"What is keeping you awake, pet?" said Susan, coming in with a maple sugar bun.
"Oh, Thuthan, I'm ... I'm jutht tired of being ME.”
Susan looked troubled. Come to think of it, the child had looked tired at supper.
"And of course the doctor's away. Doctors' families die and shoemakers' wives go barefoot," she thought. Then aloud:
"I am going to see if you have a temperature, my pet.”
"No, no, Thuthan. It'th jutht ... I've done thomething dreadful, Thuthan ...Thatan made me do it ... no, no, he didn't, Thuthan ... I did it mythelf, I ... I threw the cake into the creek.”
"Land of hope and glory!" said Susan blankly. "Whatever made you do that?”
"Do what?" It was Mother, home from town. Susan retreated gladly, thankful that Mrs. Doctor had the situation in hand. Rilla sobbed out the whole story.
"Darling, I don't understand. WHY did you think it was such a dreadful thing to take a cake to the church?”
"I thought it wath jutht like old Tillie Pake, Mummy. And I've dithgrathed you! Oh, Mummy, if you'll forgive me I'll never be naughty again ... and I'll tell the committee you DID thend a cake ...”
"Never mind the committee, darling. They would have more than enough cakes ... they always do. It's not likely anyone would notice we didn't send one. We just won't talk of this to anybody.
But always after this, Bertha Marilla Blythe, remember the fact that neither Susan nor Mother would ever ask you to do anything disgraceful.”
Life was sweet again. Daddy came to the door to say, "Good-night, Kittenkin," and Susan slipped in to say they were going to have a chicken pie for dinner tomorrow.
"With lotth of gravy, Thuthan?”
"Lashings of it.”
"And may I have a BROWN egg for breakfath, Thuthan. I don't detherve it ...”
"You shall have two brown eggs if you want them. And now you MUST eat your bun and go to sleep, little pet.”
Rilla ate her bun but before she went to sleep she slipped out of bed and knelt down. Very earnestly she said:
"Dear God, pleathe make me a good and obedient child alwayth, no matter what I'm told to do. And bleth dear Mith Emmy and all the poor orphanth.”
Chapter 35
The Ingleside children played together and walked together and had all kinds of adventures together; and each of them, in addition to this, had his and her own inner life of dream and fancy.
Especially Nan, who from the very first had fashioned secret drama for herself out of everything she heard or saw or read and sojourned in realms of wonder and romance quite unsuspected in her household circle. At first she wove patterns of pixy dances and elves in haunted valleys and dryads in birch trees. She and the great willow at the gate had whispered secrets and the old empty Bailey house at the upper end of Rainbow Valley was the ruin of a haunted tower. For weeks she might be a king's daughter imprisoned in a lonely castle by the sea ... for months she was a nurse in a leper colony in India or some land "far, far away." "Far, far away" had always been words of magic to Nan ... like faint music over a windy hill.
As she grew older she built up her drama about the real people she saw in her little life. Especially the people in church. Nan liked to look at the people in church because everyone was so nicely dressed. It was almost miraculous. They looked so different from what they did on week days.
The quiet respectable occupants of the various family pews would have been amazed and perhaps a little horrified if they had known the romances the demure, brown-eyed maiden in the Ingleside pew was concocting about them. Black-browed, kind-hearted Annetta Millison would have been thunderstruck to know that Nan Blythe pictured her as a kidnapper of children, boiling them alive to make potions that would keep her young forever. Nan pictured this so vividly that she was half frightened to death when she met Annetta Millison once in a twilight lane astir with the golden whisper of buttercups.
She was positively unable to reply to Annetta's friendly greeting and Annetta reflected that Nan Blythe was really getting to be a proud and saucy little puss and needed a bit of training in good manners. Pale Mrs. Rod Palmer never dreamed that she had poisoned someone and was dying of remorse. Elder Gordon MacAllister of the solemn face had no notion that a curse had been put on him at birth by a witch, the result being that he could never smile. Dark- moustached Fraser Palmer of a blameless life little knew that when Nan Blythe looked at him she was thinking, "I am sure that man has committed a dark and desperate deed. He looks as if he had some dreadful secret on his conscience." And Archibald Fyfe had no suspicion that when Nan Blythe saw him coming she was busy making up a rhyme as a reply to any remark he might make because he was never to be spoken to except in rhyme. He never did speak to her, being exceedingly afraid of children, but Nan got no end of fun out of desperately and quickly inventing a rhyme.
"I'm very well, thank you, Mr. Fyfe, How are you yourself and your wife?”
or, "Yes, it is a very fine day, Just the right kind for making hay.”
There is no knowing what Mrs. Morton Kirk would have said if she had been told that Nan Blythe would never come to her house ... supposing she had ever been invited ... because there was a RED FOOTPRINT on her doorstep; and her sister-in-law, placid, kind, unsought Elizabeth Kirk, did not dream she was an old maid because her lover had dropped dead at the altar just before the wedding ceremony.
It was all very amusing and interesting and Nan never lost her way between fact and fiction until she became possessed with the Lady with the Mysterious Eyes.
It is no use asking how dreams grow. Nan herself could never have told you how it came about. It started with the GLOOMY HOUSE ...
Nan saw it always just like that, spelled in capitals. She liked to spin her romances about places as well as people and the GLOOMY HOUSE was the only place around, except the old Bailey house, which lent itself to romance. Nan had never seen the HOUSE itself ... she only knew that it was there, behind a thick dark spruce on the Lowbridge side-road, and had been vacant from time immemorial,--so Susan said. Nan didn't know what time immemorial was but it was a most fascinating phrase, just suited to gloomy houses.
Nan always ran madly past the lane that led up to the GLOOMY HOUSE when she went along the side-road to visit her chum, Dora Clow. It was a long dark tree-arched lane with thick grass growing between its ruts and ferns waist-high under the spruces. There was a long grey maple bough near the tumbledown gate that looked exactly like a crooked old arm reaching down to encircle her. Nan never knew when it might reach a wee bit further and grab her. It gave her such a thrill to escape it.
One day Nan, to her astonishment, heard Susan saying that Thomasine Fair had come to live in the GLOOMY HOUSE ... or, as Susan unromantically phrased it, the old MacAllister place.
"She will find it rather lonely, I should imagine," Mother had said. "It's so out-of-the-way.”
"She will not mind that," said Susan. "She never goes anywhere, not even to church. Has not gone anywhere for years ... though they say she walks in her garden at night. Well, well, to think what she has come to ... her that was so handsome and such a terrible flirt. The hearts she broke in her day! And look at her now! Well, it is a warning and that you may tie to.”
Just to whom it was a warning Susan did not explain and nothing more was said, for nobody at Ingleside was very much interested in Thomasine Fair. But Nan, who had grown a little tired of all her old dream lives and was agog for something new, seized on Thomasine Fair in the GLOOMY HOUSE. Bit by bit, day after day, night after night ... one could believe ANYTHING at night ... she built up a legend about her until the whole thing flowered out unrecognisably and became a dearer dream to Nan than any she had hitherto known.