Anne of Avonlea

by L. M. Montgomery

  X

  Davy in Search of a Sensation

  Anne, walking home from school through the Birch Path one Novemberafternoon, felt convinced afresh that life was a very wonderful thing.The day had been a good day; all had gone well in her little kingdom.St. Clair Donnell had not fought any of the other boys over the questionof his name; Prillie Rogerson's face had been so puffed up from theeffects of toothache that she did not once try to coquette with theboys in her vicinity. Barbara Shaw had met with only ONE accident . . .spilling a dipper of water over the floor . . . and Anthony Pye had notbeen in school at all.

  "What a nice month this November has been!" said Anne, who had neverquite got over her childish habit of talking to herself. "November isusually such a disagreeable month . . . as if the year had suddenly foundout that she was growing old and could do nothing but weep and fret overit. This year is growing old gracefully . . . just like a stately old ladywho knows she can be charming even with gray hair and wrinkles. We'vehad lovely days and delicious twilights. This last fortnight has been sopeaceful, and even Davy has been almost well-behaved. I really thinkhe is improving a great deal. How quiet the woods are today . . . nota murmur except that soft wind purring in the treetops! It sounds likesurf on a faraway shore. How dear the woods are! You beautiful trees! Ilove every one of you as a friend."

  Anne paused to throw her arm about a slim young birch and kiss itscream-white trunk. Diana, rounding a curve in the path, saw her andlaughed.

  "Anne Shirley, you're only pretending to be grown up. I believe whenyou're alone you're as much a little girl as you ever were."

  "Well, one can't get over the habit of being a little girl all at once,"said Anne gaily. "You see, I was little for fourteen years and I've onlybeen grown-uppish for scarcely three. I'm sure I shall always feel likea child in the woods. These walks home from school are almost the onlytime I have for dreaming . . . except the half-hour or so before I go tosleep. I'm so busy with teaching and studying and helping Marilla withthe twins that I haven't another moment for imagining things. You don'tknow what splendid adventures I have for a little while after I go tobed in the east gable every night. I always imagine I'm something verybrilliant and triumphant and splendid . . . a great prima donna or a RedCross nurse or a queen. Last night I was a queen. It's really splendidto imagine you are a queen. You have all the fun of it without any ofthe inconveniences and you can stop being a queen whenever you want to,which you couldn't in real life. But here in the woods I like best toimagine quite different things . . . I'm a dryad living in an old pine, ora little brown wood-elf hiding under a crinkled leaf. That white birchyou caught me kissing is a sister of mine. The only difference is, she'sa tree and I'm a girl, but that's no real difference. Where are yougoing, Diana?"

  "Down to the Dicksons. I promised to help Alberta cut out her new dress.Can't you walk down in the evening, Anne, and come home with me?"

  "I might . . . since Fred Wright is away in town," said Anne with a rathertoo innocent face.

  Diana blushed, tossed her head, and walked on. She did not lookoffended, however.

  Anne fully intended to go down to the Dicksons' that evening, but shedid not. When she arrived at Green Gables she found a state of affairswhich banished every other thought from her mind. Marilla met her in theyard . . . a wild-eyed Marilla.

  "Anne, Dora is lost!"

  "Dora! Lost!" Anne looked at Davy, who was swinging on the yard gate,and detected merriment in his eyes. "Davy, do you know where she is?"

  "No, I don't," said Davy stoutly. "I haven't seen her since dinner time,cross my heart."

  "I've been away ever since one o'clock," said Marilla. "Thomas Lyndetook sick all of a sudden and Rachel sent up for me to go at once. WhenI left here Dora was playing with her doll in the kitchen and Davy wasmaking mud pies behind the barn. I only got home half an hour ago . . .and no Dora to be seen. Davy declares he never saw her since I left."

  "Neither I did," avowed Davy solemnly.

  "She must be somewhere around," said Anne. "She would never wander faraway alone . . . you know how timid she is. Perhaps she has fallen asleepin one of the rooms."

  Marilla shook her head.

  "I've hunted the whole house through. But she may be in some of thebuildings."

