"Hazel!" (Kershoo!)
"Oh, I know it all! You told Terry I didn't love him . . . that I wanted to break our engagement . . . our sacred engagement!"
"Hazel . . . child!" (Kershoo!)
"Oh, yes, sneer at me . . . sneer at everything. But don't try to deny it. You did it . . . and you did it deliberately."
"Of course, I did. You asked me to."
"I . . . asked . . . you . . . to!"
"Here, in this very room. You told me you didn't love him and could never marry him."
"Oh, just a mood, I suppose. I never dreamed you'd take me seriously. I thought you would understand the artistic temperament. You're ages older than I am, of course, but even you can't have forgotten the crazy ways girls talk . . . feel. You who pretended to be my friend!"
"This must be a nightmare," thought poor Anne, wiping her nose. "Sit down, Hazel . . . do."
"Sit down!" Hazel flew wildly up and down the room. "How can I sit down . . . how can anybody sit down when her life is in ruins all about her? Oh, if that is what being old does to you . . . jealous of younger people's happiness and determined to wreck it . . . I shall pray never to grow old."
Anne's hand suddenly tingled to box Hazel's ears with a strange horrible primitive tingle of desire. She slew it so instantly that she would never believe afterwards that she had really felt it. But she did think a little gentle chastisement was indicated.
"If you can't sit down and talk sensibly, Hazel, I wish you would go away." (A very violent kershoo.) "I have work to do." (Sniff . . . sniff . . . snuffle!)
"I am not going away till I have told you just what I think of you. Oh, I know I've only myself to blame . . . I should have known . . . I did know. I felt instinctively the first time I saw you that you were dangerous. That red hair and those green eyes! But I never dreamed you'd go so far as to make trouble between me and Terry. I thought you were a Christian at least. I never heard of any one doing such a thing. Well, you've broken my heart, if that is any satisfaction to you."
"You little goose . . ."
"I won't talk to you! Oh, Terry and I were so happy before you spoiled everything. I was so happy . . . the first girl of my set to be engaged. I even had my wedding all planned out . . . four bridesmaids in lovely pale blue silk dresses with black velvet ribbon on the flounces. So chic! Oh, I don't know if I hate you the most or pity you the most! Oh, how could you treat me like this . . . after I've loved you so . . . trusted you so . . . believed in you so!"
Hazel's voice broke . . . her eyes filled with tears . . . she collapsed on a rocking-chair.
"You can't have many exclamation points left," thought Anne, "but no doubt the supply of italics is inexhaustible."
"This will just about kill poor Momma," sobbed Hazel. "She was so pleased . . . everybody was so pleased . . . they all thought it an ideal match. Oh, can anything ever again be like it used to be?"
"Wait till the next moonlight night and try," said Anne gently.
"Oh, yes, laugh, Miss Shirley . . . laugh at my suffering. I have not the least doubt that you find it all very amusing . . . very amusing indeed! You don't know what suffering is! It is terrible . . . terrible!"
Anne looked at the clock and sneezed.
"Then don't suffer," she said unpityingly.
"I will suffer. My feelings are very deep. Of course a shallow soul wouldn't suffer. But I am thankful I am not shallow whatever else I am. Have you any idea what it means to be in love, Miss Shirley? Really, terribly deeply, wonderfully in love? And then to trust and be deceived? I went to Kingsport so happy . . . loving all the world! I told Terry to be good to you while I was away . . . not to let you be lonesome. I came home last night so happy. And he told me he didn't love me any longer . . . that it was all a mistake . . . a mistake! . . . and that you had told him I didn't care for him any longer, and wanted to be free!"
"My intentions were honorable," said Anne, laughing. Her impish sense of humor had come to her rescue and she was laughing as much at herself as at Hazel.
"Oh, how did I live through the night?" said Hazel wildly. "I just walked the floor. And you don't know . . . you can't even imagine what I've gone through today. I've had to sit and listen . . . actually listen . . . to people talking about Terry's infatuation for you. Oh, people have been watching you! They know what you've been doing. And why . . . why! That is what I cannot understand. You had your own lover . . . why couldn't you have left me mine? What had you against me? What had I ever done to you?"
"I think," said Anne, thoroughly exasperated, "that you and Terry both need a good spanking. If you weren't too angry to listen to reason . . ."
"Oh, I'm not angry, Miss Shirley . . . only hurt . . . terribly hurt," said Hazel in a voice positively foggy with tears. "I feel that I have been betrayed in everything . . . in friendship as well as in love. Well, they say after your heart is broken you never suffer any more. I hope it's true, but I fear it isn't."
"What has become of your ambition, Hazel? And what about the millionaire patient and the honeymoon villa on the blue Mediterranean?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Shirley. I'm not a bit ambitious . . . I'm not one of those dreadful new women. My highest ambition was to be a happy wife and make a happy home for my husband. Was . . . was! To think it should be in the past tense! Well, it doesn't do to trust any one. I've learned that. A bitter, bitter lesson!"
