 CHAPTER 10 PADDY'S PLACE The next evening found them treading resolutely the herring-bone walk through the tiny garden. The April wind was filling the pine trees with its round allay, and the grove was alive with robins, great, plump, saucy fellows strutting along the paths. The girls rang rather timidly, and were admitted by a grim and ancient handmaiden. The door opened directly into a large living-room, whereby a cheery little fire sat two other ladies, both of whom were also grim and ancient. Except that one looked to be about seventy in the other fifty, there seemed little difference between them. Each had amazingly big, light blue eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles. Each wore a cap and a grey shawl. Each was knitting without haste and without rest. Each rocked placidly and looked at the girls without speaking, and just behind each sat a large white china-dog with round green spots all over it, a green nose and green ears. Those dogs captured Anne's fancy on the spot. They seemed like the twin guardian deities of Paddy's Place. For a few moments nobody spoke. The girls were too nervous to find words, and neither the ancient ladies nor the china-dogs seemed conversationally inclined. Anne glanced about the room, what a dear place it was. Another door opened out of it directly into the pine-grove, and the robins came boldly up on the very step. The floor was spotted with round braided mats, such as Merilla made at Green Gables, but which were considered out of date everywhere else, even in Avonlea. And yet here they were on Spofford Avenue. A big, polished grandfather's clock ticked loudly and solemnly in a corner. There were delightful little cupboards over the mantelpiece behind whose glass doors gleamed quaint bits of china. The walls were hung with old prints and silhouettes. In one corner the stairs went up, and at the first low turn was a long window with an inviting seat. It was all just as Anne had known it must be. By this time the silence had grown too dreadful, and Priscilla nudged Anne to intimate that she must speak. We—we saw by your sign that this house is to let—said Anne faintly, addressing the older lady, who was evidently Miss Paddy's Spofford. Oh, yes, said Miss Paddy, I intended to take that sign down today. Then—'Then we are too late,' said Anne sorrowfully. You've let it to someone else? No, but we have decided not to let it at all. Oh, I'm so sorry,' exclaimed Anne impulsively. I love this place so. I did hope we could have got it. Then did Miss Paddy lay down her knitting, take off her specs, rub them, put them on again, and for the first time look at Anne as at a human being. The other lady followed her example so perfectly that she might as well have been a reflection in a mirror. You love it,' said Miss Paddy with emphasis. Does that mean that you really love it, or that you merely like the looks of it? The girls nowadays indulge in such exaggerated statements that one never can tell what they do mean. It wasn't so in my young days. Then a girl did not say she loved Turnips in just the same tone as she might have said she loved her mother or her savior. Anne's conscience bore her up. I really do love it,' she said gently. I've loved it ever since I saw it, last fall. My two college chums and I want to keep house next year instead of boarding, so we're looking for a little place to rent, and when I saw that this house was to let I was so happy. If you love it you can have it,' said Miss Paddy. Marie and I decided to-day that we would not let it after all, because we did not like any of the people who have wanted it. We don't have to let it. We can afford to go to Europe even if we don't let it. It would help us out, but not for gold will I let my home pass into the possession of such people as have come here and looked at it. You are different. I believe you do love it and will be good to it. You can have it. If—if we can afford to pay what you ask for it," hesitated Anne. Miss Paddy named the amount required. Anne and Priscilla looked at each other. Priscilla shook her head. "'I'm afraid we can't afford quite so much,' said Anne, choking back her disappointment. "'You see, we are only college girls and we are poor.' "'What were you thinking you could afford?' demanded Miss Paddy, ceasing not to knit. Anne named her amount. Miss Paddy nodded gravely. "'That will do. As I told you, it is not strictly necessary that we should let it at all. We are not rich, but we have enough to go to Europe on. I have never been in Europe in my life and never expected or wanted to go, but my niece there, Maria Spofford, has taken a fancy to go. Now, you know a young person like Maria can't go globetrotting alone.' "'No. I—I suppose not,' murmured Anne, seeing that Miss Paddy was quite solemnly in earnest. "'Of course not. So I have to go along to look after her. I expect to enjoy it too. I am seventy years old, but I am not tired of living yet. I daresay I'd have gone to Europe before if the idea had occurred to me. We shall be away for two years, perhaps three. We sail in June, and we shall send you the key, and leave all in order for you to take possession when you choose. We shall pack away a few things we prize especially, but all the rest will be left.' "'Will you leave the China dogs?' asked Anne timidly. "'Would you like me to?' "'Oh, indeed, yes, they're delightful.' A pleased expression came into Miss Paddy's face. "'I think a great deal of those dogs,' she said proudly. "'They're over a hundred years old, and have sat on either side of this fireplace ever since my brother Aaron brought them from London fifty years ago. Spofford Avenue was called after my brother Aaron.' "'A fine man he was,' said Miss Maria, speaking for the first time. "'Ah, you don't see the like of him nowadays.' "'He was a good uncle to you, Maria,' said Miss Paddy, with evident emotion. "'You do well to remember him.' "'I shall always remember him,' said Miss Maria solemnly. "'I can see him, this minute, standing there before that fire with his hands under his coattails, beaming on us.' Miss Maria took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, but Miss Paddy came resolutely back from the regions of sentiment to those of business. "'I shall leave the dogs where they are, if you will promise to be very careful of them,' she said. Their names are Gog and Magog. Gog looks to the right, and Magog to the left. And there's just one thing more. You don't object, I hope, to this house being called, Paddy's place?' "'No, indeed. We think that is one of the nicest things about it.' "'You have sense, I see,' said Miss Paddy, in a tone of great satisfaction. "'Would you believe it? All the people who came here to rent the house wanted to know if they couldn't take the name off the gate during their occupation of it. I told them roundly that the name went with the house. This has been Paddy's place ever since my brother Aaron left it to me and his will, and Paddy's place it shall remain until I die and Maria dies. After that happens the next possessor can call it any fool name he likes,' concluded Miss Paddy, much as she might have said, after that, the deluge. "'And now, wouldn't you like to go over the house and see it all before we consider the bargain made?' Further exploration still further delighted the girls. Besides the big living-room there was a kitchen and a small bedroom downstairs. Upstairs were three rooms, one large and two small. Anne took in a special fancy to one of the small ones, looking out into the big pines and hoped it would be hers. It was papered in pale blue and had a little old-timey toilet-table with sconces for candles. There was a diamond-pained window with a seat under the blue muslin frills that would be a satisfying spot for studying or dreaming. "'It's all so delicious that I know we are going to wake up and find it a fleeting vision of the night,' said Priscilla as they went away. "'Miss Paddy and Miss Maria are hardly such stuff as dreams are made of,' laughed Anne. "'Can you fancy them globetrotting, especially in those shawls and caps?' "'I suppose they'll take them up when they really begin to trot,' said Priscilla. "'But I know they'll take their knitting with them everywhere. They simply couldn't be parted from it. "'They will walk about Westminster Abbey and knit, I feel sure.' "'Meanwhile, Anne, we shall be living in Paddy's place and on Spofford Avenue. I feel like a millionaire as even now.' "'I feel like one of the morning stars that sang for joy,' said Anne. "'Phil Gordon crept into thirty-eight St. John's that night and flung herself on Anne's bed. "'Girls, dear, I'm tired to death. "'I feel like the man without a country. Or was it without a shadow? I forget which. Anyway, I've been packing up.' "'And I suppose you were worn out because you couldn't decide which things to pack first or where to put them?' laughed Priscilla. "'Exactly.' And when I had got everything jammed in somehow and my landlady and her maid had both sat on it while I locked it, I discovered I had packed a whole lot of things I wanted for convocation at the very bottom. I had to unlock the old thing and poke and dive into it for an hour before I fished out what I wanted. I would get hold of something that felt like what I was looking for and I'd yank it up and it would be something else. No, Anne, I did not swear. I didn't say you did. Well, you looked it. But I admit my thoughts verged on the profane. And I have such a cold in the head I can do nothing but sniffle, sigh, and sneeze. Isn't that a literative agony for you? Queen Anne, do say something to cheer me up. Remember that next Thursday night you'll be back in the land of Alec and Alonso,' suggested Anne. Still shook her head dolefully. More alliteration. No, I don't want Alec and Alonso when I have a cold in the head. But what has happened to you two? Now that I look at you closely you seem all lighted up with an internal iridescence. Why, you're actually shining. What's up? We are going to live in Paddy's place next winter, said Anne triumphantly. Live, mark you, not bored. We've rented it and Stella Maynard is coming and her aunt is going to keep house for us. Phil bounced up, wiped her nose and fell