Chapter XVI

Adjusted Relationships

“It’s the homiest spot I ever saw—it’s homier than home,” avowed

Philippa Gordon, looking about her with delighted eyes. They were all

assembled at twilight in the big living-room at Patty’s Place—Anne and

Priscilla, Phil and Stella, Aunt Jamesina, Rusty, Joseph, the

Sarah-Cat, and Gog and Magog. The firelight shadows were dancing over

the walls; the cats were purring; and a huge bowl of hothouse

chrysanthemums, sent to Phil by one of the victims, shone through the

golden gloom like creamy moons.

It was three weeks since they had considered themselves settled, and

already all believed the experiment would be a success. The first

fortnight after their return had been a pleasantly exciting one; they

had been busy setting up their household goods, organizing their little

establishment, and adjusting different opinions.

Anne was not over-sorry to leave Avonlea when the time came to return

to college. The last few days of her vacation had not been pleasant.

Her prize story had been published in the Island papers; and Mr.

William Blair had, upon the counter of his store, a huge pile of pink,

green and yellow pamphlets, containing it, one of which he gave to

every customer. He sent a complimentary bundle to Anne, who promptly

dropped them all in the kitchen stove. Her humiliation was the

consequence of her own ideals only, for Avonlea folks thought it quite

splendid that she should have won the prize. Her many friends regarded

her with honest admiration; her few foes with scornful envy. Josie Pye

said she believed Anne Shirley had just copied the story; she was sure

she remembered reading it in a paper years before. The Sloanes, who had

found out or guessed that Charlie had been “turned down,” said they

didn’t think it was much to be proud of; almost any one could have done

it, if she tried. Aunt Atossa told Anne she was very sorry to hear she

had taken to writing novels; nobody born and bred in Avonlea would do

it; that was what came of adopting orphans from goodness knew where,

with goodness knew what kind of parents. Even Mrs. Rachel Lynde was

darkly dubious about the propriety of writing fiction, though she was

almost reconciled to it by that twenty-five dollar check.

“It is perfectly amazing, the price they pay for such lies, that’s

what,” she said, half-proudly, half-severely.

All things considered, it was a relief when going-away time came. And

it was very jolly to be back at Redmond, a wise, experienced Soph with

hosts of friends to greet on the merry opening day. Pris and Stella and

Gilbert were there, Charlie Sloane, looking more important than ever a

Sophomore looked before, Phil, with the Alec-and-Alonzo question still

unsettled, and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson. Moody Spurgeon had been

teaching school ever since leaving Queen’s, but his mother had

concluded it was high time he gave it up and turned his attention to

learning how to be a minister. Poor Moody Spurgeon fell on hard luck at

the very beginning of his college career. Half a dozen ruthless Sophs,

who were among his fellow-boarders, swooped down upon him one night and

shaved half of his head. In this guise the luckless Moody Spurgeon had

to go about until his hair grew again. He told Anne bitterly that there

were times when he had his doubts as to whether he was really called to

be a minister.

Aunt Jamesina did not come until the girls had Patty’s Place ready for

her. Miss Patty had sent the key to Anne, with a letter in which she

said Gog and Magog were packed in a box under the spare-room bed, but

might be taken out when wanted; in a postscript she added that she

hoped the girls would be careful about putting up pictures. The living

room had been newly papered five years before and she and Miss Maria

did not want any more holes made in that new paper than was absolutely

necessary. For the rest she trusted everything to Anne.

How those girls enjoyed putting their nest in order! As Phil said, it

was almost as good as getting married. You had the fun of homemaking

without the bother of a husband. All brought something with them to

adorn or make comfortable the little house. Pris and Phil and Stella

had knick-knacks and pictures galore, which latter they proceeded to

hang according to taste, in reckless disregard of Miss Patty’s new

paper.

“We’ll putty the holes up when we leave, dear—she’ll never know,” they

said to protesting Anne.

Diana had given Anne a pine needle cushion and Miss Ada had given both

her and Priscilla a fearfully and wonderfully embroidered one. Marilla

had sent a big box of preserves, and darkly hinted at a hamper for

Thanksgiving, and Mrs. Lynde gave Anne a patchwork quilt and loaned her

five more.

“You take them,” she said authoritatively. “They might as well be in

use as packed away in that trunk in the garret for moths to gnaw.”

No moths would ever have ventured near those quilts, for they reeked of

mothballs to such an extent that they had to be hung in the orchard of

Patty’s Place a full fortnight before they could be endured indoors.

