"She is, too. I heard Aunt Jen telling Uncle Dick … " Fred had heard his aunt say, "Anne Blythe is sick," and it was fun to tack in the "awful." "She'll likely be dead before you get home."
Walter looked around with tormented eyes. Again Alice ranged herself by him … and again the rest gathered around the standard of Fred. They felt something alien about this dark, handsome child … they felt an urge to tease him.
"If she is sick," said Walter, "Father will cure her."
He would … he must!
"I'm afraid that will be impossible," said Fred, pulling a long face but winking at Andy.
"Nothing is impossible for Father," insisted Walter loyally.
"Why, Russ Carter went to Charlottetown just for a day last summer and when he came home his mother was dead as a door-nail," said Bill.
"And buried," said Andy, thinking to add an extra dramatic touch—whether a fact or not didn't matter. "Russ was awful mad he'd missed the funeral … funerals are so jolly."
"And I've never seen a single funeral," said Opal sadly.
"Well, there'll be lots of chances for you yet," said Andy. "But you see even Dad couldn't keep Mrs. Carter alive and he's a lot better doctor than your father."
"He isn't … "
"Yes, he is, and a lot better-looking, too … "
"He isn't … "
"Something always happens when you go away from home," said Opal. "What will you feel like if you find Ingleside burned down when you go home?"
"If your mother dies, likely you children will all be sep'rated," said Cora cheerfully. "Maybe you'll come and live here."
"Yes … do," said Alice sweetly.
"Oh, his father would want to keep them," said Bill. "He'd soon be marrying again. But maybe his father will die too. I heard Dad say Dr. Blythe was working himself to death. Look at him staring. You've got girls' eyes, sonny … girls' eyes … girls' eyes."
"Aw, shut up," said Opal, suddenly tiring of the sport. "You ain't fooling him. He knows you're only teasing. Let's go down to the Park and watch the baseball game. Walter and Alice can stay here. We can't have kids tagging after us everywhere."
Walter was not sorry to see them go. Neither apparently was Alice. They sat down on an apple log and looked shyly and contentedly at each other.
"I'll show you how to play jackstones," said Alice, "and lend you my plush kangaroo."
When bedtime came Walter found himself put into the little hall bedroom alone. Mrs. Parker considerately left a candle with him and a warm puff, for the July night was unreasonably cold as even a summer night in the Maritimes sometimes is. It almost seemed as if there might be a frost.
But Walter could not sleep, not even with Alice's plush kangaroo cuddled to his cheek. Oh, if he were only home in his own room, where the big window looked out on the Glen and the little window, with a tiny roof all its own, looked out into the Scotch pine! Mother would come in and read poetry to him in her lovely voice …
"I'm a big boy … I won't cry … I wo-o-o-n't … " The tears came in spite of himself. What good were plush kangaroos? It seemed years since he had left home.
Presently the other children came back from the Park and crowded amiably into the room to sit on the bed and eat apples.
"You've been crying, baby," jeered Andy. "You're nothing but a sweet little girl. Momma's Pet!"
"Have a bite, kid," said Bill proffering a half-gnawed apple. "And cheer up. I wouldn't be surprised if your mother got better … if she's got a constitution, that is. Dad says Mrs. Stephen Flagg would-a died years ago if she hadn't a constitution. Has your mother got one?"
"Of course she has," said Walter. He had no idea what a constitution was, but if Mrs. Stephen Flagg had one Mother must.
"Mrs. Ab Sawyer died last week and Sam Clark's mother died the week before," said Andy.
"They died in the night," said Cora. "Mother says people mostly die in the night. I hope I won't. Fancy going to Heaven in your nightdress!"
"Children! Children! Get off to your beds," called Mrs. Parker.
The boys went, after pretending to smother Walter with a towel. After all, they rather liked the kid. Walter caught Opal's hand as she turned away.
"Opal, it isn't true Mother's sick, is it?" he whispered imploringly. He could not face being left alone with his fear.
Opal was "not a bad-hearted child," as Mrs. Parker said, but she could not resist the thrill one got out of telling bad news.
"She is sick. Aunt Jen says so … she said I wasn't to tell you. But I think you ought to know. Maybe she has a cancer."
"Does everybody have to die, Opal?" This was a new and dreadful idea to Walter, who had never thought about death before.
"Of course, silly. Only they don't die really … they go to Heaven," said Opal cheerfully.
"Not all of them," said Andy … who was listening outside the door … in a pig's whisper.
"Is … is Heaven farther away than Charlottetown?" asked Walter.
Opal shrilled with laugher.
"Well, you are queer! Heaven's millions of miles away. But I'll tell you what to do. You pray. Praying's good. I lost a dime once and I prayed and I found a quarter. That's how I know."
"Opal Johnson, did you hear what I said? And put out that candle in Walter's room. I'm afraid of fire," called Mrs. Parker from her room. "He should have been asleep long ago."
Opal blew out the candle and flew. Aunt Jen was easygoing, but when she did get riled! Andy stuck his head in at the door for a good-night benediction.
"Likely them birds in the wallpaper will come alive and pick your eyes out," he hissed.
After which everybody did really go to bed, feeling that it was the end of a perfect day and Walt Blythe wasn't a bad little kid and they'd have some more fun teasing him tomorrow.
"Dear little souls," thought Mrs. Parker sentimentally.
An unwonted quiet descended upon the Parker house and six miles away at Ingleside little Bertha Marilla Blythe was blinking round hazel eyes at the happy faces around her and the world into which she had been ushered on the coldest July night the Maritimes had experienced in eighty-seven years!
CHAPTER IX.
Walter, alone in the darkness, still found it impossible to sleep. He had never slept alone before in his short life. Always Jem or Ken near him, warm and comforting. The little room became dimly visible as the pale moonlight crept into it, but it was almost worse than darkness. A picture on the wall at the foot of his bed seemed to leer at him … pictures always looked so different by moonlight. You saw things in them you never suspected by daylight. The long lace curtains looked like tall thin women, one on each side of the window, weeping. There were noises about the house … creaks, sighs, whisperings. Suppose the birds in the wallpaper were coming to life and getting ready to pick out his eyes? A creepy fear suddenly possessed Walter … and then one great fear banished all the others. Mother was sick. He had to believe it since Opal had said it was true. Perhaps Mother was dying! Perhaps mother was dead! There would be no Mother to go home to. Walter saw Ingleside without Mother!
Suddenly Walter knew he could not bear it. He must go home. Right away—at once. He must see Mother before she … before she … died. This was what Aunt Mary Maria had meant. She had known Mother was going to die. It was no use to think of waking anyone and asking to be taken home. They wouldn't take him … they would only laugh at him. It was an awful