Chronicles of Avonlea

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"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."

IX. 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 courses fought
against a woman who was trying to do her duty by her husband.
But first she admonished Pa.

"I shall have to let you go alone. But I charge you, Pa, not
to bid on anything--on ANYTHING, do you hear?"

Pa heard and promised to heed, with every intention of keeping
his promise. Then he drove away joyfully. On any other
occasion Ma would have been a welcome companion. But she
certainly spoiled the flavour of an auction.

When Pa arrived at the Carmody store, he saw that the little
yard of the Garland place below the hill was already full of
people. The auction had evidently begun; so, not to miss any
more of it, Pa hurried down. The sorrel mare could wait for
her shoes until afterwards.

Ma had been within bounds when she called the Garland auction
a "one-horse affair." It certainly was very paltry, especially
when compared to the big Donaldson auction of a month ago,
which Pa still lived over in happy dreams.

Horace Garland and his wife had been poor. When they died
within six weeks of each other, one of consumption and one of
pneumonia, they left nothing but debts and a little furniture.
The house had been a rented one.

The bidding on the various poor articles of household gear put
up for sale was not brisk, but had an element of resigned
determination. Carmody people knew that these things had to be
sold to pay the debts, and they could not be sold unless they
were bought. Still, it was a very tame affair.

A woman came out of the house carrying a baby of about
eighteen months in her arms, and sat down on the bench beneath
the window.

"There's Marthy Blair with the Garland Baby," said Robert
Lawson to Pa. "I'd like to know what's to become of that poor
young one!"

"Ain't there any of the father's or mother's folks to take
him?" asked Pa.

"No. Horace had no relatives that anybody ever heard of. Mrs.
Horace had a brother; but he went to Mantioba years ago, and
nobody knows where he is now. Somebody'll have to take the
baby and nobody seems anxious to. I've got eight myself, or
I'd think about it. He's a fine little chap."

Pa, with Ma's parting admonition ringing in his ears, did not
bid on anything, although it will never be known how great was
the heroic self-restraint he put on himself, until just at the
last, when he did bid on a collection of flower-pots, thinking
he might indulge himself to that small extent. But Josiah
Sloane had been commissioned by his wife to bring those
flower-pots home to her; so Pa lost them.

"There, that's all," said the auctioneer, wiping his face, for
the day was very warm for October.

"There's nothing more unless we sell the baby."

A laugh went through the crowd. The sale had been a dull
affair, and they were ready for some fun. Someone called out,
"Put him up, Jacob." The joke found favour and the call was
repeated hilariously.

Jacob Blair took little Teddy Garland out of Martha's arms and
stood him up on the table by the door, steadying the small
chap with one big brown hand. The baby had a mop of yellow
curls, and a pink and white face, and big blue eyes. He
laughed out at the men before him and waved his hands in
delight. Pa Sloane thought he had never seen so pretty a baby.

"Here's a baby for sale," shouted the auctioneer. "A genuine
article, pretty near as good as brand-new. A real live baby,
warranted to walk and talk a little. Who bids? A dollar? Did I
hear anyone mean enough to bid a dollar? No, sir, babies don't
come as cheap as that, especially the curly-headed brand."

The crowd laughed again. Pa Sloane, by way of keeping on the
joke, cried, "Four dollars!"

Everybody looked at him. The impression flashed through the
crowd that Pa was in earnest, and meant thus to signify his
intention of giving the baby a home. He was well-to-do, and
his only son was grown up and married.

"Six," cried out John Clarke from the other side of the yard.
John Clarke lived at White Sands and he and his wife were
childless.

That bid of John Clarke's was Pa's undoing. Pa Sloane could
not have an enemy; but a rival he had, and that rival was John
Clarke. Everywhere at auctions John Clarke was wont to bid
against Pa. At the last auction he had outbid Pa in
everything, not having the fear of his wife before his eyes.
Pa's fighting blood was up in a moment; he forgot Ma Sloane;
he forgot what he was bidding for; he forgot everything except
a determination that John Clarke should not be victor again.

"Ten," he called shrilly.

"Fifteen," shouted Clarke.

"Twenty," vociferated Pa.

"Twenty-five," bellowed Clarke.

"Thirty," shrieked Pa. He nearly bust a blood-vessel in his
shrieking, but he had won. Clarke turned off with a laugh and
a shrug, and the baby was knocked down to Pa Sloane by the
auctioneer, who had meanwhile been keeping the crowd in roars
of laughter by a quick fire of witticisms. There had not been
such fun at an auction in Carmody for many a long day.

Pa Sloane came, or was pushed, forward. The baby was put into
his arms; he realized that he was expected to keep it, and he
was too dazed to refuse; besides, his heart went out to the
child.

