Cecilia had worried, when she had moved away from the Glen, that she would find herself cut off from her family. It had been very depressing to her, to know that she would miss things—little milestones—sweet little happenings—all the gossip. But she needn't have worried—the Blythes and Merediths and Fords were too fond of letters, and of each other, to let that happen. Cecilia was well-apprised of anything and everything that happened, and usually from two or three points of view. She sat down one snowy Saturday afternoon with a sheaf of letters in her lap.
"Read them to me," commanded Marshall, grinning. "I'm starving for a good batch of news."
"By news you mean gossip," Cecilia said, leaning over to tickle his face with the tips of her hair. "My, my, Marshall Douglas—you are becoming a busybody in your old age."
But still, she unfolded the first of her letters, and read.
Dear Cecilia, Cathy Ford had written, I want to write to you and tell you of the most deplorable thing I did last week. It's just been wild at the House of Dreams, lately—first the twins were sick with a cold, and then Gilly got it, and then me. I was so busy taking care of everybody, and then feeling so poorly myself, that I didn't do a stitch of housework for ever so long. Gilly is so good about it when it's home, but then his ship left port and he had to go. Without him to help me, all the dishes piled up—the wash overflowed the hampers—and the place was a shambles, generally. When I was finally feeling better, I got out of bed and tied my hair up in a kerchief and set to. About ten minutes into my Big Clean, the doorbell rang, and who should I find at the door but Mother Rilla and Father Ken! I had "clean" forgotten they were due to visit, but there they were! They were meant to stay a week and I hadn't made up the spare room at all, and hadn't even a clean pair of sheets for the bed.
I served them tea in the sitting room—it was the least dirty room in the house. I would NOT let Mother Rilla go into the kitchen, even when she asked me how my geranium that she had given me was coming along. I positively barred the door and snarled at her. She just looked at me as though I was rather odd and then, blessedly, the telephone rang. It was your grandmother, asking them to run up to Ingleside and have lunch with her. Sometimes, Cecilia, I think that your grandmother is clairvoyant. I loved her more in that moment than I ever had before.
As soon as they were gone, I flew around, cleaning and feeding the twins. I gave them both quick baths, and then I remembered the pie I had left in the oven. It was starting to smell decidedly well done, so downstairs I flew. I left the babies on their mats—they aren't really that mobile, yet, and can't get too far, so it was quite safe. When I came up to diaper and dress them I heard the car in the lane so I just threw their clothes upon them, quick as a jiff. Then I brought them downstairs, feeling quite pleased with myself. I had put them in the little monogrammed dresses you gave me for their christening. I handed a baby apiece to Mother Rilla and Father Ken, feeling very pleased with myself. Mother Rilla looked at little Vivvy and said, "She's gotten so much bigger, hasn't she?"
I took a quick look myself, and noticed that Vivian was looking bigger—which is surprising, since she has always been a smidge smaller than Lillian. It is the only way I can tell them apart, they are so alike with their identical faces and matching gold curls. But there was Viv, looking bigger, and I noticed that Lill was looking smaller than she should. But I chalked it up to new feeding habits—I have just started them on solid food—and thought nothing of it.
But it was so odd, all the week—Vivvy cried and cried, and usually it is Lill who does the shouting. But Lilly just sat and cooed. It was like an episode of The Twilight Zone, like they'd switched personalities. For instance: Vivvy was creeping around on all fours, when she has never done it before. Lill was the creeper, but she didn't seem to remember how to do it at all. She wouldn't even push herself up. How could I have one baby that went backwards and one that shot forward? I began to have a cold, creepy feeling—as though something was wrong, but thought it must be nerves. But then, when Gilly came home—the first thing he said was, "What have you done to the babies, Cath?" I'd dressed them in their little initial smocks again, because I always like to have them nice for his homecoming. He said, "You've mixed Lilly for Viv and Viv for Lilly!" And I'd had them mixed up for a WEEK, without that thought ever occurring to me that that was what had happened!