Hazel wiped her eyes and Anne wiped her nose, and Dusty Miller glared at the evening star with the expression of a misanthrope.
"You'd better go, I think, Hazel. I'm really very busy and I can't see that there is anything to be gained by prolonging this interview."
Hazel walked to the door with the air of Mary Queen of Scots advancing to the scaffold, and turned there dramatically.
"Farewell, Miss Shirley. I leave you to your conscience."
Anne, left alone with her conscience, laid down her pen, sneezed three times and gave herself a plain talking-to.
"You may be a B.A., Anne Shirley, but you have a few things to learn yet . . . things that even Rebecca Dew could have told you . . . did tell you. Be honest with yourself, my dear girl, and take your medicine like a gallant lady. Admit that you were carried off your feet by flattery. Admit that you really liked Hazel's professed adoration for you. Admit you found it pleasant to be worshiped. Admit that you liked the idea of being a sort of dea ex machina . . . saving people from their own folly when they didn't in the least want to be saved from it. And having admitted all this and feeling wiser and sadder and a few thousand years older, pick up your pen and proceed with your examination papers, pausing to note in passing that Myra Pringle thinks a seraph is 'an animal that abounds in Africa.'"
A week later a letter came for Anne, written on pale blue paper edged with silver.
"DEAR MISS SHIRLEY:
"I am writing this to tell you that all misunderstanding is cleared away between Terry and me and we are so deeply, intensely, wonderfully happy that we have decided we can forgive you. Terry says he was just moonlighted into making love to you but that his heart never really swerved in its allegiance to me. He says he really likes sweet, simple girls . . . that all men do . . . and has no use for intriguing, designing ones. We don't understand why you behaved to us as you did . . . we never will understand. Perhaps you just wanted material for a story and thought you could find it in tampering with the first sweet, tremulous love of a girl. But we thank you for revealing us to ourselves. Terry says he never realized the deeper meaning of life before. So really it was all for the best. We are so sympathetic . . . we can feel each other's thoughts. Nobody understands him
but me and I want to be a source of inspiration to him forever. I am not clever like you but I feel I can be that, for we are soul-mates and have vowed eternal truth and constancy to each other, no matter how many jealous people and false friends may try to make trouble between us.
"We are going to be married as soon as I have my trousseau ready. I am going up to Boston to get it. There really isn't anything in Summerside. My dress is to be white moire and my traveling-suit will be dove gray with hat, gloves and blouse of delphinium blue. Of course I'm very young, but I want to be married when I am young, before the bloom goes off life.
"Terry is all that my wildest dreams could picture and every thought of my heart is for him alone. I know we are going to be rapturously happy. Once I believed all my friends would rejoice with me in my happiness, but I have learned a bitter lesson in worldly wisdom since then.
"Yours truly, "HAZEL MARR. "P.S. 1. You told me Terry had such a temper. Why, he's a perfect lamb, his sister says. "H.M. "P.S. 2. I've heard that lemon juice will bleach freckles. You might try it on your nose. "H.M."
"To quote Rebecca Dew," remarked Anne to Dusty Miller, "postscript Number Two is the last straw."
Anne went home for her second Summerside vacation with mixed feelings. Gilbert was not to be in Avonlea that summer. He had gone west to work on a new railroad that was being built. But Green Gables was still Green Gables and Avonlea was still Avonlea. The Lake of Shining Waters shone and sparkled as of old. The ferns still grew as thickly over the Dryad's Bubble, and the log-bridge, though it was a little crumblier and mossier every year, still led up to the shadows and silences and wind-songs of the Haunted Wood.
And Anne had prevailed on Mrs. Campbell to let little Elizabeth go home with her for a fortnight . . . no more. But Elizabeth, looking forward to two whole weeks with Miss Shirley, asked no more of life.
"I feel like Miss Elizabeth today," she told Anne with a sigh of delightful excitement, as they drove away from Windy Poplars. "Will you please call me 'Miss Elizabeth' when you introduce me to your friends at Green Gables? It would make me feel so grown up."
"I will," promised Anne gravely, remembering a small, red-headed damsel who had once begged to be called Cordelia.
Elizabeth's drive from Blight River to Green Gables, over a road which only Prince Edward Island in June can show, was almost as ecstatic a thing for her as it had been for Anne that memorable spring evening so many years ago. The world was beautiful, with wind-rippled meadows on every hand and surprises lurking around every corner. She was with her beloved Miss Shirley; she would be free from the Woman for two whole weeks; she had a new pink gingham dress and a pair of lovely new brown boots. It was almost as if Tomorrow were already there . . . with fourteen Tomorrows to follow. Elizabeth's eyes were shining with dreams when they turned into the Green Gables lane where the pink wild roses grew.
Things seemed to change magically for Elizabeth the moment she got to Green Gables. For two weeks she lived in a world of romance. You couldn't step outside the door without stepping into something romantic. Things were just bound to happen in Avonlea . . . if not today, then tomorrow. Elizabeth knew she hadn't quite got into Tomorrow yet, but she knew she was on the very fringes of it.
