The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  Nan stared at her. It was true she had promised not to tell. And Mother always said you mustn’t break a promise.

  “I guess I’ll be getting home myself,” said Dovie, not altogether liking the look of Nan.

  She snatched up the parasol and ran off, her plump bare legs twinkling along the old wharf. Behind her she left a broken-hearted child, sitting amid the ruins of her small universe. Dovie didn’t care. Soft was no name for Nan. It really wasn’t much fun to fool her. Of course she would tell her mother as soon as she got home and find out she had been hoaxed.

  “Just as well I’m going home Sunday,” reflected Dovie.

  Nan sat on the wharf for what seemed hours . . . blind, crushed, despairing. She wasn’t Mother’s child! She was Six-toed Jimmy’s child . . . Six-toed Jimmy of whom she had always had a secret dread simply because of his six toes. She had no business to be living at Ingleside, loved by Mother and Dad. “Oh!” Nan gave a piteous little moan. Mother and Dad wouldn’t love her any more if they knew. All their love would go to Cassie Thomas.

  Nan put her hand to her head. “It makes me dizzy,” she said.

  Chapter 31

  “What is the reason you are not eating anything, pet?” asked Susan at the supper table.

  “Were you out in the sun too long, dear?” asked Mother anxiously. “Does your head ache?”

  “Ye-e-s,” said Nan. But it wasn’t her head that ached. Was she telling a lie to Mother? And if so, how many more would she have to tell? For Nan knew she would never be able to eat again . . . never so long as this horrible knowledge was hers. And she knew she could never tell Mother. Not so much because of the promise . . . hadn’t Susan said once that a bad promise was better broken than kept? . . . but because it would hurt Mother. Somehow, Nan knew beyond any doubt that it would hurt Mother horribly. And Mother mustn’t . . . shouldn’t . . . be hurt. Nor Dad.

  And yet . . . there was Cassie Thomas. She wouldn’t call her Nan Blythe. It made Nan feel awful beyond description to think of Cassie Thomas as being Nan Blythe. She felt as if it blotted her out altogether. If she wasn’t Nan Blythe she wasn’t anybody! She would not be Cassie Thomas.

  But Cassie Thomas haunted her. For a week Nan was beset by her . . . a wretched week during which Anne and Susan were really worried over the child, who wouldn’t eat and wouldn’t play and, as Susan said, “just moped around.” Was it because Dovie Johnson had gone home? Nan said it wasn’t. Nan said it wasn’t anything. She just felt tired. Dad looked her over and prescribed a dose which Nan took meekly. It was not so bad as castor-oil but even castor-oil meant nothing now. Nothing meant anything except Cassie Thomas . . . and the awful question which had emerged from her confusion of mind and taken possession of her.

  Shouldn’t Cassie Thomas have her rights?

  Was it fair that she, Nan Blythe . . . Nan clung to her identity frantically . . . should have all the things Cassie Thomas was denied and which were hers by rights? No, it wasn’t fair. Nan was despairingly sure it wasn’t fair. Somewhere in Nan there was a very strong sense of justice and fair play. And it became increasingly borne in upon her that it was only fair that Cassie Thomas should be told.

  After all, perhaps nobody would care very much. Mother and Dad would be a little upset at first, of course, but as soon as they knew that Cassie Thomas was their own child all their love would go to Cassie and, she, Nan, would be of no account to them. Mother would kiss Cassie Thomas and sing to her in the summer twilights . . . sing the song Nan liked best. . . .

  “I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing on the sea,

  “And oh, it was all laden with pretty things for me.”

  Nan and Di had often talked about the day their ship would come in. But now the pretty things . . . her share of them anyhow . . . would belong to Cassie Thomas. Cassie Thomas would take her part as fairy queen in the forthcoming Sunday School concert and wear her dazzling band of tinsel. How Nan had looked forward to that! Susan would make fruit puffs for Cassie Thomas and Pussywillow would purr for her. She would play with Nan’s dolls in Nan’s moss-carpeted play-house in the maple grove, and sleep in her bed. Would Di like that? Would Di like Casssie Thomas for a sister?

  There came a day when Nan knew she could bear it no longer. She must do what was fair. She would go down to the Harbour Mouth and tell the Thomases the truth. They could tell Mother and Dad. Nan felt that she simply could not do that.

