About the Author
----------------
Lucy Maud Montgomery (November 30, 1874–April 24,
1942) publicly known as L.M. Montgomery, was a Canadian author
best known for a series of novels beginning with Anne of Green
Gables, published in 1908. Anne of Green Gables was an immediate
success. The central character, Anne, an orphaned girl, made
Montgomery famous in her lifetime and gave her an international
following. The first novel was followed by a series of sequels.
Montgomery went on to publish twenty novels as well as 500 short
stories and poems. Because many of the novels were set on Prince
Edward Island, Canada and the Canadian province became literary
landmarks. She was awarded Officer of the Order of the British
Empire in 1935.
Read more ( javascript:void(0) )
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
--------------------------------------------------------
Rilla of Ingleside
Images
------------------------------
GLEN “NOTES” AND OTHER MATTERS
------------------------------
It was a warm, golden-cloudy, lovable afternoon. In the big
living room at Ingleside, Susan Baker sat down with a certain
grim satisfaction hovering about her like an aura; it was four
o’clock and Susan, who had been working incessantly since six
that morning, felt that she had fairly earned an hour of repose
and gossip. Susan just then was perfectly happy; everything had
gone almost uncannily well in the kitchen that day.
had not been Mr. Hyde and so had not grated on her nerves; from
where she sat she could see the pride of her heart—the bed of
peonies of her own ing and culture, blooming as no other
peony plot in Glen St. Mary ever did or could bloom, with peonies
crimson, peonies silvery pink, peonies white as drifts of winter
snow.
Susan had on a new black silk blouse, quite as elaborate as
anything Mrs. Marshall Elliott ever wore, and a white starched
apron, trimmed with complicated crocheted lace fully five inches
wide, not to mention insertion to match. Therefore Susan had all
the comfortable consciousness of a well-dressed woman as she
opened her copy of the Daily Enterprise and prepared to read the
Glen “Notes” which, as Miss Cornelia had just informed her,
filled half a column of it and mentioned almost everybody at
Ingleside. There was a big, black headline on the front page of
the Enterprise, stating that some Archduke Ferdinand or other had
been assassinated at a place bearing the weird name of Sarajevo,
but Susan tarried not over uninteresting, immaterial stuff like
that; she was in quest of something really vital. Oh, here it
was—“Jottings from Glen St. Mary.” Susan settled down keenly,
reading each one over aloud to extract all possible gratification
from it.
Mrs. Blythe and her visitor, Miss Cornelia—alias Mrs. Marshall
Elliott—were chatting together near the open door that led to the
veranda, through which a cool, delicious breeze was blowing,
bringing whiffs of phantom perfume from the garden, and charming
gay echoes from the vine-hung corner where Rilla and Miss Oliver
and Walter were laughing and talking. Wherever Rilla Blythe was,
there was laughter.
There was another occupant of the living room, curled up on a
couch, who must not be overlooked, since he was a creature of
marked individuality, and, moreover, had the distinction of being
the only living thing whom Susan really hated.
All cats are mysterious but -and-Mr. Hyde—“Doc” for
short—was trebly so. He was a cat of double personality—or else,
as Susan vowed, he was possessed by the devil. To begin with,
there had been something uncanny about the very dawn of his
existence. Four years previously Rilla Blythe had had a treasured
darling of a kitten, white as snow, with a saucy black tip to its
tail, which she called Jack Frost. Susan disliked Jack Frost,
though she could not or would not give any valid reason therefor.
“Take my word for it, Mrs. Dr. dear,” she was wont to say
ominously, “that cat will come to no good.”
“But why do you think so?” Mrs. Blythe would ask.
“I do not think—I know,” was all the answer Susan would
vouchsafe.
With the rest of the Ingleside folk Jack Frost was a favorite; he
was so very clean and well groomed, and never allowed a spot or
stain to be seen on his beautiful white suit; he had endearing
ways of purring and snuggling; he was scrupulously honest.
And then a domestic tragedy took place at Ingleside. Jack Frost
had kittens!