Verily, aristocratic Spofford Avenue had rarely beheld such a display.

The gruff old millionaire who lived “next door” came over and wanted to

buy the gorgeous red and yellow “tulip-pattern” one which Mrs. Rachel

had given Anne. He said his mother used to make quilts like that, and

by Jove, he wanted one to remind him of her. Anne would not sell it,

much to his disappointment, but she wrote all about it to Mrs. Lynde.

That highly-gratified lady sent word back that she had one just like it

to spare, so the tobacco king got his quilt after all, and insisted on

having it spread on his bed, to the disgust of his fashionable wife.

Mrs. Lynde’s quilts served a very useful purpose that winter. Patty’s

Place for all its many virtues, had its faults also. It was really a

rather cold house; and when the frosty nights came the girls were very

glad to snuggle down under Mrs. Lynde’s quilts, and hoped that the loan

of them might be accounted unto her for righteousness. Anne had the

blue room she had coveted at sight. Priscilla and Stella had the large

one. Phil was blissfully content with the little one over the kitchen;

and Aunt Jamesina was to have the downstairs one off the living-room.

Rusty at first slept on the doorstep.

Anne, walking home from Redmond a few days after her return, became

aware that the people that she met surveyed her with a covert,

indulgent smile. Anne wondered uneasily what was the matter with her.

Was her hat crooked? Was her belt loose? Craning her head to

investigate, Anne, for the first time, saw Rusty.

Trotting along behind her, close to her heels, was quite the most

forlorn specimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld. The animal was

well past kitten-hood, lank, thin, disreputable looking. Pieces of both

ears were lacking, one eye was temporarily out of repair, and one jowl

ludicrously swollen. As for color, if a once black cat had been well

and thoroughly singed the result would have resembled the hue of this

waif’s thin, draggled, unsightly fur.

Anne “shooed,” but the cat would not “shoo.” As long as she stood he

sat back on his haunches and gazed at her reproachfully out of his one

good eye; when she resumed her walk he followed. Anne resigned herself

to his company until she reached the gate of Patty’s Place, which she

coldly shut in his face, fondly supposing she had seen the last of him.

But when, fifteen minutes later, Phil opened the door, there sat the

rusty-brown cat on the step. More, he promptly darted in and sprang

upon Anne’s lap with a half-pleading, half-triumphant “miaow.”

“Anne,” said Stella severely, “do you own that animal?”

“No, I do _not_,” protested disgusted Anne. “The creature followed me

home from somewhere. I couldn’t get rid of him. Ugh, get down. I like

decent cats reasonably well; but I don’t like beasties of your

complexion.”

Pussy, however, refused to get down. He coolly curled up in Anne’s lap

and began to purr.

“He has evidently adopted you,” laughed Priscilla.

“I won’t BE adopted,” said Anne stubbornly.

“The poor creature is starving,” said Phil pityingly. “Why, his bones

are almost coming through his skin.”

“Well, I’ll give him a square meal and then he must return to whence he

came,” said Anne resolutely.

The cat was fed and put out. In the morning he was still on the

doorstep. On the doorstep he continued to sit, bolting in whenever the

door was opened. No coolness of welcome had the least effect on him; of

nobody save Anne did he take the least notice. Out of compassion the

girls fed him; but when a week had passed they decided that something

must be done. The cat’s appearance had improved. His eye and cheek had

resumed their normal appearance; he was not quite so thin; and he had

been seen washing his face.

“But for all that we can’t keep him,” said Stella. “Aunt Jimsie is

coming next week and she will bring the Sarah-cat with her. We can’t

keep two cats; and if we did this Rusty Coat would fight all the time

with the Sarah-cat. He’s a fighter by nature. He had a pitched battle

last evening with the tobacco-king’s cat and routed him, horse, foot

and artillery.”

“We must get rid of him,” agreed Anne, looking darkly at the subject of

their discussion, who was purring on the hearth rug with an air of

lamb-like meekness. “But the question is—how? How can four unprotected

females get rid of a cat who won’t be got rid of?”

“We must chloroform him,” said Phil briskly. “That is the most humane

way.”

“Who of us knows anything about chloroforming a cat?” demanded Anne

gloomily.

“I do, honey. It’s one of my few—sadly few—useful accomplishments. I’ve

disposed of several at home. You take the cat in the morning and give

him a good breakfast. Then you take an old burlap bag—there’s one in

the back porch—put the cat on it and turn over him a wooden box. Then

take a two-ounce bottle of chloroform, uncork it, and slip it under the

edge of the box. Put a heavy weight on top of the box and leave it till

evening. The cat will be dead, curled up peacefully as if he were

asleep. No pain—no struggle.”

