Chapter 29 Anne of Ingleside by Lucy Montgomery
It was worse after supper. Before that she and Jenny had been alone at least. Now there was a mob. George Andrew grabbed her hand and galloped her through a mud-puddle before she could escape him. Di had never been treated like this in her life. Jem and Walter teased her, as did Ken Ford, but she did not know anything about boys like these.
Curt offered her a chew of gum, fresh from his mouth, and was mad when she refused it.
"I'll put a live mouse on you!" he yelled. "Smartycat! Stuckupitty! Got a sissy for a brother!"
"Walter isn't a sissy!" said Di. She was half sick from fright but she would not hear Walter called names.
"He is--he writes po'try. Do you know what I'd do if I'd a brother that writ po'try? I'd drown him . . . like they do kittens."
"Talking of kittens, there's a lot of wild ones in the barn," said Jen. "Let's go and hunt them out."
Di simply would not go hunting kittens with those boys, and said so.
"We've got plenty of kittens at home. We've got eleven," she said proudly.
"I don't believe it!" cried Jen. "You haven't! Nobody ever had eleven kittens. It wouldn't be right to have eleven kittens."
"One cat has five and the other six. And I'm not going to the barn anyhow. I fell down off the loft in Amy Taylor's barn last winter. I'd have been killed if I hadn't lit on a pile of chaff."
"Well, I'd have fell off our loft once if Curt hadn't caught me," said Jen sulkily. Nobody had any right to be falling off lofts but her. Di Blythe having adventures! The impudence of her!
"You should say 'I'd have fallen,'" said Di; and from that moment everything was over between her and Jenny.
But the night had to be got through somehow. They did not go to bed till late because none of the Pennys ever went to bed early. The big bedroom where Jenny took her at half-past ten had two beds in it. Annabel and Gert were getting ready for theirs. Di looked at the others. The pillows were very frowsy. The quilt needed washing very badly. The paper . . . the famous "parrot" paper . . . had been leaked on and even the parrots did not look very parroty. On the stand by the bed were a granite pitcher and a tin wash-basin half full of dirty water. She could never wash her face in that. Well, for once she must go to bed without washing her face. At least the nightgown Aunt Lina had left for her was clean.
When Di got up from saying her prayers Jenny laughed.
"My, but you're old-fashioned. You looked so funny and holy saying your prayers. I didn't know anybody said prayers now. Prayers ain't any good. What do you say them for?"
"I've got to save my soul," said Di, quoting Susan.
"I haven't any soul," mocked Jenny.
"Perhaps not, but I have," said Di, drawing herself up.
Jenny looked at her. But the spell of Jenny's eyes was broken. Never again would Di succumb to its magic.
"You're not the girl I thought you were, Diana Blythe," said Jennie sadly, as one much deceived.
Before Di could reply George Andrew and Curt rushed into the room. George Andrew wore a mask . . . a hideous thing with an enormous nose. Di screamed.
"Stop squealing like a pig under a gate!" ordered George Andrew. "You've got to kiss us good-night."
"If you don't we'll lock you up in that closet . . . and it's full of rats," said Curt.
George Andrew advanced towards Di, who shrieked again and retreated before him. The mask paralyzed her with terror. She knew quite well it was only George Andrew behind it and she was not afraid of him; but she would die if that awful mask came near her . . . she knew she would. Just as it seemed that the dreadful nose was touching her face she tripped over a stool and fell backward on the floor, striking her head on the sharp edge of Annabel's bed as she fell. For a moment she was dazed and lay with her eyes shut.
"She's gone dead . . . she's gone dead!" sniffled Curt, beginning to cry.
"Oh, won't you get a licking if you've killed her, George Andrew!" said Annabel.
"Maybe she's only pretending," said Curt. "Put a worm on her. I've some in this can. If she's only foxing that will bring her to."
Di heard this but was too frightened to open her eyes. (Perhaps they would go away and leave her alone if they thought her dead. But if they put a worm on her . . .)
"Prick her with a pin. If she bleeds she ain't dead," said Curt.
(She could stand a pin but not a worm.)
"She ain't dead . . . she can't be dead," whispered Jenny. "You've just scared her into a fit. But if she comes to she'll be screeching all over the place and Uncle Ben'll come in and lambast the daylights out of us. I wish I'd never asked her here, the fraid-cat!"
"Do you s'pose we could carry her home before she comes to?" suggested George Andrew.
(Oh, if they only would!)
"We couldn't . . . not that far," said Jenny.
"It's only a quarter of a mile 'cross lots. We'll each take an arm or leg . . . you and Curt and me and Annabel."
Nobody but the Pennys could have conceived such an idea or carried it out if they had. But they were used to doing anything they took it into their heads to do and a "lambasting" from the head of the household was something to be avoided if possible. Dad didn't bother about them up to a certain point but beyond that . . . good-night!
