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The Way It Often Happens
Anne rose betimes the next morning and blithely greeted the fresh day,
when the banners of the sunrise were shaken triumphantly across the pearly
skies. Green Gables lay in a pool of sunshine, flecked with the dancing
shadows of poplar and willow. Beyond the land was Mr. Harrison's
wheatfield, a great, windrippled expanse of pale gold. The world was so
beautiful that Anne spent ten blissful minutes hanging idly over the
garden gate drinking the loveliness in.
After breakfast Marilla made ready for her journey. Dora was to go with
her, having been long promised this treat.
"Now, Davy, you try to be a good boy and don't bother Anne," she straitly
charged him. "If you are good I'll bring you a striped candy cane from
For alas, Marilla had stooped to the evil habit of bribing people to be
"I won't be bad on purpose, but s'posen I'm bad zacksidentally?" Davy
wanted to know.
"You'll have to guard against accidents," admonished Marilla. "Anne, if
Mr. Shearer comes today get a nice roast and some steak. If he doesn't
you'll have to kill a fowl for dinner tomorrow."
"I'm not going to bother cooking any dinner for just Davy and myself
today," she said. "That cold ham bone will do for noon lunch and I'll have
some steak fried for you when you come home at night."
"I'm going to help Mr. Harrison haul dulse this morning," announced Davy.
"He asked me to, and I guess he'll ask me to dinner too. Mr. Harrison is
an awful kind man. He's a real sociable man. I hope I'll be like him when
I grow up. I mean BEHAVE like him . . . I don't want to LOOK like him. But
I guess there's no danger, for Mrs. Lynde says I'm a very handsome child.
Do you s'pose it'll last, Anne? I want to know?"
"I daresay it will," said Anne gravely. "You ARE a handsome boy, Davy,"
. . . Marilla looked volumes of disapproval . . . "but you must live up to
it and be just as nice and gentlemanly as you look to be."
"And you told Minnie May Barry the other day, when you found her crying
'cause some one said she was ugly, that if she was nice and kind and
loving people wouldn't mind her looks," said Davy discontentedly. "Seems
to me you can't get out of being good in this world for some reason or
'nother. You just HAVE to behave."
"Don't you want to be good?" asked Marilla, who had learned a great deal
but had not yet learned the futility of asking such questions.
"Yes, I want to be good but not TOO good," said Davy cautiously. "You
don't have to be very good to be a Sunday School superintendent. Mr.
Bell's that, and he's a real bad man."
"Indeed he's not," said Marila indignantly.
"He is . . . he says he is himself," asseverated Davy. "He said it when he
prayed in Sunday School last Sunday. He said he was a vile worm and a
miserable sinner and guilty of the blackest 'niquity. What did he do that
was so bad, Marilla? Did he kill anybody? Or steal the collection cents? I
want to know."
Fortunately Mrs. Lynde came driving up the lane at this moment and Marilla
made off, feeling that she had escaped from the snare of the fowler, and
wishing devoutly that Mr. Bell were not quite so highly figurative in his
public petitions, especially in the hearing of small boys who were always
"wanting to know."
Anne, left alone in her glory, worked with a will. The floor was swept,
the beds made, the hens fed, the muslin dress washed and hung out on the
line. Then Anne prepared for the transfer of feathers. She mounted to the
garret and donned the first old dress that came to hand . . . a navy blue
cashmere she had worn at fourteen. It was decidedly on the short side and
as "skimpy" as the notable wincey Anne had worn upon the occasion of her
debut at Green Gables; but at least it would not be materially injured by
down and feathers. Anne completed her toilet by tying a big red and white
spotted handkerchief that had belonged to Matthew over her head, and, thus
accoutred, betook herself to the kitchen chamber, whither Marilla, before
her departure, had helped her carry the feather bed.
A cracked mirror hung by the chamber window and in an unlucky moment Anne
looked into it. There were those seven freckles on her nose, more rampant
than ever, or so it seemed in the glare of light from the unshaded window.
"Oh, I forgot to rub that lotion on last night," she thought. "I'd better
run down to the pantry and do it now."
Anne had already suffered many things trying to remove those freckles. On
one occasion the entire skin had peeled off her nose but the freckles
remained. A few days previously she had found a recipe for a freckle
lotion in a magazine and, as the ingredients were within her reach, she
straightway compounded it, much to the disgust of Marilla, who thought
that if Providence had placed freckles on your nose it was your bounden
duty to leave them there.