Oh, Cecilia! I must not be a very good mother if I can't tell my babies apart. I am sure I will laugh over it one day—but now I just feel awful. Suppose babies really do understand more than we give them credit for? They'll think I don't LOVE them or KNOW them. And Mother Rilla certainly has a poor opinion of me, now. I am ashamed to say I went right upstairs and cried and cried—but then Gilly brought the babies up and we all laid in the bed together—and the babies clapped their hands and laughed—they'd both smiled but never laughed before, and I felt better.
I want to tell you something scandalous Romy did—I want you to hear it from me before anybody else. It seems she was sledding with little Addie Clow on the hill overlooking the Methodist church—and they got tired of that and decided to have a snowball fight—and somehow, one of the snowballs went right through the new stained-glass picture window the congregation had installed at Christmas. If it had been Addie Clow it would have been fine, because she is a Methodist. But it appears it was Romy, and nobody has forgotten the family's connection with Miss Cornelia Elliott. There are some people think Romy did it on purpose. It's been torture for your poor ma, having everybody talking about it. I really feel for her, but I never liked that window, and I can't say that I'm not glad I don't have to look at it anymore.
Dear Cecilia, ran Nellie Blythe's letter, which Cecilia opened next. Even the handwriting was fainter, and more refined, than Cathy's bold scrawl. I wanted to be sure to write you before Cathy does about what has happened, because I know she is sure to twist the truth all around and I want you to have the story straight from me.
Yes—Romy threw a snowball through the Methodist church window—but it's such a horrible window, Jesus and the apostles in their fishing boat, which is nice enough—only St. Peter's face was put together wrong, the panes sodered so that the lead melted, and the long and short of it is that it looks like St. Peter has a very prominent Hitler moustache, right under his nose! Anyway, Romy says it was an accident, and your dad has offered to pay for it. And I tell everybody I meet that it is far more likely Romy was throwing the snowball at something else. You know—and everybody who knows Romy knows—that if she HAD meant to hit the window she would have missed. And either way, I'm glad she did it. I got tired of looking up at that window and seeing Jesus saying 'upon this rock I will build my church'—to the Fuhrer!
We had a nice Christmas here at Ingleside, though we missed you. Oh, Cecilia—I know all about your news, and I am so excited. Some people say it's awful soon for you, and there have been one or two whispers that perhaps it's TOO soon, but mostly from people like terrible Mrs. Irene Drew. All of us—who know you—are overjoyed, purely and simply. The only dark spot on the whole holiday was that we weren't there to share your happiness in person.
Walt's law practice is thriving—though I am still not sure if Jem has ever fully forgiven him for going into the law instead of medicine. There are some people, I think, who think he must not be doing very well, since we still live at Ingleside, and don't have a house of our own. To them, I say—Ingleside IS our home. It does me so much good to see your grandmother holding little Jamie and to think that there are four generations of Blythes under one roof. I wouldn't live anywhere else for the world.
Walt had a funny case, recently. I think I'll tell you all about it. You remember old Whiskers-on-the-Moon—Mr. Pryor? He was one hundred years old in the fall, and what do you think he has done? He has gone and married for the second time, at that advanced age! His bride is a mere lassie of sixty, and despite the fact that she seems to love him, she is a good sort. You know Mr. Pryor cut his daughter, Mrs. Joe Milgrave, out of his will long ago, after she married against his wishes. Well, the new Mrs. Pryor has convinced old Whiskers to write Miranda back in, and make her the sole beneficiary of his estate. Walt handled the redrafting of the will, and he said that he must make sure, under the law, that Mr. Pryor was in his right mind when he made the change. To which your grandmother said, "Well, that WILL be hard to prove, since it is debatable whether he was ever in his 'right mind' to begin with!" And Aunt Rilla who was there said, "Oh, Mother—you're channeling Susan Baker."