"If she comes to while we're carrying her we'll just cut and run," said George Andrew.
There wasn't the least danger of Di coming to. She trembled with thankfulness when she felt herself being hoisted up between the four of them. They crept downstairs and out of the house, across the yard and over the long clover field . . . past the woods . . . down the hill. Twice they had to lay her down while they rested. They were quite sure now she was dead and all they wanted was to get her home without being seen. If Jenny Penny never prayed in her life before she was praying now . . . that nobody in the village would be up. If they could get Di Blythe home they would all swear she had got so homesick at bedtime that she had insisted on going home. What happened after that would be no concern of theirs.
Di ventured to open her eyes once as they plotted this. The sleeping world around looked very strange to her. The fir trees were dark and alien. The stars were laughing at her. ("I don't like such a big sky. But if I can just hold on a little spell longer I'll be home. If they find out that I'm not dead they'll just leave me here and I'll never get home in the dark alone.")
When the Pennys dropped Di on the verandah of Ingleside they ran like mad. Di did not dare come back to life too soon, but at last she ventured to open her eyes. Yes, she was home. It seemed almost too good to be true. She had been a very, very naughty girl but she was quite sure she would never be naughty again. She sat up and the Shrimp came stealthily up the steps and rubbed against her, purring. She hugged him to her. How nice and warm and friendly he was! She did not think she would be able to get in . . . she knew Susan would have all the doors locked when Dad was away and she dared not wake Susan up at this hour. But she did not mind. The June night was cold enough but she would get into the hammock and cuddle down with the Shrimp, knowing that, near to her, behind those locked doors, were Susan and the boys and Nan . . . and home.
How strange the world was after dark! Was everyone in it asleep but her? The large white roses on the bush by the steps looked like small human faces in the night. The smell of the mint was like a friend. There was a glint of firefly in the orchard. After all, she would be able to brag that she had "slept out all night."
But it was not to be. Two dark figures came through the gate and up the driveway. Gilbert went around by the back way to force open a kitchen window but Anne came up the steps and stood looking in amazement at the poor mite who sat there, with her armful of cat.
"Mummy . . . oh, Mummy!" She was safe in Mother's arms.
"Di, darling! What does this mean?"
"Oh, Mummy, I was bad . . . but I'm so sorry . . . and you were right . . . and Gammy was so dreadful--but I thought you wouldn't be back till tomorrow."
"Daddy got a telephone from Lowbridge . . . they have to operate on Mrs. Parker tomorrow and Dr. Parker wanted him to be there. So we caught the evening train and walked up from the station. Now tell me . . ."
The whole story was sobbed out by the time Gilbert had got in and opened the front door. He thought he had effected a very silent entrance, but Susan had ears that could hear a bat squeak when the safety of Ingleside was concerned, and she came limping downstairs with a wrapper over her nightgown.
There were exclamations and explanations, but Anne cut them short.
"Nobody is blaming you, Susan dear. Di has been very naughty but she knows it and I think she has had her punishment. I'm sorry we've disturbed you . . . you must go straight back to bed and the doctor will see to your ankle."
"I was not asleep, Mrs. Dr. dear. Do you think I could sleep, knowing where that blessed child was? And ankle or no ankle I am going to get you both a cup of tea."
"Mummy," said Di, from her own white pillow, "is Daddy ever cruel to you?"
"Cruel! To me? Why, Di . . ."
"The Pennys said he was . . . said he beat you . . ."
"Dear, you know what the Pennys are now, so you know better than to worry your small head over anything they said. There is always a bit of malicious gossip floating round in any place . . . people like that invent it. You must never bother about it."
"Are you going to scold me in the morning, Mummy?"
"No. I think you've learned your lesson. Now go to sleep, precious."
"Mummy is so sensible," was Di's last conscious thought. But Susan, as she stretched out peacefully in bed, with her ankle expertly and comfortably bandaged, was saying to herself:
"I must hunt up the fine-tooth comb in the morning . . . and when I see my fine Miss Jenny Penny I shall give her a ticking off she will not forget."
Jenny Penny never got the promised ticking off, for she came no more to the Glen school. Instead, she went with the other Pennys to Mowbray Narrows school, whence rumours drifted back of her yarns, among them being one of how Di Blythe, who lived in the "big house" at Glen St. Mary but was always coming down to sleep with her, had fainted one night and had been carried home at midnight pick-a-back, by her, Jenny Penny, alone and unassisted. The Ingleside people had knelt and kissed her hands out of gratitude and the doctor himself had got out his fringed-top buggy and his famous dappled grey span and driven her home. "And if there is ever anything I can do for you, Miss Penny, for your kindness to my beloved child you have only to name it. My best heart's blood would not be enough to repay you. I would go to Equatorial Africa to reward you for what you have done," the doctor had vowed.