Everything in and about Green Gables seemed to be acquainted with her. Even Marilla's pink rosebud tea-set was like an old friend. The rooms looked at her as if she had always known and loved them; the very grass was greener than grass anywhere else; and the people who lived at Green Gables were the kind of people who lived in Tomorrow. She loved them and was beloved by them. Davy and Dora adored her and spoiled her; Marilla and Mrs. Lynde approved of her. She was neat, she was lady-like, she was polite to her elders. They knew Anne did not like Mrs. Campbell's methods, but it was plain to be seen that she had trained her great-granddaughter properly.
"Oh, I don't want to sleep, Miss Shirley," Elizabeth whispered when they were in bed in the little porch gable, after a rapturous evening. "I don't want to sleep away a single minute of these wonderful two weeks. I wish I could get along without any sleep while I'm here."
For a while she didn't sleep. It was heavenly to lie there and listen to the splendid low thunder Miss Shirley had told her was the sound of the sea. Elizabeth loved it and the sigh of the wind around the eaves as well. Elizabeth had always been "afraid of the night." Who knew what queer thing might jump at you out of it? But now she was afraid no longer. For the first time in her life the night seemed like a friend to her.
They would go to the shore tomorrow, Miss Shirley had promised, and have a dip in those silver-tipped waves they had seen breaking beyond the green dunes of Avonlea when they drove over the last hill. Elizabeth could see them coming in, one after the other. One of them was a great dark wave of sleep . . . it rolled right over her . . . Elizabeth drowned in it with a delicious sigh of surrender.
"It's . . . so . . . easy . . . to . . . love . . . God . . . here," was her last conscious thought.
But she lay awake for a while every night of her stay at Green Gables, long after Miss Shirley had gone to sleep, thinking over things. Why couldn't life at The Evergreens be like life at Green Gables?
Elizabeth had never lived where she could make a noise if she wanted to. Everybody at The Evergreens had to move softly . . . speak softly . . . even, so Elizabeth felt, think softly. There were times when Elizabeth desired perversely to yell loud and long.
"You may make all the noise you want to here," Anne had told her. But it was strange . . . she no longer wanted to yell, now that there was nothing to prevent her. She liked to go quietly, stepping gently among all the lovely things around her. But Elizabeth learned to laugh during that sojourn at Green Gables. And when she went back to Summerside she carried delightful memories with her and left equally delightful ones behind her. To the Green Gables folks Green Gables seemed for months full of memories of little Elizabeth. For "little Elizabeth" she was to them in spite of the fact that Anne had solemnly introduced her as "Miss Elizabeth." She was so tiny, so golden, so elf-like, that they couldn't think of her as anything but little Elizabeth . . . little Elizabeth dancing in a twilight garden among the white June lilies . . . coiled up on a bough of the big Duchess apple tree reading fairy tales, unlet and unhindered . . . little Elizabeth half drowned in a field of buttercups where her golden head seemed just a larger buttercup . . . chasing silver-green moths or trying to count the fireflies in Lover's Lane . . . listening to the bumblebees zooming in the canterbury-bells . . . being fed strawberries and cream by Dora in the pantry or eating red currants with her in the yard . . . "Red currants are such beautiful things, aren't they, Dora? It's just like eating jewels, isn't it?" . . . little Elizabeth singing to herself in the haunted dusk of the firs . . . with fingers sweet from gathering the big, fat, pink "cabbage roses" . . . gazing at the great moon hanging over the brook valley . . . "I think the moon has worried eyes, don't you, Mrs. Lynde?" . . . crying bitterly because a chapter in the serial story in Davy's magazine left the hero in a sad predicament . . . "Oh, Miss Shirley, I'm sure he can never live through it!" . . . little Elizabeth curled up, all flushed and sweet like a wild rose, for an afternoon nap on the kitchen sofa with Dora's kittens cuddled about her . . . shrieking with laughter to see the wind blowing the dignified old hens' tails over their backs . . . could it be little Elizabeth laughing like that? . . . helping Anne frost cupcakes, Mrs. Lynde cut the patches for a new "double Irish chain" quilt, and Dora rub the old brass candlesticks till they could see their faces in them . . . cutting out tiny biscuits with a thimble under Marilla's tutelage. Why, the Green Gables folks could hardly look at a place or thing without being reminded of little Elizabeth.
"I wonder if I'll ever have such a happy fortnight again," thought little Elizabeth, as she drove away from Green Gables. The road to the station was just as beautiful as it had been two weeks before, but half the time little Elizabeth couldn't see it for tears.
"I couldn't have believed I'd miss a child so much," said Mrs. Lynde.
When little Elizabeth went, Katherine Brooke and her dog came for the rest of the summer. Katherine had resigned from the staff of the High School at the close of the year and meant to go to Redmond in the fall to take a secretarial course at Redmond University. Anne had advised this.
"I know you'd like it and you've never liked teaching," said the latter, as they sat one evening in a ferny corner of a clover field and watched the glories of a sunset sky.
"Life owes me something more than it has paid me and I'm going out to collect it," said Katherine decidedly. "I feel so much younger than I did this time last year," she added with a laugh.
