The Complete Short Stories of Lucy Maud Montgomery. Lucy Maud Montgomery
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when I go home,” I said comfortingly. “Dogs aren’t very particular that way. What they want is bones. Cats now, they love disinterestedly. William Adolphus has never swerved in his allegiance to me, although you do give him cream in the pantry on the sly.”
Alexander Abraham looked foolish. He hadn’t thought I knew that.
I didn’t take the smallpox and in another week the doctor came out and sent the policeman home. I was disinfected and William Adolphus was fumigated, and then we were free to go.
“Goodbye, Mr. Bennett,” I said, offering to shake hands in a forgiving spirit. “I’ve no doubt that you are glad to be rid of me, but you are no gladder than I am to go. I suppose this house will be dirtier than ever in a month’s time, and Mr. Riley will have discarded the little polish his manners have taken on. Reformation with men and dogs never goes very deep.”
With this Parthian shaft I walked out of the house, supposing that I had seen the last of it and Alexander Abraham.
I was glad to get back home, of course; but it did seem queer and lonesome. The cats hardly knew me, and William Adolphus roamed about forlornly and appeared to feel like an exile. I didn’t take as much pleasure in cooking as usual, for it seemed kind of foolish to be fussing over oneself. The sight of a bone made me think of poor Mr. Riley. The neighbours avoided me pointedly, for they couldn’t get rid of the fear that I might erupt into smallpox at any moment. My Sunday School class had been given to another woman, and altogether I felt as if I didn’t belong anywhere.
I had existed like this for a fortnight when Alexander Abraham suddenly appeared. He walked in one evening at dusk, but at first sight I didn’t know him he was so spruced and barbered up. But William Adolphus knew him. Will you believe it, William Adolphus, my own William Adolphus, rubbed up against that man’s trouser leg with an undisguised purr of satisfaction.
“I had to come, Angelina,” said Alexander Abraham. “I couldn’t stand it any longer.”
“My name is Peter,” I said coldly, although I was feeling ridiculously glad about something.
“It isn’t,” said Alexander Abraham stubbornly. “It is Angelina for me, and always will be. I shall never call you Peter. Angelina just suits you exactly; and Angelina Bennett would suit you still better. You must come back, Angelina. Mr. Riley is moping for you, and I can’t get along without somebody to appreciate my sarcasms, now that you have accustomed me to the luxury.”
“What about the other five cats?” I demanded.
Alexander Abraham sighed.
“I suppose they’ll have to come too,” he sighed, “though no doubt they’ll chase poor Mr. Riley clean off the premises. But I can live without him, and I can’t without you. How soon can you be ready to marry me?”
“I haven’t said that I was going to marry you at all, have I?” I said tartly, just to be consistent. For I wasn’t feeling tart.
“No, but you will, won’t you?” said Alexander Abraham anxiously. “Because if you won’t, I wish you’d let me die of the smallpox. Do, dear Angelina.”
To think that a man should dare to call me his “dear Angelina!” And to think that I shouldn’t mind!
“Where I go, William Adolphus goes,” I said, “but I shall give away the other five cats for — for the sake of Mr. Riley.”
Pa Sloane’s Purchase
“I guess the molasses is getting low, ain’t it?” said Pa Sloane insinuatingly. “S’pose I’d better drive up to Carmody this afternoon and get some more.”
“There’s a good half-gallon of molasses in the jug yet,” said ma Sloane ruthlessly.
“That so? Well, I noticed the kerosene demijohn wasn’t very hefty the last time I filled the can. Reckon it needs replenishing.”
“We have kerosene enough to do for a fortnight yet.” Ma continued to eat her dinner with an impassive face, but a twinkle made itself apparent in her eye. Lest Pa should see it, and feel encouraged thereby, she looked immovably at her plate.
Pa Sloane sighed. His invention was giving out.
“Didn’t I hear you say day before yesterday that you were out of nutmegs?” he queried, after a few moments’ severe reflection.
“I got a supply of them from the egg-pedlar yesterday,” responded Ma, by a great effort preventing the twinkle from spreading over her entire face. She wondered if this third failure would squelch Pa. But Pa was not to be squelched.
“Well, anyway,” he said, brightening up under the influence of a sudden saving inspiration. “I’ll have to go up to get the sorrel mare shod. So, if you’ve any little errands you want done at the store, Ma, just make a memo of them while I hitch up.”
The matter of shoeing the sorrel mare was beyond Ma’s province, although she had her own suspicions about the sorrel mare’s need of shoes.
“Why can’t you give up beating about the bush, Pa?” she demanded, with contemptuous pity. “You might as well own up what’s taking you to Carmody. I can see through your design. You want to get away to the Garland auction. That is what is troubling you, Pa Sloane.”
“I dunno but what I might step over, seeing it’s so handy. But the sorrel mare really does need shoeing, Ma,” protested Pa.
“There’s always something needing to be done if it’s convenient,” retorted Ma. “Your mania for auctions will be the ruin of you yet, Pa. A man of fifty-five ought to have grown out of such a hankering. But the older you get the worse you get. Anyway, if I wanted to go to auctions, I’d select them as was something like, and not waste my time on little one-horse affairs like this of Garland’s.”
“One might pick up something real cheap at Garland’s,” said Pa defensively.
“Well, you are not going to pick up anything, cheap or otherwise, Pa Sloane, because I’m going with you to see that you don’t. I know I can’t stop you from going. I might as well try to stop the wind from blowing. But I shall go, too, out of self-defence. This house is so full now of old clutter and truck that you’ve brought home from auctions that I feel as if I was made up out of pieces and left overs.”
Pa Sloane sighed again. It was not exhilarating to attend an auction with Ma. She would never let him bid on anything. But he realized that Ma’s mind was made up beyond the power of mortal man’s persuasion to alter it, so he went out to hitch up.
Pa Sloane’s dissipation was going to auctions and buying things that nobody else would buy. Ma Sloane’s patient endeavours of over thirty years had been able to effect only a partial reform. Sometimes Pa heroically refrained from going to an auction for six months at a time; then he would break out worse than ever, go to all that took place for miles around, and come home with a wagonful of misfits. His last exploit had been to bid on an old dasher churn for five dollars — the boys “ran things up” on Pa Sloane for the fun of it — and bring it home to outraged Ma, who had made her butter for fifteen years in the very latest, most up-to-date barrel churn. To add insult to injury this was the second dasher churn Pa had bought at auction. That settled it. Ma decreed that henceforth she would chaperon Pa when he went to auctions.
But this was the day of Pa’s good angel. When he drove up to the door where Ma was waiting, a breathless, hatless imp of ten flew into the yard, and hurled himself between Ma and the wagon-step.
“Oh, Mrs. Sloane, won’t you come over to our house at once?” he gasped. “The baby, he’s got colic, and ma’s just wild, and he’s all black in the face.”
Ma went, feeling that the stars in their