Have you seen Blythe's latest book? I'm sure you have. We got our advance copy, right off the presses, just yesterday. Your grandmother simply poured over it. Then she kissed the front cover, and put it on the shelf next to your uncle Walter's anthology that was published after the war. "To think that I am the mother and grandmother of a poet!" she said, "It is better, even, than being the teacher of one." I confess I flipped through it but could make neither heads nor tails of it. I always thought poems were supposed to rhyme. But then, I am not college-educated like you. Likely you had better luck when you read it.
"But I haven't read it," Cecilia sighed. "Blythe hasn't sent me a copy yet. He seems to have forgotten me. Oh, Marshall—you're going to sneer—but I miss Blythe, miss him to my heart's core. He was the friend of my childhood and he helped me over that rough patch with Mother in the hospital and me so far away from home. And now I feel as though we were never friends at all."
"There is no sneer on my face," Marshall said. He had never hated Blythe or said a cutting thing about him since that time before Christmas when Cecilia had told him not to. "Blythe will come around in his own good hour. And in the meantime—what will you read me next?"
It was a letter from Romy herself, seemingly bent on setting the record straight.
Dear Cecilia, no dout you have heard by now that I am a criminal and un justly accused of breaking the Methodist window. I did not do it, but I will bear my cross because I want to protect the person who did do it, which is Daddy. Uncle Jem and Daddy were the ones to take me and Addie sledding and while we were going down the hill, Uncle Jem said to Daddy, Shirly, I bet you can not hit the steeple on the top of the Methodist church with this snowball. And Daddy said he could, easy. And Uncle Jem said, I dare you. Do it then.
So Daddy threw the snow ball up but he missed the steeple entirly and hit old Nazi Peter square in the face and shattered the window. Addie came running, she hadn't seen, but I SAW IT ALL. Oh, Shirly! Uncle Jem cried, It's the bad place for you after this!
Daddy and us went and waked up Rev. Heatherington, who is the Methodist minister, and he said there had been an accident. That is the passive voice, see? It leaves it blank as to who the subject is. We are learning it in school. Well, Rev. Heatherington and other people just asumed it was me and I sha'nt be the one to get Daddy in trouble so I have not set them right. And Daddy is going to pay to have it replaced so it really doesn't matter who did it in the end. Besides I have got awful popular with the boys because of my throwing arm so I really do not mind.
Daddy came in while I was writing this and said For the love of Goodness, Romy-girl, tell your sister to burn that letter! So burn it, Cecilia, but please be careful with the matches and do not stand too close to the curtains when you do it. I did that last week ligting a candle and the whole side of the drapes in the parlour went up at once.
Such laughter as filled the little house at that! Cecilia almost hated to give it up, but dropped the letter in the fire as she was bidden.
"Anything else in your mail-bag?" Marshall asked.
"Only a note from Nancy," Cecilia smiled. "She wants to know if I really meant it about her coming to visit."
"And did you?"
"I did, indeed. I shall write a note and tell her to come straight away and stay as long as she likes."
After Cecilia had written out and signed her invitation, she settled on the couch with a magazine in which one of Lee's stories had appeared. She snuggled down with Marshall before the fire and read the tale out loud to him. It was a sweet thing, full of mystery and unrequited love. Cecilia could not help noticing that the heroine was a girl with ripely, ruddily brown hair, and gray eyes, and rosy cheeks. She could not place why that character seemed so familiar to her—perhaps it was just that she reeked of the goblin magic that lurked between the lines of all of Lee's stories. And anyway, Cecilia did not wonder long. The story worked its charm upon her. After she had laid the magazine down her head was still spinning with dreams, and she sat, staring into the fire, thoughts like little sunset clouds flitting through her mind. Marshall saw that he had lost her to the land of reverie, covered her with a blanket, and went off, whistling. He knew that she would come back to earth in her own good time, and he would come to welcome her back when she did.