"I'm sure it's the best thing for you to do, but I hate to think of Summerside and the High without you. What will the tower room be like next year without our evenings of confab and argument, and our hours of foolishness, when we turned everybody and everything into a joke?"
The Third Year
"Windy Poplars, "Spook's Lane, "September 8th.
"Dearest:
"The summer is over . . . the summer in which I have seen you only that week-end in May. And I am back at Windy Poplars for my third and last year in Summerside High. Katherine and I had a delightful time together at Green Gables and I'm going to miss her dreadfully this year. The new Junior teacher is a jolly little personage, chubby and rosy and friendly as a puppy . . . but somehow,
there's nothing more to her than that. She has sparkling shallow blue eyes with no thought behind them. I like her . . . I'll always like her . . . neither more nor less . . . there's nothing to discover in her. There was so much to discover in Katherine, when you once got past her guard.
"There is no change at Windy Poplars . . . yes there is. The old red cow has gone to her long home, so Rebecca Dew sadly informed me when I came down to supper Monday night. The widows have decided not to bother with another one but to get milk and cream from Mr. Cherry. This means that little Elizabeth will come no more to the garden gate for her new milk. But Mrs. Campbell seems to have grown reconciled to her coming over here when she wants to, so that does not make so much difference now.
"And another change is brewing. Aunt Kate told me, much to my sorrow, that they have decided to give Dusty Miller away as soon as they can find a suitable home for him. When I protested, she said they were really driven to it for peace' sake. Rebecca Dew has been constantly complaining about him all summer and there seems to be no other way of satisfying her. Poor Dusty Miller . . . and he is such a nice, prowly, purry darling!
"Tomorrow, being Saturday, I'm going to look after Mrs. Raymond's twins while she goes to Charlottetown to the funeral of some relative. Mrs. Raymond is a widow who came to our town last winter. Rebecca Dew and the Windy Poplars widows . . . really, Summerside is a great place for widows . . . think her a 'little too grand' for Summerside, but she was really a wonderful help to Katherine and me in our Dramatic Club activities. One good turn deserves another.
"Gerald and Geraldine are eight and are a pair of angelic-looking youngsters, but Rebecca Dew 'pulled a mouth,' to use one of her own expressions, when I told her what I was going to do.
"'But I love children, Rebecca.'
"'Children, yes, but them's holy terrors, Miss Shirley. Mrs. Raymond doesn't believe in punishing children no matter what they do. She says she's determined they'll have a "natural" life. They take people in by that saintly look of theirs, but I've heard what her neighbors have to say of them. The minister's wife called one afternoon . . . well, Mrs. Raymond was sweet as sugar pie to her, but when she was leaving a shower of Spanish onions came flying down the stairs and one of them knocked her hat off. "Children always behave so abominably when you 'specially want them to be good," was all Mrs. Raymond said . . . kinder as if she was rather proud of them being so unmanageable. They're from the States, you know' . . . as if that explained everything. Rebecca has about as much use for 'Yankees' as Mrs. Lynde has."
Saturday forenoon Anne betook herself to the pretty, old-fashioned cottage on a street that straggled out into the country, where Mrs. Raymond and her famous twins lived. Mrs. Raymond was all ready to depart . . . rather gayly dressed for a funeral, perhaps . . . especially with regard to the beflowered hat perched on top of the smooth brown waves of hair that flowed around her head . . . but looking very beautiful. The eight-year-old twins, who had inherited her beauty, were sitting on the stairs, their delicate faces wreathed with a quite cherubic expression. They had complexions of pink and white, large China-blue eyes and aureoles of fine, fluffy, pale yellow hair.
They smiled with engaging sweetness when their mother introduced them to Anne and told them that dear Miss Shirley had been so kind as to come and take care of them while Mother was away at dear Aunty Ella's funeral, and of course they would be good and not give her one teeny-weeny bit of trouble, wouldn't they, darlings?
The darlings nodded gravely and contrived, though it hadn't seemed possible, to look more angelic than ever.
Mrs. Raymond took Anne down the walk to the gate with her.
"They're all I've got . . . now," she said pathetically. "Perhaps I may have spoiled them a little . . . I know people say I have . . . people always know so much better how you ought to bring up your children than you know yourself, haven't you noticed, Miss Shirley? But I think loving is better than spanking any day, don't you, Miss Shirley? I'm sure you will have no trouble with them. Children always know whom they can play on and whom they can't, don't you think? That poor old Miss Prouty up the street . . . I had her to stay with them one day, but the poor darlings couldn't bear her. So of course they teased her a good bit . . . you know what children are. She has revenged herself by telling the most ridiculous tales about them all over town. But they'll just love you and I know they'll be angels. Of course, they have high spirits . . . but children should have, don't you think? It's so pitiful to see children with a cowed appearance, isn't it? I like them to be natural, don't you? Too good children don't seem natural, do they? Don't let them sail their boats in the bathtub or go wading in the pond, will you? I'm so afraid of them catching cold . . . their father died of pneumonia."
