The judge looked indignant. “Come right over to Elmcroft with me, he said peremptorily.
Peter look scandalized.
“Not like this,” he protested.
“Nobody will see you like that except my housekeeper, and she won’t see you like that long. It’s a shame. Come, I say. There are—there ought to be—some boy’s clothes in my house somewhere. We’ll see what can be done.”
Peter would have gone anywhere with anyone in the hope of getting rid of the shameful feminine garments. Mrs. Moody was presently amazed at the tableau which met her eye.
“Mrs. Moody,” said the judge sternly, “take this boy and see if you can find suitable clothes for him.”
When Mrs. Moody brought Peter back the latter held his head erect once more, but the judge looked suddenly away from him with a peculiar expression on his grim face. An old memory, once sweet, now bitter, came to him of a boy who had worn that self-same velvet suit and lace collar long ago. That boy had not looked like the yellow-haired Peter; he had been dark and black-eyed, like the judge himself.
“I feel lots better,” announced Peter, “but I’d like to know how you came to have a suit of clothes that fit me. Did you ever have a little boy?”
“Yes—once.”
“What became of him, then?” asked Peter, picking out a very comfortable chair and depositing himself in it. In his velvet and lace, with his fair curls and rosy face, he made a bright spot in the dim, stately room. He was as much at home there and fitted as harmoniously into his surroundings as if he had been on the old boulder in the lane. The judge noticed this and felt a certain satisfaction in it.
“He grew up and broke my heart,” said the latter grimly.
“How did he break your heart?”
“Listen, I will tell you,” said the judge, as if he were talking to a person of his own age. “I had one son. I idolized him and lavished everything on him. I never denied him a wish. I had great hopes, great ambitions, for him. He repaid me with ingratitude and disobedience. He fell in love with a girl far beneath him—a wretched little music-teacher. He married her in defiance of my wishes—my commands. I told him never to darken my doors again. He did not. I never saw him again. He was killed in a railroad accident two years ago. But he died to me on the day he disobeyed me.”
“You are worse than Aunt Mary Ellen, I do believe,” said Peter tranquilly. “She makes me eat porridge when I don’t like it, but I’m sure she wouldn’t try to prevent me from marrying anybody I wanted if I was old enough. I think that you did very wrong. Did your son have any little boys?”
“No. He left a daughter, I believe. I don’t know anything about her—at least, I mean I’ve never seen her or her mother—and I never want to. I hate them both.” The judge thumped his cane savagely on the floor.
“I’m sorry for that little girl if you hate her, because she has missed a splendid grandfather,” said Peter. “You would make a splendid grandfather, you know, if you had a little practice.”
“How would you like to have me for your grandfather?” asked the judge.
“I think I’d like it very much, but it can’t be. Grandfathers have to be born.”
“They might be adopted, mightn’t they?” queried the judge. “I wish you would adopt me as a grandfather. Wouldn’t you like to come here and live?”
“I would get you a pony and a St. Bernard and everything you wanted.”
“I think I’d like it,” Peter said cautiously, “but I don’t know what Aunt Mary Ellen would say. Maybe she’d think with such a good aunt as her I didn’t need a grandfather. But she says I’m a terrible responsibility, so perhaps she’ll be glad to get clear of me.”
“I’ll have a talk with your aunt about it some of these days,” said the judge, looking at Peter with affectionate pride.
But the judge’s plans were upset—not by Aunt Mary Ellen, but by Peter himself. The next day Peter sat on the boulder and looked disapprovingly at the judge.
“What is the matter?” inquired the latter anxiously. Peter’s good opinion had come to be very precious to him.
“Matter enough.” Peter’s eyes and voice were reproachful. “I think you might have told me that Averil was your granddaughter.”
“Who told you?” asked the judge angrily.
“Aunt Mary Ellen. She only found out lately. I don’t think you’ve been fair at all. You let me talk about Averil and I let you help me with my letters. Do you suppose I’d have done that if I’d known you were hating her all the time?”
