had in trying to make me stop saying ‘I seen’ and ‘them things.’ Seemed as if the more she tried the worse Ginger got, same as me.
“Well, things went on like this, both of us getting raspier, till the CLIMAX came. Emily invited our minister and his wife to tea, and another minister and HIS wife that was visiting them. I’d promised to put Ginger away in some safe place where nobody would hear him … Emily wouldn’t touch his cage with a ten-foot pole … and I meant to do it, for I didn’t want the ministers to hear anything unpleasant in my house. But it slipped my mind … Emily was worrying me so much about clean collars and grammar that it wasn’t any wonder … and I never thought of that poor parrot till we sat down to tea. Just as minister number one was in the very middle of saying grace, Ginger, who was on the veranda outside the dining room window, lifted up HIS voice. The gobbler had come into view in the yard and the sight of a gobbler always had an unwholesome effect on Ginger. He surpassed himself that time. You can smile, Anne, and I don’t deny I’ve chuckled some over it since myself, but at the time I felt almost as much mortified as Emily. I went out and carried Ginger to the barn. I can’t say I enjoyed the meal. I knew by the look of Emily that there was trouble brewing for Ginger and James A. When the folks went away I started for the cow pasture and on the way I did some thinking. I felt sorry for Emily and kind of fancied I hadn’t been so thoughtful of her as I might; and besides, I wondered if the ministers would think that Ginger had learned his vocabulary from me. The long and short of it was, I decided that Ginger would have to be mercifully disposed of and when I’d druv the cows home I went in to tell Emily so. But there was no Emily and there was a letter on the table … just according to the rule in story books. Emily writ that I’d have to choose between her and Ginger; she’d gone back to her own house and there she would stay till I went and told her I’d got rid of that parrot.
“I was all riled up, Anne, and I said she might stay till doomsday if she waited for that; and I stuck to it. I packed up her belongings and sent them after her. It made an awful lot of talk … Scottsford was pretty near as bad as Avonlea for gossip … and everybody sympathized with Emily. It kept me all cross and cantankerous and I saw I’d have to get out or I’d never have any peace. I concluded I’d come to the Island. I’d been here when I was a boy and I liked it; but Emily had always said she wouldn’t live in a place where folks were scared to walk out after dark for fear they’d fall off the edge. So, just to be contrary, I moved over here. And that’s all there is to it. I hadn’t ever heard a word from or about Emily till I come home from the back field Saturday and found her scrubbing the floor but with the first decent dinner I’d had since she left me all ready on the table. She told me to eat it first and then we’d talk … by which I concluded that Emily had learned some lessons about getting along with a man. So she’s here and she’s going to stay … seeing that Ginger’s dead and the Island’s some bigger than she thought. There’s Mrs. Lynde and her now. No, don’t go, Anne. Stay and get acquainted with Emily. She took quite a notion to you Saturday … wanted to know who that handsome redhaired girl was at the next house.”
Mrs. Harrison welcomed Anne radiantly and insisted on her staying to tea.
“James A. has been telling me all about you and how kind you’ve been, making cakes and things for him,” she said. “I want to get acquainted with all my new neighbors just as soon as possible. Mrs. Lynde is a lovely woman, isn’t she? So friendly.”
When Anne went home in the sweet June dusk, Mrs. Harrison went with her across the fields where the fireflies were lighting their starry lamps.
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Harrison confidentially, “that James A. has told you our story?”
“Yes.”
“Then I needn’t tell it, for James A. is a just man and he would tell the truth. The blame was far from being all on his side. I can see that now. I wasn’t back in my own house an hour before I wished I hadn’t been so hasty but I wouldn’t give in. I see now that I expected too much of a man. And I was real foolish to mind his bad grammar. It doesn’t matter if a man does use bad grammar so long as he is a good provider and doesn’t go poking round the pantry to see how much sugar you’ve used in a week. I feel that James A. and I are going to be real happy now. I wish I knew who ‘Observer’ is, so that I could thank him. I owe him a real debt of gratitude.”
Anne kept her own counsel and Mrs. Harrison never knew that her gratitude found its way to its object. Anne felt rather bewildered over the far-reaching consequences of those foolish “notes.” They had reconciled a man to his wife and made the reputation of a prophet.
Mrs. Lynde was in the Green Gables kitchen. She had been telling the whole story to Marilla.
“Well, and how do you like Mrs. Harrison?” she asked Anne.
“Very much. I think she’s a real nice little woman.”
“That’s exactly what she is,” said Mrs. Rachel with emphasis, “and as I’ve just been sayin’ to Marilla, I think we ought all to overlook Mr. Harrison’s peculiarities for her sake and try to make her feel at home here, that’s what. Well, I must get back. Thomas’ll be wearying for me. I get out a little since Eliza came and he’s seemed a lot better these past few days, but I never like to be long away from him. I hear Gilbert Blythe has resigned from White Sands. He’ll be off to college in the fall, I suppose.”
Mrs. Rachel looked sharply at Anne, but Anne was bending over a sleepy Davy nodding on the sofa and nothing was to be read in her face. She carried Davy away, her oval girlish cheek pressed against his curly yellow head. As they went up the stairs Davy flung a tired arm about Anne’s neck and gave her a warm hug and a sticky kiss.
“You’re awful nice, Anne. Milty Boulter wrote on his slate today and showed it to Jennie Sloane,
“‘Roses red and vi’lets blue,
Sugar’s sweet, and so are you”
and that ‘spresses my feelings for you ezackly, Anne.”
XXVI. Around the Bend
Thomas Lynde faded out of life as quietly and unobtrusively as he had lived it. His wife was a tender, patient, unwearied nurse. Sometimes Rachel had been a little hard on her Thomas in health, when his slowness or meekness had provoked her; but when he became ill no voice could be lower, no hand more gently skillful, no vigil more uncomplaining.
“You’ve been a good wife to me, Rachel,” he once said simply, when she was sitting by him in the dusk, holding his thin, blanched old hand in her work-hardened one. “A good wife. I’m sorry I ain’t leaving you better off; but the children will look after you. They’re all smart, capable children, just like their mother. A good mother … a good woman … .”
He had fallen asleep then, and the next morning, just as the white dawn was creeping up over the pointed firs in the hollow, Marilla went softly into the east gable and wakened Anne.
“Anne, Thomas Lynde is gone … their hired boy just brought the word. I’m going right down to Rachel.”
On the day after Thomas Lynde’s funeral Marilla went about Green Gables with a strangely preoccupied air. Occasionally she looked at Anne, seemed on the point of saying something, then shook her head and buttoned up her mouth. After tea she went down to see Mrs. Rachel; and when she returned she went to the east gable, where Anne was correcting school exercises.
“How