“It sounds easy,” said Anne dubiously.

“It _is_ easy. Just leave it to me. I’ll see to it,” said Phil

reassuringly.

Accordingly the chloroform was procured, and the next morning Rusty was

lured to his doom. He ate his breakfast, licked his chops, and climbed

into Anne’s lap. Anne’s heart misgave her. This poor creature loved

her—trusted her. How could she be a party to this destruction?

“Here, take him,” she said hastily to Phil. “I feel like a murderess.”

“He won’t suffer, you know,” comforted Phil, but Anne had fled.

The fatal deed was done in the back porch. Nobody went near it that

day. But at dusk Phil declared that Rusty must be buried.

“Pris and Stella must dig his grave in the orchard,” declared Phil,

“and Anne must come with me to lift the box off. That’s the part I

always hate.”

The two conspirators tip-toed reluctantly to the back porch. Phil

gingerly lifted the stone she had put on the box. Suddenly, faint but

distinct, sounded an unmistakable mew under the box.

“He—he isn’t dead,” gasped Anne, sitting blankly down on the kitchen

doorstep.

“He must be,” said Phil incredulously.

Another tiny mew proved that he wasn’t. The two girls stared at each

other.

“What will we do?” questioned Anne.

“Why in the world don’t you come?” demanded Stella, appearing in the

doorway. “We’ve got the grave ready. ‘What silent still and silent

all?’” she quoted teasingly.

“‘Oh, no, the voices of the dead Sound like the distant torrent’s

fall,’” promptly counter-quoted Anne, pointing solemnly to the box.

A burst of laughter broke the tension.

“We must leave him here till morning,” said Phil, replacing the stone.

“He hasn’t mewed for five minutes. Perhaps the mews we heard were his

dying groan. Or perhaps we merely imagined them, under the strain of

our guilty consciences.”

But, when the box was lifted in the morning, Rusty bounded at one gay

leap to Anne’s shoulder where he began to lick her face affectionately.

Never was there a cat more decidedly alive.

“Here’s a knot hole in the box,” groaned Phil. “I never saw it. That’s

why he didn’t die. Now, we’ve got to do it all over again.”

“No, we haven’t,” declared Anne suddenly. “Rusty isn’t going to be

killed again. He’s my cat—and you’ve just got to make the best of it.”

“Oh, well, if you’ll settle with Aunt Jimsie and the Sarah-cat,” said

Stella, with the air of one washing her hands of the whole affair.

From that time Rusty was one of the family. He slept o’nights on the

scrubbing cushion in the back porch and lived on the fat of the land.

By the time Aunt Jamesina came he was plump and glossy and tolerably

respectable. But, like Kipling’s cat, he “walked by himself.” His paw

was against every cat, and every cat’s paw against him. One by one he

vanquished the aristocratic felines of Spofford Avenue. As for human

beings, he loved Anne and Anne alone. Nobody else even dared stroke

him. An angry spit and something that sounded much like very improper

language greeted any one who did.

“The airs that cat puts on are perfectly intolerable,” declared Stella.

“Him was a nice old pussens, him was,” vowed Anne, cuddling her pet

defiantly.

“Well, I don’t know how he and the Sarah-cat will ever make out to live

together,” said Stella pesimistically. “Cat-fights in the orchard

o’nights are bad enough. But cat-fights here in the livingroom are

unthinkable.” In due time Aunt Jamesina arrived. Anne and Priscilla and

Phil had awaited her advent rather dubiously; but when Aunt Jamesina

was enthroned in the rocking chair before the open fire they

figuratively bowed down and worshipped her.

Aunt Jamesina was a tiny old woman with a little, softly-triangular

face, and large, soft blue eyes that were alight with unquenchable

youth, and as full of hopes as a girl’s. She had pink cheeks and

snow-white hair which she wore in quaint little puffs over her ears.

“It’s a very old-fashioned way,” she said, knitting industriously at

something as dainty and pink as a sunset cloud. “But _I_ am

old-fashioned. My clothes are, and it stands to reason my opinions are,

too. I don’t say they’re any the better of that, mind you. In fact, I

daresay they’re a good deal the worse. But they’ve worn nice and easy.