on her knees before Anne. Girls, girls, let me come too. Oh, I'll be so good. If there's no room for me I'll sleep in the little dog-house in the orchard. I've seen it. Only let me come. Get up, you goose. I won't stir off my marrow bones till you tell me I can live with you next winter." Anne and Priscilla looked at each other. Then Anne said slowly, Phil, dear, we'd love to have you. But we may as well speak plainly. I'm poor. Priss is poor. Stella Maynard is poor. Our housekeeping will have to be very simple and our table plain. You'd have to live as we would. Now you are rich and your boarding-house fair attests the fact. Oh, what do I care for that? Demanded Phil tragically. Better at dinner of herbs where your chums are than a stalled ox in a lonely boarding-house. Don't think I'm all stomach girls. I'll be willing to live on bread and water with just a little jam, if you'll let me come. And then, continued Anne, there will be a good deal of work to be done. Stella's aunt can't do it all. We all expect to have our chores to do. Now you—toil not, neither do I spin," finished Philippa. But I'll learn to do things. You'll only have to show me once. I can make my own bed to begin with. And remember that, though I can't cook, I can keep my temper. That's something. And I never growl about the weather. That's more. Oh, please, please! I never wanted anything so much in my life, and this floor is awfully hard. There's just one more thing, said Priscilla resolutely. You, Phil, as all Redmond knows, entertain callers almost every evening. Now at Patty's place we can't do that. We have decided that we shall be at home to our friends on Friday evenings only. If you come with us, you'll have to abide by that rule. Well, you don't think I'll mind that, do you, why, I'm glad of it. I knew I should have had some such rule myself, but I hadn't enough decision to make it or stick to it. When I can shuffle off the responsibility on you, it will be a real relief. If you won't let me cast in my lot with you, I'll die of the disappointment, and then I'll come back and haunt you. I'll camp on the very doorstep of Patty's place, and you won't be able to go out or come in without falling over my spook. Again, Anne and Priscilla exchanged eloquent looks. Well, said Anne, of course we can't promise to take you until we've consulted with Stella, but I don't think she'll object, and as far as we are concerned, you may come and glad welcome. If you get tired of our simple life you can leave us, and no questions asked, added Priscilla. Phil sprang up, hugged them both jubilantly, and went on her way rejoicing. I hope things will go all right, said Priscilla soberly. We must make them go right, avowed Anne. I think Phil will fit into our happy little loam very well. Though Phil's a deer to rattle around with and be chums, and of course the more there are of us the easier it will be on our slim purses. But how will she be to live with? You have to summer and winter with anyone before you know she's livable or not. Oh well, we'll all be put to the test as far as that goes. And we must quit us like sensible folk, living in let live. Phil isn't selfish, though she's a little thoughtless, and I believe we will all get on beautifully in Patti's place. CHAPTER X of Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery Read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer Anne of the Island CHAPTER XI. THE ROUND OF LIFE Anne was back in Avonlea with the luster of the Thorburn Scholarship on her brow. People told her she hadn't changed much in a tome which hinted they were surprised and a little disappointed she hadn't. Avonlea had not changed either—at least, so it seemed at first. But as Anne sat in the Green Gables pew on the first Sunday after her return, and looked over the congregation, she saw several little changes which, all coming home to her at once, made her realize that time did not quite stand still, even in Avonlea. A new minister was in the pulpit. In the pews, more than one familiar face was missing forever. Old Uncle Laib, his prophesying over and done with, Mrs. Peter Sloan, who had sighed—it was to be hoped—for the last time. Timothy Cotton, who, as Mrs. Rachel Lynde said, had actually managed to die at last after practicing at it for twenty years, and Old Josiah Sloan, whom nobody knew in his coffin because he had his whiskers neatly trimmed, were all sleeping in the little graveyard behind the church. And Billy Andrews was married to Nettie Blewett. They appeared out that Sunday. When Billy, beaming with pride and happiness, showed his beplumed and besilked bride into the harmon Andrews' pew, and dropped her lids to hide her dancing eyes, she recalled the stormy winter night of the Christmas holidays when Jane had proposed for Billy. He certainly had not broken his heart over his rejection. And wondered if Jane had also proposed to Nettie for him, or if he had mustered enough spunk to ask the fateful question himself. All the Andrews' family seemed to share in his pride and pleasure, from Mrs. Harman in the pew to Jane in the choir. Jane had resigned from the Avonlea School and intended to go west in the fall. Can't get a bow in Avonlea, that's what, said Mrs. Rachel Lynde scornfully, says she thinks she'll have better health out west. I never heard her health as poor before. Jane is a nice girl, Anne had said loyally. She never tried to attract attention, as some did. Oh, she never chased the boys, if that's what you mean, said Mrs. Rachel, but she'd like to be married, just as much as anybody, that's what. What else would take her out west to some forsaken place whose only recommendation is that men are plenty and women scarce? Don't you tell me? But it was not at Jane Anne Gaze that day in dismay and dismay's. It was at Ruby Gillis who sat beside her in the choir. What had happened to Ruby? She was even handsomer than ever, but her blue eyes were too bright and lustrous, and the colour of her cheeks was hecticly brilliant. Besides, she was very thin. The hands that held her hymn-book were almost transparent in their delicacy. Is Ruby Gillis ill? Anne asked of Mrs. Lynde as they went home from church. Ruby Gillis is dying of galloping consumption, said Mrs. Lynde bluntly. Everybody knows it except herself and her family. They won't give in. If you ask them, she's perfectly well. She hasn't been able to teach since she had that attack of congestion in the winter, but she says she's going to teach again in the fall, and she's after the White Sand School. She'll be in her grave, poor girl, when White Sand School opens, that's what. Anne listened and shocked silence. Ruby Gillis, her old school chum dying? Could it be possible? Of late years they had grown apart, but the old tie-of-school girl intimacy was there, and made itself felt sharply in the tug the news gave at Anne's heartstrings. Ruby, the brilliant, the merry, the coquettish. It was impossible to associate the thought of her with anything like death. She had greeted Anne with gay cordiality after church, and urged her to come up the next evening. I'll be away Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, she had whispered triumphantly. There's a concert at Carmody and a party at White Sands. Herp Spencer's going to take me. He's my latest. Be sure to come up tomorrow. I'm dying for a good talk with you. I want to hear all about your doings at Redmond. Anne knew that Ruby meant that she wanted to tell Anne all about her own recent flirtations, but she promised to go, and Diana offered to go with her. I've been wanting to go see Ruby for a long while, she told Anne when they left Green Gables the next evening, but I really couldn't go alone. It's so awful to hear Ruby rattling on as she does and pretending there is nothing to matter with her even when she can hardly speak for coughing. She's fighting so hard for her life, and yet she hasn't any chance at all, they say. The girls walked silently down the red, twilight road. The robins were singing vespers in high treetops, filling the golden air with their jubilant voices. The silver fluting of the frogs came from marshes and ponds, over fields where seeds were beginning to stir with life and thrill to the sunshine and rain that had drifted over them. The air was fragrant with the wild, sweet, wholesome smell of young raspberry copses. White mists were hovering in the silent hollows, and violet stars were shining bluely on the Brooklands. What a beautiful sunset, said Diana. Look, Anne, it's just like a land in itself, isn't it? That long, low back of purple cloud is the shore, and the clear sky further on is like a golden sea. If we could sail to it in the moonshine boat Paul rode of in his old composition, you remember how nice it would be, said Anne, rousing from her reverie. Do you think we could find all our yesterdays there, Diana? All our old springs and blossoms? The beds of flowers that Paul saw there are the roses that have bloomed for us in the past? Don't, said Diana. You make me feel as if we were old women with everything in life behind us. I think I've almost felt as if we were since I heard about poor Ruby, said Anne. If it is true that she is dying, any other sad thing might be true, too. You don't mind calling in at Elisha Wright's for a moment, do you? asked Diana. Mother asked me to leave this little dish of jelly for Antutasah. Who is Antutasah? Oh, haven't you heard? She's Mrs. Samson Coates of Spencer Vale, Mrs. Elisha Wright's aunt. She's Father's aunt, too. Her husband died last winter and she was left very poor and lonely, so the Wrights took her to live with them. Mother thought we ought to take her, but Father put his foot down. Live with Antutasah, he would not. Is she so terrible? asked Anne absently. You'll probably see what she's like before we can get away, said Diana significantly. Father says she has a face like a hatchet. It cuts the air. But her tongue is sharper still. Late as it was, Antutasah was cutting potato sets in the Wright kitchen. She wore a faded old wrapper and her gray hair was decidedly untidy. Antutasah did not like being caught in a kilter, so she went out of her way to be disagreeable. Oh, so you're Anne Shirley, she said, when