  A thorough search followed. Every corner of house, yard, andoutbuildings was ransacked by those two distracted people. Anne rovedthe orchards and the Haunted Wood, calling Dora's name. Marilla took acandle and explored the cellar. Davy accompanied each of them in turn,and was fertile in thinking of places where Dora could possibly be.Finally they met again in the yard.

  "It's a most mysterious thing," groaned Marilla.

  "Where can she be?" said Anne miserably

  "Maybe she's tumbled into the well," suggested Davy cheerfully.

  Anne and Marilla looked fearfully into each other's eyes. The thoughthad been with them both through their entire search but neither haddared to put it into words.

  "She . . . she might have," whispered Marilla.

  Anne, feeling faint and sick, went to the wellbox and peered over. Thebucket sat on the shelf inside. Far down below was a tiny glimmer ofstill water. The Cuthbert well was the deepest in Avonlea. If Dora. . .but Anne could not face the idea. She shuddered and turned away.

  "Run across for Mr. Harrison," said Marilla, wringing her hands.

  "Mr. Harrison and John Henry are both away . . . they went to town today.I'll go for Mr. Barry."

  Mr. Barry came back with Anne, carrying a coil of rope to which wasattached a claw-like instrument that had been the business end of agrubbing fork. Marilla and Anne stood by, cold and shaken with horrorand dread, while Mr. Barry dragged the well, and Davy, astride the gate,watched the group with a face indicative of huge enjoyment.

  Finally Mr. Barry shook his head, with a relieved air.

  "She can't be down there. It's a mighty curious thing where she couldhave got to, though. Look here, young man, are you sure you've no ideawhere your sister is?"

  "I've told you a dozen times that I haven't," said Davy, with an injuredair. "Maybe a tramp come and stole her."

  "Nonsense," said Marilla sharply, relieved from her horrible fear ofthe well. "Anne, do you suppose she could have strayed over to Mr.Harrison's? She has always been talking about his parrot ever since thattime you took her over."

  "I can't believe Dora would venture so far alone but I'll go over andsee," said Anne.

  Nobody was looking at Davy just then or it would have been seen that avery decided change came over his face. He quietly slipped off the gateand ran, as fast as his fat legs could carry him, to the barn.

  Anne hastened across the fields to the Harrison establishment in novery hopeful frame of mind. The house was locked, the window shadeswere down, and there was no sign of anything living about the place. Shestood on the veranda and called Dora loudly.

  Ginger, in the kitchen behind her, shrieked and swore with suddenfierceness; but between his outbursts Anne heard a plaintive cryfrom the little building in the yard which served Mr. Harrison as atoolhouse. Anne flew to the door, unhasped it, and caught up a smallmortal with a tearstained face who was sitting forlornly on an upturnednail keg.

  "Oh, Dora, Dora, what a fright you have given us! How came you to behere?"

  "Davy and I came over to see Ginger," sobbed Dora, "but we couldn't seehim after all, only Davy made him swear by kicking the door. And thenDavy brought me here and run out and shut the door; and I couldn't getout. I cried and cried, I was frightened, and oh, I'm so hungry andcold; and I thought you'd never come, Anne."

  "Davy?" But Anne could say no more. She carried Dora home with a heavyheart. Her joy at finding the child safe and sound was drowned out inthe pain caused by Davy's behavior. The freak of shutting Dora up mighteasily have been pardoned. But Davy had told falsehoods . . . downrightcoldblooded falsehoods about it. That was the ugly fact and Anne couldnot shut her eyes to it. She could have sat down and cried with sheerdisappointment. She had gr
own to love Davy dearly . . . how dearly she hadnot known until this minute . . . and it hurt her unbearably to discoverthat he was guilty of deliberate falsehood.

  Marilla listened to Anne's tale in a silence that boded no goodDavy-ward; Mr. Barry laughed and advised that Davy be summarily dealtwith. When he had gone home Anne soothed and warmed the sobbing,shivering Dora, got her her supper and put her to bed. Then she returnedto the kitchen, just as Marilla came grimly in, leading, or ratherpulling, the reluctant, cobwebby Davy, whom she had just found hiddenaway in the darkest corner of the stable.