“I’m sorry,” said the judge humbly. “Can’t you forgive me?”
“Yes, I can forgive you because I think so much of you. But I can never talk about Averil to you again and you needn’t expect me to. And another thing: you needn’t speak to Aunt Mary Ellen about that matter we were ’scussing. I can’t adopt you for a grandfather because it wouldn’t be fair to Averil. You ought to be her grandfather and it’s my duty to think of her rights. Of course, if you feel like being grandfather to us both—”
“Never!” interrupted the judge, scowling blackly. “I’ll never have anything to do with that woman or her child. Peter, you don’t understand—you can’t understand.”
“Well, it isn’t a nice subject,” conceded Peter, “but I’ll keep on feeling that way.”
“We’ll see what difference a year or two will make,” the judge said to himself. But he did not have to wait so long.
One September afternoon when the judge came in from a drive, Jenkins met him with a very sober face.
“There’s trouble at the little house, sir. The boy has been badly hurt; he was run over by young Blair’s automobile and he’s been asking for you.”
Without a word the judge went down the lane to the little brown house. He met the doctor at the door.
“How is he?” whispered the judge. The doctor looked at him curiously. He had never seen Judge Raymond so moved before.
“There’s no hope,” he said. “It’s only a question of a very short time. I always knew that drunken Blair would wind up by killing somebody. But the boy is quite conscious and wants to see you.”
He ushered the judge into the spotless little bedroom. A tall, plain-faced woman with deep, kindly eyes was bending over the bed where the little fellow lay. The pink was all gone from Peter’s face, but the big, bright eyes looked out undauntedly.
“My boy,” said the judge, his voice breaking in a sob. Peter smiled gallantly.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” he said faintly. There’s something very important I want to say to you, and I guess there isn’t much time. I wanted to see you about Averil. Aunt Mary Ellen says it’s such a hard world for women. You see, Averil’s my promised wife and when I’m dead she’ll be my promised widow, and I feel that it’s my duty to provide for her. Won’t you be her grandfather, sir—just as much her grandfather as you’d have been mine?”
The thing he had never dreamed of saying came willingly, even eagerly, from the old man’s lips: “Yes, yes, I’ll look after Averil, and her mother, too. They shall come and live with me.”
“And you’ll love her, won’t you?” persisted Peter. “Because it wouldn’t—be much—use—to do things—for her—if you didn’t—love her.”
“I’ll give her the love I would have given you, Peter.”
“It’s a promise—isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is a promise,” said the judge. And whatever might have been said of Judge Raymond, his worst enemy could not have said that he ever broke a promise.
“I’m so glad. It’s a great—weight—off my mind. Don’t cry—dear Aunt Mary Ellen. You’ve been—very good to me—and I’m sorry—I was ever naughty—about the porridge. Please be good—to my kitten—and tell Averil—tell Averil….”
But the little knight’s message to his lady went with him into the shadow.
Edit
ors’ note: “Peter of the Lane” was published in Pictorial Review in August 1909. It was listed in the 1986 bibliography under “Unverified Ledger Titles” and was found by Donna Campbell. It is available to view online in the Ryrie-Campbell Collection.
Adoption is frequently a topic in L. M. Montgomery’s novels and stories but it usually involves adults adopting children rather than is the case in this story in which an adult wishes to be adopted—as a grandfather—by a child.
Prince Edward Island has an unusual history regarding the automobile. There were a few cars on the Island in early days, the first one—a “horseless carriage”—having been brought in by Father G. A. Belcourt of Rustico in 1866. By 1905, a few years before “Peter of the Lane” was published, there were at least five cars on the Island. They were hated so much by most Islanders that a law was passed in 1908 banning their use on the public roads. However, by 1913, the idea of the automobile had become more accepted and cars were permitted to be driven on the roads three days a week. It was not until 1918 that automobiles were legal to drive on all days of the week in Prince Edward Island. (For more information on the history of the automobile in Prince Edward Island, see Deborah Stewart’s article, “The Island Meets the Auto,” in the 1978 Fall/Winter issue of The Island Magazine, available to view online in the Island Archives.)