Mrs. Raymond's large blue eyes looked as if they were going to overflow, but she gallantly blinked the tears away.
"Don't worry if they quarrel a little--children always do quarrel, don't you think? But if any outsider attacks them . . . my dear!! They really just worship each other, you know. I could have taken one of them to the funeral, but they simply wouldn't hear of it. They've never been separated a day in their lives. And I couldn't look after twins at a funeral, could I now?"
"Don't worry, Mrs. Raymond," said Anne kindly. "I'm sure Gerald and Geraldine and I will have a beautiful day together. I love children."
"I know it. I felt sure the minute I saw you that you loved children. One can always tell, don't you think? There's something about a person who loves children. Poor old Miss Prouty detests them. She looks for the worst in children and so of course she finds it. You can't conceive what a comfort it is to me to reflect that my darlings are under the care of one who loves and understands children. I'm sure I'll quite enjoy the day."
"You might take us to the funeral," shrieked Gerald, suddenly sticking his head out of an upstairs window. "We never have any fun like that."
"Oh, they're in the bathroom!" exclaimed Mrs. Raymond tragically. "Dear Miss Shirley, please go and take them out. Gerald darling, you know mother couldn't take you both to the funeral. Oh, Miss Shirley, he's got that coyote skin from the parlor floor tied round his neck by the paws again. He'll ruin it. Please make him take it off at once. I must hurry or I'll miss the train."
Mrs. Raymond sailed elegantly away and Anne ran upstairs to find that the angelic Geraldine had grasped her brother by the legs and was apparently trying to hurl him bodily out of the window.
"Miss Shirley, make Gerald stop putting out his tongue at me," she demanded fiercely.
"Does it hurt you?" asked Anne smilingly.
"Well, he's not going to put out his tongue at me," retorted Geraldine, darting a baleful look at Gerald, who returned it with interest.
"My tongue's my own and you can't stop me from putting it out when I like . . . can she, Miss Shirley?"
Anne ignored the question.
"Twins dear, it's just an hour till lunch-time. Shall we go and sit in the garden and play games and tell stories? And, Gerald, won't you put that coyote skin back on the floor?"
"But I want to play wolf," said Gerald.
"He wants to play wolf," cried Geraldine, suddenly aligning herself on her brother's side.
"We want to play wolf," they both cried together.
A peal from the door-bell cut the knot of Anne's dilemma.
"Come on and see who it is," cried Geraldine. They flew to the stairs and by reason of sliding down the banisters, got to the front door much quicker than Anne, the coyote skin coming unloosed and drifting away in the process.
"We never buy anything from peddlers," Gerald told the lady standing on the door-stone.
"Can I see your mother?" asked the caller.
"No, you can't. Mother's gone to Aunt Ella's funeral. Miss Shirley's looking after us. That's her coming down the stairs. She'll make you scat."
Anne did feel rather like making the caller "scat" when she saw who it was. Miss Pamela Drake was not a popular caller in Summerside. She was always "canvassing" for something and it was generally quite impossible to get rid of her unless you bought it, since she was utterly impervious to snubs and hints and had apparently all the time in the world at her command.
This time she was "taking orders" for an encyclopedia . . . something no school-teacher could afford to be without. Vainly Anne protested that she did not need an encyclopedia . . . the High School already possessed a very good one.
"Ten years out of date," said Miss Pamela firmly. "We'll just sit down here on this rustic bench, Miss Shirley, and I'll show you my prospectus."
"I'm afraid I haven't time, Miss Drake. I have the children to look after."
"It won't take but a few minutes. I've been meaning to call on you, Miss Shirley, and I call it real fortunate to find you here. Run away and play, children, while Miss Shirley and I skim over this beautiful prospectus."
"Mother's hired Miss Shirley to look after us," said Geraldine, with a toss of her aerial curls. But Gerald had tugged her backward and they slammed the door shut.
"You see, Miss Shirley, what this encyclopedia means. Look at the beautiful paper . . . feel it . . . the splendid engravings . . . no other encyclopedia on the market has half the number of engravings . . . the wonderful print--a blind man could read it--and all for eighty dollars . . . eight dollars down and eight dollars a month till it's all paid. You'll never have such another chance . . . we're just doing this to introduce it . . . next year it will be a hundred and twenty."
"But I don't want an encyclopedia, Miss Drake," said Anne desperately.
"Of course you want an encyclopedia . . . every one wants an encyclopedia . . . a National encyclopedia. I don't know how I lived before I became acquainted with the National encyclopedia. Live! I didn't live . . . I merely existed. Look at that engraving of the cassowary, Miss Shirley. Did you ever really see a cassowary before?"
"But, Miss Drake, I . . ."
"If you think the terms a little too onerous I feel sure I can make a special arrangement for you, being a school-teacher . . . six a month instead of eight. You simply can't refuse an offer like that, Miss Shirley."