It would be vain to try to picture Susan’s triumph. Had she not
always insisted that that cat would turn out to be a delusion and
a snare? Now they could see for themselves!
Rilla kept one of the kittens, a very pretty one, with peculiarly
sleek glossy fur of a dark yellow crossed by orange stripes, and
large, satiny, golden ears. She called it Goldie and the name
seemed appropriate enough to the little frolicsome creature
which, during its kittenhood, gave no indication of the sinister
nature it really possessed. Susan, of course, warned the family
that no good could be expected from any offspring of that
diabolical Jack Frost; but Susan’s Cassandra-like croakings were
unheeded.
The Blythes had been so accustomed to regard Jack Frost as a
member of the male sex that they could not get out of the habit.
So they continually used the masculine pronoun, although the
result was ludicrous. Visitors used to be quite electrified when
Rilla referred casually to “Jack and his kitten,” or told Goldie
sternly, “Go to your mother and get him to wash your fur.”
“It is not decent, Mrs. Dr. dear,” poor Susan would say bitterly.
She herself compromised by always referring to Jack as “it” or
“the white beast,” and one heart at least did not ache when “it”
was accidentally poisoned the following winter.
In a year’s time Goldie became so manifestly an inadequate name
for the orange kitten that Walter, who was just then reading
Stevenson’s story, changed it to -and-Mr. Hyde. In his
mood the cat was a drowsy, affectionate, domestic,
cushion-loving puss, who liked petting and gloried in being
nursed and patted. Especially did he love to lie on his back and
have his sleek, cream-colored throat stroked gently while he
purred in somnolent satisfaction. He was a notable purrer; never
had there been an Ingleside cat who purred so constantly and so
ecstatically.
“The only thing I envy a cat is its purr,” remarked Dr. Blythe
once, listening to Doc’s resonant melody. “It is the most
contented sound in the world.”
Doc was very handsome; his every movement was grace; his poses
magnificent. When he folded his long, dusky-ringed tail about his
feet and sat him down on the veranda to gaze steadily into space
for long intervals the Blythes felt that an Egyptian sphinx could
not have made a more fitting Deity of the Portal.
When the Mr. Hyde mood came upon him—which it invariably did
before rain, or wind—he was a wild thing with changed eyes. The
transformation always came suddenly. He would spring fiercely
from a reverie with a savage snarl and bite at any restraining or
caressing hand. His fur seemed to grow darker and his eyes
gleamed with a diabolical light. There was really an unearthly
beauty about him. If the change happened in the twilight all the
Ingleside folk felt a certain terror of him. At such times he was
a fearsome beast and only Rilla defended him, asserting that he
was “such a nice prowly cat.” Certainly he prowled.
loved new milk; Mr. Hyde would not touch milk and
growled over his meat. came down the stairs so
silently that no one could hear him. Mr. Hyde made his tread as
heavy as a man’s. Several evenings, when Susan was alone in the
house, he “ed her stiff,” as she declared, by doing this. He
would sit in the middle of the kitchen floor, with his terrible
eyes fixed unwinkingly upon hers for an hour at a time. This
played havoc with her nerves, but poor Susan really held him in
too much awe to try to drive him out. Once she had dared to throw
a stick at him and he had promptly made a savage leap towards
her. Susan rushed out of doors and never attempted to meddle with
Mr. Hyde again—though she visited his misdeeds upon the innocent
, chasing him ignominiously out of her domain whenever
he dared to poke his nose in and denying him certain savory
tidbits for which he yearned.
“?‘The many friends of Miss Faith Meredith, Gerald Meredith, and
James Blythe,’?” read Susan, rolling the names like sweet morsels
under her tongue, “?‘were very much pleased to welcome them home
a few weeks ago from Redmond College. James Blythe, who was
graduated in Arts in 1913, had just completed his first year in
medicine.’?”
“Faith Meredith has really got to be the most handsomest creature
I ever saw,” commented Miss Cornelia above her filet crochet.
