The Classic Children's Literature Collection: 39 Classic Novels

by Various Authors

  “Well, you march upstairs and stay there till after dinner. Perhaps you’ll get them sorted out in your memory by that time. No, Anne, never you mind interceding for him. I’m not punishing him because he spoiled your pies . . . that was an accident. I’m punishing him for his disobedience. Go, Davy, I say.”

  “Ain’t I to have any dinner?” wailed Davy.

  “You can come down after dinner is over and have yours in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Davy, somewhat comforted. “I know Anne’ll save some nice bones for me, won’t you, Anne? ‘Cause you know I didn’t mean to fall on the pies. Say, Anne, since they ARE spoiled can’t I take some of the pieces upstairs with me?”

  “No, no lemon pie for you, Master Davy,” said Marilla, pushing him toward the hall.

  “What shall we do for dessert?” asked Anne, looking regretfully at the wreck and ruin.

  “Get out a crock of strawberry preserves,” said Marilla consolingly. “There’s plenty of whipped cream left in the bowl for it.”

  One o’clock came . . . but no Priscilla or Mrs. Morgan. Anne was in an agony. Everything was done to a turn and the soup was just what soup should be, but couldn’t be depended on to remain so for any length of time.

  “I don’t believe they’re coming after all,” said Marilla crossly.

  Anne and Diana sought comfort in each other’s eyes.

  At half past one Marilla again emerged from the parlor.

  “Girls, we MUST have dinner. Everybody is hungry and it’s no use waiting any longer. Priscilla and Mrs. Morgan are not coming, that’s plain, and nothing is being improved by waiting.”

  Anne and Diana set about lifting the dinner, with all the zest gone out of the performance.

  “I don’t believe I’ll be able to eat a mouthful,” said Diana dolefully.

  “Nor I. But I hope everything will be nice for Miss Stacy’s and Mr. and Mrs. Allan’s sakes,” said Anne listlessly.

  When Diana dished the peas she tasted them and a very peculiar expression crossed her face.

  “Anne, did YOU put sugar in these peas?”

  “Yes,” said Anne, mashing the potatoes with the air of one expected to do her duty. “I put a spoonful of sugar in. We always do. Don’t you like it?”

  “But I put a spoonful in too, when I set them on the stove,” said Diana.

  Anne dropped her masher and tasted the peas also. Then she made a grimace.

  “How awful! I never dreamed you had put sugar in, because I knew your mother never does. I happened to think of it, for a wonder . . . I’m always forgetting it . . . so I popped a spoonful in.”

  “It’s a case of too many cooks, I guess,” said Marilla, who had listened to this dialogue with a rather guilty expression. “I didn’t think you’d remember about the sugar, Anne, for I’m perfectly certain you never did before . . . so I put in a spoonful.”

  The guests in the parlor heard peal after peal of laughter from the kitchen, but they never knew what the fun was about. There were no green peas on the dinner table that day, however.

  “Well,” said Anne, sobering down again with a sigh of recollection, “we have the salad anyhow and I don’t think anything has happened to the beans. Let’s carry the things in and get it over.”

  It cannot be said that that dinner was a notable success socially. The Allans and Miss Stacy exerted themselves to save the situation and Marilla’s customary placidity was not noticeably ruffled. But Anne and Diana, between their disappointment and the reaction from their excitement of the forenoon, could neither talk nor eat. Anne tried heroically to bear her part in the conversation for the sake of her guests; but all the sparkle had been quenched in her for the time being, and, in spite of her love for the Allans and Miss Stacy, she couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be when everybody had gone home and she could bury her weariness and disappointment in the pillows of the east gable.

  There is an old proverb that really seems at times to be inspired . . . “it never rains but it pours.” The measure of that day’s tribulations was not yet full. Just as Mr. Allan had finished returning thanks there arose a strange, ominous sound on the stairs, as of some hard, heavy object bounding from step to step, finishing up with a grand smash at the bottom. Everybody ran out into the hall. Anne gave a shriek of dismay.

