Further Chronicles of Avonlea, Lucy Maud Montgomery [top ten ebook reader .TXT] 📗

weeks after Aunt Cynthia’s departure, Fatima disappeared—just simply disappeared as if she had been dissolved into thin air. We left her one afternoon, curled up asleep in her basket by the fire, under Huldah Jane’s eye, while we went out to make a call. When we came home Fatima was gone.

Huldah Jane wept and was as one whom the gods had made mad. She vowed that she had never let Fatima out of her sight the whole time, save once for three minutes when she ran up to the garret for some summer savory. When she came back the kitchen door had blown open and Fatima had vanished.

Ismay and I were frantic. We ran about the garden and through the out-houses, and the woods behind the house, like wild creatures, calling Fatima, but in vain. Then Ismay sat down on the front doorsteps and cried.

“She has got out and she’ll catch her death of cold and Aunt Cynthia will never forgive us.”

“I’m going for Max,” I declared. So I did, through the spruce woods and over the field as fast as my feet could carry me, thanking my stars that there was a Max to go to in such a predicament.

Max came over and we had another search, but without result. Days passed, but we did not find Fatima. I would certainly have gone crazy had it not been for Max. He was worth his weight in gold during the awful week that followed. We did not dare advertise, lest Aunt Cynthia should see it; but we inquired far and wide for a white Persian cat with a blue spot on its tail, and offered a reward for it; but nobody had seen it, although people kept coming to the house, night and day, with every kind of a cat in baskets, wanting to know if it was the one we had lost.

“We shall never see Fatima again,” I said hopelessly to Max and Ismay one afternoon. I had just turned away an old woman with a big, yellow tommy which she insisted must be ours—“cause it kem to our place, mem, a-yowling fearful, mem, and it don’t belong to nobody not down Grafton way, mem.”

“I’m afraid you won’t,” said Max. “She must have perished from exposure long ere this.”

“Aunt Cynthia will never forgive us,” said Ismay, dismally. “I had a presentiment of trouble the moment that cat came to this house.”

We had never heard of this presentiment before, but Ismay is good at having presentiments—after things happen.

“What shall we do?” I demanded, helplessly. “Max, can’t you find some way out of this scrape for us?”

“Advertise in the Charlottetown papers for a white Persian cat,” suggested Max. “Some one may have one for sale. If so, you must buy it, and palm it off on your good Aunt as Fatima. She’s very short-sighted, so it will be quite possible.”

“But Fatima has a blue spot on her tail,” I said.

“You must advertise for a cat with a blue spot on its tail,” said Max.

“It will cost a pretty penny,” said Ismay dolefully. “Fatima was valued at one hundred dollars.”

“We must take the money we have been saving for our new furs,” I said sorrowfully. “There is no other way out of it. It will cost us a good deal more if we lose Aunt Cynthia’s favor. She is quite capable of believing that we have made away with Fatima deliberately and with malice aforethought.”

So we advertised. Max went to town and had the notice inserted in the most important daily. We asked any one who had a white Persian cat, with a blue spot on the tip of its tail, to dispose of, to communicate with M. I., care of the Enterprise.

We really did not have much hope that anything would come of it, so we were surprised and delighted over the letter Max brought home from town four days later. It was a type-written screed from Halifax stating that the writer had for sale a white Persian cat answering to our description. The price was a hundred and ten dollars, and, if M. I. cared to go to Halifax and inspect the animal, it would be found at 110 Hollis Street, by inquiring for “Persian.”

“Temper your joy, my friends,” said Ismay, gloomily. “The cat may not suit. The blue spot may be too big or too small or not in the right place. I consistently refuse to believe that any good thing can come out of this deplorable affair.”

Just at this moment there was a knock at the door and I hurried out. The postmaster’s boy was there with a telegram. I tore it open, glanced at it, and dashed back into the room.

“What is it now?” cried Ismay, beholding my face.

I held out the telegram. It was from Aunt Cynthia. She had wired us to send Fatima to Halifax by express immediately.

For the first time Max did not seem ready to rush into the breach with a suggestion. It was I who spoke first.

“Max,” I said, imploringly, “you’ll see us through this, won’t you? Neither Ismay nor I can rush off to Halifax at once. You must go to-morrow morning. Go right to 110 Hollis Street and ask for ‘Persian.’ If the cat looks enough like Fatima, buy it and take it to Aunt Cynthia. If it doesn’t—but it must! You’ll go, won’t you?”

“That depends,” said Max.

I stared at him. This was so unlike Max.

“You are sending me on a nasty errand,” he said, coolly. “How do I know that Aunt Cynthia will be deceived after all, even if she be short-sighted. Buying a cat in a joke is a huge risk. And if she should see through the scheme I shall be in a pretty mess.”

“Oh, Max,” I said, on the verge of tears.

“Of course,” said Max, looking meditatively into the fire, “if I were really one of the family, or had any reasonable prospect of being so, I would not mind so much. It would be all in the day’s work then. But as it is—”

Ismay got up and went out of the room.

