Anne of Avonlea
dead. They’re all grown up and doing well . . . and one of them is a
butcher. And flowers and songs couldn’t have ghosts anyhow.”
Anne smothered a little sigh. She loved Diana dearly and they had
always been good comrades. But she had long ago learned that when she
wandered into the realm of fancy she must go alone. The way to it was
by an enchanted path where not even her dearest might follow her.
A thunder-shower came up while the girls were at Carmody; it did not
last long, however, and the drive home, through lanes where the
raindrops sparkled on the boughs and little leafy valleys where the
drenched ferns gave out spicy odors, was delightful. But just as they
turned into the Cuthbert lane Anne saw something that spoiled the
beauty of the landscape for her.
Before them on the right extended Mr. Harrison’s broad, gray-green
field of late oats, wet and luxuriant; and there, standing squarely in
the middle of it, up to her sleek sides in the lush growth, and
blinking at them calmly over the intervening tassels, was a Jersey cow!
Anne dropped the reins and stood up with a tightening of the lips that
boded no good to the predatory quadruped. Not a word said she, but she
climbed nimbly down over the wheels, and whisked across the fence
before Diana understood what had happened.
“Anne, come back,” shrieked the latter, as soon as she found her voice.
“You’ll ruin your dress in that wet grain . . . ruin it. She doesn’t
hear me! Well, she’ll never get that cow out by herself. I must go and
help her, of course.”
Anne was charging through the grain like a mad thing. Diana hopped
briskly down, tied the horse securely to a post, turned the skirt of
her pretty gingham dress over her shoulders, mounted the fence, and
started in pursuit of her frantic friend. She could run faster than
Anne, who was hampered by her clinging and drenched skirt, and soon
overtook her. Behind them they left a trail that would break Mr.
Harrison’s heart when he should see it.
“Anne, for mercy’s sake, stop,” panted poor Diana. “I’m right out of
breath and you are wet to the skin.”
“I must . . . get . . . that cow . . . out . . . before . . . Mr.
Harrison . . . sees her,” gasped Anne. “I don’t . . . care . . . if I’m
. . . drowned . . . if we . . . can . . . only . . . do that.”
But the Jersey cow appeared to see no good reason for being hustled out
of her luscious browsing ground. No sooner had the two breathless girls
got near her than she turned and bolted squarely for the opposite
corner of the field.
“Head her off,” screamed Anne. “Run, Diana, run.”
Diana did run. Anne tried to, and the wicked Jersey went around the
field as if she were possessed. Privately, Diana thought she was. It
was fully ten minutes before they headed her off and drove her through
the corner gap into the Cuthbert lane.
There is no denying that Anne was in anything but an angelic temper at
that precise moment. Nor did it soothe her in the least to behold a
buggy halted just outside the lane, wherein sat Mr. Shearer of Carmody
and his son, both of whom wore a broad smile.
“I guess you’d better have sold me that cow when I wanted to buy her
last week, Anne,” chuckled Mr. Shearer.
“I’ll sell her to you now, if you want her,” said her flushed and
disheveled owner. “You may have her this very minute.”
“Done. I’ll give you twenty for her as I offered before, and Jim here
can drive her right over to Carmody. She’ll go to town with the rest of
the shipment this evening. Mr. Reed of Brighton wants a Jersey cow.”
Five minutes later Jim Shearer and the Jersey cow were marching up the
road, and impulsive Anne was driving along the Green Gables lane with
her twenty dollars.
“What will Marilla say?” asked Diana.
“Oh, she won’t care. Dolly was my own cow and it isn’t likely she’d
bring more than twenty dollars at the auction. But oh dear, if Mr.
Harrison sees that grain he will know she has been in again, and after
my giving him my word of honor that I’d never let it happen! Well, it
has taught me a lesson not to give my word of honor about cows. A cow
that could jump over or break through our milk-pen fence couldn’t be
trusted anywhere.”
Marilla had gone down to Mrs. Lynde’s, and when she returned knew all
about Dolly’s sale and transfer, for Mrs. Lynde had seen most of the
transaction from her window and guessed the rest.
“I suppose it’s just as well she’s gone, though you _do_ do things in a
dreadful headlong fashion, Anne. I don’t see how she got out of the
pen, though. She must have broken some of the boards off.”
“I didn’t think of looking,” said Anne, “but I’ll go and see now.
Martin has never come back yet. Perhaps some more of his aunts have
died. I think it’s something like Mr. Peter Sloane and the
octogenarians. The other evening Mrs. Sloane was reading a newspaper
and she said to Mr. Sloane, ‘I see here that another octogenarian has
just died. What is an octogenarian, Peter?’ And Mr. Sloane said he
didn’t know, but they must be very sickly creatures, for you never
heard tell of them but they were dying. That’s the way with Martin’s
aunts.”
“Martin’s just like all the rest of those French,” said Marilla in
disgust. “You can’t depend on them for a day.” Marilla was looking over
Anne’s Carmody purchases when she heard a shrill shriek in the
barnyard. A minute later Anne dashed into the kitchen, wringing her
hands.
“Anne Shirley, what’s the matter now?”
“Oh, Marilla, whatever shall I do? This is terrible. And it’s all my
fault. Oh, will I _ever_ learn to stop and reflect a little before
doing reckless things? Mrs. Lynde always told me I would do something
dreadful some day, and now I’ve done it!”
“Anne, you are the most exasperating girl! _What_ is it you’ve done?”
“Sold Mr. Harrison’s Jersey cow . . . the one he bought from Mr. Bell .
. . to Mr. Shearer! Dolly is out in the milking pen this very minute.”