  Nan felt a little better when she had come to this decision, but very, very sad. She tried to eat a little supper because it would be the last meal she would ever eat at Ingleside.

  “I’ll always call Mother ‘Mother,’” thought Nan desperately. “And I won’t call Six-toed Jimmy ‘Father.’ I’ll just say ‘Mr. Thomas’ very respectfully. Surely he won’t mind that.”

  But something choked her. Looking up she read castor-oil in Susan’s eye. Little Susan thought she wouldn’t be here at bedtime to take it. Cassie Thomas would have to swallow it. That was the one thing Nan didn’t envy Cassie Thomas.

  Nan went off immediately after supper. She must go before it was dark or her courage would fail her. She went in her checked gingham play-dress, not daring to change it, lest Susan or Mother ask why. Besides, all her nice dresses really belonged to Cassie Thomas. But she did put on the new apron Susan had made for her . . . such a smart little scalloped apron, the scallops bound in turkey red. Nan loved that apron. Surely Cassie Thomas wouldn’t grudge her that much.

  She walked down to the village, through the village, past the wharf road, and down the harbour road, a gallant, indomitable little figure. Nan had no idea that she was a heroine. On the contrary she felt very much ashamed of herself because it was so hard to do what was right and fair, so hard to keep from hating Cassie Thomas, so hard to keep from fearing Six-toed Jimmy, so hard to keep from turning round and running back to Ingleside.

  It was a lowering evening. Out to sea hung a heavy black cloud, like a great dark bat. Fitful lightning played over the harbour and the wooded hills beyond. The cluster of fishermen’s houses at the Harbour Mouth lay flooded in a red light that escaped from under the cloud. Pools of water here and there glowed like great rubies. A ship, silent, white-sailed, was drifting past the dim, misty dunes to the mysterious calling ocean; the gulls were crying strangely.

  Nan did not like the smell of the fishing houses or the groups of dirty children who were playing and fighting and yelling on the sands. They looked curiously at Nan when she stopped to ask them which was Six-toed Jimmy’s house.

  “That one over there,” said a boy, pointing. “What’s your business with him?”

  “Thank you,” said Nan, turning away.

  “Have ye got no more manners than that?” yelled a girl. “Too stuck-up to answer a civil question!”

  The boy got in front of her.

  “See that house back of Thomases?” he said. “It’s got a sea-serpent in it and I’ll lock you up in it if you don’t tell me what you want with Six-toed Jimmy.”

  “Come now, Miss Proudy,” taunted a big girl. “You’re from the Glen and the glenners all think they’re the cheese. Answer Bill’s question!”

  “If you don’t look out,” said another boy, “I’m going to drown some kittens and I’ll quite likely pop you in, too.”

  “If you’ve got a dime about you I’ll sell you a tooth,” said a black-browed girl, grinning. “I had one pulled yesterday.”

  “I haven’t got a dime and your tooth wouldn’t be of any use to me,” said Nan, plucking up a little spirit. “You let me alone.”

  “None of your lip!” said the black-browed.

  Nan started to run. The sea-serpent boy stuck out a foot and tripped her up. She fell her length on the tide-rippled sand. The others screamed with laughter.

  “You won’t hold your head so high now, I reckon,” said the black-browed. “Strutting about here with your red scallops!”

  Then someone exclaimed, “There’s Blue Jack’s boat coming in!” and away they all ran. T
he black cloud had dropped lower and every ruby pool was grey.

  Nan picked herself up. Her dress was plastered with sand and her stockings were soiled. But she was free from her tormentors. Would these be her playmates in the future?

  She must not cry . . . she must not! She climbed the rickety board steps that led up to Six-toed Jimmy’s door. Like all the Harbour Mouth houses Six-toed Jimmy’s was raised on blocks of wood to be out of the reach of any unusually high tide, and the space underneath it was filled with a medley of broken dishes, empty cans, old lobster traps, and all kinds of rubbish. The door was open and Nan looked into a kitchen the like of which she had never seen in her life. The bare floor was dirty, the ceiling was stained and smoked, the sink was full of dirty dishes. The remains of a meal were on the rickety old wooden table and horrid big black flies were swarming over it. A woman with an untidy mop of grayish hair was sitting on a rocker nursing a fat lump of a baby . . . a baby gray with dirt.