  She jerked him to the mat on the middle of the floor and then went andsat down by the east window. Anne was sitting limply by the west window.Between them stood the culprit. His back was toward Marilla and it wasa meek, subdued, frightened back; but his face was toward Anne andalthough it was a little shamefaced there was a gleam of comradeshipin Davy's eyes, as if he knew he had done wrong and was going to bepunished for it, but could count on a laugh over it all with Anne lateron.

  But no half hidden smile answered him in Anne's gray eyes, as theremight have done had it been only a question of mischief. There wassomething else . . . something ugly and repulsive.

  "How could you behave so, Davy?" she asked sorrowfully.

  Davy squirmed uncomfortably.

  "I just did it for fun. Things have been so awful quiet here for so longthat I thought it would be fun to give you folks a big scare. It was,too."

  In spite of fear and a little remorse Davy grinned over therecollection.

  "But you told a falsehood about it, Davy," said Anne, more sorrowfullythan ever.

  Davy looked puzzled.

  "What's a falsehood? Do you mean a whopper?"

  "I mean a story that was not true."

  "Course I did," said Davy frankly. "If I hadn't you wouldn't have beenscared. I HAD to tell it."

  Anne was feeling the reaction from her fright and exertions. Davy'simpenitent attitude gave the finishing touch. Two big tears brimmed upin her eyes.

  "Oh, Davy, how could you?" she said, with a quiver in her voice. "Don'tyou know how wrong it was?"

  Davy was aghast. Anne crying . . . he had made Anne cry! A flood of realremorse rolled like a wave over his warm little heart and engulfed it.He rushed to Anne, hurled himself into her lap, flung his arms aroundher neck, and burst into tears.

  "I didn't know it was wrong to tell whoppers," he sobbed. "How did youexpect me to know it was wrong? All Mr. Sprott's children told themREGULAR every day, and cross their hearts too. I s'pose Paul Irvingnever tells whoppers and here I've been trying awful hard to be as goodas him, but now I s'pose you'll never love me again. But I think youmight have told me it was wrong. I'm awful sorry I've made you cry,Anne, and I'll never tell a whopper again."

  Davy buried his face in Anne's shoulder and cried stormily. Anne, in asudden glad flash of understanding, held him tight and looked over hiscurly thatch at Marilla.

  "He didn't know it was wrong to tell falsehoods, Marilla. I think wemust forgive him for that part of it this time if he will promise neverto say what isn't true again."

  "I never will, now that I know it's bad," asseverated Davy between sobs."If you ever catch me telling a whopper again you can . . ." Davy gropedmentally for a suitable penance . . . "you can skin me alive, Anne."

  "Don't say 'whopper,' Davy . . . say 'falsehood,'" said the schoolma'am.

  "Why?" queried Davy, settling comfortably down and looking up witha tearstained, investigating face. "Why ain't whopper as good asfalsehood? I want to know. It's just as big a word."

  "It's slang; and it's wrong for little boys to use slang."

  "There's an awful lot of things it's wrong to do," said Davy with asigh. "I never s'posed there was so many. I'm sorry it's wrong to tellwhop . . . falsehoods, 'cause it's awful handy, but since it is I'm nevergoing to tell any more. What are you going to do to me for telling themthis time? I want to know." Anne looked beseechingly at Marilla.

  "I don't want to be too hard on the child," said Marilla. "I daresaynobody ever did tell him it was wrong to tell lies, and those Sprottchildren were no fit companions for him. Poor Mary was too sick to trainhim properly and I presume you couldn't expect a six-year-old child toknow things like that by instinct. I suppose we'll just have to assumehe doesn't know ANYTHING right and begin at the beginning. But he'llhave to be punished for shutting Dora up, and I can't think of any wayexcept to send him to bed without his supper and we've done that sooften. Can't you suggest something else, Anne? I should think you oughtto be able to, with that imagination you're always talking of."

  "But punishments are so horrid and I like to imagine only pleasantthings," said Anne, cuddling Davy. "There are so many unpleasant thingsin the world already that there is no use in imagining any more."

  In the end Davy was sent to bed, as usual, there to remain until noonnext day. He evidently did some thinking, for when Anne went up to herroom a little later she heard him calling her name softly. Going in, shefound him sitting up in bed, with his elbows on his knees and his chinpropped on his hands.

