Rainbow Valley by Lucy Maud Montgomery (best ereader for pc TXT) 📕

to explain something,” she said, “and I want to do it now because everybody will hear it that heard the other. People are saying that Una and I stayed home last Sunday and cleaned house instead of going to Sunday School. Well, we did—but we didn’t mean to. We got mixed up in the days of the week. It was all Elder Baxter’s fault”—sensation in Baxter’s pew—“because he went and changed the prayer-meeting to Wednesday night and then we thought Thursday was Friday and so on till we thought Saturday was Sunday. Carl was laid up sick and so was Aunt Martha, so they couldn’t put us right. We went to Sunday School in all that rain on Saturday and nobody came. And then we thought we’d clean house on Monday and stop old cats from talking about how dirty the manse was”—general sensation all over the church—“and we did. I shook the rugs in the Methodist graveyard because it was such a convenient place and not because I meant to be disrespectful of the dead. It isn’t the dead folks who have made the fuss over this—it’s the living folks. And it isn’t right for any of you to blame my father for this, because he was away and didn’t know, and anyhow we thought it was Monday. He’s just the best father that ever lived in the world and we love him with all our hearts.”

Faith’s bravado ebbed out in a sob. She ran down the steps and flashed out of the side door of the church. There the friendly starlit, summer night comforted her and the ache went out of her eyes and throat. She felt very happy. The dreadful explanation was over and everybody knew now that her father wasn’t to blame and that she and Una were not so wicked as to have cleaned house knowingly on Sunday.

Inside the church people gazed blankly at each other, but Thomas Douglas rose and walked up the aisle with a set face. HIS duty was clear; the collection must be taken if the skies fell. Taken it was; the choir sang the anthem, with a dismal conviction that it fell terribly flat, and Dr. Cooper gave out the concluding hymn and pronounced the benediction with considerably less unction than usual. The Reverend Doctor had a sense of humour and Faith’s performance tickled him. Besides, John Meredith was well known in Presbyterian circles.

Mr. Meredith returned home the next afternoon, but before his coming Faith contrived to scandalize Glen St. Mary again. In the reaction from Sunday evening’s intensity and strain she was especially full of what Miss Cornelia would have called “devilment” on Monday. This led her to dare Walter Blythe to ride through Main Street on a pig, while she rode another one.

The pigs in question were two tall, lank animals, supposed to belong to Bertie Shakespeare Drew’s father, which had been haunting the roadside by the manse for a couple of weeks. Walter did not want to ride a pig through Glen St. Mary, but whatever Faith Meredith dared him to do must be done. They tore down the hill and through the village, Faith bent double with laughter over her terrified courser, Walter crimson with shame. They tore past the minister himself, just coming home from the station; he, being a little less dreamy and abstracted than usual—owing to having had a talk on the train with Miss Cornelia who always wakened him up temporarily—noticed them, and thought he really must speak to Faith about it and tell her that such conduct was not seemly. But he had forgotten the trifling incident by the time he reached home. They passed Mrs. Alec Davis, who shrieked in horror, and they passed Miss Rosemary West who laughed and sighed. Finally, just before the pigs swooped into Bertie Shakespeare Drew’s back yard, never to emerge therefrom again, so great had been the shock to their nerves—Faith and Walter jumped off, as Dr. and Mrs. Blythe drove swiftly by.

“So that is how you bring up your boys,” said Gilbert with mock severity.

“Perhaps I do spoil them a little,” said Anne contritely, “but, oh, Gilbert, when I think of my own childhood before I came to Green Gables I haven’t the heart to be very strict. How hungry for love and fun I was—an unloved little drudge with never a chance to play! They do have such good times with the manse children.”

“What about the poor pigs?” asked Gilbert.

Anne tried to look sober and failed.

“Do you really think it hurt them?” she said. “I don’t think anything could hurt those animals. They’ve been the plague of the neighbourhood this summer and the Drews WON’T shut them up. But I’ll talk to Walter—if I can keep from laughing when I do it.”

Miss Cornelia came up to Ingleside that evening to relieve her feelings over Sunday night. To her surprise she found that Anne did not view Faith’s performance in quite the same light as she did.

“I thought there was something brave and pathetic in her getting up there before that churchful of people, to confess,” she said. “You could see she was frightened to death—yet she was bound to clear her father. I loved her for it.”

“Oh, of course, the poor child meant well,” sighed Miss Cornelia, “but just the same it was a terrible thing to do, and is making more talk than the house-cleaning on Sunday. THAT had begun to die away, and this has started it all up again. Rosemary West is like you—she said last night as she left the church that it was a plucky thing for Faith to do, but it made her feel sorry for the child, too. Miss Ellen thought it all a good joke, and said she hadn’t had as much fun in church for years. Of course THEY don’t care—they are Episcopalians. But we Presbyterians feel it. And there were so many hotel people there that night and scores of Methodists. Mrs. Leander Crawford cried, she felt so bad. And Mrs. Alec Davis said the little hussy ought to be spanked.”