  At the bottom of the stairs lay a big pink conch shell amid the fragments of what had been Miss Barry’s platter; and at the top of the stairs knelt a terrified Davy, gazing down with wide-open eyes at the havoc.

  “Davy,” said Marilla ominously, “did you throw that conch down ON PURPOSE?”

  “No, I never did,” whimpered Davy. “I was just kneeling here, quiet as quiet, to watch you folks through the bannisters, and my foot struck that old thing and pushed it off . . . and I’m awful hungry . . . and I do wish you’d lick a fellow and have done with it, instead of always sending him upstairs to miss all the fun.”

  “Don’t blame Davy,” said Anne, gathering up the fragments with trembling fingers. “It was my fault. I set that platter there and forgot all about it. I am properly punished for my carelessness; but oh, what will Miss Barry say?”

  “Well, you know she only bought it, so it isn’t the same as if it was an heirloom,” said Diana, trying to console.

  The guests went away soon after, feeling that it was the most tactful thing to do, and Anne and Diana washed the dishes, talking less than they had ever been known to do before. Then Diana went home with a headache and Anne went with another to the east gable, where she stayed until Marilla came home from the post office at sunset, with a letter from Priscilla, written the day before. Mrs. Morgan had sprained her ankle so severely that she could not leave her room.

  “And oh, Anne dear,” wrote Priscilla, “I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid we won’t get up to Green Gables at all now, for by the time Aunty’s ankle is well she will have to go back to Toronto. She has to be there by a certain date.”

  “Well,” sighed Anne, laying the letter down on the red sandstone step of the back porch, where she was sitting, while the twilight rained down out of a dappled sky, “I always thought it was too good to be true that Mrs. Morgan should really come. But there . . . that speech sounds as pessimistic as Miss Eliza Andrews and I’m ashamed of making it. After all, it was NOT too good to be true . . . things just as good and far better are coming true for me all the time. And I suppose the events of today have a funny side too. Perhaps when Diana and I are old and gray we shall be able to laugh over them. But I feel that I can’t expect to do it before then, for it has truly been a bitter disappointment.”

  “You’ll probably have a good many more and worse disappointments than that before you get through life,” said Marilla, who honestly thought she was making a comforting speech. “It seems to me, Anne, that you are never going to outgrow your fashion of setting your heart so on things and then crashing down into despair because you don’t get them.”

  “I know I’m too much inclined that, way” agreed Anne ruefully. “When I think something nice is going to happen I seem to fly right up on the wings of anticipation; and then the first thing I realize I drop down to earth with a thud. But really, Marilla, the flying part IS glorious as long as it lasts . . . it’s like soaring through a sunset. I think it almost pays for the thud.”

  “Well, maybe it does,” admitted Marilla. “I’d rather walk calmly along and do without both flying and thud. But everybody has her own way of living . . . I used to think there was only one right way . . . but since I’ve had you and the twins to bring up I don’t feel so sure of it. What are you going to do about Miss Barry’s platter?”

  “Pay her back the twenty dollars she paid for it, I suppose. I’m so thankful it wasn’t a cherished heirloom because then no money could replace it.”

  “Maybe you could find one like it somewhere and buy it for her.”

  �
��I’m afraid not. Platters as old as that are very scarce. Mrs. Lynde couldn’t find one anywhere for the supper. I only wish I could, for of course Miss Barry would just as soon have one platter as another, if both were equally old and genuine. Marilla, look at that big star over Mr. Harrison’s maple grove, with all that holy hush of silvery sky about it. It gives me a feeling that is like a prayer. After all, when one can see stars and skies like that, little disappointments and accidents can’t matter so much, can they?”

  “Where’s Davy?” said Marilla, with an indifferent glance at the star.

  “In bed. I’ve promised to take him and Dora to the shore for a picnic tomorrow. Of course, the original agreement was that he must be good. But he TRIED to be good . . . and I hadn’t the heart to disappoint him.”

  “You’ll drown yourself or the twins, rowing about the pond in that flat,” grumbled Marilla. “I’ve lived here for sixty years and I’ve never been on the pond yet.”