Anne scurried down to the pantry, which, always dim from the big willow
growing close to the window, was now almost dark by reason of the shade
drawn to exclude flies. Anne caught the bottle containing the lotion from
the shelf and copiously anointed her nose therewith by means of a little
sponge sacred to the purpose. This important duty done, she returned to
her work. Any one who has ever shifted feathers from one tick to another
will not need to be told that when Anne finished she was a sight to
behold. Her dress was white with down and fluff, and her front hair,
escaping from under the handkerchief, was adorned with a veritable halo of
feathers. At this auspicious moment a knock sounded at the kitchen door.
"That must be Mr. Shearer," thought Anne. "I'm in a dreadful mess but I'll
have to run down as I am, for he's always in a hurry."
Down flew Anne to the kitchen door. If ever a charitable floor did open to
swallow up a miserable, befeathered damsel the Green Gables porch floor
should promptly have engulfed Anne at that moment. On the doorstep were
standing Priscilla Grant, golden and fair in silk attire, a short, stout
gray-haired lady in a tweed suit, and another lady, tall stately,
wonderfully gowned, with a beautiful, highbred face and large,
black-lashed violet eyes, whom Anne "instinctively felt," as she would
have said in her earlier days, to be Mrs. Charlotte E. Morgan.
In the dismay of the moment one thought stood out from the confusion of
Anne's mind and she grasped at it as at the proverbial straw. All Mrs.
Morgan's heroines were noted for "rising to the occasion." No matter what
their troubles were, they invariably rose to the occasion and showed their
superiority over all ills of time, space, and quantity. Anne therefore
felt it was HER duty to rise to the occasion and she did it, so perfectly
that Priscilla afterward declared she never admired Anne Shirley more than
at that moment. No matter what her outraged feelings were she did not show
them. She greeted Priscilla and was introduced to her companions as calmly
and composedly as if she had been arrayed in purple and fine linen. To be
sure, it was somewhat of a shock to find that the lady she had
instinctively felt to be Mrs. Morgan was not Mrs. Morgan at all, but an
unknown Mrs. Pendexter, while the stout little gray-haired woman was Mrs.
Morgan; but in the greater shock the lesser lost its power. Anne ushered
her guests to the spare room and thence into the parlor, where she left
them while she hastened out to help Priscilla unharness her horse.
"It's dreadful to come upon you so unexpectedly as this," apologized
Priscilla, "but I did not know till last night that we were coming. Aunt
Charlotte is going away Monday and she had promised to spend today with a
friend in town. But last night her friend telephoned to her not to come
because they were quarantined for scarlet fever. So I suggested we come
here instead, for I knew you were longing to see her. We called at the
White Sands Hotel and brought Mrs. Pendexter with us. She is a friend of
aunt's and lives in New York and her husband is a millionaire. We can't
stay very long, for Mrs. Pendexter has to be back at the hotel by five
Several times while they were putting away the horse Anne caught Priscilla
looking at her in a furtive, puzzled way.
"She needn't stare at me so," Anne thought a little resentfully. "If she
doesn't KNOW what it is to change a feather bed she might IMAGINE it."
When Priscilla had gone to the parlor, and before Anne could escape
upstairs, Diana walked into the kitchen. Anne caught her astonished friend
by the arm.
"Diana Barry, who do you suppose is in that parlor at this very moment?
Mrs. Charlotte E. Morgan . . . and a New York millionaire's wife . . . and
here I am like THIS . . . and NOT A THING IN THE HOUSE FOR DINNER BUT A
COLD HAM BONE, Diana!"
By this time Anne had become aware that Diana was staring at her in
precisely the same bewildered fashion as Priscilla had done. It was really
"Oh, Diana, don't look at me so," she implored. "YOU, at least, must know
that the neatest person in the world couldn't empty feathers from one tick
into another and remain neat in the process."
"It . . . it . . . isn't the feathers," hesitated Diana. "It's . . . it's
. . . your nose, Anne."
"My nose? Oh, Diana, surely nothing has gone wrong with it!"
Anne rushed to the little looking glass over the sink. One glance revealed
the fatal truth. Her nose was a brilliant scarlet!
