But you didn't," said Max.
"She would have died of the cold," declared Ismay.
"But she hasn't," said Max.
"Or starved," I cried.
"The place is alive with mice," said Max. "No, girls,
there is no doubt the cat has been here the whole
fortnight. She must have followed Huldah Jane up here,
unobserved, that day. It's a wonder you didn't hear her
crying - if she did cry. But perhaps she didn't, and,
of course, you sleep downstairs. To think you never
thought of looking here for her!"
"It has cost us over a hundred dollars," said Ismay,
with a malevolent glance at the sleek Fatima.
"It has cost me more than that," I said, as I turned to
the stairway.
Max held me back for an instant, while Ismay and Fatima
pattered down.
"Do you think it has cost too much, Sue?" he whispered.
I looked at him sideways. He was really a dear.
Niceness fairly exhaled from him.
"No-o-o," I said, "but when we are married you will
have to take care of Fatima, I won't."
"Dear Fatima," said Max gratefully.
Chapter II
The Materalizing Of Cecil
IT had never worried me in the least that I wasn't
married, although everybody in Avonlea pitied old
maids; but it did worry me, and I frankly confess it,
that I had never had a chance to be. Even Nancy, my old
nurse and servant, knew that, and pitied me for it.
Nancy is an old maid herself, but she has had two
proposals. She did not accept either of them because
one was a widower with seven children, and the other a
very shiftless, good-for-nothing fellow; but, if
anybody twitted Nancy on her single condition, she
could point triumphantly to those two as ev
idence that
"she could an she would." If I had not lived all my
life in Avonlea I might have had the benefit of the
doubt; but I had, and everybody knew everything about
me - or thought they did.
I had really often wondered why nobody had ever fallen
in love with me. I was not at all homely; indeed, years
ago, George Adoniram Maybrick had written a poem
addressed to me, in which he praised my beauty quite
extravagantly; that didn't mean anything because George
Adoniram wrote poetry to all the good-looking girls and
never went with anybody but Flora King, who was cross-
eyed and red-haired, but it proves that it was not my
appearance that put me out of the running. Neither was
it the fact that I wrote poetry myself - although not
of George Adoniram's kind - because nobody ever knew
that. When I felt it coming on I shut myself up in my
room and wrote it out in a little blank book I kept
locked up. It is nearly full now, because I have been
writing poetry all my life. It is the only thing I have
ever been able to keep a secret from Nancy. Nancy, in
any case, has not a very high opinion of my ability to
take care of myself; but I tremble to imagine what she
would think if she ever found out about that little
book. I am convinced she would send for the doctor
post-haste and insist on mustard plasters while waiting
for him.
Nevertheless, I kept on at it, and what with my flowers
and my cats and my magazines and my little book, I was
really very happy and contented. But it did sting that
Adella Gilbert, across the road, who has a drunken
husband, should pity "poor Charlotte" because nobody
had ever wanted her. Poor Charlotte indeed! If I had
thrown myself at a man's head the way Adella Gilbert
did at - but there, there, I must refrain from such
thoughts. I must not be uncharitable.
The Sewing Circle met at Mary Gillespie's on my
fortieth birthday. I have given up talking about my
birthdays, although that little scheme is not much good
make a mistake it is never on the side of youth. But
Nancy, who grew accustomed to celebrating my birthdays
when I was a little girl, never gets over the habit,
and I don't try to cure her, because, after all, it's
nice to have some one make a fuss over you. She brought
me up my breakfast before I got up out of bed - a
concession to my laziness that Nancy would scorn to
make on any other day of the year. She had cooked
everything I like best, and had decorated the tray with
roses from the garden and ferns from the woods behind
the house. I enjoyed every bit of that breakfast, and
then I got up and dressed, putting on my second best
muslin gown. I would have put on my really best if I
had not had the fear of Nancy before my eyes; but I
knew she would never condone that, even on a birthday.
I watered my flowers and fed my cats, and then I locked
myself up and wrote a poem on June. I had given up
writing birthday odes after I was thirty.
In the afternoon I went to the Sewing Circle. When I
was ready for it I looked in my glass and wondered if I
could really be forty. I was quite sure I didn't look
it. My hair was brown and wavy, my cheeks were pink,
and the lines could hardly be seen at all, though
possibly that was because of the dim light. I always
have my mirror hung in the darkest corner of my room.
Nancy cannot imagine why. I know the lines are there,
of course; but when they don't show very plain I forget
that they are there.
We had a large Sewing Circle, young and old alike
attending. I really cannot say I ever enjoyed the
meetings - at least not up to that time - although I
went religiously because I thought it my duty to go.
The married women talked so much of their husbands and
children, and of course I had to be quiet on those
topics; and the young girls talked in corner groups
about their beaux, and stopped it when I joined them,
as if they felt sure that an old maid who had never had
a beau couldn't understand at all. As for the other old
maids, they talked gossip about every one, and I did
not like that either. I knew the minute my back was
turned they would fasten into me and hint that I used
hair-dye and declare it was perfectly ridiculous for a
woman of fifty to wear a pink muslin dress with lace-
trimmed frills.
There was a full attendance that day, for we were
getting ready for a sale of fancy work in aid of
parsonage repairs. The young girls were merrier and
noisier than usual. Wilhelmina Mercer was there, and
she kept them going. The Mercers were quite new to
Avonlea, having come here only two months previously.