Diana introduced Anne. I've heard of you." Her tone implied that she had heard nothing good. Mrs. Andrews was telling me you were home. She said you had improved a good deal. There was no doubt Antutasah thought there was plenty of room for further improvement. She ceased not from cutting sets with much energy. Is it any use to ask you to sit down? she inquired sarcastically. Of course, there's nothing very entertaining here for you. The rest are all away. Mother sent you this little pot of rhubarb jelly, said Diana pleasantly. She made it to-day and thought you might like some. Oh, thanks," said Antutasah sourly. I never fancy your mother's jelly. She always makes it too sweet. However, I'll try to worry some down. My appetite's been dreadful poor this spring. I'm far from well," continued Antutasah solemnly. But still I keep a-doing. People who can't work aren't wanted here. If it isn't too much trouble, will you be condescending enough to set the jelly in the pantry? I'm in a hurry to get these spuds done tonight. I suppose you two ladies never do anything like this. You'd be afraid of spoiling your hands. I used to cut potato sets before we rented the farm," smiled Anne. I do it yet," laughed Diana. I cut sets three days last week. Of course," she added teasingly, I did my hands up in lemon juice and kid gloves every night after it. Antutasah sniffed. I suppose you got that notion out of some of those silly magazines you read so much of. I wonder your mother allows you, but she always spoiled you. We all thought when George married her she wouldn't be a suitable wife for him. Antutasah sighed heavily as if all forebodings upon the occasions of George Berry's marriage had been amply and darkly fulfilled. Going, are you?" she inquired, as the girls rose. Well, I suppose you can't find much amusement talking to an old woman like me. It's such a pity the boys ain't home. We want to run in and see Ruby Gillis a little while, explained Diana. Oh, anything does for an excuse, of course," said Antutasah, amiably. Just whip in and whip out before you have time to say how-do decently. It's college air, as I suppose. You'd be wiser to keep away from Ruby Gillis. The doctors say consumption's catching. I always knew Ruby'd get something, guiding off to Boston last fall for a visit. People who ain't content to stay home always catch something. People who don't go visiting catch things, too. Sometimes they even die, said Diana solemnly. Then they don't have themselves to blame for it, retorted Antutasah triumphantly. I hear you were to be married in June, Diana. There is no truth in that report," said Diana, blushing. Well, don't put it off too long," said Antutasah, significantly. You'll fade soon. You're all complexion and hair. And the rides are terrible-thickle. You want to wear a hat, Miss Shirley. Your nose is freckling scandalous. My but you are red-headed. Well, I suppose we're all as the Lord made us. Give Marilla Cuthbert my respects. She's never been to see me since I come to Avonlea, but I suppose I oughtn't to complain. The Cuthberts always did think themselves a cut higher than anyone else around here. Oh, isn't she dreadful, gasped Diana, as they escaped down the lane. She's worse than Miss Eliza Andrews, said Anne. But then think of living all your life with a name like a Tosa. Wouldn't it sour almost anyone? She should have tried to imagine her name was Cordelia. It might have helped her a great deal. It certainly helped me in the days when I didn't like Anne. Josie Pye will be just like her when she grows up, said Diana. Josie's mother and Anne to toss her cousins, you know. Oh, dear, I'm glad that's over. She's so malicious. She seems to put a bad flavour in everything. Father tells such a funny story about her. One time they had a minister in Spencerville who was a very good spiritual man, but very deaf. He couldn't hear any ordinary conversation at all. While they used to have a prayer meeting on Sunday evenings, and all the church members present would get up and pray in turn, or say a few words on some Bible verse. But one evening, Anne to toss a bounced up. She didn't either pray or preach. Instead, she lit into everybody else in the church and gave them a fearful raking down, calling them right out by name, and telling them how they all had behaved and casting up all the quarrels and scandals of the past ten years. Finally she wound up by saying that she was disgusted with Spencerville church, and she never meant to darken its door again, and she hoped a fearful judgment would come upon it. Then she sat down out of breath, and the minister who hadn't heard a word she said immediately remarked in a very devout voice, "'Amen! The Lord grant our dear sister's prayer.' You ought to hear Father tell the story." "'Speaking of stories, Diana,' remarked Anne in a significant confidential tone, "'Do you know that lately I've been wondering if I could write a short story—a story that would be good enough to be published?' "'Why, of course you could,' said Diana, after she had grasped the amazing suggestion. You used to write perfectly thrilling stories years ago in our old story-club—while I hardly meant one of that kind of stories,' smiled Anne. "'I've been thinking about it a little of late, but I'm almost afraid to try, for if I should fail it would be too humiliating.'" I heard Priscilla say once that all Mrs. Morgan's first stories were rejected, but I'm sure yours wouldn't be, Anne, for its likely editors have more sense nowadays. Margaret Burton, one of the junior girls at Redmond, wrote a story last winter, and it was published in the Canadian woman. I really do think I could write one at least as good. And will you have it published in the Canadian woman? I might try one of the bigger magazines first. It all depends on what kind of a story I write. What is it to be about? I don't know yet. I want to get hold of a good plot. I believe this is very necessary from an editor's point of view. The only thing I've settled on is the heroine's name. It is to be Avril Lester. Rather pretty, don't you think? Don't mention this to anyone, Diana. I haven't told anybody but you and Mr. Harrison. He wasn't very encouraging. He said there was far too much trash written nowadays as it was, and he'd expected something better of me after a year at college. What does Mr. Harrison know about it? demanded Diana scornfully. They found the Gillis home gay with lights and collars. Leonard Kimball of Spencervale and Morgan Bell of Carmody were glaring at each other across the parlor. Several merry girls had dropped in. Rumi was dressed in white and her eyes and cheeks were very brilliant. She laughed and chattered incessantly, and after the other girls had gone, she took Anne upstairs to display her new summer dresses. I have a blue silk to make up yet, but it's a little heavy for summer wear. I think I'll leave it until the fall. I'm going to teach him white sands, you know. How do you like my hat? That one you had on in church yesterday was real dinky, but I like something brighter for myself. Did you notice those two ridiculous boys downstairs? They've both come determined to sit each other out. I don't care a single bit about either of them, you know. Herb Spencer is the one I like. Sometimes I really do think he's Mr. Right. At Christmas I got the Spencervale schoolmaster was that, but I found out something about him that turned me against him. He nearly went insane when I turned him down. I wish those two boys hadn't come to-night. I wanted to have a nice good talk with you, Anne, and tell you such heaps of things. You and I were always good chums, weren't we? Rumi slipped her arm about Anne's waist with a shallow little laugh. But just for a moment their eyes met, and behind all the luster of Rumi's, Anne saw something that made her heart ache. Come up often, won't you, Anne? whispered Rumi. Come alone. I want you. Are you feeling quite well, Rumi? Me? I am perfectly well. I never felt better in my life. Of course that congestion last winter pulled me down a little, but to see my color I don't look much like an invalid, I'm sure. Rumi's voice was almost sharp. She pulled her arm away from Anne as if in resentment and ran downstairs, where she was gayer than ever, apparently so much absorbed in bantering her two swans, that Diana and Anne felt rather out of it and soon went away. CHAPTER XII. Avrol's Atonement. What are you dreaming of, Anne? The two girls were lordering one evening in a fairy hollow of the brook. Ferns knotted in it, and little grasses were green, and wild pears hung finely scented white curtains around it. Anne roused herself from her reverie with a happy sigh. I was thinking out my story, Diana. Oh, have you really begun it? cried Diana, all alight with eager interest in a moment. Yes. I have only a few pages written, but I have it all pretty well thought out. I've had such a time to get a suitable plot. None of the plots that suggested themselves suited a girl named Avrol. Couldn't you have changed her name? No, the thing was impossible. I tried to, but I couldn't do it any more than I could change yours. Avrol was so real to me that no matter what other name I tried to give her I just thought of her as Avrol behind it all. But finally I got a plot that matched her. Then came the excitement of choosing names for all my characters. You have no idea how fascinating that is. I have lain awake for hours thinking over those names. The hero's name is Percival Dalrymple. Have you named all the characters? asked Diana wistfully. If you hadn't, I was going to ask you to let me name one, just some unimportant person. I'd feel as if I had a share in the story then. You may name the little hired boy who lived with the Lesters, conceded Anne. He is not very important, but he is the only one left unnamed. Call him Raymond Fitz Osbourne, suggested Diana, who had a store of such names laid away in her memory, relics of the old story club, which she and Anne and Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis had had in their school days. Anne shook her head doubtfully. I'm afraid that is too aristocratic a name for a chore boy, Diana. I couldn't imagine a Fitz Osbourne feeding pigs and