Peter’s comment that Averil had “a muscle like a Sullivan” was a reference to the famous American heavy-weight champion boxer John L. Sullivan, still active at the time of this story’s publication.
Early in the summer of 1909, L. M. Montgomery began work on her book, The Story Girl. She also observed many visitors coming to Cavendish to look for Lover’s Lane, made famous the year before in Anne of Green Gables.
Several of Montgomery’s stories published in earlier years were republished in August 1909. Two new stories were published that year as well: “The Life-Book of Uncle Jesse” (which she later adapted for chapters in Anne’s House of Dreams), and “The Little Black Doll.”
For the Good of Anthony
(1910)
My very dear Coz: What shall I say? I am tired—so tired!—having reached Halifax at three yesterday and Beechlands half an hour later. Yet tired as I am, I am in the seventh heaven of delight. Halifax is a dear, quaint, grimy, romantic place, and so charmingly old! There is none of our blatant Western newness about it. Then, too, what a flavor life must have in a garrison town! I feel already as if I were living in one of Kipling’s stories. But my impressions of “the warden of the honour of the north” are yet too raw to be of any value, and well do I know that if they were finished to the nicest degree they would only bore you. You want to hear about Beechlands, Aunt Clara, Uncle Maurice, and Elizabeth. Well, you shall have the very best picture my weary pen can sketch.
Beechlands is delightful, a stanch old house of mellow red brick, looking as if it had been steeped in the sunshine of a century’s summers, with ivy and the glamour of royalty hanging about it. For you must know, dear Mils, as Uncle Maurice did not fail to tell me before I was well under his roof, that the Duke of Kent lived at Beechlands for as long as six weeks during his ancient sojourn in Halifax. And it is said that he planted the aforesaid ivy with his own royal hands—which you may believe or not, as you like—but on no account let Uncle Maurice suspect your heresy if you do not. The grounds were also laid out under the same princely supervision, and do credit to his taste, being magnificent. Such trees, dear Mils, you never saw! And the view of the harbour is the finest in Halifax.
Uncle and Aunt are kind, old-fashioned folk, much surprised to find that I am not still the little girl of ten from whom they parted nine years ago. And Elizabeth! Ah, now you are interested, much more interested than in all my chatter of Beechlands and its ducal memories! You want to hear all about this cousin of yours and sister of mine whom you have never seen and I have not seen for ten years, ever since our mother died and your parents took me into your Western home, while Elizabeth came to Beechlands.
Well, Elizabeth is very beautiful. And I am so like her that when we look in the glass together I am half puzzled to know which is my own face. Are you shocked at my vanity? My dear, it is the simple truth. Elizabeth and I are marvelously alike. In spite of ten years’ seniority we might, as Uncle assures us, be taken for twins. The only noticeable difference is that I have colour, while Elizabeth is pale.
But with our looks all resemblance between us ends. I am, as you know, a most friendly creature; Elizabeth is cold and reserved in manner. I laugh always; Elizabeth never, though her smile is sweet enough to atone for the absence of laughter. I prattle my secrets to all and sundry; alas! Elizabeth shows no sign of being confidential. I have no dignity; Elizabeth is dignity incarnate. I am capable of holding resentment long enough for it to be serviceable; but I am much mistaken if my stately, sweetly smiling sister has not a most high spirit to resent an injury, and a strength of will—stubbornness, if you think it the more honest word—to sustain it for longer than is wise. With it all, she is charming and I love her dearly already.
I shall write more of Elizabeth in a few days, when my Western breeziness and her Eastern conventionality shall have been mutually adjusted.
Until then, dear Coz,
I am your most affectionate and most weary, Eve.
Dear Coz: A week has gone by, and I have not wasted it. I have found out the secret of Elizabeth’s romance. For Elizabeth has a romance and has shared it with me—very unwillingly, be it confessed—and only because she could not help herself. I fear that Elizabeth has a most unsisterly disapproval of me, in spite of the fact that I think she loves me also.