  “My sister,” thought Nan.

  There was no sign of Cassie or Six-toed Jimmy, for which latter fact Nan felt grateful.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” said the woman rather ungraciously.

  She did not ask Nan in but Nan walked in. It was beginning to rain outside and a peal of thunder made the house shake. Nan knew she must say what she had come to say before her courage failed her, or she would turn and run from that dreadful house and that dreadful baby and those dreadful flies.

  “I want to see Cassie, please,” she said. “I have something important to tell her.”

  “Indeed, now!” said the woman. “It must be important, from the size of you. Well, Cass isn’t home. Her dad took her to the Upper Glen for a ride and with this storm coming up there’s no telling when they’ll be back. Sit down.”

  Nan sat down on a broken chair. She had known the Harbour Mouth folks were poor but she had not known any of them were like this. Mrs. Tom Fitch in the Glen was poor but Mrs. Tom Fitch’s house was as neat and tidy as Ingleside. Of course, everyone knew that Six-toed Jimmy drank up everything he made. And this was to be her home henceforth!

  “Anyhow, I’ll try to clean it up,” thought Nan forlornly. But her heart was like lead. The flame of high self-sacrifice which had lured her on had gone out.

  “What are you wanting to see Cass for?” asked Mrs. Six-toed curiously, as she wiped the baby’s dirty face with a still dirtier apron. “If it’s about that Sunday School concert she can’t go and that’s flat. She hasn’t a decent rag. How can I get her any? I ask you.”

  “No, it’s not about the concert,” said Nan drearily. She might as well tell Mrs. Thomas the whole story. She would have to know it anyhow. “I came to tell her . . . to tell her that . . . that she is me and I’m her!”

  Perhaps Mrs. Six-toed might be forgiven for not thinking this very lucid.

  “You must be cracked,” she said. “Whatever on earth do you mean?”

  Nan lifted her head. The worst was now over.

  “I mean that Cassie and I were born the same night and . . . and . . . the nurse changed us because she had a spite at Mother, and . . . and . . . Cassie ought to be living at Ingleside . . . and having advantages.”

  This last phrase was one she had heard her Sunday School teacher use but Nan thought it made a dignified ending to a very lame speech.

  Mrs. Six-toed stared at her.

  “Am I crazy or are you? What you’ve been saying doesn’t make any sense. Whoever told you such a rigmarole?”

  “Dovie Johnson.”

  Mrs. Six-toed threw back her tousled head and laughed. She might be dirty and draggled but she had an attractive laugh. “I might have knowed it. I’ve been washing for her aunt all summer and that kid is a pill! My, doesn’t she think it smart to fool people! Well, little Miss What’s-your-name, you’d better not be believing all Dovie’s yarns or she’ll lead you a merry dance.”

  “Do you mean it isn’t true?” gasped Nan.

  “Not very likely. Good glory, you must be pretty green to fall for anything like that. Cass must be a good year older than you. Who on earth are you, anyhow?”

  “I’m Nan Blythe.” Oh, beautiful thought! She was Nan Blythe!

  “Nan Blythe! One of the Ingleside twins! Why, I remember the night you were born. I happened to call at Ingleside on an errand. I wasn’t married to Six-toed then . . . more’s the pity I ever was . . . and Cass’s mother was living and healthy, with Cass beginning to walk. You look like your dad’s mother . . . she was there that night, too, proud as Punch over her twin granddaughters. And to think you’d no more sense than to believe a crazy yarn like that.”

  “I’m in the habit of believing people,” said Nan, rising with a slight stateliness of manner, but too deliriously happy to want to snub Mrs. Six-toed very sharply.

  “Well, it’s a habit you’d better get out of in this kind of a world,” said Mrs. Six-toed cynically. “And quit running round with kids who like to fool people. Sit down, child. You can’t go home till this shower’s over. It’s pouring rain and dark as a stack of black cats. Why, she’s gone . . . the child’s gone!”