“It’s amazing how those children came on after Rosemary West went
to the manse. People have almost forgotten what imps of mischief
they were once. Anne, dearie, will you ever forget the way they
used to carry on? It’s really surprising how well Rosemary got on
with them. She’s more like a chum than a step-mother. They all
love her and Una adores her. As for that little Bruce, Una just
makes a perfect slave of herself to him. Of course, he is a
darling. But did you ever see any child look as much like an aunt
as he looks like his Aunt Ellen? He’s just as dark and just as
emphatic. I can’t see a feature of Rosemary in him. Norman
Douglas always vows at the top of his voice that the stork meant
Bruce for him and Ellen and took him to the manse by mistake.”
“Bruce adores Jem,” said Mrs. Blythe. “When he comes over here he
follows Jem about silently like a faithful little dog, looking up
at him from under his black brows. He would do anything for Jem,
I verily believe.”
“Are Jem and Faith going to make a match of it?”
Mrs. Blythe smiled. It was well known that Miss Cornelia, who had
been such a virulent man-hater at one time, had actually taken to
match-making in her declining years.
“They are only good friends yet, Miss Cornelia.”
“Very good friends, believe me,” said Miss Cornelia emphatically.
“I hear all about the doings of the young fry.”
“I have no doubt that Mary Vance sees that you do, Mrs. Marshall
Elliott,” said Susan significantly, “but I think it is a shame to
talk about children making matches.”
“Children! Jem is twenty-one and Faith is nineteen,” retorted
Miss Cornelia. “You must not forget, Susan, that we old folks are
not the only grown-up people in the world.”
Outraged Susan, who detested any reference to her age—not from
vanity but from a haunting dread that people might come to think
her too old to work—returned to her “Notes.”
“?‘Carl Meredith and Shirley Blythe came home last Friday evening
from Queen’s Academy. We understand that Carl will be in charge
of the school at Harbour Head next year and we are sure he will
be a popular and successful teacher.’?”
“He will teach the children all there is to know about bugs,
anyhow,” said Miss Cornelia. “He is through with Queen’s now and
Mr. Meredith and Rosemary wanted him to go right on to Redmond in
the fall, but Carl has a very independent streak in him and means
to earn part of his own way through college. He’ll be all the
better for it.”
“?‘Walter Blythe, who has been teaching for the past two years at
Lowbridge, has resigned,’?” read Susan. “?‘He intends going to
Redmond this fall.’?”
“Is Walter quite strong enough for Redmond yet?” queried Miss
Cornelia anxiously.
“We hope that he will be by the fall,” said Mrs. Blythe. “An idle
summer in the open air and sunshine will do a great deal for
him.”
“Typhoid is a hard thing to get over,” said Miss Cornelia
emphatically, “especially when one has had such a close shave as
Walter had. I think he’d do well to stay out of college another
year. But then he’s so ambitious. Are Di and Nan going too?”
“Yes. They both wanted to teach another year but Gilbert thinks
they had better go to Redmond this fall.”
“I’m glad of that. They’ll keep an eye on Walter and see that he
doesn’t study too hard. I suppose,” continued Miss Cornelia, with
a side glance at Susan, “that after the snub I got a few minutes
ago it will not be safe for me to suggest that Jerry Meredith is
making sheep’s eyes at Nan.”
Susan ignored this and Mrs. Blythe laughed again.
“Dear Miss Cornelia, I have my hands full, haven’t I?—with all
these boys and girls sweethearting around me? If I took it
seriously it would quite crush me. But I don’t—it is too hard yet
to realize that they’re grown up. When I look at those two tall
sons of mine I wonder if they can possibly be the , sweet,
dimpled babies I kissed and cuddled and sang to slumber the other
day—only the other day, Miss Cornelia. Wasn’t Jem the dearest
baby in the old House of Dreams? And now he’s a B.A. and accused
of courting.”
“We’re all growing older,” sighed Miss Cornelia.
“The only part of me that feels old,” said Mrs. Blythe, “is the
ankle I broke when Josie Pye dared me to walk the Barry
ridge-pole in the Green Gables days. I have an ache in it when
the wind is east. I won’t admit that it is rheumatism, but it
does ache. As for the children, they and the Merediths are
planning a gay summer before they have to go back to studies in
the fall. They are such a fun-loving little crowd. They keep this
house in a perpetual whirl of merriment.”