Anne almost felt she couldn't. Wouldn't it be worth six dollars a month to get rid of this terrible woman who had so evidently made up her mind not to go until she had got an order? Besides, what were the twins doing? They were alarmingly quiet. Suppose they were sailing their boats in the bathtub. Or had sneaked out of the back door and gone wading in the pond.
She made one more pitiful effort to escape.
"I'll think this over, Miss Drake, and let you know . . ."
"There's no time like the present," said Miss Drake, briskly getting out her fountain-pen. "You know you're going to take the National, so you might just as well sign for it now as any other time. Nothing is ever gained by putting things off. The price may go up any moment and then you'd have to pay a hundred and twenty. Sign here, Miss Shirley."
Anne felt the fountain-pen being forced into her hand . . . another moment . . . and then there was such a blood-curdling shriek from Miss Drake that Anne dropped the fountain-pen under the clump of golden glow that flanked the rustic seat, and gazed in amazed horror at her companion.
Was that Miss Drake . . . that indescribable object, hatless, spectacleless, almost hairless? Hat, spectacles, false front were floating in the air above her head half-way up to the bathroom window, out of which two golden heads were hanging. Gerald was grasping a fishing-rod to which were tied two cords ending in fish-hooks. By what magic he had contrived to make a triple catch, only he could have told. Probably it was sheer luck.
Anne flew into the house and upstairs. By the time she reached the bathroom the twins had fled. Gerald had dropped the fishing-rod and a peep from the window revealed a furious Miss Drake retrieving her belongings, including the fountain-pen, and marching to the gate. For once in her life Miss Pamela Drake had failed to land her order.
Anne discovered the twins seraphically eating apples on the back porch. It was hard to know what to do. Certainly, such behavior could not be allowed to pass without a rebuke . . . but Gerald had undoubtedly rescued her from a difficult position and Miss Drake was an odious creature who needed a lesson. Still . . .
"You've et a great big worm!" shrieked Gerald. "I saw it disappear down your throat."
Geraldine laid down her apple and promptly turned sick . . . very sick. Anne had her hands full for some time. And when Geraldine was better, it was lunch-hour and Anne suddenly decided to let Gerald off with a very mild reproof. After all, no lasting harm had been done Miss Drake, who would probably hold her tongue religiously about the incident for her own sake.
"Do you think, Gerald," she said gently, "that what you did was a gentlemanly action?"
"Nope," said Gerald, "but it was good fun. Gee, I'm some fisherman, ain't I?"
The lunch was excellent. Mrs. Raymond had prepared it before she left and whatever her shortcomings as a disciplinarian might be, she was a good cook. Gerald and Geraldine, being occupied with gorging, did not quarrel or display worse table manners than the general run of children. After lunch Anne washed the dishes, getting Geraldine to help dry them and Gerald to put them carefully away in the cupboard. They were both quite knacky at it and Anne reflected complacently that all they needed was wise training and a little firmness.
At two o'clock Mr. James Grand called. Mr. Grand was the chairman of the High School board of trustees and had matters of importance to talk of, which he wished to discuss fully before he left on Monday to attend an educational conference in Kingsport. Could he come to Windy Poplars in the evening? asked Anne. Unfortunately he couldn't.
Mr. Grand was a good sort of man in his own fashion, but Anne had long ago found out that he must be handled with gloves. Moreover, Anne was very anxious to get him on her side in a battle royal over new equipment that was looming up. She went out to the twins.
"Darlings, will you play nicely out in the back yard while I have a little talk with Mr. Grand? I won't be very long . . . and then we'll have an afternoon-tea picnic on the banks of the pond . . . and I'll teach you to blow soap-bubbles with red dye in them . . . the loveliest things!"
"Will you give us a quarter apiece if we behave?" demanded Gerald.
"No, Gerald dear," said Anne firmly, "I'm not going to bribe you. I know you are going to be good, just because I ask you, as a gentleman should."
"We'll be good, Miss Shirley," promised Gerald solemnly.
"Awful good," echoed Geraldine, with equal solemnity.
It is possible they would have kept their promise if Ivy Trent had not arrived almost as soon as Anne was closeted with Mr. Grand in the parlor. But Ivy Trent did arrive and the Raymond twins hated Ivy Trent . . . the impeccable Ivy Trent who never did anything wrong and always looked as
if she had just stepped out of a band-box. On this particular afternoon there was no doubt that Ivy Trent had come over to show off her beautiful new brown boots and her sash and shoulder bows and hair bows of scarlet ribbon. Mrs. Raymond, whatever she lacked in some respects, had fairly sensible ideas about dressing children. Her charitable neighbors said she put so much money on herself that she had none to spend on the twins . . . and Geraldine never had a chance to parade the street in the style of Ivy Trent, who had a dress for every afternoon in the week. Mrs. Trent always arrayed her in "spotless white." At least.