At first I did not suspect Elizabeth of human weakness, although it struck even my frivolous perception that in repose or solitude her face was much sadder than the face of a beautiful girl of nineteen ought to be. But I did not speak of this to her. Nor would you, dear Mils. There is a fire in Elizabeth’s dark eyes which would daunt any unwarranted curiosity. I think those eyes of hers can flash fiercely upon occasion. She has even favoured me with some glances, far from loving. And yet if you only knew how charming she is with it all! Even her very pride and coldness seem virtues in her.
One day at luncheon Uncle Maurice remarked casually that Anthony Allen would return from New York next week. Now, I had never heard of Anthony Allen and Uncle’s item of news, and it would have gone in at one of my small ears and out of the other if I had not at that very moment happened to glance at Elizabeth. Wonder of wonders! My sister’s eyes were studiously cast down at her plate; but the point of dissemblance between us was gone, for Elizabeth was no longer pale. Pale, dear Mils? You never saw a rose so crimson! From the tip of her deliciously pointed chin to the “moonshine parting” in her hair was all one painful blush. So amazed was I that I stared at her, quite forgetful of all good form, until she looked haughtily up and, finding my curious eyes upon her, favoured me with an indignant flash of those before -mentioned proud, dark orbs. I looked promptly away, and was just in time to intercept an amused family look on its way from Uncle Maurice to Aunt Clara. Not being duller than most people, I could divine a meaning in all this; but what meaning? Who was Anthony Allen, and why should Elizabeth Stuart blush so painfully at the mere mention of his name? I determined to find out—and you, dear Mils, who know me tolerably well, do not need to be told that I succeeded in my determination—at the cost, I fear, of some of Elizabeth’s affection; for she loves me none the better for compelling her confidence.
After luncheon that day I followed Elizabeth to her room, and found her standing at the window looking out on the Pine Walk. She was pale again and her eyes were sad, but O, how proud her face was!
“Elizabeth,” said I, sitting down in a chair whence I could see her profile, “who is Anthony Allen?”
Again that magnificent colour! But her voice was steady and even-toned as she answered, without turning her head, “He is the son of our neighbour, Mr. Allen. They l
ive over there at Rockywold; you can see the house over the pines of the walk.”
“Is he your lover, Elizabeth?” I asked daringly.
Elizabeth flashed round upon me in right royal anger. “How dare you, Evelyn?” She cried. “No, no, no!”
“’Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’” I quoted provokingly. “One ‘no’ would have been more convincing.”
“Anthony Allen is nothing to me,” said Elizabeth coldly, mastering that blaze of temper instantly.
“I should not put myself to blush over the name of a man who was nothing to me,” I said with a smile.
How angry she was, and how well she hid it! She did not deign to answer me; but turned haughtily away to her contemplation of the Pine Walk. I went over and slipped my arm about her.
“Sister mine, tell me all about it,” I coaxed.
“There is nothing to tell,” said Elizabeth freezingly.
“Then Aunt Clara can tell it as well as another,” said I.
“You would not ask her!” cried Elizabeth. “O, Evelyn, you are cruel! I—I—since you will have the truth of the matter, take it! Anthony Allen and I were to have been married this fall; but his conduct was so—he behaved disgracefully to me, and I broke the engagement. I do not repent it. I do not care for him in the least—now.”
That was a fib, dear Mils, and I knew it. This little bit of femininity endeared Elizabeth to me wonderfully. “Does he care?” I asked sympathetically.
“He has tried to make our quarrel up,” she answered reluctantly, “but he need not, for I will never forgive him.”
And if you had seen the light in her eyes and the haughty curve of her lips as she spoke you would have thought poor Anthony’s chances about as fair as I do. Then, after having told me so much, she took leave to be angry with me and told me never to speak of the matter to her again. But I shall please myself about that. And I know quite well that Elizabeth is breaking her heart in secret over this same Anthony.
After Many Years Page 8