  Nan was already blotted out in the downpour. Nothing but the wild exultation born of Mrs. Six-toed’s assurances could have carried her home through that storm. The wind buffeted her, the rain streamed upon her, the appalling thunderclaps made her think the world had burst open. Only the incessant icy-blue glare of the lightning showed her the road. Again and again she slipped and fell. But at last she reeled, dripping, into the hall at Ingleside.

  Mother ran and caught her in her arms.

  “Darling, what a fright you have given us! Oh, where have you been?”

  “I only hope Jem and Walter won’t catch their deaths out in that rain searching for you,” said Susan, the sharpness of strain in her voice.

  Nan had almost had the breath battered out of her. She could only gasp, as she felt Mother’s arms enfolding her:

  “Oh, Mother, I’m me . . . really me. I’m not Cassie Thomas and I’ll never be anybody but me again.”

  “The poor pet is delirious,” said Susan. “She must have et something that disagreed with her.”

  Anne bathed Nan and put her to bed before she would let her talk. Then she heard the whole story.

  “Oh, Mummy, am I really your child?”

  “Of course, darling. How could you think anything else?”

  “I didn’t ever think Dovie would tell me a story . . . not Dovie. Mummy, can you believe anybody? Jen Penny told Di awful stories . . .”

  “They are only two girls out of all the little girls you know, dear. None of your other playmates has ever told you what wasn’t true. There are people in the world like that, grown-ups as well as children. When you are a little older you will be better able to ‘tell the gold from the tinsel.’”

  “Mummy, I wish Walter and Jem and Di needn’t know what a silly I was.”

  “They needn’t. Di went to Lowbridge with Daddy, and the boys need only know you went too far down the Harbour Road and were caught in the storm. You were foolish to believe Dovie but you were a very fine brave little girl to go and offer what you thought her rightful place to poor little Cassie Thomas. Mother is proud of you.”

  The storm was over. The moon was looking down on a cool happy world.

  “Oh, I’m so glad I’m me!” was Nan’s last thought as she fell on sleep.

  Gilbert and Anne came in later to look on the little sleeping faces that were so sweetly close to each other. Diana slept with the corners of her firm little mouth tucked in but Nan had gone to sleep smiling. Gilbert had heard the story and was so angry that it was well for Dovie Johnson that she was a good thirty miles away from him. But Anne was feeling conscience-stricken.

  “I should have found out what was troubling her. But I’ve been too much taken up with other things this week . . . things that really mattered nothing compared to a child’s unhappiness. Think of what the poor darling has suffered.”

  She stooped rep
entantly, gloatingly over them. They were still hers . . . wholly hers, to mother and love and protect. They still came to her with every love and grief of their little hearts. For a few years longer they would be hers . . . and then? Anne shivered. Motherhood was very sweet . . . but very terrible.

  “I wonder what life holds for them,” she whispered.

  “At least, let’s hope and trust they’ll each get as good a husband as their mother got,” said Gilbert teasingly.

  Chapter 32

  “So the Ladies’ Aid is going to have their quilting at Ingleside,” said the doctor. “Bring out all your lordly dishes, Susan, and provide several brooms to sweep up the fragments of reputations afterwards.”

  Susan smiled wanly, as a woman tolerant of a man’s lack of all understanding of vital things, but she did not feel like smiling . . . at least, until everything concerning the Aid supper had been settled.

  “Hot chicken pie,” she went about murmuring, “mashed potatoes and creamed peas for the main course. And it will be such a good chance to use your new lace tablecloth, Mrs. Dr. dear. Such a thing has never been seen in the Glen and I am confident it will make a sensation. I am looking forward to Annabel Clow’s face when she sees it. And will you be using your blue and silver basket for the flowers?”

  “Yes, full of pansies and yellow-green ferns from the maple grove. And I want you to put those three magnificent pink geraniums of yours somewhere around . . . in the living-room if we quilt there or on the balustrade of the verandah if it’s warm enough to work out there. I’m glad we have so many flowers left. The garden has never been so beautiful as it has been this summer, Susan. But then I say that every autumn, don’t I?”

  There were many things to be settled. Who should sit by whom . . . it would never do, for instance, to have Mrs. Simon Millison sit beside Mrs. William McCreery, for they never spoke to each other because of some obscure old feud dating back to schooldays. Then there was the question of whom to invite . . . for it was the hostess’ privilege to ask a few guests apart from the members of the Aid.