Ivy was always spotless when she left home. If she were not quite so spotless when she returned that, of course, was the fault of the "jealous" children with whom the neighborhood abounded. Geraldine was jealous. She longed for scarlet sash and shoulder bows and white embroidered
dresses. What would she not have given for buttoned brown boots like those? "How do you like my new sash and shoulder bows?" asked Ivy proudly. "How do you like my new sash and shoulder bows?" mimicked Geraldine tauntingly. "But you haven't got shoulder bows," said Ivy grandly. "But you haven't got shoulder bows," squeaked Geraldine. Ivy looked puzzled. "I have so. Can't you see them?" "I have so. Can't you see them?" mocked Geraldine, very happy in this brilliant idea of repeating
everything Ivy said scornfully. "They ain't paid for," said Gerald. Ivy Trent had a temper. It showed itself in her face, which grew as red as her shoulder bows. "They are, too. My mother always pays her bills." "My mother always pays her bills," chanted Geraldine. Ivy was uncomfortable. She didn't know exactly how to cope with this. So she turned to Gerald,
who was undoubtedly the handsomest boy on the street. Ivy had made up her mind about him. "I came over to tell you I'm going to have you for my beau," she said, looking eloquently at him out of a pair of brown eyes that, even at seven, Ivy had learned had a devastating effect on most of the small boys of her acquaintance.
Gerald turned crimson. "I won't be your beau," he said. "But you've got to be," said Ivy serenely. "But you've got to be," said Geraldine, wagging her head at him. "I won't be," shouted Gerald furiously. "And don't you give me any more of your lip, Ivy Trent." "You have to be," said Ivy stubbornly. "You have to be," said Geraldine. Ivy glared at her. "You just shut up, Geraldine Raymond!" "I guess I can talk in my own yard," said Geraldine. "'Course she can," said Gerald. "And if you don't shut up, Ivy Trent, I'll just go over to your place
and dig the eyes out of your doll." "My mother would spank you if you did," cried Ivy. "Oh, she would, would she? Well, do you know what my mother would do to her if she did? She'd
just sock her on the nose." "Well, anyway, you've got to be my beau," said Ivy, returning calmly to the vital subject. "I'll . . . I'll duck your head in the rain-barrel," yelled the maddened Gerald . . . "I'll rub your face
in an ant's nest . . . I'll . . . I'll tear them bows and sash off you . . ." triumphantly, for this at least
was feasible.
"Let's do it," squealed Geraldine. They pounced like furies on the unfortunate Ivy, who kicked and shrieked and tried to bite but was no match for the two of them. Together they hauled her across the yard and into the woodshed, where her howls could not be heard.
"Hurry," gasped Geraldine, "'fore Miss Shirley comes out." No time was to be lost. Gerald held Ivy's legs while Geraldine held her wrists with one hand and tore off her hair bow and shoulder bows and sash with the other.
"Let's paint her legs," shouted Gerald, his eyes falling on a couple of cans of paint left there by some workmen the previous week. "I'll hold her and you paint her."
Ivy shrieked vainly in despair. Her stockings were pulled down and in a few moments her legs were adorned with wide stripes of red and green paint. In the process a good deal of the paint got spattered over her embroidered dress and new boots. As a finishing touch they filled her curls with burrs.
She was a pitiful sight when they finally released her. The twins howled mirthfully as they looked at her. Long weeks of airs and condescensions from Ivy had been avenged.
"Now you go home," said Gerald. "This'll teach you to go 'round telling people they have to be your beaus."
"I'll tell my mother," wept Ivy. "I'll go straight home and tell my mother on you, you horrid, horrid, hateful, ugly boy!"
"Don't you call my brother ugly, you stuck-up thing," cried Geraldine. "You and your shoulder bows! Here, take them with you. We don't want them cluttering up our woodshed."
Ivy, pursued by the bows, which Geraldine pelted after her, ran sobbing out of the yard and down the street.
"Quick . . . let's sneak up the back stairs to the bathroom and clean up 'fore Miss Shirley sees us," gasped Geraldine.
Mr. Grand had talked himself out and bowed himself away. Anne stood for a moment on the door-stone, wondering uneasily where her charges were. Up the street and in at the gate came a wrathful lady, leading a forlorn and still sobbing atom of humanity by the hand.
"Miss Shirley, where is Mrs. Raymond?" demanded Mrs. Trent.
"Mrs. Raymond is . . ."
"I insist on seeing Mrs. Raymond. She shall see with her own eyes what her children have done to poor, helpless, innocent Ivy. Look at her, Miss Shirley . . . just look at her!"
"Oh, Mrs. Trent . . . I'm so sorry! It is all my fault. Mrs. Raymond is away . . . and I promised to look after them . . . but Mr. Grand came . . ."
"No, it isn't your fault, Miss Shirley. I don't blame you. No one can cope with those diabolical children. The whole street knows them. If Mrs. Raymond isn't here, there is no point in my remaining. I shall take my poor child home. But Mrs. Raymond shall hear of this . . . indeed she shall. Listen to that, Miss Shirley. Are they tearing each other limb from limb?"
"That" was a chorus of shrieks, howls and yells that came echoing down the stairs. Anne ran upwards. On the hall floor was a twisting, writhing, biting, tearing, scratching mass. Anne separated the furious twins with difficulty and, holding each firmly by a squirming shoulder, demanded the meaning of such behavior.