picking up chips, could you? Diana didn't see why if you had an imagination at all. You couldn't stretch it to that extent. But probably Anne knew best, and the chore boy was finally christened Robert Ray to be called Bobby should occasion require. How much do you suppose you'll get for it? asked Diana. But Anne had not thought about this at all. She was in pursuit of fame, not filthy lucre, and her literary dreams were as yet untainted by mercenary considerations. You'll let me read it, won't you? pleaded Diana. When it is finished, I'll read it to you and Mr. Harrison, and I shall want you to criticise it severely. No one else shall see it until it is published. How are you going to end it, happily or unhappily? I'm not sure. I'd like it to end unhappily because that would be so much more romantic. But I understand editors have a prejudice against sad endings. I heard Professor Hamilton say once that nobody but a genius should try to write an unhappy ending, and—concluded Anne modestly—I am anything but a genius. Oh, I like happy endings best. You'd better let him marry her, said Diana, who, especially since her engagement to Fred, thought this was how every story should end. But you like to cry over stories? Oh, yes, in the middle of them, but I like everything to come out right at last. I must have one pathetic scene in it, said Anne thoughtfully. I might let Robert Ray be injured in an accident and have a death scene. No, you mustn't kill Bobby off, declared Diana, laughing. He belongs to me, and I want him to live and flourish, kill somebody else if you have to. For the next fortnight Anne rived or reveled according to Mood in her literary pursuits. Now she would be jubilant over a brilliant idea, now despairing because some contrary character would not behave properly. Diana could not understand this. Make them do as you want them to, she said. I can't, mourned Anne. Avril is such an unmanageable heroine. She will do when say things I never meant her to. Then that spoils everything that went before and I have to write it all over again. Finally, however, the story was finished, and Anne read it to Diana in the seclusion of the porch gable. She had achieved her pathetic scene without sacrificing Robert Ray, and she kept a watchful eye on Diana as she read it. Diana rose to the occasion and cried properly, but when the end came she looked a little disappointed. Why did you kill Maurice Lennox? she asked reproachfully. He was the villain, protested Anne. He had to be punished. I like him best of them all, said I'm reasonable, Diana. Well, he's dead and he'll have to stay dead, said Anne, rather resentfully. If I had let him live he'd have gone on persecuting Avril and Percival. Yes, unless you had reformed him. That wouldn't have been romantic and besides it would have made the story too long. Well, anyway, it's a perfectly elegant story, Anne, and will make you famous of that, I'm sure. Have you got a title for it? Oh, I decided on the title long ago. I'll call it Avril's Atonement. Doesn't that sound nice and alliterative? Now, Diana, tell me candidly. Do you see any faults in my story? Well, hesitated Diana, that part where Avril makes the cake doesn't seem to me quite romantic enough to match the rest. It's just what anybody might do. Heroines shouldn't do cooking, I think. Why, that is where the humor comes in and it is one of the best parts of the whole story, said Anne, and it may be stated that in this she was quite right. Diana prudently refrained from any further criticism, but Mr. Harrison was much harder to please. First he told her there was entirely too much description in the story. Cut out all those flowery passages, he said unfeelingly. Anne had an uncomfortable conviction that Mr. Harrison was right, and she forced herself to expunge most of her beloved descriptions, though it took three rewritings before the story could be pruned down to please the fastidious Mr. Harrison. I have left out all the descriptions but the sunset, she said at last. I simply couldn't let it go. It was the best of them all. It hasn't anything to do with the story, said Mr. Harrison, and you shouldn't have laid the scene among rich city people. What do you know of them? Why didn't you lay it right here in Avonlea? Changing the name, of course, or else Mrs. Rachel Lind would probably think she was the heroine. Oh, that would never have done, protested Anne. Avonlea is the dearest place in the world, but it isn't quite romantic enough for the scene of a story. I daresay there's been many a romance in Avonlea, and many a tragedy too, said Mr. Harrison dryly. But your folks ain't like real folks anywhere. They talk too much and use too high-flown language. There is one place where that Dalrymple chap talks even on for two pages and never lets the girl get a word in edgewise. If he'd done that in real life, she'd have pitched him. I don't believe it, said Anne Flatley. In her secret soul she thought that the beautiful, poetical things said to Avril would win any girl's heart completely. Besides, it was gruesome to hear of Avril, the stately, queen-like Avril, pitching anyone. Avril declined her suitors. Anyhow, resumed the merciless Mr. Harrison, I don't see why Maurice Lennox didn't get her. He was twice the man the other is. He did bad things, but he did them. Percival hadn't time for anything but mooning. Mooning? That was even worse than pitching. Maurice Lennox was the villain, said Anne indignantly. I don't see why everyone likes him better than Percival. Percival is too good. He's aggravating. Next time you write about a hero put a little spice of human nature in him. Avril couldn't have married Maurice. He was bad. She'd have reformed him. You can reform a man. You can't reform a jellyfish, of course. Your story isn't bad. It's kind of interesting, I'll admit. But you're too young to write a story that would be worthwhile. Wait ten years. Anne made up her mind that the next time she wrote a story she wouldn't ask anybody to criticize it. It was too discouraging. She would not read the story to Gilbert although she told him about it. If it is a success you'll see it when it's published, Gilbert. But if it is a failure nobody shall ever see it. Marilla knew nothing about the venture. In imagination Anne saw herself reading a story out of a magazine to Marilla and trapping her into praise of it, for in imagination all things are possible, and then triumphantly announcing herself the author. One day Anne took to the post office a long, bulky envelope addressed with the delightful confidence of youth and inexperience to the very biggest of the big magazines. Diana was as excited over it as Anne herself. How long do you suppose it will be before you hear from it? She asked. It shouldn't be longer than a fortnight. Oh, how happy and proud I shall be if it is accepted. Of course it will be accepted, and they will likely ask you to send them more. You may be as famous as Mrs. Morgan one day, Anne, and then how proud I'll be of knowing you, said Diana, who possessed at least the striking merit of an unselfish admiration of the gifts and graces of her friends. A week of delightful dreaming followed, and then came a bitter awakening. One evening Diana found Anne in the porch gable with suspicious-looking eyes. On the table lay a long envelope and a crumpled manuscript. And your story hasn't come back! cried Diana incredulously. Yes, it has, said Anne shortly. Well, that editor must be crazy. What reason did he give? No reason at all. There was just a printed slip saying that it wasn't found acceptable. I never thought much of that magazine anyway, said Diana hotly. The stories in it are not half as interesting as those in the Canadian woman, although it costs so much more. I suppose the editor is prejudiced against anyone who isn't a Yankee. Don't be discouraged, Anne. Remember how Mrs. Morgan's stories came back. Send yours to the Canadian woman. I believe I will, said Anne, plucking a part, and if it is published I'll send that American editor a marked copy, but I'll cut the sunset out. I believe Mr. Harrison was right. Out came the sunset. But in spite of this heroic mutilation the editor of the Canadian woman sent Avril's atonement back so promptly that the indignant Diana declared that it couldn't have been read at all, and vowed she was going to stop her subscription immediately. Anne took the second rejection with the calmness of despair. She locked the story away in the derrick trunk where the old story-club tales were posed, but first she yielded to Diana's entreaties and gave her a copy. This is the end of my literary ambitions, she said bitterly. She never mentioned the matter to Mr. Harrison, but one evening he asked her bluntly if her story had been accepted. No, the editor wouldn't take it, she answered briefly. Mr. Harrison looked sideways at the flushed, delicate profile. Well, I suppose you'll keep on writing them, he said encouragingly. No, I shall never try to write a story again, declared Anne with the hopeless finality of nineteen when a door is shut in its face. I wouldn't give up altogether, said Mr. Harrison reflectively. I'd write a story once in a while, but I wouldn't pester editors with it. I'd write of people and places like I knew, and I'd make my characters talk every day English, and I'd let the sun rise and set in the usual quiet way without much fuss over the fact. If I had to have villains at all I'd give them a chance, Anne. I'd give them a chance. There are some terrible bad men in the world, I suppose. But you'd have to go a long piece to find them, though Mrs. Lind believes we're all bad. But most of us have got a little decency somewhere in us. Keep on writing, Anne. No. It was very foolish of me to attempt it. When I'm through Redmond I'll stick to teaching. I can teach. I can't write stories. It'll be time for you to be getting a husband when you're through Redmond, said Mr. Harrison. I don't believe in putting marrying off too long like I did. Anne got up and marched home. There were times when Mr. Harrison was really intolerable. Pitching, moaning, and getting a husband. Ow! End of Chapter 12 All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Chapter 13 