  “Well, it’s never too late to mend,” said Anne roguishly. “Suppose you come with us tomorrow. We’ll shut Green Gables up and spend the whole day at the shore, daffing the world aside.”

  “No, thank you,” said Marilla, with indignant emphasis. “I’d be a nice sight, wouldn’t I, rowing down the pond in a flat? I think I hear Rachel pronouncing on it. There’s Mr. Harrison driving away somewhere. Do you suppose there is any truth in the gossip that Mr. Harrison is going to see Isabella Andrews?”

  “No, I’m sure there isn’t. He just called there one evening on business with Mr. Harmon Andrews and Mrs. Lynde saw him and said she knew he was courting because he had a white collar on. I don’t believe Mr. Harrison will ever marry. He seems to have a prejudice against marriage.”

  “Well, you can never tell about those old bachelors. And if he had a white collar on I’d agree with Rachel that it looks suspicious, for I’m sure he never was seen with one before.”

  “I think he only put it on because he wanted to conclude a business deal with Harmon Andrews,” said Anne. “I’ve heard him say that’s the only time a man needs to be particular about his appearance, because if he looks prosperous the party of the second part won’t be so likely to try to cheat him. I really feel sorry for Mr. Harrison; I don’t believe he feels satisfied with his life. It must be very lonely to have no one to care about except a parrot, don’t you think? But I notice Mr. Harrison doesn’t like to be pitied. Nobody does, I imagine.”

  “There’s Gilbert coming up the lane,” said Marilla. “If he wants you to go for a row on the pond mind you put on your coat and rubbers. There’s a heavy dew tonight.”

  CHAPTER XVIII. An Adventure on the Tory Road

  “Anne,” said Davy, sitting up in bed and propping his chin on his hands, “Anne, where is sleep? People go to sleep every night, and of course I know it’s the place where I do the things I dream, but I want to know WHERE it is and how I get there and back without knowing anything about it . . . and in my nighty too. Where is it?”

  Anne was kneeling at the west gable window watching the sunset sky that was like a great flower with petals of crocus and a heart of fiery yellow. She turned her head at Davy’s question and answered dreamily,

  “‘Over the mountains of the moon,

  Down the valley of the shadow.’”

  Paul Irving would have known the meaning of this, or made a meaning out of it for himself, if he didn’t; but practical Davy, who, as Anne often despairingly remarked, hadn’t a particle of imagination, was only puzzled and disgusted.

  “Anne, I believe you’re just talking nonsense.”

  “Of course, I was, dear boy. Don’t you know that it is only very foolish folk who talk sense all the time?”

  “Well, I think you might give a sensible answer when I ask a sensible question,” said Davy in an injured tone.

  “Oh, you are too little to understand,” said Anne. But she felt rather ashamed of saying it; for had she not, in keen remembrance of many similar snubs administered in her own early years, solemnly vowed that she would never tell any child it was too little to understand? Yet here she was doing it . . . so wide sometimes is the gulf between theory and practice.

  “Well, I’m doing my best to grow,” said Davy, “but it’s a thing you can’t hurry much. If Marilla wasn’t so stingy with her jam I believe I’d grow a lot faster.”

  “Marilla is not stingy, Davy,” said Anne severely. “It is very ungrateful of you to say such a thing.”

  “There’s another word that means the same thing and sounds a lot better, but I don’t just remember it,” said Davy, frowning intently. “I heard Marilla say she was it, herself, the other day.”

  “If you mean ECONOMICAL, it’s a VERY different thing from being stingy. It is an excellent trait in a person if she is economical. If Marilla had been stingy she wouldn’t have taken you and Dora when your mother died. Would you have liked to live with Mrs. Wiggins?”

  “You just bet I wouldn’t!” Davy was emphatic on that point. “Nor I don’t want to go out to Uncle Richard neither. I’d far rather live here, even if Marilla is that long-tailed word when it comes to jam, ‘cause YOU’RE here, Anne. Say, Anne, won’t you tell me a story ‘fore I go to sleep? I don’t want a fairy story. They’re all right for girls, I s’pose, but I want something exciting . . . lots of killing and shooting in it, and a house on fire, and in’trusting things like that.”

