“It’s a kind of disappointing world after all,” he remarked. “Milty has a cat that takes fits . . . she’s took a fit regular every day for three weeks. Milty says it’s awful fun to watch her. I went down today on purpose to see her have one but the mean old thing wouldn’t take a fit and just kept healthy as healthy, though Milty and me hung round all the afternoon and waited. But never mind” . . . Davy brightened up as the insidious comfort of the plum jam stole into his soul . . . “maybe I’ll see her in one sometime yet. It doesn’t seem likely she’d stop having them all at once when she’s been so in the habit of it, does it? This jam is awful nice.”
Davy had no sorrows that plum jam could not cure.
Sunday proved so rainy that there was no stirring abroad; but by Monday everybody had heard some version of the Harrison story. The school buzzed with it and Davy came home, full of information.
“Marilla, Mr. Harrison has a new wife . . . well, not ezackly new, but they’ve stopped being married for quite a spell, Milty says. I always s’posed people had to keep on being married once they’d begun, but Milty says no, there’s ways of stopping if you can’t agree. Milty says one way is just to start off and leave your wife, and that’s what Mr. Harrison did. Milty says Mr. Harrison left his wife because she throwed things at him . . . hard things . . . and Arty Sloane says it was because she wouldn’t let him smoke, and Ned Clay says it was ’cause she never let up scolding him. I wouldn’t leave MY wife for anything like that. I’d just put my foot down and say, ‘Mrs. Davy, you’ve just got to do what’ll please me ’cause I’m a man.’ That’d settle her pretty quick I guess. But Annetta Clay says she left him because he wouldn’t scrape his boots at the door and she doesn’t blame her. I’m going right over to Mr. Harrison’s this minute to see what she’s like.”
Davy soon returned, somewhat cast down.
“Mrs. Harrison was away . . . she’s gone to Carmody with Mrs. Rachel Lynde to get new paper for the parlor. And Mr. Harrison said to tell Anne to go over and see him ’cause he wants to have a talk with her. And say, the floor is scrubbed, and Mr. Harrison is shaved, though there wasn’t any preaching yesterday.”
The Harrison kitchen wore a very unfamiliar look to Anne. The floor was indeed scrubbed to a wonderful pitch of purity and so was every article of furniture in the room; the stove was polished until she could see her face in it; the walls were whitewashed and the window panes sparkled in the sunlight. By the table sat Mr. Harrison in his working clothes, which on Friday had been noted for sundry rents and tatters but which were now neatly patched and brushed. He was sprucely shaved and what little hair he had was carefully trimmed.
“Sit down, Anne, sit down,” said Mr. Harrison in a tone but two degrees removed from that which Avonlea people used at funerals. “Emily’s gone over to Carmody with Rachel Lynde . . . she’s struck up a lifelong friendship already with Rachel Lynde. Beats all how contrary women are. Well, Anne, my easy times are over . . . all over. It’s neatness and tidiness for me for the rest of my natural life, I suppose.”
Mr. Harrison did his best to speak dolefully, but an irrepressible twinkle in his eye betrayed him.
“Mr. Harrison, you are glad your wife is come back,” cried Anne, shaking her finger at him. “You needn’t pretend you’re not, because I can see it plainly.”