of Anne of the Island by Lucy Mod Montgomery Read for LibriVox by Karen Savage Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer Anne of the Island Chapter 13 The Way of Transgressors Davey and Dora were ready for Sunday school. They were going alone, which did not often happen, for Mrs. Lind always attended Sunday school. But Mrs. Lind had twisted her ankle and was lame, and so she was staying home this morning. The twins were also to represent the family at church, for Anne had gone away the evening before to spend Sunday with friends in Carmody, and Marula had one of her headaches. Davey came downstairs slowly. Dora was waiting in the hall for him, having been made ready by Mrs. Lind. Davey had attended to his own preparations. He had a scent in his pocket for the Sunday school collection, and a five cent piece for the church collection. He carried his Bible in one hand, and his Sunday school quarterly in the other. He knew his lesson, and his golden text, and his catechism question perfectly. Had he not studied them, per force, in Mrs. Lind's kitchen all last Sunday afternoon? Davey therefore should have been in a placid state of mind. As a matter of fact, despite text and catechism, he was inwardly as a ravening wolf. Mrs. Lind limped out of her kitchen as he joined Dora. Are you clean? she demanded severely. Yes, all of me that shows, Davey answered with a defiant scowl. Mrs. Rachel sighed. She had her suspicions about Davey's neck and ears, but she knew that if she attempted to make a personal examination Davey would likely take to his heels, and she could not pursue him today. Well, be sure you behave yourselves, she warned them. Don't walk in the dust, don't stop in the porch to talk to the other children, don't square more wriggle in your places, don't forget the golden text, don't lose your collection or forget to put it in, don't whisper at prayer time, and don't forget to pay attention to the sermon. Davey deigned no response. He marched away down the lane, followed by the meek Dora, but his soul sieved within. Davey had suffered, or thought he had suffered, many things at the hands and tongue of Mrs. Rachel Lind since she had come to Green Gables, for Mrs. Lind could not live with anybody, whether they were nine or ninety, without trying to bring them up properly. And it was only the preceding afternoon that she had interfered to influence Marilla against allowing Davey to go fishing with the Timothy Cottons. Davey was still boiling over this. As soon as he was out of the lane Davey stopped and twisted his countenance into such an unearthly and terrific contortion that Dora, although she knew his gifts in that respect, was honestly alarmed lest he should never in the world be able to get it straightened out again. Darn her! exploded Davey. Oh, Davey, don't swear, gasped Dora in dismay. Darn isn't swearing, not real swearing. And I don't care if it is, retorted Davey recklessly. Well, if you must say dreadful words, don't say them on Sunday, pleaded Dora. Davey was as yet far from repentance, but in his secret soul he felt that perhaps he had gone a little too far. I'm going to invent a swear word of my own, he declared. God will punish you if you do, said Dora solemnly. Then I think God is a mean old scamp, retorted Davey. Doesn't he know a fellow must have some way of expressing his feelings? Davey, said Dora. She expected that Davey would be struck down dead on the spot, but nothing happened. Anyway, I ain't going to stand any more of Mrs. Lynn's bossing, spluttered Davey, and Marilla may have the right to boss me, but she hasn't. I'm going to do every single thing she told me not to do. You watch me. In grim, deliberate silence, while Dora watched him with the fascination of horror, Davey stepped off the green grass of the roadside, angled deep into the fine dust which four weeks of rainless weather had made on the road, and marched along in it, shuffling his feet viciously until he was enveloped in a hazy cloud. That's the beginning, he announced triumphantly. And I'm going to stop in the porch and talk as long as there's anybody there to talk to. I'm going to squirm and wriggle and whisper, and I'm going to say I don't know the golden text, and I'm going to throw away both of my collections right now. And Davey hurled, scent and nickel, over Mr. Barry's fence with fierce delight. Satan made you do that, said Dora reproachfully. He didn't, cried Davey indignantly. I just thought it out for myself, and I thought of something else. I'm not going to go to Sunday school or church at all. I'm going up to play with the cottons. They told me yesterday they weren't going to Sunday school today because their mother was away and there was nobody to make them. Come along, Dora. We'll have a great time. I don't want to go, protested Dora. You've got to, said Davey. If you don't come I'll tell Marilla that Frank Bell kissed you in school last Monday. I couldn't help it. I didn't know he was going to, cried Dora, blushing Scarlett. Well, you didn't slap him or seem a bit cross, retorted Davey. I'll tell her that, too, if you don't come. We'll take the shortcut up this field. I'm afraid of those cows, protested poor Dora, seeing a prospect of escape. The very idea of your being scared of those cows, scoffed Davey, while they're both younger than you. They're bigger, said Dora. They won't hurt you. Come along now. This is great. When I grow up I ain't going to bother going to church at all. I believe I can get to heaven by myself. You'll go to the other place if you break the Sabbath day, said unhappy Dora, following him sorely against her will. But Davey was not scared. Yet. Hell was very far off, and the delights of a fishing expedition with the cottons were very near. He wished Dora had more spunk. She kept looking back as if she were going to cry every minute, and that spoiled a fellow's fun. Hang girls, anyway. Davey did not say darn this time, even in thought. He was not sorry yet that he had said it once, but it might be as well not to tempt the unknown powers too far on one day. The small cottons were playing in their backyard, and hailed Davey's appearance with whoops of delight. Pete, Tommy, Adolphus, and Mirabelle Cotton were all alone. Their mother and older sisters were away. Dora was thankful Mirabelle was there, at least. She had been afraid she would be alone in a crowd of boys. Mirabelle was almost as bad as a boy. She was so noisy and sunburned and reckless. But at least she wore dresses. We've come to go fishing, announced Davey. Woo! yelled the cottons. They rushed away to dig worms at once, Mirabelle leading the van with a tin can. Dora could have sat down and cried. Oh, if only that hateful Frank Bell had never kissed her, then she could have defied Davey and gone to her beloved Sunday school. They dared not, of course, go fishing on the pond, where they would be seen by people going to church. They had to resort to the brook in the woods behind the cotton house, but it was full of trout, and they had a glorious time that morning. At least, the cottons certainly had, and Davey seemed to have it. Not being entirely bereft of prudence, he had discarded boots and stockings and borrowed Tommy Cotton's overalls. Thus accoutered, bog and marsh and undergrowth had no terrors for him. Dora was frankly and manifestly miserable. She followed the others in their peregrinations from pool to pool, clasping her Bible and quarterly tightly, and thinking with bitterness of soul of her beloved class, where she would be sitting that very moment before a teacher she adored. Instead, here she was roaming the woods with those half-wild cottons trying to keep her boots clean and her pretty white dress free from rents and stains. Mirabelle had offered the loan of an apron, but Dora had scornfully refused. The trout bit, as they always do on Sundays. In an hour the transgressors had all the fish they wanted, so they returned to the house, much to Dora's relief. She sat primly on a hencoupe in the yard while the others played an uproarious game of tag, and then they all climbed to the top of the pig-house roof and cut their initials on the saddle-board. The flat-roofed henhouse and a pile of straw beneath gave Davy another inspiration. They spent a splendid half-hour climbing on the roof and diving off into the straw with roops and yells. But even unlawful pleasures must come to an end. When the rumble of wheels over the pond bridge told that people were going home from church, Davy knew they must go. He discarded Tommy's overalls, resumed his own rightful attire, and turned away from his string of trout with a stye. No use to think of taking them home. Well, hadn't we a splendid time, he demanded defiantly as they went down the hill-field. I hadn't, said Dora flatly, and I don't believe you had, really, either, she added, with a flash of insight that was not to be expected of her. I had so, cried Davy, but in the voice of one who doth protest too much. No wonder you hadn't, just sitting there like a—like a mule. I ain't going to associate with the cottons, said Dora loftily. The cottons are all right, retorted Davy, and they have far better times than we have. They do just as they please and say just what they like before everybody. I'm going to do that too after this. There are lots of things you wouldn't dare say before everybody, over Dora. No, there isn't. There is too. Would you, demanded Dora gravely, would you say Tomcat before the minister? This was a staggerer. Davy was not prepared for such a concrete example of the freedom of speech. But one did not have to be consistent with Dora. Of course not, admitted silkly. Tomcat isn't a holy word. I wouldn't mention such an animal before a minister at all. But if you had to, persisted Dora. I call it a Thomas Pussy, said Davy. I think Gentleman Cat would be more polite, reflected Dora. You thinking, retorted Davy, with withering scorn. Davy was not feeling comfortable, though he would have died before he admitted it to Dora. Now that the exhilaration of true and delights had died away, his conscience was beginning to give him salutary twinges. After all, perhaps it would have been better to have gone to Sunday school and church. Mrs. Lynde