“Is Rilla going to Queen’s when Shirley goes back?”
“It isn’t decided yet. I rather fancy not. Her her thinks she
is not quite strong enough—she has rather outgrown her
strength—she’s really absurdly tall for a girl not yet fifteen. I
am not anxious to have her go—why, it would be terrible not to
have a single one of my babies home with me next winter. Susan
and I would fall to fighting with each other to break the
monotony.”
Susan smiled at this pleasantry. The idea of her fighting with
“Mrs. Dr. dear”!
“Does Rilla herself want to go?” asked Miss Cornelia.
“No. The truth is, Rilla is the only one of my flock who isn’t
ambitious. I really wish she had a little more ambition. She has
no serious ideals at all—her sole aspiration seems to be to have
a good time.”
“And why should she not have it, Mrs. Dr. dear?” cried Susan, who
could not bear to hear a single word against any one of the
Ingleside folk, even from one of themselves. “A young girl should
have a good time, and that I will maintain. There will be time
enough for her to think of Latin and Greek.”
“I should like to see a little sense of responsibility in her,
Susan. And you know yourself that she is abominably vain.”
“She has something to be vain about,” retorted Susan. “She is the
prettiest girl in Glen St. Mary. Do you think that all those
over-harbor MacAllisters and Crawfords and Elliotts could e
up a skin like Rilla’s in four generations? They could not. No,
Mrs. Dr. dear, I know my place but I cannot allow you to run down
Rilla. Listen to this, Mrs. Marshall Elliott.”
Susan had found a chance to get square with Miss Cornelia for her
digs at the children’s love affairs. She read the item with
gusto.
“?‘Miller Douglas has decided not to go West. He says old P.E.I.
is good enough for him and he will continue to farm for his aunt,
Mrs. Alec Davis.’?”
Susan looked keenly at Miss Cornelia.
“I have heard, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that Miller is courting
Mary Vance.”
This pierced Miss Cornelia’s armor. Her sonsy face flushed.
“I won’t have Miller Douglas hanging round Mary,” she said
crisply. “He comes of a low family. His her was a sort of
outcast from the Douglases—they never really counted him in—and
his mother was one of those terrible Dillons from the Harbour
Head.”
“I think I have heard, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, that Mary Vance’s
own parents were not what you could call aristocratic.”
“Mary Vance has had a good bringing up and she is a smart,
clever, capable girl,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “She is not going
to throw herself away on Miller Douglas, believe me! She knows my
opinion on the matter and Mary has never disobeyed me yet.”
“Well, I do not think you need worry, Mrs. Marshall Elliott, for
Mrs. Alec Davis is as much against it as you could be, and says
no nephew of hers is ever going to marry a nameless nobody like
Mary Vance.”
Susan returned to her mutton, feeling that she had got the best
of it in this passage of arms, and read another “note.”
“?‘We are pleased to hear that Miss Oliver has been engaged as
teacher for another year. Miss Oliver will spend her well-earned
vacation at her home in Lowbridge.’?”
“I’m so glad Gertrude is going to stay,” said Mrs. Blythe. “We
would miss her horribly. And she has an excellent influence over
Rilla who worships her. They are chums, in spite of the
difference in their ages.”
“I thought I heard she was going to be married?”
“I believe it was talked of but I understand it is postponed for
a year.”
“Who is the young man?”
“Robert Grant. He is a young lawyer in Charlottetown. I hope
Gertrude will be happy. She has had a sad life, with much
bitterness in it, and she feels things with a terrible keenness.
Her first youth is gone and she is practically alone in the
world. This new love that has come into her life seems such a
wonderful thing to her that I think she hardly dares believe in
its permanence. When her marriage had to be put off she was quite
in despair—though it certainly wasn’t Mr. Grant’s fault. There
were complications in the settlement of his her’s estate—his
her died last winter—and he could not marry till the tangles
were unraveled. But I think Gertrude felt it was a bad omen and
that her happiness would somehow elude her yet.”