"She says I've got to be Ivy Trent's beau," snarled Gerald.
"So he has got to be," screamed Geraldine.
"I won't be!"
"You've got to be!"
"Children!" said Anne. Something in her tone quelled them. They looked at her and saw a Miss Shirley they had not seen before. For the first time in their young lives they felt the force of authority.
"You, Geraldine," said Anne quietly, "will go to bed for two hours. You, Gerald, will spend the same length of time in the hall closet. Not a word. You have behaved abominably and you must take your punishment. Your mother left you in my charge and you will obey me."
"Then punish us together," said Geraldine, beginning to cry.
"Yes . . . you've no right to sep'rate us . . . we've never been sep'rated," muttered Gerald.
"You will be now." Anne was still very quiet. Meekly Geraldine took off her clothes and got into one of the cots in their room. Meekly Gerald entered the hall closet. It was a large airy closet with a window and a chair and nobody could have called the punishment an unduly severe one. Anne locked the door and sat down with a book by the hall window. At least, for two hours she would know a little peace of mind.
A peep at Geraldine a few minutes later showed her to be sound asleep, looking so lovely in her sleep that Anne almost repented her sternness. Well, a nap would be good for her, anyway. When she wakened she should be permitted to get up, even if the two hours had not expired.
At the end of an hour Geraldine was still sleeping. Gerald had been so quiet that Anne decided that he had taken his punishment like a man and might be forgiven. After all, Ivy Trent was a vain little monkey and had probably been very irritating.
Anne unlocked the closet door and opened it.
There was no Gerald in the closet. The window was open and the roof of the side porch was just beneath it. Anne's lips tightened. She went downstairs and out into the yard. No sign of Gerald. She explored the woodshed and looked up and down the street. Still no sign.
She ran through the garden and through the gate into the lane that led through a patch of scrub woodland to the little pond in Mr. Robert Creedmore's field. Gerald was happily poling himself about on it in the small flat Mr. Creedmore kept there. Just as Anne broke through the trees Gerald's pole, which he had stuck rather deep in the mud, came away with unexpected ease at his third tug and Gerald promptly shot heels over head backward into the water.
Anne gave an involuntary shriek of dismay, but there was no real cause for alarm. The pond at its deepest would not come up to Gerald's shoulders and where he had gone over, it was little deeper than his waist. He had somehow got on his feet and was standing there rather foolishly, with his aureole plastered drippingly down on his head, when Anne's shriek was re-echoed behind her, and Geraldine, in her nightgown, tore through the trees and out to the edge of the little wooden platform to which the flat was commonly moored.
With a despairing shriek of "Gerald!" she took a flying leap that landed her with a tremendous splash by Gerald's side and almost gave him another ducking.
"Gerald, are you drowned?" cried Geraldine. "Are you drowned, darling?"
"No . . . no . . . darling," Gerald assured her through his chattering teeth.
They embraced and kissed passionately.
"Children, come in here this minute," said Anne.
They waded to the shore. The September day, warm in the morning, had turned cold and windy in the late afternoon. They shivered terribly . . . their faces were blue. Anne, without a word of censure, hurried them home, got off their wet clothes and got them into Mrs. Raymond's bed, with hot-water bottles at their feet. They still continued to shiver. Had they got a chill? Were they headed for pneumonia?
"You should have taken better care of us, Miss Shirley," said Gerald, still chattering.
"'Course you should," said Geraldine.
A distracted Anne flew downstairs and telephoned for the doctor. By the time he came the twins had got warm, and he assured Anne that they were in no danger. If they stayed in bed till tomorrow they would be all right.
He met Mrs. Raymond coming up from the station on the way back, and it was a pale, almost hysterical lady who presently rushed in. "Oh, Miss Shirley, how could you have let my little treasures get into such danger!" "That's just what we told her, Mother," chorused the twins.
"I trusted you . . . I told you . . ." "I hardly see how I was to blame, Mrs. Raymond," said Anne, with eyes as cold as gray mist. "You will realize this, I think, when you are calmer. The children are quite all right . . . I simply sent for the doctor as a precautionary measure. If Gerald and Geraldine had obeyed me, this would not have happened."
"I thought a teacher would have a little authority over children," said Mrs. Raymond bitterly.
"Over children perhaps . . . but not young demons," thought Anne. She said only,
"Since you are here, Mrs. Raymond, I think I will go home. I don't think I can be of any further
service and I have some school work to do this evening." As one child the twins hurled themselves out of bed and flung their arms around her. "I hope there'll be a funeral every week," cried Gerald. "'Cause I like you, Miss Shirley, and I hope
you'll come and look after us every time Mother goes away." "So do I," said Geraldine. "I like you ever so much better than Miss Prouty." "Oh, ever so much," said Geraldine. "Will you put us in a story?" demanded Gerald. "Oh, do," said Geraldine. "I'm sure you meant well," said Mrs. Raymond tremulously. "Thank you," said Anne icily, trying to detach the twins' clinging arms.