might be bossy, but there was always a box of cookies in her kitchen cupboard, and she was not stingy. At this inconvenient moment Davy remembered that when he had torn his new school pants the week before, Mrs. Lynde had mended them beautifully and never said a word to Marilla about them. But Davy's cup of iniquity was not yet full. He was to discover that one sin demands another to cover it. They had dinner with Mrs. Lynde that day, and the first thing she asked Davy was, were all your class in Sunday school today? Yes, sir, said Davy with a gulp. All were there, except one. Did you say your golden text and catechism? Yes, sir. Did you put your collection in? Yes, sir. Was Mrs. Malcolm MacPherson in church? I don't know. This at least was the truth, thought wretched Davy. Was the lady's aid announced for next week? Yes, sir. Quakingly. Was prayer meeting? I don't know. You should know. You should listen more attentively to the announcements. What was Mr. Harvey's text? Davy took a frantic gulp of water and swallowed it and the last protest of conscience together. He glibly recited an old golden text learned several weeks ago. Fortunately Mrs. Lynde now stopped questioning him. But Davy did not enjoy his dinner. He could only eat one helping of pudding. What's the matter with you? Demanded justly astonished Mrs. Lynde. Are you sick? No, muttered Davy. You look pale. You'd better keep out of the sun this afternoon, admonished Mrs. Lynde. Do you know how many lies you told Mrs. Lynde? asked Dora reproachfully as soon as they were alone after dinner. Davy goaded to desperation turned fiercely. I don't know and I don't care, he said. You just shut up, Dora Keith. Then poured Davy but took himself to a secluded retreat behind the woodpile to think over the way of transgressors. Green Gables was wrapped in darkness and silence when Anne reached home. She lost no time going to bed for she was very tired and sleepy. There had been several avanley jollifications the preceding week involving rather late hours. Anne's head was hardly on her pillow before she was half asleep. But just then her door was softly opened and a pleading voice said, Anne—Anne set up drowsily. Davy, is that you? What is the matter? A white clad figure flung itself across the floor and onto the bed. Anne, sobbed Davy, getting his arms about her neck. I'm awful glad you're home. I couldn't go to sleep till I told somebody—told somebody what? How miserable I am. Why are you miserable, dear? Because I was so bad today, Anne. Oh, I was awful bad, badder than I've ever been yet. What did you do? Oh, I'm afraid to tell you you'll never like me again, Anne. I couldn't say my prayers tonight. I couldn't tell God what I'd done. I was ashamed to have him know. But he knew anyway, Davy. That's what Dora said. I thought perhaps he mightn't have noticed just at the time. Anyway, I'd rather tell you first. What is it you did? Out it all came in a rush. I run away from Sunday school and went fishing with the cottons and I told ever so many whoppers to Mrs. Lynde—oh, most half a dozen and—and I—I said a swear word, Anne. What, pretty near swear word, anyhow? And I called God names. There was silence. Davy didn't know what to make of it. Was Anne so shocked that you would never speak to him again? Anne? What are you going to do to me? he whispered. Nothing, dear. You've been punished already, I think. No, I haven't. Nothing's been done to me. You've been very unhappy ever since you did wrong, haven't you? You bet, said Davy emphatically. That was your conscience punishing you, Davy. What's my conscience? I want to know. It's something in you, Davy, that always tells you when you are doing wrong and makes you unhappy if you're persistent in doing it. Haven't you noticed that? Yes, but I didn't know what it was. I wish I didn't have it. I'd have lots more fun. Where is my conscience, Anne? I want to know. Is it in my stomach? No, it's in your soul, answered Anne, thankful for the darkness since gravity must be preserved in serious matters. I suppose I can't get clear of it then, said Davy with a sigh. Are you going to tell Marilla and Mrs. Lynde on me, Anne? No, dear. I'm not going to tell anyone. You are sorry you were naughty, weren't you? You bet. And you'll never be bad like that again? No, but, added Davy cautiously, I might be bad some other way. You won't say naughty words or run away on Sundays or tell falsehoods to cover up your sins? Nope, it doesn't pay, said Davy. Well, Davy, just tell God you are sorry and ask Him to forgive you. Have you forgiven me, Anne? Yes, dear. Then, said Davy joyously, I don't care much whether God does or not. Davy! Oh, I'll ask Him! I'll ask Him! said Davy quickly, scrambling off the bed, convinced by Anne's tone that he must have said something dreadful. I don't mind asking him, Anne. Please, God, I'm awfully sorry I behaved bad today and I'll try to be good on Sundays always and please forgive me. There now, Anne. Well, now, run off to bed like a good boy. All right. Say I don't feel miserable any more. I feel fine. Good night. Good night. Anne slipped down on her pillows with a sigh of relief. Oh, how sleepy she was. In another second, Anne! Davy was back again by her bed and dragged her eyes open. What is it now, dear? She asked, trying to keep a note of impatience out of her voice. Anne, have you ever noticed how Mr. Harrison spits? Do you suppose if I practice hard I can learn to spit just like him? Anne sat up. Davy Keith, she said. Go straight to your bed and don't let me catch you out of it again tonight. Go! Now! Davy went and stood not upon the order of his going. Anne was sitting with Ruby Gillis in the Gillis' garden after the day had crept lingeringly through it and was gone. It had been a warm, smoky summer afternoon. The world was in a splendor of outflowering. The idle valleys were full of hazes. The woodways were pranked with shadows and the fields with the purple of the asters. Anne had given up a moonlight drive to the White Sands beach that she might spend the evening with Ruby. She had so spent many evenings that summer, although she often wondered what good it did any one, and sometimes went home deciding that she could not go again. Ruby grew paler as the summer waned. The White Sands school was given up. Her father thought it better that she shouldn't teach till new years. And the fancy work she loved oftener and oftener fell from hands grown too weary for it. But she was always gay, always hopeful, always chattering and whispering of her bows and their rivalries and despairs. It was this that made Anne's visits hard for her. What had once been silly or amusing was gruesome now. It was death peering through a willful mask of life. Yet Ruby seemed to cling to her and never let her go until she had promised to come again soon. Mrs. Lynde grumbled about Anne's frequent visits and declared she would catch consumption. Even Marilla was dubious. Every time you go to see Ruby you come home looking tired out, she said. It's so very sad and dreadful, said Anne in a low tone. Ruby doesn't seem to realize her condition in the least, and yet I somehow feel she needs help, craves it, and I want to give it to her and can't. All the time I'm with her I feel as if I were watching her struggle with an invisible foe, trying to push it back with such feeble resistance as she has. That is why I come home tired. But tonight Anne did not feel this so keenly. Ruby was strangely quiet. She said not a word about parties and drives and dresses and fellows. She lay in the hammock with her untouched work beside her and a white shawl wrapped about her thin shoulders. Her long yellow braids of hair—how Anne had envied those beautiful braids in old school days— lay on either side of her. She had taken the pins out. They made her headache, she said. The hectic flush was gone for the time, leaving her pale and childlike. The moon rose in the silvery sky, imperiling the clouds around her. Below the pond shimmered in its hazy radiance. Just beyond the Gillis Homestead was the church, with the old graveyard beside it. The moonlight shone on the white stones, bringing them out in clear-cut relief against the dark trees behind. Anne. How strange the graveyard looks by moonlight! said Ruby suddenly. How ghostly! she shuddered. Anne. It won't be long now before I'll be lying over there. You and Diana and all the rest will be going about full of life, and I'll be there in the old graveyard. Dead. The surprise of it bewildered Anne. For a few moments she could not speak. You know it so, don't you? said Ruby insistently. Yes, I know, answered Anne in the low tone. Do, Ruby, I know. Everybody knows it, said Ruby bitterly. I know it. I've known it all summer, though I wouldn't give in. And oh, Anne! she reached out and caught Anne's hand pleadingly, impulsively. I don't want to die. I'm afraid to die. Why should you be afraid, Ruby? asked Anne quietly. Because—because—oh, I'm not afraid but that I'll go to heaven, Anne. I'm a church member. But it'll all be so different. I think, and think, and I get so frightened and—and homesick. Heaven must be very beautiful, of course. The Bible says so, but Anne, it won't be what I've been used to. Through Anne's mind drifted an intrusive recollection of a funny story she had heard Philippa Gordon tell. The story of some old man who had said very much the same thing about the world to come. It had sounded funny, then. She remembered how she and Priscilla had laughed over it. But it did not seem in the least humorous now, coming from Ruby's pale, trembling lips. It was sad, tragic, and true. Heaven could not be what Ruby had been used to. There had been nothing in her gay, frivolous life, her shallow ideals and aspirations to fit her for that great change or make the life to come seem to her anything but alien and unreal and undesirable. Anne wondered helplessly what she could say that would help her. Could she say anything? I think, Ruby, she began hesitatingly, for it was difficult for Anne to speak to any one of the deepest thoughts of her heart or the new ideas that had vaguely begun to shape themselves in her mind, concerning the great mysteries of life here and hereafter, superseding