  "Anne," he said solemnly, "is it wrong for everybody to tell whop . . .falsehoods? I want to know?"

  "Yes, indeed."

  "Is it wrong for a grown-up person?"

  "Yes."

  "Then," said Davy decidedly, "Marilla is bad, for SHE tells them. Andshe's worse'n me, for I didn't know it was wrong but she does."

  "Davy Keith, Marilla never told a story in her life," said Anneindignantly.

  "She did so. She told me last Tuesday that something dreadful WOULDhappen to me if I didn't say my prayers every night. And I haven't saidthem for over a week, just to see what would happen . . . and nothinghas," concluded Davy in an aggrieved tone.

  Anne choked back a mad desire to laugh with the conviction that it wouldbe fatal, and then earnestly set about saving Marilla's reputation.

  "Why, Davy Keith," she said solemnly, "something dreadful HAS happenedto you this very day."

  Davy looked sceptical.

  "I s'pose you mean being sent to bed without any supper," he saidscornfully, "but THAT isn't dreadful. Course, I don't like it, but I'vebeen sent to bed so much since I come here that I'm getting used to it.And you don't save anything by making me go without supper either, for Ialways eat twice as much for breakfast."

  "I don't mean your being sent to bed. I mean the fact that you told afalsehood today. And, Davy," . . . Anne leaned over the footboard of thebed and shook her finger impressively at the culprit . . . "for a boy totell what isn't true is almost the worst thing that could HAPPEN to him. . . almost the very worst. So you see Marilla told you the truth."

  "But I thought the something bad would be exciting," protested Davy inan injured tone.

  "Marilla isn't to blame for what you thought. Bad things aren't alwaysexciting. They're very often just nasty and stupid."

  "It was awful funny to see Marilla and you looking down the well,though," said Davy, hugging his knees.

  Anne kept a sober face until she got downstairs and then she collapsedon the sitting room lounge and laughed until her sides ached.

  "I wish you'd tell me the joke," said Marilla, a little grimly. "Ihaven't seen much to laugh at today."

  "You'll laugh when you hear this," assured Anne. And Marilla did laugh,which showed how much her education had advanced since the adoption ofAnne. But she sighed immediately afterwards.

  "I suppose I shouldn't have told him that, although I heard a ministersay it to a child once. But he did aggravate me so. It was that nightyou were at the Carmody concert and I was putting him to bed. He saidhe didn't see the good of praying until he got big enough to be of someimportance to God. Anne, I do not know what we are going to do with thatchild. I never saw his beat. I'm feeling clean discouraged."

  "Oh, don't say that, Marilla. Remember how bad I was when I came here."

  "Anne, you never were bad . . . NEVER. I see that now, when I've learnedwhat real badness is. You were always getting into
terrible scrapes,I'll admit, but your motive was always good. Davy is just bad from sheerlove of it."

  "Oh, no, I don't think it is real badness with him either," pleadedAnne. "It's just mischief. And it is rather quiet for him here, youknow. He has no other boys to play with and his mind has to havesomething to occupy it. Dora is so prim and proper she is no good fora boy's playmate. I really think it would be better to let them go toschool, Marilla."

  "No," said Marilla resolutely, "my father always said that no childshould be cooped up in the four walls of a school until it was sevenyears old, and Mr. Allan says the same thing. The twins can have a fewlessons at home but go to school they shan't till they're seven."

  "Well, we must try to reform Davy at home then," said Anne cheerfully."With all his faults he's really a dear little chap. I can't help lovinghim. Marilla, it may be a dreadful thing to say, but honestly, I likeDavy better than Dora, for all she's so good."

  "I don't know but that I do, myself," confessed Marilla, "and it isn'tfair, for Dora isn't a bit of trouble. There couldn't be a better childand you'd hardly know she was in the house."

  "Dora is too good," said Anne. "She'd behave just as well if therewasn't a soul to tell her what to do. She was born already brought up,so she doesn't need us; and I think," concluded Anne, hitting on a veryvital truth, "that we always love best the people who need us. Davyneeds us badly."

  "He certainly needs something," agreed Marilla. "Rachel Lynde would sayit was a good spanking."