The auctioneer looked doubtfully at the money which Pa laid
mutely down.

"I s'pose that part was only a joke," he said.

"Not a bit of it," said Robert Lawson. "All the money won't
bee too much to pay the debts. There's a doctor's bill, and
this will just about pay it."

Pa Sloane drove back home, with the sorrel mare still unshod,
the baby, and the baby's meager bundle of clothes. The baby
did not trouble him much; it had become well used to strangers
in the past two months, and promptly fell asleep on his arm;
but Pa Sloane did not enjoy that drive; at the end of it; he
mentally saw Ma Sloane.

Ma was there, too, waiting for him on the back door-step as he
drove into the yard at sunset. Her face, when she saw the
baby, expressed the last degree of amazement.

"Pa Sloane," she demanded, "whose is that young one, and there
did you get it?"

"I--I--bought it at the auction, Ma," said Pa feebly. Then he
waited for the explosion. None came. This last exploit of Pa's
was too much for Ma.

With a gasp she snatched the baby from Pa's arms, and ordered
him to go out and put the mare in. When Pa returned to the
kitchen Ma had set the baby on the sofa, fenced him around
with chairs so that he couldn't fall off and given him a
molassed cooky.

"Now, Pa Sloane, you can explain," she said.

Pa explained. Ma listened in grim silence until he had
finished. Then she said sternly:

"Do you reckon we're going to keep this baby?"

"I--I--dunno," said Pa. And he didn't.

"Well, we're NOT. I brought up one boy and that's enough. I
don't calculate to be pestered with any more. I never was much
struck on children _as_ children, anyhow. You say that Mary
Garland had a brother out in Mantioba? Well, we shall just
write to him and tell him he's got to look out for his nephew."

"But how can you do that, Ma, when nobody knows his address?"
objected Pa, with a wistful look at that delicious, laughing baby.

"I'll find out his address if I have to advertise in the
papers for him," retorted Ma. "As for you, Pa Sloane, you're
not fit to be out of a lunatic asylum. The next auction you'll
be buying a wife, I s'pose?"

Pa, quite crushed by Ma's sarcasm, pulled his chair in to
supper. Ma picked up the baby and sat down at the head of the
table. Little Teddy laughed and pinched her face--Ma's face!
Ma looked very grim, but she fed him his supper as skilfully
as if it had not been thirty years since she had done such a
thing. But then, the woman who once learns the mother knack
never forgets it.

After tea Ma despatched Pa over to William Alexander's to
borrow a high chair. When Pa returned in the twilight, the
baby was fenced in on the sofa again, and Ma was stepping
briskly about the garret. She was bringing down the little cot
bed her own boy had once occupied, and setting it up in their
room for Teddy. Then she undressed the baby and rocked him to
sleep, crooning an old lullaby over him. Pa Sloane sat quietly
and listened, with very sweet memories of the long ago, when
he and Ma had been young and proud, and the bewhiskered
William Alexander had been a curly-headed little fellow like
this one.

Ma was not driven to advertising for Mrs. Garland's brother.
That personage saw the notice of his sister's death in a home
paper and wrote to the Carmody postmaster for full
information. The letter was referred to Ma and Ma answered it.

She wrote that they had taken in the baby, pending further
arrangements, but had no intention of keeping it; and she
calmly demanded of its uncle what was to be done with it. Then
she sealed and addressed the letter with an unfaltering hand;
but, when it was done, she looked across the table at Pa
Sloane, who was sitting in the armchair with the baby on his
knee. They were having a royal good time together. Pa had
always been dreadfully foolish about babies. He looked ten
years younger. Ma's keen eyes softened a little as she watched
them.

A prompt answer came to her letter. Teddy's uncle wrote that
he had six children of his own, but was nevertheless willing
and glad to give his little nephew a home. But he could not
come after him. Josiah Spencer, of White Sands, was going out
to Manitoba in the spring. If Mr. and Mrs. Sloane could only
keep the baby till then he could be sent out with the
Spencers. Perhaps they would see a chance sooner.

"There'll be no chance sooner," said Pa Sloane in a tone of
satisfaction.

"No, worse luck!" retorted Ma crisply.

The winter passed by. Little Teddy grew and throve, and Pa
Sloane worshipped him. Ma was very good to him, too, and Teddy
was just as fond of her as of Pa.

Nevertheless, as the spring drew near, Pa became depressed.
Sometimes he sighed heavily, especially when he heard casual
references to the Josiah Spencer emigration.