her old childish conceptions, and it was hardest of all to speak of them to such as Ruby Gillis. I think, perhaps, we have very mistaken ideas about heaven, what it is, and what it holds for us. I don't think it can be so very different from life here as most people seem to think. I believe we'll just go on living, a good deal as we live here, and be ourselves just the same. Only it will be easier to be good and to follow the highest. All the hindrances and perplexities will be taken away, and we shall see clearly. Don't be afraid, Ruby. I can't help it, said Ruby pitifully. Even if what you say about heaven is true, and you can't be sure, it may be only that imagination of yours. It won't be just the same. It can't be. I want to go on living here. I'm so young, Anne. I haven't had my life. I fought so hard to live, and it isn't any use. I have to die, and leave everything I care for. Anne sat in a pain that was almost intolerable. She could not tell comforting falsehoods, and all that Ruby said was so horribly true. She was leaving everything she cared for. She had laid up her treasures on earth only. She had lived solely for the little things of life, the things that pass, forgetting the great things that go onward into eternity, bridging the gulf between the two lives, and making of death a mere passing from one dwelling to the other, from twilight to unclouded day. God would take care of her there, Anne believed. She would learn. But now it was no wonder her soul clung in blind helplessness to the only things she knew and loved. Ruby raised herself on her arm and lifted her bright, beautiful blue eyes to the moonlit skies. I want to live, she said in a trembling voice. I want to live like other girls. I want to be married, Anne, and have little children. You know I always loved babies, Anne. I couldn't say this to anyone but you. I know you understand. And then poor herb. He loves me, and I love him, Anne. The others meant nothing to me, but he does. And if I could live, I would be his wife and be so happy. Oh, Anne, it's hard. Ruby sank back on her pillows and sobbed convulsively. Anne pressed her hand in an agony of sympathy, silent sympathy, which perhaps helped Ruby more than broken imperfect words could have done, for presently she grew calmer and her sobs ceased. I'm glad I've told you this, Anne, she whispered. It has helped me just to say it all out. I've wanted to all summer, every time you came. I wanted to talk it over with you, but I couldn't. It seemed as if it would make death so sure if I said I was going to die or if anyone else said it or hinted it. I couldn't say it or even think it. In the day time when people were around me and everything was cheerful, it wasn't so hard to keep from thinking of it. But in the night, when I couldn't sleep, it was so dreadful, Anne. I couldn't get away from it then. Death just came and stared me in the face until I got so frightened I could have screamed. But you won't be frightened any more, Ruby, will you? You'll be brave and believe that all is going to be well with you. I'll try. I'll think over what you've said and try to believe it. And you'll come up as often as you can, won't you, Anne? Yes, dear. It won't be very long now, Anne. I feel sure of that. And I'd rather have you than anyone else. I always liked you best of all the girls I went to school with. You were never jealous or mean like some of them were. Poor M. White was up to see me yesterday. You remember M. and I were such chums for three years when we went to school. And then we quarreled the time of the school concert. We've never spoken to each other since. Wasn't it silly? Anything like that seems silly now. But M. and I made up the old quarrel yesterday. She said she'd have spoken years ago, only she thought I wouldn't. And I never spoke to her because I wish her she wouldn't speak to me. Isn't it strange how people misunderstand each other, Anne? Most of the trouble in life comes from misunderstanding, I think, said Anne. I must go now, Ruby. It's getting late, and you shouldn't be out in the damp. You'll come up soon again? Yes, very soon. And if there's anything I can do to help you, I'll be so glad. I know. You have helped me already. Nothing seems quite so dreadful now. Good night, Anne. Good night, dear. Anne walked home very slowly in the moonlight. The evening had changed something for her. Life held a different meaning, a deeper purpose. On the surface it would go on just the same, but the deeps had been stirred. It must not be with her as with poor Butterfly Ruby. When she came to the end of one life it must not be to face the next with the shrinking terror of something wholly different, something for which a custom thought in ideal and aspiration had unfitted her. The little things of life, sweet and excellent in their place, must not be the things lived for. The highest must be sought and followed. The life of heaven must be begun here on earth. That good night in the garden was for all time. Anne never saw Ruby in life again. The next night the Avis gave a farewell party to Jane Andrews before her departure for the West, and while light feet danced and bright eyes laughed and merry tongues chattered, there came a summons to a soul in Avonlea that might not be disregarded or evaded. The next morning the word went from house to house that Ruby Gillis was dead. She had died in her sleep, painlessly and calmly, and on her face was a smile. As if, after all, her death had come as a kindly friend to lead her over the threshold, instead of the grisly phantom she had dreaded. Mrs. Rachel Lynde said emphatically after the funeral that Ruby Gillis was the handsomest corpse she ever laid eyes on. Her loveliness, as she lay, white clad among the delicate flowers that Anne had placed about her, was remembered and talked of for years in Avonlea. Ruby had always been beautiful, but her beauty had been of the earth—earthy. It had had a certain insolent quality in it, as if it flaunted itself in the beholder's eye. Spirit had never shone through it, intellect had never refined it. But death had touched it and consecrated it, bringing out delicate modelings and purity of outline never seen before, doing what life and love and great sorrow and deep womanhood joys might have done for Ruby. Anne, looking down through a mist of tears at her old play fellow, thought she saw the face God had meant for Ruby to have, and remembered it so always. Mrs. Gillis called Anne aside into a vacant room before the funeral procession left the house, and gave her a small packet. I want you to have this, she sobbed. Ruby would have liked you to have it. It's the embroidered centerpiece she was working at. It isn't quite finished. The needle is sticking in it, just where her poor little fingers put it the last time she laid it down, the afternoon before she died. There's always a piece of unfinished work left, said Mrs. Lind, with tears in her eyes. But I suppose there's always someone to finish it. How difficult it is to realize that one we have always known can really be dead, said Anne as she and Diana walked home. Ruby is the first of our schoolmates to go. One by one, sooner or later, all the rest of us must follow. Yes, I suppose so, said Diana uncomfortably. She did not want to talk of that. She would have preferred to have discussed the details of the funeral. The splendid white velvet casket Mr. Gillis had insisted on having for Ruby. The Gillises must always make a splurge, even at funerals, quote Mrs. Rachel Lind. Herbspenser's sad face. The uncontrolled hysteric grief of one of Ruby's sisters. But Anne would not talk of these things. She seemed wrapped in a reverie in which Diana felt lonesomely that she had neither lot nor part. Ruby Gillis was a great girl to laugh, said Davy suddenly. While she laughed as much in heaven as she did in Avonlea Anne, I want to know. Yes, I think she will, said Anne. Oh, Anne! protested Diana with a rather shocked smile. Well, why not, Diana? asked Anne seriously. Do you think we'll never laugh in heaven? Oh, I—I don't know, floundered Diana. It doesn't seem just right somehow. You know, it's rather dreadful to laugh in church. But heaven won't be like church all the time, said Anne. I hope it ain't, said Davy emphatically. If it is, I don't want to go. Church is awful dull. Anyway, I don't mean to go forever so long. I mean to live to be a hundred years old like Mr. Thomas Blewitt of White Sands. He says he's lived so long, because he always smoked tobacco and it killed all the germs. Can I smoke tobacco pretty soon, Anne? No, Davy. I hope you'll never use tobacco, said Anne absently. What do you feel like if the germs kill me then? demanded Davy. Just one more week and we go back to Redmond, said Anne. She was happy at the thought of returning to work, classes, and Redmond friends. Pleasing visions were also being woven around Patty's place. There was a warm, pleasant sense of home in the thought of it, even though she had never lived there. But the summer had been a very happy one too. A time of glad living with summer suns and skies, a time of keen delight in wholesome things, a time of renewing and deepening of old friendships, a time in which she had learned to live more nobly, to work more patiently, to play more heartily. All life lessons are not learned at college, she thought. Life teaches them everywhere. But alas, the final week of that pleasant vacation was spoiled for Anne by one of those impish happenings which are like a dream turned upside down. Been writing any more stories lately? inquired Mr. Harrison genially one evening when Anne was taking tea with him and Mrs. Harrison. No, answered Anne rather crisply. Well, no offence meant. Mrs. Hiram Sloan told me the other day that a big envelope addressed to the Rawlings Reliable Baking Powder Company of Montreal had been dropped into the post-office box a month ago, and she suspicioned that somebody was trying for the prize they'd offered for the best story than introduced the name of their baking powder. She said it wasn't addressed in your writing, but I thought maybe it was you. Indeed no. I saw the prize offer, but I'd never dream of competing for it. I think it would be perfectly