“Anne Shirley, are you dreaming?”
“I only wish I were. There’s no dream about it, though it’s very like a
nightmare. And Mr. Harrison’s cow is in Charlottetown by this time. Oh,
Marilla, I thought I’d finished getting into scrapes, and here I am in
the very worst one I ever was in in my life. What can I do?”
“Do? There’s nothing to do, child, except go and see Mr. Harrison about
it. We can offer him our Jersey in exchange if he doesn’t want to take
the money. She is just as good as his.”
“I’m sure he’ll be awfully cross and disagreeable about it, though,”
moaned Anne.
“I daresay he will. He seems to be an irritable sort of a man. I’ll go
and explain to him if you like.”
“No, indeed, I’m not as mean as that,” exclaimed Anne. “This is all my
fault and I’m certainly not going to let you take my punishment. I’ll
go myself and I’ll go at once. The sooner it’s over the better, for it
will be terribly humiliating.”
Poor Anne got her hat and her twenty dollars and was passing out when
she happened to glance through the open pantry door. On the table
reposed a nut cake which she had baked that morning . . . a
particularly toothsome concoction iced with pink icing and adorned with
walnuts. Anne had intended it for Friday evening, when the youth of
Avonlea were to meet at Green Gables to organize the Improvement
Society. But what were they compared to the justly offended Mr.
Harrison? Anne thought that cake ought to soften the heart of any man,
especially one who had to do his own cooking, and she promptly popped
it into a box. She would take it to Mr. Harrison as a peace offering.
“That is, if he gives me a chance to say anything at all,” she thought
ruefully, as she climbed the lane fence and started on a short cut
across the fields, golden in the light of the dreamy August evening. “I
know now just how people feel who are being led to execution.”
III
Mr. Harrison at Home
Mr. Harrison’s house was an old-fashioned, low-eaved, whitewashed
structure, set against a thick spruce grove.
Mr. Harrison himself was sitting on his vineshaded veranda, in his
shirt sleeves, enjoying his evening pipe. When he realized who was
coming up the path he sprang suddenly to his feet, bolted into the
house, and shut the door. This was merely the uncomfortable result of
his surprise, mingled with a good deal of shame over his outburst of
temper the day before. But it nearly swept the remnant of her courage
from Anne’s heart.
“If he’s so cross now what will he be when he hears what I’ve done,”
she reflected miserably, as she rapped at the door.
But Mr. Harrison opened it, smiling sheepishly, and invited her to
enter in a tone quite mild and friendly, if somewhat nervous. He had
laid aside his pipe and donned his coat; he offered Anne a very dusty
chair very politely, and her reception would have passed off pleasantly
enough if it had not been for the telltale of a parrot who was peering
through the bars of his cage with wicked golden eyes. No sooner had
Anne seated herself than Ginger exclaimed,
“Bless my soul, what’s that redheaded snippet coming here for?”
It would be hard to say whose face was the redder, Mr. Harrison’s or
Anne’s.
“Don’t you mind that parrot,” said Mr. Harrison, casting a furious
glance at Ginger. “He’s . . . he’s always talking nonsense. I got him
from my brother who was a sailor. Sailors don’t always use the choicest
language, and parrots are very imitative birds.”
“So I should think,” said poor Anne, the remembrance of her errand
quelling her resentment. She couldn’t afford to snub Mr. Harrison under
the circumstances, that was certain. When you had just sold a man’s
Jersey cow offhand, without his knowledge or consent you must not mind
if his parrot repeated uncomplimentary things. Nevertheless, the
“redheaded snippet” was not quite so meek as she might otherwise have
been.
“I’ve come to confess something to you, Mr. Harrison,” she said
resolutely. “It’s . . . it’s about . . . that Jersey cow.”
“Bless my soul,” exclaimed Mr. Harrison nervously, “has she gone and
broken into my oats again? Well, never mind . . . never mind if she
has. It’s no difference . . . none at all, I . . . I was too hasty
yesterday, that’s a fact. Never mind if she has.”
“Oh, if it were only that,” sighed Anne. “But it’s ten times worse. I
don’t . . .”
“Bless my soul, do you mean to say she’s got into my wheat?”
“No . . . no . . . not the wheat. But . . .”
“Then it’s the cabbages! She’s broken into my cabbages that I was
raising for Exhibition, hey?”
“It’s _not_ the cabbages, Mr. Harrison. I’ll tell you everything . . .
that is what I came for—but please don’t interrupt me. It makes me so
nervous. Just let me tell my story and don’t say anything till I get
through—and then no doubt you’ll say plenty,” Anne concluded, but in
thought only.
“I won’t say another word,” said Mr. Harrison, and he didn’t. But
Ginger was not bound by any contract of silence and kept ejaculating,
“Redheaded snippet” at intervals until Anne felt quite wild.
“I shut my Jersey cow up in our pen yesterday. This morning I went to
Carmody and when I came back I saw a Jersey cow in your oats. Diana and
I chased her out and you can’t imagine what a hard time we had. I was
so dreadfully wet and tired and vexed—and Mr. Shearer came by that very
minute and offered to buy the cow. I sold her to him on the spot for
twenty dollars. It was wrong of me. I should have waited and consulted
Marilla, of course. But I’m dreadfully given to doing things without
thinking—everybody who knows me will tell you that. Mr. Shearer took
the cow right away to ship her on the afternoon train.”
“Redheaded snippet,” quoted Ginger in a tone of profound contempt.
At this point Mr. Harrison arose and, with an expression that would
have struck terror into any bird but a parrot, carried Ginger’s cage