“Mrs. Leander Crawford is always crying in church,” said Susan contemptuously. “She cries over every affecting thing the minister says. But you do not often see her name on a subscription list, Mrs. Dr. dear. Tears come cheaper. She tried to talk to me one day about Aunt Martha being such a dirty housekeeper; and I wanted to say, ‘Every one knows that YOU have been seen mixing up cakes in the kitchen wash-pan, Mrs. Leander Crawford!’ But I did not say it, Mrs. Dr. dear, because I have too much respect for myself to condescend to argue with the likes of her. But I could tell worse things than THAT of Mrs. Leander Crawford, if I was disposed to gossip. And as for Mrs. Alec Davis, if she had said that to me, Mrs. Dr. dear, do you know what I would have said? I would have said, ‘I have no doubt you would like to spank Faith, Mrs. Davis, but you will never have the chance to spank a minister’s daughter either in this world or in that which is to come.’”

“If poor Faith had only been decently dressed,” lamented Miss Cornelia again, “it wouldn’t have been quite that bad. But that dress looked dreadful, as she stood there upon the platform.”

“It was clean, though, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan. “They ARE clean children. They may be very heedless and reckless, Mrs. Dr. dear, and I am not saying they are not, but they NEVER forget to wash behind their ears.”

“The idea of Faith forgetting what day was Sunday,” persisted Miss Cornelia. “She will grow up just as careless and impractical as her father, believe ME. I suppose Carl would have known better if he hadn’t been sick. I don’t know what was wrong with him, but I think it very likely he had been eating those blueberries that grew in the graveyard. No wonder they made him sick. If I was a Methodist I’d try to keep my graveyard cleaned up at least.”

“I am of the opinion that Carl only ate the sours that grow on the dyke,” said Susan hopefully. “I do not think ANY minister’s son would eat blueberries that grew on the graves of dead people. You know it would not be so bad, Mrs. Dr. dear, to eat things that grew on the dyke.”

“The worst of last night’s performance was the face Faith made made at somebody in the congregation before she started in,” said Miss Cornelia. “Elder Clow declares she made it at him. And DID you hear that she was seen riding on a pig to-day?”

“I saw her. Walter was with her. I gave him a little—a VERY little—scolding about it. He did not say much, but he gave me the impression that it had been his idea and that Faith was not to blame.”

“I do not not believe THAT, Mrs. Dr. dear,” cried Susan, up in arms. “That is just Walter’s way—to take the blame on himself. But you know as well as I do, Mrs. Dr. dear, that that blessed child would never have thought of riding on a pig, even if he does write poetry.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt the notion was hatched in Faith Meredith’s brain,” said Miss Cornelia. “And I don’t say that I’m sorry that Amos Drew’s old pigs did get their come-uppance for once. But the minister’s daughter!”

“AND the doctor’s son!” said Anne, mimicking Miss Cornelia’s tone. Then she laughed. “Dear Miss Cornelia, they’re only little children. And you KNOW they’ve never yet done anything bad—they’re just heedless and impulsive—as I was myself once. They’ll grow sedate and sober—as I’ve done.”

Miss Cornelia laughed, too.

“There are times, Anne dearie, when I know by your eyes that YOUR soberness is put on like a garment and you’re really aching to do something wild and young again. Well, I feel encouraged. Somehow, a talk with you always does have that effect on me. Now, when I go to see Barbara Samson, it’s just the opposite. She makes me feel that everything’s wrong and always will be. But of course living all your life with a man like Joe Samson wouldn’t be exactly cheering.”

“It is a very strange thing to think that she married Joe Samson after all her chances,” remarked Susan. “She was much sought after when she was a girl. She used to boast to me that she had twenty-one beaus and Mr. Pethick.”

“What was Mr. Pethick?”

“Well, he was a sort of hanger-on, Mrs. Dr. dear, but you could not exactly call him a beau. He did not really have any intentions. Twenty-one beaus—and me that never had one! But Barbara went through the woods and picked up the crooked stick after all. And yet they say her husband can make better baking powder biscuits than she can, and she always gets him to make them when company comes to tea.”

“Which reminds ME that I have company coming to tea to-morrow and I must go home and set my bread,” said Miss Cornelia. “Mary said she could set it and no doubt she could. But while I live and move and have my being I set my own bread, believe me.”

“How is Mary getting on?” asked Anne.

“I’ve no fault to find with Mary,” said Miss Cornelia rather gloomily. “She’s getting some flesh on her bones and she’s clean and respectful—though there’s more in her than I can fathom. She’s a sly puss. If you dug for a thousand years you couldn’t get to the bottom of that child’s mind, believe ME! As for work, I never saw anything like her. She EATS it up. Mrs. Wiley may have been cruel to her, but folks needn’t say she made Mary work. Mary’s a born worker. Sometimes I wonder which will wear out first—her legs or her tongue. I don’t have enough to do to keep me out of mischief these