for any one. I ain’t a gypsy. Mind you wash your hands clean before you cook the dinner. My, Mrs. Storey must be expecting more company. She’s got all the spare-room bedclothes airing on the line. It ain’t real hospitality … just a desire for sensation. Her mother was a Carey.”
The dinner Anne produced pleased even Mrs. Gibson.
“I didn’t think any one who wrote for the papers could cook. But of course Marilla Cuthbert brought you up. Her mother was a Johnson. I s’pose Pauline will eat herself sick at that wedding. She don’t know when she’s had enough … just like her father. I’ve seen him gorge on strawberries when he knew he’d be doubled up with pain an hour afterwards. Did I ever show you his picture, Miss Shirley? Well, go to the spare-room and bring it down. You’ll find it under the bed. Mind you don’t go prying into the drawers while you’re up there. But take a peep and see if there’s any dust curls under the bureau. I don’t trust Pauline… . Ah, yes, that’s him. His mother was a Walker. There’s no men like that nowadays. This is a degenerate age, Miss Shirley.”
“Homer said the same thing eight hundred years, B.C.,” smiled Anne.
“Some of them Old Testament writers was always croaking,” said Mrs. Gibson. “I daresay you’re shocked to hear me say so, Miss Shirley, but my husband was very broad in his views. I hear you’re engaged … to a medical student. Medical students mostly drink, I believe … have to, to stand the dissecting-room. Never marry a man who drinks, Miss Shirley. Nor one who ain’t a good provider. Thistledown and moonshine ain’t much to live on, I kin tell you. Mind you clean the sink and rinse the dish-towels. I can’t abide greasy dish-towels. I s’pose you’ll have to feed the dog. He’s too fat now, but Pauline just stuffs him. Sometimes I think I’ll have to get rid of him.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Mrs. Gibson. There are always burglaries, you know … and your house is lonely, off here by itself. You really do need protection.”
“Oh, well, have it your own way. I’d ruther do anything than argue with people, ‘specially when I’ve such a queer throbbing in the back of my neck. I s’pose it means I’m going to have a stroke.”
“You need your nap. When you’ve had it you’ll feel better. I’ll tuck you up and lower your chair. Would you like to go out on the porch for your nap?”
“Sleeping in public! That’d be worse than eating. You do have the queerest ideas. You just fix me up right here in the sitting-room and draw the blinds down and shut the door to keep the flies out. I daresay you’d like a quiet spell yourself … your tongue’s been going pretty steady.”
Mrs. Gibson had a good long nap, but woke up in a bad humor. She would not let Anne wheel her out to the porch again.
“Want me to ketch my death in the night air, I s’pose,” she grumbled, although it was only five o’clock. Nothing suited her. The drink Anne brought her was too cold … the next one wasn’t cold enough … of course anything would do for her. Where was the dog? Misbehaving, no doubt. Her back ached … her knees ached … her head ached … her breastbone ached. Nobody sympathized with her … nobody knew what she went through. Her chair was too high … her chair was too low… . She wanted a shawl for her shoulders and an afghan for her knees and a cushion for her feet. And would Miss Shirley see where that awful draught was coming from? She could do with a cup of tea, but she didn’t want to be a trouble to any one and she would soon be at rest in her grave. Maybe they might appreciate her when she was gone.
“Be the day short or be the day long, at last it weareth to evening song.” There were moments when Anne thought it never would, but it did. Sunset came and Mrs. Gibson began to wonder why Pauline wasn’t coming. Twilight came … still no Pauline. Night and moonshine and no Pauline.
“I knew it,” said Mrs. Gibson cryptically.
“You know she can’t come till Mr. Gregor comes and he’s generally the last dog hung,” soothed Anne. “Won’t you let me put you to bed, Mrs. Gibson? You’re tired … I know it’s a bit of a strain having a stranger round instead of some one you’re accustomed to.”
The little puckery lines about Mrs. Gibson’s mouth deepened obstinately.
“I’m not going to bed till that girl comes home. But if you’re so anxious to be gone, go. I can stay alone … or die alone.”
At half past nine Mrs. Gibson decided that Jim Gregor was not coming home till Monday.
“Nobody could ever depend on Jim Gregor to stay in the same mind twenty-four hours. And he thinks it’s wrong to travel on Sunday even to come home. He’s on your school board, ain’t he? What do you really think of him and his opinions on eddication?”
Anne went wicked. After all, she had endured a good deal at Mrs. Gibson’s hands that day.
“I think he’s a psychological anachronism,” she answered gravely.
Mrs. Gibson did not bat an eyelash.
“I agree with you,” she said. But she pretended to go to sleep after that.
Chapter XIV
It was ten o’clock when Pauline came at last … a flushed, starry-eyed Pauline, looking ten years younger, in spite of the resumed taffeta and the old hat, and carrying a beautiful bouquet which she hurriedly presented to the grim lady in the wheel-chair.
“The bride sent you her bouquet, Ma. Isn’t it lovely? Twenty-five white roses.”
“Cat’s hindfoot! I don’t s’pose any one thought of sending me a crumb of wedding-cake. People nowadays don’t seem to have any family feeling. Ah, well, I’ve seen the day …”
“But they did. I’ve a great big piece here in my bag. And everybody asked about you and sent you their love, Ma.”
“Did you have a nice time?” asked Anne.
Pauline sat down on a hard chair because she knew her mother would resent it if she sat on a soft one.
“Very nice,” she said cautiously. “We had a lovely wedding-dinner and Mr. Freeman, the Gull Cove minister, married Louisa and Maurice over again… .”
“I call that sacrilegious… .”
“And then the photographer took all our pictures. The flowers were simply wonderful. The parlor was a bower …”
“Like a funeral I s’pose …”
“And, oh, Ma. Mary Luckley was there from the west … Mrs. Flemming, you know. You remember what friends she and I always were. We used to call each other Polly and Molly… .”
“Very silly names …”
“And it was so nice to see her again and have a long talk over old times. Her sister Em was there, too, with such a delicious baby.”
“You talk as if it was something to eat,” grunted Mrs. Gibson. “Babies are common enough.”
“Oh,