One warm afternoon in early May Josiah Spencer arrived. He
found Ma knitting placidly in the kitchen, while Pa nodded
over his newspaper and the baby played with the cat on the
floor.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Sloane," said Josiah with a flourish. "I
just dropped in to see about this young man here. We are going
to leave next Wednesday; so you'd better send him down to our
place Monday or Tuesday, so that he can get used to us, and--"

"Oh, Ma," began Pa, rising imploringly to his feet.

Ma transfixed him with her eye.

"Sit down, Pa," she commanded.

Unhappy Pa sat.

Then Ma glared at the smiling Josiah, who instantly felt as
guilty as if he had been caught stealing sheep red-handed.

"We are much obliged to you, Mr. Spencer," said Ma icily, "but
this baby is OURS. We bought him, and we paid for him. A
bargain is a bargain. When I pay cash down for babies, I
propose to get my money's worth. We are going to keep this
baby in spite of any number of uncles in Manitoba. Have I made
this sufficiently clear to your understanding, Mr. Spencer?"

"Certainly, certainly," stammered the unfortunate man, feeling
guiltier than ever, "but I thought you didn't want him--I
thought you'd written to his uncle--I thought--"

"I really wouldn't think quite so much if I were you," said Ma
kindly. "It must be hard on you. Won't you stay and have tea
with us?"

But, no, Josiah would not stay. He was thankful to make his
escape with such rags of self-respect as remained to him.

Pa Sloane arose and came around to Ma's chair. He laid a
trembling hand on her shoulder.

"Ma, you're a good woman," he said softly.

"Go 'long, Pa," said Ma.

X. The Courting of Prissy Strong

I WASN'T able to go to prayer meeting that evening because I
had neuralgia in my face; but Thomas went, and the minute he
came home I knew by the twinkle in his eye that he had some news.

"Who do you s'pose Stephen Clark went home with from meeting
to-night?" he said, chuckling.

"Jane Miranda Blair," I said promptly. Stephen Clark's wife
had been dead for two years and he hadn't taken much notice of
anybody, so far as was known. But Carmody had Jane Miranda all
ready for him, and really I don't know why she didn't suit
him, except for the reason that a man never does what he is
expected to do when it comes to marrying.

Thomas chuckled again.

"Wrong. He stepped up to Prissy Strong and walked off with
her. Cold soup warmed over."

"Prissy Strong!" I just held up my hands. Then I laughed. "He
needn't try for Prissy," I said. "Emmeline nipped that in the
bud twenty years ago, and she'll do it again."

"Em'line is an old crank," growled Thomas. He detested
Emmeline Strong, and always did.

"She's that, all right," I agreed, "and that is just the
reason she can turn poor Prissy any way she likes. You mark my
words, she'll put her foot right down on this as soon as she
finds it out."

Thomas said that I was probably right. I lay awake for a long
time after I went to bed that night, thinking of Prissy and
Stephen. As a general rule, I don't concern my head about
other people's affairs, but Prissy was such a helpless
creature I couldn't get her off my mind.

Twenty years ago Stephen Clark had tried to go with Prissy
Strong. That was pretty soon after Prissy's father had died.
She and Emmeline were living alone together. Emmeline was
thirty, ten years older than Prissy, and if ever there were
two sisters totally different from each other in every way,
those two were Emmeline and Prissy Strong.

Emmeline took after her father; she was big and dark and
homely, and she was the most domineering creature that ever
stepped on shoe leather. She simply ruled poor Prissy with a
rod of iron.

Prissy herself was a pretty girl--at least most people thought
so. I can't honestly say I ever admired her style much myself.
I like something with more vim and snap to it. Prissy was slim
and pink, with soft, appealing blue eyes, and pale gold hair
all clinging in baby rings around her face. She was just as
meek and timid as she looked and there wasn't a bit of harm in
her. I always liked Prissy, even if I didn't admire her looks
as much as some people did.

Anyway, it was plain her style suited Stephen Clark. He began
to drive her, and there wasn't a speck of doubt that Prissy
liked him. Then Emmeline just put a stopper on the affair. It
was pure cantankerousness in her. Stephen was a good match and
nothing could be said against him. But Emmeline was just
determined that Prissy shouldn't marry. She couldn't get
married herself, and she was sore enough about it.

Of course, if Prissy had had a spark of spirit she wouldn't
have given in. But she hadn't a mite; I believe she would have
cut off her nose if Emmeline had ordered her to do it. She was
just her mother over again. If ever a girl belied her name,
Prissy Strong did. There wasn't anything strong about her.

One night, when prayer meeting came out, Stephen stepped up to
Prissy as usual and asked if he might see her home. Thomas and
I were just behind--we weren't married ourselves then--and we
heard it all. Prissy gave one scared, appealing look at
Emmeline and then said, "No, thank you, not to-night."