“Oh, Max, please,” I said.

“Will you marry me, Sue?” demanded Max sternly. “If you will agree, I’ll go to Halifax and beard the lion in his den unflinchingly. If necessary, I will take a black street cat to Aunt Cynthia, and swear that it is Fatima. I’ll get you out of the scrape, if I have to prove that you never had Fatima, that she is safe in your possession at the present time, and that there never was such an animal as Fatima anyhow. I’ll do anything, say anything—but it must be for my future wife.”

“Will nothing else content you?” I said helplessly.

“Nothing.”

I thought hard. Of course Max was acting abominably—but—but— he was really a dear fellow—and this was the twelfth time—and there was Anne Shirley! I knew in my secret soul that life would be a dreadfully dismal thing if Max were not around somewhere. Besides, I would have married him long ago had not Aunt Cynthia thrown us so pointedly at each other’s heads ever since he came to Spencervale.

“Very well,” I said crossly.

Max left for Halifax in the morning. Next day we got a wire saying it was all right. The evening of the following day he was back in Spencervale. Ismay and I put him in a chair and glared at him impatiently.

Max began to laugh and laughed until he turned blue.

“I am glad it is so amusing,” said Ismay severely. “If Sue and I could see the joke it might be more so.”

“Dear little girls, have patience with me,” implored Max. “If you knew what it cost me to keep a straight face in Halifax you would forgive me for breaking out now.”

“We forgive you—but for pity’s sake tell us all about it,” I cried.

“Well, as soon as I arrived in Halifax I hurried to 110 Hollis Street, but—see here! Didn’t you tell me your Aunt’s address was 10 Pleasant Street?”

“So it is.”

“‘T isn’t. You look at the address on a telegram next time you get one. She went a week ago to visit another friend who lives at 110 Hollis.”

“Max!”

“It’s a fact. I rang the bell, and was just going to ask the maid for ‘Persian’ when your Aunt Cynthia herself came through the hall and pounced on me.”

“‘Max,’ she said, ‘have you brought Fatima?’

“‘No,’ I answered, trying to adjust my wits to this new development as she towed me into the library. ‘No, I—I—just came to Halifax on a little matter of business.’

“‘Dear me,’ said Aunt Cynthia, crossly, ‘I don’t know what those girls mean. I wired them to send Fatima at once. And she has not come yet and I am expecting a call every minute from some one who wants to buy her.’

“‘Oh!’ I murmured, mining deeper every minute.

“‘Yes,’ went on your aunt, ‘there is an advertisement in the Charlottetown Enterprise for a Persian cat, and I answered it. Fatima is really quite a charge, you know—and so apt to die and be a dead loss,’—did your aunt mean a pun, girls?—‘and so, although I am considerably attached to her, I have decided to part with her.’

“By this time I had got my second wind, and I promptly decided that a judicious mixture of the truth was the thing required.

“‘Well, of all the curious coincidences,’ I exclaimed. ‘Why, Miss Ridley, it was I who advertised for a Persian cat—on Sue’s behalf. She and Ismay have decided that they want a cat like Fatima for themselves.’

“You should have seen how she beamed. She said she knew you always really liked cats, only you would never own up to it. We clinched the dicker then and there. I passed her over your hundred and ten dollars—she took the money without turning a hair—and now you are the joint owners of Fatima. Good luck to your bargain!”

“Mean old thing,” sniffed Ismay. She meant Aunt Cynthia, and, remembering our shabby furs, I didn’t disagree with her.

“But there is no Fatima,” I said, dubiously. “How shall we account for her when Aunt Cynthia comes home?”

“Well, your aunt isn’t coming home for a month yet. When she comes you will have to tell her that the cat—is lost—but you needn’t say WHEN it happened. As for the rest, Fatima is your property now, so Aunt Cynthia can’t grumble. But she will have a poorer opinion than ever of your fitness to run a house alone.”

When Max left I went to the window to watch him down the path. He was really a handsome fellow, and I was proud of him. At the gate he turned to wave me good-by, and, as he did, he glanced upward. Even at that distance I saw the look of amazement on his face. Then he came bolting back.

“Ismay, the house is on fire!” I shrieked, as I flew to the door.

“Sue,” cried Max, “I saw Fatima, or her ghost, at the garret window a moment ago!”

“Nonsense!” I cried. But Ismay was already half way up the stairs and we followed. Straight to the garret we rushed. There sat Fatima, sleek and complacent, sunning herself in the window.

Max laughed until the rafters rang.

“She can’t have been up here all this time,” I protested, half tearfully. “We would have heard her meowing.”

“But you didn’t,” said Max.

“She would have died of the cold,” declared Ismay.

“But she hasn’t,” said Max.

“Or starved,” I cried.

“The place is alive with mice,” said Max. “No, girls, there is no doubt the cat has been here the whole fortnight. She must have followed Huldah