“It does not do, Mrs. Dr. dear, to set your affections too much
on a man,” remarked Susan solemnly.
“Mr. Grant is quite as much in love with Gertrude as she is with
him, Susan. It is not he whom she distrusts—it is e. She has a
little mystic streak in her—I suppose some people would call her
superstitious. She has an odd belief in dreams and we have not
been able to laugh it out of her. I must own, too, that some of
her dreams—but there, it would not do to let Gilbert hear me
hinting such heresy. What have you found of much interest,
Susan?”
Susan had given an exclamation.
“Listen to this, Mrs. Dr. dear. ‘Mrs. Sophia Crawford has given
up her house at Lowbridge and will make her home in future with
her niece, Mrs. Albert Crawford.’ Why, that is my own cousin
Sophia, Mrs. Dr. dear. We quarreled when we were children over
who should get a Sunday-school card with the words ‘God is Love,’
wreathed in rosebuds, on it, and have never spoken to each other
since. And now she is coming to live right across the road from
us.”
“You will have to make up the old quarrel, Susan. It will never
do to be at outs with your neighbors.”
“Cousin Sophia began the quarrel, so she can begin the making up
also, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan loftily. “If she does I hope I
am a good enough Christian to meet her half way. She is not a
cheerful person and has been a wet blanket all her life. The last
time I saw her, her face had a thousand s—maybe more,
maybe less—from worrying and foreboding. She howled dreadful at
her first husband’s funeral but she married again in less than a
year. The next note, I see, describes the special service in our
church last Sunday night and says the decorations were very
beautiful.”
“Speaking of that reminds me that Mr. Pryor strongly disapproves
of flowers in church,” said Miss Cornelia. “I always said there
would be trouble when that man moved here from Lowbridge. He
should never have been put in as elder—it was a mistake and we
shall live to rue it, believe me! I have heard that he has said
that if the girls continue to ‘mess up the pulpit with weeds’
that he will not go to church.”
“The church got on very well before old Whiskers-on-the-moon came
to the Glen and it is my opinion it will get on without him after
he is gone,” said Susan.
“Who in the world ever gave him that ridiculous nickname?” asked
Mrs. Blythe.
“Why, the Lowbridge boys have called him that ever since I can
remember, Mrs. Dr. dear—I suppose because his face is so round
and red, with that fringe of sandy whisker about it. It does not
do for anyone to call him that in his hearing, though, and that
you may tie to. But worse than his whiskers, Mrs. Dr. dear, he is
a very unreasonable man and has a great many queer ideas. He is
an elder now and they say he is very religious; but I can well
remember the time, Mrs. Dr. dear, twenty years ago, when he was
caught pasturing his cow in the Lowbridge graveyard. Yes, indeed,
I have not forgotten that, and I always think of it when he is
praying in meeting. Well, that is all the notes and there is not
much else in the paper of any importance. I never take much
interest in foreign parts. Who is this Archduke man who has been
murdered?”
“What does it matter to us?” asked Miss Cornelia, unaware of the
hideous answer to her question which destiny was even then
preparing. “Somebody is always murdering or being murdered in
those Balkan States. It’s their normal condition and I don’t
really think that our papers ought to print such shocking things.
The Enterprise is getting far too sensational with its big
headlines. Well, I must be getting home. No, Anne dearie, it’s no
use asking me to stay to supper. Marshall has got to thinking
that if I’m not home for a meal it’s not worth eating—just like a
man. So off I go. Merciful goodness, Anne dearie, what is the
matter with that cat? Is he having a fit?”—this, as Doc suddenly
bounded to the rug at Miss Cornelia’s feet, laid back his ears,
swore at her, and then disappeared with one fierce leap through
the window.
“Oh, no. He’s merely turning into Mr. Hyde—which means that we
shall have rain or high wind before morning. Doc is as good as a
barometer.”
“Well, I am thankful he has gone on the rampage outside this time
and not into my kitchen,” said Susan. “And I am going out to see
about supper. With such a crowd as we have at Ingleside now it
behooves us to think about our meals betimes.”
Read more ( javascript:void(0) )