I was sitting by the window and Wilhelmina Mercer,
Maggie Henderson, Susette Cross and Georgie Hall were
in a little group just before me. I wasn't listening to
their chatter at all, but presently Georgie exclaimed
teasingly:
"Miss Charlotte is laughing at us. I suppose she thinks
we are awfully silly to be talking about beaux."
The truth was that I was simply smiling over some very
pretty thoughts that had come to me about the roses
which were climbing over Mary Gillespie's sill. I meant
to inscribe them in the little blank book when I went
home. Georgie's speech brought me back to harsh
realities with a jolt. It hurt me, as such speeches
always did.
"Didn't you ever have a beau, Miss Holmes?" said
Wilhelmina laughingly.
Just as it happened, a silence had fallen over the room
for a moment, and everybody in it heard Wilhelmina's
question.
I really do not know what got into me and possessed me.
I have never been able to account for what I said and
did, because I am naturally a truthful person and hate
all deceit. It seemed to me that I simply could not say
"No" to Wilhelmina before that whole roomful of women.
It was too humiliating. I suppose all the prickles and
stings and slurs I had endured for fifteen years on
account of never having had a lover had what the new
doctor calls "a cumulative effect" and came to a head
then and there.
"Yes, I had one once, my dear," I said calmly.
For once in my life I made a sensation. Every woman in
that room stopped sewing and stared at me. Most of
them, I saw, didn't believe me, but Wilhelmina did. Her
pretty face lighted up with interest.
"Oh, won't you tell us about him, Miss Holmes?" she
coaxed, "and why didn't you marry him?"
"That is right, Miss Mercer," said Josephine Cameron,
interested. It's news to us that Charlotte eve
r had a
beau."
If Josephine had not said that, I might not have gone
on. But she did say it, and, moreover, I caught Mary
Gillespie and Adella Gilbert exchanging significant
smiles. That settled it, and made me quite reckless.
"In for a penny, in for a pound," thought I, and I said
with a pensive smile:
"Nobody here knew anything about him, and it was all
long, long ago."
"What was his name?" asked Wilhelmina.
"Cecil Fenwick," I answered promptly. Cecil had always
been my favorite name for a man; it figured quite
frequently in the blank book. As for the Fenwick part
of it, I had a bit of newspaper in my hand, measuring a
hem, with "Try Fenwick's Porous Plasters" printed
across it, and I simply joined the two in sudden and
irrevocable matrimony.
"Where did you meet him?" asked Georgie.
I hastily reviewed my past. There was only one place to
locate Cecil Fenwick. The only time I had ever been far
enough away from Avonlea in my life was when I was
eighteen and had gone to visit an aunt in New
Brunswick.
"In Blakely, New Brunswick," I said, almost believing
that I had when I saw how they all took it in
unsuspectingly. "I was just eighteen and he was twenty-
three."
"What did he look like?" Susette wanted to know.
"Oh, he was very handsome." I proceeded glibly to
sketch my ideal. To tell the dreadful truth, I was
enjoying myself; I could see respect dawning in those
girls' eyes, and I knew that I had forever thrown off
my reproach. Henceforth I should be a woman with a
romantic past, faithful to the one love of her life - a
very, very different thing from an old maid who had
never had a lover.
"He was tall and dark, with lovely, curly black hair
and brilliant, piercing eyes. He had a splendid chin,
and a fine nose, and the most fascinating smile!"
"What was he?" asked Maggie.
"A young lawyer," I said, my choice of profession
decided by an enlarged crayon portrait of Mary
Gillespie's deceased brother on an easel before me. He
had been a lawyer.
"Why didn't you marry him?" demanded Susette.
"We quarreled," I answered sadly. "A terribly bitter
quarrel. Oh, we were both so young and so foolish. It
was my fault. I vexed Cecil by flirting with another
man" - wasn't I coming on! - "and he was jealous and
angry. He went out West and never came back. I have
never seen him since, and I do not even know if he is
alive. But - but - I could never care for any other
man."
"Oh, how interesting!" sighed Wilhelmina. "I do so love
sad love stories. But perhaps he will come back some
day yet, Miss Holmes."
"Oh, no, never now," I said, shaking my head. "He has
forgotten all about me, I dare say. Or if he hasn't, he
has never forgiven me."
Mary Gillespie's Susan Jane announced tea at this
moment, and I was thankful, for my imagination was
giving out, and I didn't know what question those girls
would ask next. But I felt already a change in the
mental atmosphere surrounding me, and all through
supper I was thrilled with a secret exultation.
Repentant? Ashamed? Not a bit of it! I'd have done the
same thing over again, and all I felt sorry for was
that I hadn't done it long ago.
When I got home that night Nancy looked at me
wonderingly, and said:
"You look like a girl to-night, Miss Charlotte."
"I feel like one," I said laughing; and I ran to my
room and did what I had never done before - wrote a
second poem in the same day. I had to have some outlet
for my feelings. I called it "In Summer Days of Long
Ago," and I worked Mary Gillespie's roses and Cecil
Fenwick's eyes into it, and made it so sad and
reminiscent and minor-musicky that I felt perfectly
happy.
For the next two months all went well and merrily. Nobody
ever said anything more to me about Cecil
Fenwick, but the girls all chattered freely to me of
their little love affairs, and I became a sort of
general confidant for them. It just warmed up the