  Fortunately for Anne, Marilla called out at this moment from her room.

  “Anne, Diana’s signaling at a great rate. You’d better see what she wants.”

  Anne ran to the east gable and saw flashes of light coming through the twilight from Diana’s window in groups of five, which meant, according to their old childish code, “Come over at once for I have something important to reveal.” Anne threw her white shawl over her head and hastened through the Haunted Wood and across Mr. Bell’s pasture corner to Orchard Slope.

  “I’ve good news for you, Anne,” said Diana. “Mother and I have just got home from Carmody, and I saw Mary Sentner from Spencer vale in Mr. Blair’s store. She says the old Copp girls on the Tory Road have a willow-ware platter and she thinks it’s exactly like the one we had at the supper. She says they’ll likely sell it, for Martha Copp has never been known to keep anything she COULD sell; but if they won’t there’s a platter at Wesley Keyson’s at Spencervale and she knows they’d sell it, but she isn’t sure it’s just the same kind as Aunt Josephine’s.”

  “I’ll go right over to Spencervale after it tomorrow,” said Anne resolutely, “and you must come with me. It will be such a weight off my mind, for I have to go to town day after tomorrow and how can I face your Aunt Josephine without a willow-ware platter? It would be even worse than the time I had to confess about jumping on the spare room bed.”

  Both girls laughed over the old memory . . . concerning which, if any of my readers are ignorant and curious, I must refer them to Anne’s earlier history.

  The next afternoon the girls fared forth on their platter hunting expedition. It was ten miles to Spencervale and the day was not especially pleasant for traveling. It was very warm and windless, and the dust on the road was such as might have been expected after six weeks of dry weather.

  “Oh, I do wish it would rain soon,” sighed Anne. “Everything is so parched up. The poor fields just seem pitiful to me and the trees seem to be stretching out their hands pleading for rain. As for my garden, it hurts me every time I go into it. I suppose I shouldn’t complain about a garden when the farmers’ crops are suffering so. Mr. Harrison says his pastures are so scorched up that his poor cows can hardly get a bite to eat and he feels guilty of cruelty to animals every time he meets their eyes.”

  After a wearisome drive the girls reached Spencervale and turned down the “Tory” Road . . . a green, solitary highway where the strips of grass between the wheel tracks bore evidence to lack of travel. Along most of its exte
nt it was lined with thick-set young spruces crowding down to the roadway, with here and there a break where the back field of a Spencervale farm came out to the fence or an expanse of stumps was aflame with fireweed and goldenrod.

  “Why is it called the Tory Road?” asked Anne.

  “Mr. Allan says it is on the principle of calling a place a grove because there are no trees in it,” said Diana, “for nobody lives along the road except the Copp girls and old Martin Bovyer at the further end, who is a Liberal. The Tory government ran the road through when they were in power just to show they were doing something.”

  Diana’s father was a Liberal, for which reason she and Anne never discussed politics. Green Gables folk had always been Conservatives.

  Finally the girls came to the old Copp homestead . . . a place of such exceeding external neatness that even Green Gables would have suffered by contrast. The house was a very old-fashioned one, situated on a slope, which fact had necessitated the building of a stone basement under one end. The house and out-buildings were all whitewashed to a condition of blinding perfection and not a weed was visible in the prim kitchen garden surrounded by its white paling.

  “The shades are all down,” said Diana ruefully. “I believe that nobody is home.”

  This proved to be the case. The girls looked at each other in perplexity.

  “I don’t know what to do,” said Anne. “If I were sure the platter was the right kind I would not mind waiting until they came home. But if it isn’t it may be too late to go to Wesley Keyson’s afterward.”

  Diana looked at a certain little square window over the basement.

  “That is the pantry window, I feel sure,” she said, “because this house is just like Uncle Charles’ at Newbridge, and that is their pantry window. The shade isn’t down, so if we climbed up on the roof of that little house we could look into the pantry and might be able to see the platter. Do you think it would be any harm?”