Anne sat down on the sofa, her dauntless spirit subdued at last.
"What is the matter with it?" asked Diana, curiosity overcoming delicacy.
"I thought I was rubbing my freckle lotion on it, but I must have used
that red dye Marilla has for marking the pattern on her rugs," was the
despairing response. "What shall I do?"
"Wash it off," said Diana practically.
"Perhaps it won't wash off. First I dye my hair; then I dye my nose.
Marilla cut my hair off when I dyed it but that remedy would hardly be
practicable in this case. Well, this is another punishment for vanity and
I suppose I deserve it . . . though there's not much comfort in THAT. It
is really almost enough to make one believe in ill-luck, though Mrs. Lynde
says there is no such thing, because everything is foreordained."
Fortunately the dye washed off easily and Anne, somewhat consoled, betook
herself to the east gable while Diana ran home. Presently Anne came down
again, clothed and in her right mind. The muslin dress she had fondly
hoped to wear was bobbing merrily about on the line outside, so she was
forced to content herself with her black lawn. She had the fire on and the
tea steeping when Diana returned; the latter wore HER muslin, at least,
and carried a covered platter in her hand.
"Mother sent you this," she said, lifting the cover and displaying a
nicely carved and jointed chicken to Anne's greatful eyes.
The chicken was supplemented by light new bread, excellent butter and
cheese, Marilla's fruit cake and a dish of preserved plums, floating in
their golden syrup as in congealed summer sunshine. There was a big
bowlful of pink-and-white asters also, by way of decoration; yet the
spread seemed very meager beside the elaborate one formerly prepared for
Anne's hungry guests, however, did not seem to think anything was lacking
and they ate the simple viands with apparent enjoyment. But after the
first few moments Anne thought no more of what was or was not on her bill
of fare. Mrs. Morgan's appearance might be somewhat disappointing, as even
her loyal worshippers had been forced to admit to each other; but she
proved to be a delightful conversationalist. She had traveled extensively
and was an excellent storyteller. She had seen much of men and women, and
crystalized her experiences into witty little sentences and epigrams which
made her hearers feel as if they were listening to one of the people in
clever books. But under all her sparkle there was a strongly felt
undercurrent of true, womanly sympathy and kindheartedness which won
affection as easily as her brilliancy won admiration. Nor did she
monopolize the conversation. She could draw others out as skillfully and
fully as she could talk herself, and Anne and Diana found themselves
chattering freely to her. Mrs. Pendexter said little; she merely smiled
with her lovely eyes and lips, and ate chicken and fruit cake and
preserves with such exquisite grace that she conveyed the impression of
dining on ambrosia and honeydew. But then, as Anne said to Diana later on,
anybody so divinely beautiful as Mrs. Pendexter didn't need to talk; it
was enough for her just to LOOK.
After dinner they all had a walk through Lover's Lane and Violet Vale and
the Birch Path, then back through the Haunted Wood to the Dryad's Bubble,
where they sat down and talked for a delightful last half hour. Mrs.
Morgan wanted to know how the Haunted Wood came by its name, and laughed
until she cried when she heard the story and Anne's dramatic account of a
certain memorable walk through it at the witching hour of twilight.
"It has indeed been a feast of reason and flow of soul, hasn't it?" said
Anne, when her guests had gone and she and Diana were alone again. "I
don't know which I enjoyed more . . . listening to Mrs. Morgan or gazing
at Mrs. Pendexter. I believe we had a nicer time than if we'd known they
were coming and been cumbered with much serving. You must stay to tea with
me, Diana, and we'll talk it all over."
"Priscilla says Mrs. Pendexter's husband's sister is married to an English
earl; and yet she took a second helping of the plum preserves," said
Diana, as if the two facts were somehow incompatible.
"I daresay even the English earl himself wouldn't have turned up his
aristocratic nose at Marilla's plum preserves," said Anne proudly.
Anne did not mention the misfortune which had befallen HER nose when she
related the day's history to Marilla that evening. But she took the bottle
of freckle lotion and emptied it out of the window.
"I shall never try any beautifying messes again," she said, darkly
resolute. "They may do for careful, deliberate people; but for anyone so
hopelessly given over to making mistakes as I seem to be it's tempting
fate to meddle with them."