III
Mr. Harrison at Home
Mr. Harrison's house was an old-fashioned, low-eaved, whitewashedstructure, set against a thick spruce grove.
Mr. Harrison himself was sitting on his vineshaded veranda, in his shirtsleeves, enjoying his evening pipe. When he realized who was coming upthe path he sprang suddenly to his feet, bolted into the house, andshut the door. This was merely the uncomfortable result of his surprise,mingled with a good deal of shame over his outburst of temper the daybefore. But it nearly swept the remnant of her courage from Anne'sheart.
"If he's so cross now what will he be when he hears what I've done," shereflected miserably, as she rapped at the door.
But Mr. Harrison opened it, smiling sheepishly, and invited her to enterin a tone quite mild and friendly, if somewhat nervous. He had laidaside his pipe and donned his coat; he offered Anne a very dusty chairvery politely, and her reception would have passed off pleasantly enoughif it had not been for the telltale of a parrot who was peering throughthe bars of his cage with wicked golden eyes. No sooner had Anne seatedherself 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 orAnne's.
"Don't you mind that parrot," said Mr. Harrison, casting a furiousglance at Ginger. "He's . . . he's always talking nonsense. I got himfrom my brother who was a sailor. Sailors don't always use the choicestlanguage, and parrots are very imitative birds."
"So I should think," said poor Anne, the remembrance of her errandquelling her resentment. She couldn't afford to snub Mr. Harrison underthe circumstances, that was certain. When you had just sold a man'sJersey cow offhand, without his knowledge or consent you must notmind if his parrot repeated uncomplimentary things. Nevertheless, the"redheaded snippet" was not quite so meek as she might otherwise havebeen.
"I've come to confess something to you, Mr. Harrison," she saidresolutely. "It's . . . it's about . . . that Jersey cow."
"Bless my soul," exclaimed Mr. Harrison nervously, "has she gone andbroken 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. Idon'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 wasraising 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 sonervous. Just let me tell my story and don't say anything till I getthrough--and then no doubt you'll say plenty," Anne concluded, but inthought only.
"I won't say another word," said Mr. Harrison, and he didn't. ButGinger 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 toCarmody and when I came back I saw a Jersey cow in your oats. Diana andI chased her out and you can't imagine what a hard time we had. I wasso dreadfully wet and tired and vexed--and Mr. Shearer came by that veryminute and offered to buy the cow. I sold her to him on the spot fortwenty dollars. It was wrong of me. I should have waited and consultedMarilla, of course. But I'm dreadfully given to doing things withoutthinking--everybody who knows me will tell you that. Mr. Shearer tookthe 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 havestruck terror into any bird but a parrot, carried Ginger's cage into anadjoining room and shut the door. Ginger shrieked, swore, and otherwiseconducted himself in keeping with his reputation, but finding himselfleft alone, relapsed into sulky silence.
"Excuse me and go on," said Mr. Harrison, sitting down again. "Mybrother the sailor never taught that bird any manners."
"I went home and after tea I went out to the milking pen. Mr.Harrison," . . . Anne leaned forward, clasping her hands with her oldchildish gesture, while her big gray eyes gazed imploringly into Mr.Harrison's embarrassed face . . . "I found my cow still shut up in thepen. It was YOUR cow I had sold to Mr. Shearer."
"Bless my soul," exclaimed Mr. Harrison, in blank amazement at thisunlooked-for conclusion. "What a VERY extraordinary thing!"
"Oh, it isn't in the least extraordinary that I should be getting myselfand other people into scrapes," said Anne mournfully. "I'm noted forthat. You might suppose I'd have grown out of it by this time . . . I'llbe seventeen next March . . . but it seems that I haven't. Mr. Harrison,is it too much to hope that you'll forgive me? I'm afraid it's too lateto get your cow back, but here is the money for her . . . or you can havemine in exchange if you'd rather. She's a very good cow. And I can'texpress how sorry I am for it all."
"Tut, tut," said Mr. Harrison briskly, "don't say another word about it,miss. It's of no consequence . . . no consequence whatever. Accidents willhappen. I'm too hasty myself sometimes, miss . . . far too hasty. But Ican't help speaking out just what I think and folks must take me as theyfind me. If that cow had been in my cabbages now . . . but never mind, shewasn't, so it's all right. I think I'd rather have your cow in exchange,since you want to be rid of her."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Harrison. I'm so glad you are not vexed. I wasafraid you would be."
"And I suppose you were scared to death to come here and tell me, afterthe fuss I made yesterday, hey? But you mustn't mind me, I'm a terribleoutspoken old fellow, that's all . . . awful apt to tell the truth, nomatter if it is a bit plain."
"So is Mrs. Lynde," said Anne, before she could prevent herself.
"Who? Mrs. Lynde? Don't you tell me I'm like that old gossip," said Mr.Harrison irritably. "I'm not . . . not a bit. What have you got in thatbox?"
"A cake," said Anne archly. In her relief at Mr. Harrison's unexpectedamiability her spirits soared upward feather-light. "I brought it overfor you . . . I thought perhaps you didn't have cake very often."
"I don't, that's a fact, and I'm mighty fond of it, too. I'm muchobliged to you. It looks good on top. I hope it's good all the waythrough."
"It is," said Anne, gaily confident. "I have made cakes in my time thatwere NOT, as Mrs. Allan could tell you, but this one is all right. Imade it for the Improvement Society, but I can make another for them."
"Well, I'll tell you what, miss, you must help me eat it. I'll put thekettle on and we'll have a cup of tea. How will that do?"
