in her life she was stung into saying a really clever thing.
‘What,’ she asked quietly, ‘would you think of a man who spent a whole day hunting for the kittens of a poor cat who had been shot because he couldn’t bear to think of them starving to death?’
A strange silence descended on the room. Trix and Pringle looked suddenly ashamed of themselves. And then Mrs Cyrus piped up, feeling it her wifely duty to back up Esme’s unexpected defence of her father.
‘And he can crochet so beautifully. He made the loveliest centrepiece for the parlour table last winter, when he was laid up with lumbago.’
Everyone has some limit of endurance, and Cyrus Taylor had reached his. He gave his chair such a furious backward push that it shot across the polished floor and struck the table on which the vase stood. The table went over and the vase broke into the traditional thousand pieces. Cyrus, his bushy white eyebrows fairly bristling with wrath, stood up and exploded at last.
‘I don’t crochet, woman! Is one contemptible doily going to blast a man’s reputation for ever? I was so bad with that blamed lumbago I didn’t know what I was doing. And I’m deaf, am I, Miss Shirley? I’m deaf.’
‘She didn’t
say
you were, Papa,’ cried Trix, who was never afraid of her father when his temper was vocal.
‘Oh, no, she didn’t say it! None of you said anything!
You
didn’t say I was sixty-eight when I’m only sixty-two, did you?
You
didn’t say I wouldn’t let your mother have a dog! Good Lord, woman, you can have forty thousand dogs if you want to, and you know it! When did I ever deny you anything you wanted – when?’
‘Never, Poppa, never!’ sobbed Mrs Cyrus brokenly. ‘And I never wanted a dog. I never even
thought
of wanting a dog, Poppa.’
‘When did I open your letters? When have I ever kept a diary? A diary! When did I ever wear overalls to anybody’s funeral? When did I pasture a cow in the graveyard? What aunt of mine is in the poorhouse? Did I ever throw a roast at anybody? Did I ever make you live on fruit and eggs?’
‘Never, Poppa, never!’ wept Mrs Cyrus. ‘You’ve always been a good provider – the best.’
‘Didn’t you tell me you
wanted
goloshes last Christmas?’
‘Yes, oh, yes, of course I did, Poppa. And my feet have been so nice and warm all winter.’
‘Well, then!’ Cyrus threw a triumphant glance round the room. His eyes encountered Anne’s. Suddenly the unexpected happened. Cyrus chuckled. His cheeks actually dimpled. Those dimples worked a miracle with his whole expression. He brought his chair back to the table and sat down.
‘I’ve got a very bad habit of sulking, Dr Carter. Everyone has some bad habit. That’s mine. The only one. Come, come, Momma, stop crying. I admit I deserved all I got, except that crack of yours about the crocheting. Esme, my girl, I won’t forget that you were the only one who stood up for me. Tell Maggie to come and clear up that mess – I know you’re all glad the darn’ thing is smashed – and bring on the pudding.’
Anne could never have believed that an evening which began so terribly could end up so pleasantly. Nobody could have been more genial or better company than Cyrus; and there was evidently no aftermath of reckoning, for when Trix came down a few evenings later it was to tell Anne that she had at last scraped up enough courage to tell her father about Johnny.
‘Was he very dreadful, Trix?’
‘He – he wasn’t dreadful at all,’ admitted Trix sheepishly. ‘He just snorted, and said it was about time Johnny came to the point, after hanging around for two years and keeping everyone else away. I think he felt he couldn’t go into another spell of sulks so soon after the last one. And you know, Anne, between sulks Papa really is an old duck.’
‘I think he is a great deal better father to you than you deserve,’ said Anne, quite in Rebecca Dew’s manner. ‘You were simply outrageous at that dinner,
‘What,’ she asked quietly, ‘would you think of a man who spent a whole day hunting for the kittens of a poor cat who had been shot because he couldn’t bear to think of them starving to death?’
A strange silence descended on the room. Trix and Pringle looked suddenly ashamed of themselves. And then Mrs Cyrus piped up, feeling it her wifely duty to back up Esme’s unexpected defence of her father.
‘And he can crochet so beautifully. He made the loveliest centrepiece for the parlour table last winter, when he was laid up with lumbago.’
Everyone has some limit of endurance, and Cyrus Taylor had reached his. He gave his chair such a furious backward push that it shot across the polished floor and struck the table on which the vase stood. The table went over and the vase broke into the traditional thousand pieces. Cyrus, his bushy white eyebrows fairly bristling with wrath, stood up and exploded at last.
‘I don’t crochet, woman! Is one contemptible doily going to blast a man’s reputation for ever? I was so bad with that blamed lumbago I didn’t know what I was doing. And I’m deaf, am I, Miss Shirley? I’m deaf.’
‘She didn’t
say
you were, Papa,’ cried Trix, who was never afraid of her father when his temper was vocal.
‘Oh, no, she didn’t say it! None of you said anything!
You
didn’t say I was sixty-eight when I’m only sixty-two, did you?
You
didn’t say I wouldn’t let your mother have a dog! Good Lord, woman, you can have forty thousand dogs if you want to, and you know it! When did I ever deny you anything you wanted – when?’
‘Never, Poppa, never!’ sobbed Mrs Cyrus brokenly. ‘And I never wanted a dog. I never even
thought
of wanting a dog, Poppa.’
‘When did I open your letters? When have I ever kept a diary? A diary! When did I ever wear overalls to anybody’s funeral? When did I pasture a cow in the graveyard? What aunt of mine is in the poorhouse? Did I ever throw a roast at anybody? Did I ever make you live on fruit and eggs?’
‘Never, Poppa, never!’ wept Mrs Cyrus. ‘You’ve always been a good provider – the best.’
‘Didn’t you tell me you
wanted
goloshes last Christmas?’
‘Yes, oh, yes, of course I did, Poppa. And my feet have been so nice and warm all winter.’
‘Well, then!’ Cyrus threw a triumphant glance round the room. His eyes encountered Anne’s. Suddenly the unexpected happened. Cyrus chuckled. His cheeks actually dimpled. Those dimples worked a miracle with his whole expression. He brought his chair back to the table and sat down.
‘I’ve got a very bad habit of sulking, Dr Carter. Everyone has some bad habit. That’s mine. The only one. Come, come, Momma, stop crying. I admit I deserved all I got, except that crack of yours about the crocheting. Esme, my girl, I won’t forget that you were the only one who stood up for me. Tell Maggie to come and clear up that mess – I know you’re all glad the darn’ thing is smashed – and bring on the pudding.’
Anne could never have believed that an evening which began so terribly could end up so pleasantly. Nobody could have been more genial or better company than Cyrus; and there was evidently no aftermath of reckoning, for when Trix came down a few evenings later it was to tell Anne that she had at last scraped up enough courage to tell her father about Johnny.
‘Was he very dreadful, Trix?’
‘He – he wasn’t dreadful at all,’ admitted Trix sheepishly. ‘He just snorted, and said it was about time Johnny came to the point, after hanging around for two years and keeping everyone else away. I think he felt he couldn’t go into another spell of sulks so soon after the last one. And you know, Anne, between sulks Papa really is an old duck.’
‘I think he is a great deal better father to you than you deserve,’ said Anne, quite in Rebecca Dew’s manner. ‘You were simply outrageous at that dinner,
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