Stephen just turned on his heel and went. He was a high-
spirited fellow and I knew he would never overlook a public
slight like that. If he had had as much sense as he ought to
have had he would have known that Emmeline was at the bottom
of it; but he didn't, and he began going to see Althea Gillis,
and they were married the next year. Althea was a rather nice
girl, though giddy, and I think she and Stephen were happy
enough together. In real life things are often like that.

Nobody ever tried to go with Prissy again. I suppose they were
afraid of Emmeline. Prissy's beauty soon faded. She was always
kind of sweet looking, but her bloom went, and she got shyer
and limper every year of her life. She wouldn't have dared put
on her second best dress without asking Emmeline's permission.
She was real fond of cats and Emmeline wouldn't let her keep
one. Emmeline even cut the serial out of the religious weekly
she took before she would give it to Prissy, because she
didn't believe in reading novels. It used to make me furious
to see it all. They were my next door neighbours after I
married Thomas, and I was often in and out. Sometimes I'd feel
real vexed at Prissy for giving in the way she did; but, after
all, she couldn't help it--she was born that way.

And now Stephen was going to try his luck again. It certainly
did seem funny.

Stephen walked home with Prissy from prayer meeting four
nights before Emmeline found it out. Emmeline hadn't been
going to prayer meeting all that summer because she was mad at
Mr. Leonard. She had expressed her disapproval to him because
he had buried old Naomi Clark at the harbour "just as if she
was a Christian," and Mr. Leonard had said something to her
she couldn't get over for a while. I don't know what it was,
but I know that when Mr. Leonard WAS roused to rebuke anyone
the person so rebuked remembered it for a spell.

All at once I knew she must have discovered about Stephen and
Prissy, for Prissy stopped going to prayer meeting.

I felt real worried about it, someway, and although Thomas
said for goodness' sake not to go poking my fingers into other
people's pies, I felt as if I ought to do something. Stephen
Clark was a good man and Prissy would have a beautiful home;
and those two little boys of Althea's needed a mother if ever
boys did. Besides, I knew quite well that Prissy, in her
secret soul, was hankering to be married. So was Emmeline,
too--but nobody wanted to help HER to a husband.

The upshot of my meditations was that I asked Stephen down to
dinner with us from church one day. I had heard a rumour that
he was going to see Lizzie Pye over at Avonlea, and I knew it
was time to be stirring, if anything were to be done. If it
had been Jane Miranda I don't know that I'd have bothered; but
Lizzie Pye wouldn't have done for a stepmother for Althea's
boys at all. She was too bad-tempered, and as mean as second
skimmings besides.

Stephen came. He seemed dull and moody, and not much inclined
to talk. After dinner I gave Thomas a hint. I said,

"You go to bed and have your nap. I want to talk to Stephen."

Thomas shrugged his shoulders and went. He probably thought I
was brewing up lots of trouble for myself, but he didn't say
anything. As soon as he was out of the way I casually remarked
to Stephen that I understood that he was going to take one of
my neighbours away and that I couldn't be sorry, though she
was an excellent neighbour and I would miss her a great deal.

"You won't have to miss her much, I reckon," said Stephen
grimly. "I've been told I'm not wanted there."

I was surprised to hear Stephen come out so plump and plain
about it, for I hadn't expected to get at the root of the
matter so easily. Stephen wasn't the confidential kind. But it
really seemed to be a relief to him to talk about it; I never
saw a man feeling so sore about anything. He told me the whole
story.

Prissy had written him a letter--he fished it out of his
pocket and gave it to me to read. It was in Prissy's prim,
pretty little writing, sure enough, and it just said that his
attentions were "unwelcome," and would he be "kind enough to
refrain from offering them." Not much wonder the poor man went
to see Lizzie Pye!

"Stephen, I'm surprised at you for thinking that Prissy Strong
wrote that letter," I said.

"It's in her handwriting," he said stubbornly.

"Of course it is. 'The hand is the hand of Esau, but the voice
is the voice of Jacob,'" I said, though I wasn't sure whether
the quotation was exactly appropriate. "Emmeline composed that
letter and made Prissy copy it out. I know that as well as if
I'd seen her do it, and you ought to have known it, too."

"If I thought that I'd show Emmeline I could get Prissy in
spite of her," said Stephen savagely. "But if Prissy doesn't
want me I'm not going to force my attentions on her."

Well, we talked it over a bit, and in the end I agreed to
sound Prissy, and find out what she really thought about it. I
didn't think it would be hard to do; and it wasn't. I went
over the very next day because I saw Emmeline driving off to
the store. I found Prissy alone, sewing carpet rags. Emmeline
kept her constantly at that--because Prissy hated it I
suppose. Prissy was crying when I went in, and in a few
minutes I had the whole story.

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