New shoes are smarter than old ones, but the old ones are more

comfortable. I’m old enough to indulge myself in the matter of shoes

and opinions. I mean to take it real easy here. I know you expect me to

look after you and keep you proper, but I’m not going to do it. You’re

old enough to know how to behave if you’re ever going to be. So, as far

as I am concerned,” concluded Aunt Jamesina, with a twinkle in her

young eyes, “you can all go to destruction in your own way.”

“Oh, will somebody separate those cats?” pleaded Stella, shudderingly.

Aunt Jamesina had brought with her not only the Sarah-cat but Joseph.

Joseph, she explained, had belonged to a dear friend of hers who had

gone to live in Vancouver.

“She couldn’t take Joseph with her so she begged me to take him. I

really couldn’t refuse. He’s a beautiful cat—that is, his disposition

is beautiful. She called him Joseph because his coat is of many

colors.”

It certainly was. Joseph, as the disgusted Stella said, looked like a

walking rag-bag. It was impossible to say what his ground color was.

His legs were white with black spots on them. His back was gray with a

huge patch of yellow on one side and a black patch on the other. His

tail was yellow with a gray tip. One ear was black and one yellow. A

black patch over one eye gave him a fearfully rakish look. In reality

he was meek and inoffensive, of a sociable disposition. In one respect,

if in no other, Joseph was like a lily of the field. He toiled not

neither did he spin or catch mice. Yet Solomon in all his glory slept

not on softer cushions, or feasted more fully on fat things.

Joseph and the Sarah-cat arrived by express in separate boxes. After

they had been released and fed, Joseph selected the cushion and corner

which appealed to him, and the Sarah-cat gravely sat herself down

before the fire and proceeded to wash her face. She was a large, sleek,

gray-and-white cat, with an enormous dignity which was not at all

impaired by any consciousness of her plebian origin. She had been given

to Aunt Jamesina by her washerwoman.

“Her name was Sarah, so my husband always called puss the Sarah-cat,”

explained Aunt Jamesina. “She is eight years old, and a remarkable

mouser. Don’t worry, Stella. The Sarah-cat _never_ fights and Joseph

rarely.”

“They’ll have to fight here in self-defense,” said Stella.

At this juncture Rusty arrived on the scene. He bounded joyously half

way across the room before he saw the intruders. Then he stopped short;

his tail expanded until it was as big as three tails. The fur on his

back rose up in a defiant arch; Rusty lowered his head, uttered a

fearful shriek of hatred and defiance, and launched himself at the

Sarah-cat.

The stately animal had stopped washing her face and was looking at him

curiously. She met his onslaught with one contemptuous sweep of her

capable paw. Rusty went rolling helplessly over on the rug; he picked

himself up dazedly. What sort of a cat was this who had boxed his ears?

He looked dubiously at the Sarah-cat. Would he or would he not? The

Sarah-cat deliberately turned her back on him and resumed her toilet

operations. Rusty decided that he would not. He never did. From that

time on the Sarah-cat ruled the roost. Rusty never again interfered

with her.

But Joseph rashly sat up and yawned. Rusty, burning to avenge his

disgrace, swooped down upon him. Joseph, pacific by nature, could fight

upon occasion and fight well. The result was a series of drawn battles.

Every day Rusty and Joseph fought at sight. Anne took Rusty’s part and

detested Joseph. Stella was in despair. But Aunt Jamesina only laughed.

“Let them fight it out,” she said tolerantly. “They’ll make friends

after a bit. Joseph needs some exercise—he was getting too fat. And

Rusty has to learn he isn’t the only cat in the world.”

Eventually Joseph and Rusty accepted the situation and from sworn

enemies became sworn friends. They slept on the same cushion with their

paws about each other, and gravely washed each other’s faces.

“We’ve all got used to each other,” said Phil. “And I’ve learned how to

wash dishes and sweep a floor.”

“But you needn’t try to make us believe you can chloroform a cat,”

laughed Anne.

“It was all the fault of the knothole,” protested Phil.

“It was a good thing the knothole was there,” said Aunt Jamesina rather

severely. “Kittens _have_ to be drowned, I admit, or the world would be

overrun. But no decent, grown-up cat should be done to death—unless he

sucks eggs.”

“You wouldn’t have thought Rusty very decent if you’d seen him when he

came here,” said Stella. “He positively looked like the Old Nick.”

“I don’t believe Old Nick can be so very ugly,” said Aunt Jamesina

reflectively. “He wouldn’t do so much harm if he was. _I_ always think

of him as a rather handsome gentleman.”