"Will you let me make the tea?" said Anne dubiously.
Mr. Harrison chuckled.
"I see you haven't much confidence in my ability to make tea. You'rewrong . . . I can brew up as good a jorum of tea as you ever drank. But goahead yourself. Fortunately it rained last Sunday, so there's plenty ofclean dishes."
Anne hopped briskly up and went to work. She washed the teapot inseveral waters before she put the tea to steep. Then she swept the stoveand set the table, bringing the dishes out of the pantry. The state ofthat pantry horrified Anne, but she wisely said nothing. Mr. Harrisontold her where to find the bread and butter and a can of peaches. Anneadorned the table with a bouquet from the garden and shut her eyes tothe stains on the tablecloth. Soon the tea was ready and Anne foundherself sitting opposite Mr. Harrison at his own table, pouring his teafor him, and chatting freely to him about her school and friends andplans. She could hardly believe the evidence of her senses.
Mr. Harrison had brought Ginger back, averring that the poor bird wouldbe lonesome; and Anne, feeling that she could forgive everybody andeverything, offered him a walnut. But Ginger's feelings had beengrievously hurt and he rejected all overtures of friendship. He satmoodily on his perch and ruffled his feathers up until he looked like amere ball of green and gold.
"Why do
you call him Ginger?" asked Anne, who liked appropriate namesand thought Ginger accorded not at all with such gorgeous plumage.
"My brother the sailor named him. Maybe it had some reference to histemper. I think a lot of that bird though . . . you'd be surprised if youknew how much. He has his faults of course. That bird has cost me a gooddeal one way and another. Some people object to his swearing habits buthe can't be broken of them. I've tried . . . other people have tried.Some folks have prejudices against parrots. Silly, ain't it? I like themmyself. Ginger's a lot of company to me. Nothing would induce me to givethat bird up . . . nothing in the world, miss."
Mr. Harrison flung the last sentence at Anne as explosively as if hesuspected her of some latent design of persuading him to give Ginger up.Anne, however, was beginning to like the queer, fussy, fidgety littleman, and before the meal was over they were quite good friends. Mr.Harrison found out about the Improvement Society and was disposed toapprove of it.
"That's right. Go ahead. There's lots of room for improvement in thissettlement . . . and in the people too."
"Oh, I don't know," flashed Anne. To herself, or to her particularcronies, she might admit that there were some small imperfections,easily removable, in Avonlea and its inhabitants. But to hear apractical outsider like Mr. Harrison saying it was an entirely differentthing. "I think Avonlea is a lovely place; and the people in it are verynice, too."
"I guess you've got a spice of temper," commented Mr. Harrison,surveying the flushed cheeks and indignant eyes opposite him. "It goeswith hair like yours, I reckon. Avonlea is a pretty decent place or Iwouldn't have located here; but I suppose even you will admit that ithas SOME faults?"
"I like it all the better for them," said loyal Anne. "I don't likeplaces or people either that haven't any faults. I think a truly perfectperson would be very uninteresting. Mrs. Milton White says she never meta perfect person, but she's heard enough about one . . . her husband'sfirst wife. Don't you think it must be very uncomfortable to be marriedto a man whose first wife was perfect?"
"It would be more uncomfortable to be married to the perfect wife,"declared Mr. Harrison, with a sudden and inexplicable warmth.
When tea was over Anne insisted on washing the dishes, although Mr.Harrison assured her that there were enough in the house to do for weeksyet. She would dearly have loved to sweep the floor also, but no broomwas visible and she did not like to ask where it was for fear therewasn't one at all.
"You might run across and talk to me once in a while," suggested Mr.Harrison when she was leaving. "'Tisn't far and folks ought to beneighborly. I'm kind of interested in that society of yours. Seems to methere'll be some fun in it. Who are you going to tackle first?"
"We are not going to meddle with PEOPLE . . . it is only PLACES we mean toimprove," said Anne, in a dignified tone. She rather suspected that Mr.Harrison was making fun of the project.
When she had gone Mr. Harrison watched her from the window . . . a lithe,girlish shape, tripping lightheartedly across the fields in the sunsetafterglow.
"I'm a crusty, lonesome, crabbed old chap," he said aloud, "but there'ssomething about that little girl makes me feel young again . . . and it'ssuch a pleasant sensation I'd like to have it repeated once in a while."
"Redheaded snippet," croaked Ginger mockingly.
Mr. Harrison shook his fist at the parrot.
"You ornery bird," he muttered, "I almost wish I'd wrung your neck whenmy brother the sailor brought you home. Will you never be done gettingme into trouble?"
Anne ran home blithely and recounted her adventures to Marilla, who hadbeen not a little alarmed by her long absence and was on the point ofstarting out to look for her.
"It's a pretty good world, after all, isn't it, Marilla?" concluded Annehappily. "Mrs. Lynde was complaining the other day that it wasn't muchof a world. She said whenever you looked forward to anything pleasantyou were sure to be more or less disappointed . . . perhaps that is true.But there is a good side to it too. The bad things don't always comeup to your expectations either . . . they nearly always turn out ever somuch better than you think. I looked forward to a dreadfully unpleasantexperience when I went over to Mr. Harrison's tonight; and instead hewas quite kind and I had almost a nice time. I think we're going to bereal good friends if we make plenty of allowances for each other, andeverything has turned out for the best. But all the same, Marilla, Ishall certainly never again sell a cow before making sure to whom shebelongs. And I do NOT like parrots!"