disgraceful to write a story to advertise a baking powder. It would be almost as bad as Judson Parker's Patent Medicine Fence. So spake Anne loftily, little dreaming of the valley of humiliation awaiting her. That very day Diana popped into the porch gable bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked carrying a letter. Oh, Anne, here's the letter for you. I was at the office, so I thought I'd bring it along. Do open it quick. If it is what I believe it is, I shall be just wild with delight. Anne, puzzled, opened the letter and glanced over the typewritten contents. Miss Anne Shirley, Green Gables, Avonlea, Pe. Island. Dear Madam, we have much pleasure in informing you that your charming story, Avrol's Atonement, has won the prize of twenty-five dollars offered in our recent competition. We enclose the check herewith. We are arranging for the publication of the story in several prominent Canadian newspapers, and we also intend to have it printed in pamphlet form for distribution among our patrons. Thanking you for the interest you have shown in our enterprise, we remain yours very truly, the Rawlings Reliable Baking Powder Company. I don't understand, said Anne blankly. Diana clapped her hands. Oh, I knew it would have been the prize. I was sure of it. I sent your story into the competition, Anne. Diana Barry! Yes, I did! said Diana gleefully perching herself on the bed. When I saw the offer, I thought of your story in a minute, and at first I thought I'd ask you to send it in. But then I was afraid you wouldn't. You had so little faith left in it, so I just decided I'd send the copy you gave me and say nothing about it. Then if it didn't win the prize you'd never know and you wouldn't feel badly over it because the stories that failed were not to be returned, and if it did you'd have such a delightful surprise. Diana was not the most discerning of mortals, but just at this moment it struck her that Anne was not looking exactly overjoyed. The surprise was there, beyond doubt. But where was the delight? Why, Anne, you don't seem a bit pleased, she exclaimed. Anne instantly manufactured a smile and put it on. Of course, I couldn't be anything but pleased over your unselfish wish to give me pleasure, she said slowly. But you know, I'm so amazed, I can't realize it, and I don't understand. There wasn't a word in my story about— about—and choked a little over the word—baking powder. Oh, I put that in, said Diana, reassured. It was as easy as wink, and of course my experience in our old story club helped me. You know the scene where Avril makes the cake? Well, I just stated that she used Rawling's reliable in it, and that was why it turned out so well. And then in the last paragraph, where Percival clasps Avril in his arms and says, Sweetheart, the beautiful coming years will bring us the fulfilment of our home of dreams, I added, in which we will never use any baking powder except Rawling's reliable. Oh! gasped poor Anne as if someone had dashed cold water on her. And you've won the twenty-five dollars, continued Diana jubilantly. Why, I heard Priscilla say once that the Canadian woman only pays five dollars for a story. Anne held out the hateful pink slip in shaking fingers. I can't take it. It's yours by right, Diana. You sent the story in and made the alterations. I—I would certainly never have sent it, so you must take the check. I'd like to see myself, said Diana scornfully. Why, what I did wasn't any trouble. The honour of being a friend of the prize-winner is enough for me. Well, I must go. I should have gone straight home from the post office for we have company, but I simply had to come and hear the news. I'm so glad for your sake, Anne. Anne suddenly bent forward, put her arms about Diana, and kissed her cheek. I think you are the sweetest and truest friend in the world, Diana, she said, with a little tremble in her voice, and I assure you I appreciate the motive of what you've done. Diana, pleased and embarrassed, got herself away, and poor Anne, after flinging the innocent check into her bureau drawers if it were blood-money, cast herself on her bed and wept tears of shame and outraged sensibility. Oh, she could never lift this down. Never. Gilbert arrived at dusk, brimming over with congratulations, for he had called at Orchard's slope and heard the news. But his congratulations died on his lips at the sight of Anne's face. Why, Anne, what is the matter? I expected to find you radiant over winning Rawling's reliable prize. Good for you. Oh, Gilbert, not you, implored Anne in an A2 Bruté tone. I thought you would understand. Can't you see how awful it is? I must confess I can't. What is wrong? Everything, moaned Anne, I feel as if I were disgraced forever. What do you think a mother would feel like if she found her child tattooed over with a baking-powder advertisement? I feel just the same. I loved my poor little story, and I wrote it out of the best that was in me. And it is sacrilege to have it degraded to the level of a baking-powder advertisement. Don't you remember what Professor Hamilton used to tell us in the literature class at Queens? He said we were never to write a word for a low or unworthy motive, but always to cling to the very highest ideals. What will he think when he hears I've written a story to advertise Rawling's reliable—and oh, when it gets out at Redmond, think how I'll be teased and laughed at? That you won't, said Gilbert, wondering uneasily if it were that confounded Junior's opinion in particular over which Anne was worried. The Reds will think just as I thought, that you, being like nine out of ten of us not overburdened with worldly wealth, had taken this way of earning an honest penny to help yourself through the year. I don't see that there's anything low or unworthy about that, or anything ridiculous either. One would rather write masterpieces of literature, no doubt, but meanwhile board and tuition fees have to be paid. This common sense, matter-of-fact view of the case, cheered Anne a little. At least it removed her dread of being laughed at, though the deeper hurt of an outraged ideal remained. Chapter 16 of Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery Read for LibriVox by Karen Savage Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer Anne of the Island Chapter 16 Adjusted Relationships It's the homeiest spot I ever saw. It's homeier than home, avowed Philippa Gordon, looking about her with delighted eyes. They were all assembled at twilight in the big living-room at Patty's Place. Anne and Priscilla, Phil and Stella, Aunt Jamesena, Rusty, Joseph, the Sarah Cat, and Gog and Magog. The firelight shadows were dancing over the walls, the cats were purring, and a huge bowl of hot-house chrysanthemums, sent to Phil by one of the victims, shone through the golden gloom like creamy moons. It was three weeks since they had considered themselves settled, and already all believed the experiment would be a success. The first fortnight after their return had been a pleasantly exciting one. They had been busy setting up their household goods, organizing their little establishment, and adjusting different opinions. Anne was not oversorry to leave Avonlea when the time came to return to college. The last few days of her vacation had not been pleasant. Her prize-story had been published in the island papers, and Mr. William Blair had, upon the counter of his store, a huge pile of pink, green, and yellow pamphlets containing it, one of which he gave to every customer. He sent a complimentary bundle to Anne, who promptly dropped them all in the kitchen stove. Her humiliation was the consequence of her own ideals only, for Avonlea folks thought it quite splendid that she should have won the prize. Her many friends regarded her with honest admiration, her few foes with scornful envy. Josie Pie said she believed Anne Shirley had just copied the story. She was sure she remembered reading it in a paper years before. The Sloans, who had found out or guessed that Charlie had been turned down, said they didn't think it was much to be proud of. Almost anyone could have done it if she tried. Aunt Tosa told Anne she was very sorry to hear she had taken to writing novels. Nobody born in bread and Avonlea would do it. That was what came of adopting orphans from goodness new wear with goodness new what kind of parents. Even Mrs. Rachel Lind was darkly dubious about the propriety of writing fiction, though she was almost reconciled to it by that twenty-five dollar check. It is perfectly amazing the price they pay for such lies, that's what, she said, half proudly, half severely. All things considered it was a relief when going away time came, and it was very jolly to be back at Redmond, a wise, experienced soft, with hosts of friends to greet on the merry opening day. Priests in Stella and Gilbert were there, Charlie Sloan looking more important than ever a sophomore looked before, Phil with the Alec and Alonzo questions still unsettled, and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson. Moody Spurgeon had been teaching school ever since leaving Queens, but his mother had concluded it was high time he gave it up and turned his attention to learning how to be a minister. Poor Moody Spurgeon fell on hard luck at the very beginning of his college career. Half a dozen ruthless softs who were among his fellow boarders swooped down on him one night and shaved half of his head. In this guys the luckless Moody Spurgeon had to go about until his hair grew again. He told Anne bitterly that there were times when he had his doubts as to whether he was really called to be a minister. Anne Jamesena did not come until the girls had Patti's place ready for her. Miss Patti had sent the key to Anne, with a letter in which she said Gog and Magog were packed in a box under the spare room bed, but might be taken out when wanted. In a post-script, she added that she hoped the girls would be careful about putting up pictures. The living room had been newly papered five years before, and she and Miss Maria did not want any more holes made in that new paper than was absolutely necessary. For the rest she trusted everything to Anne. How those girls enjoy putting their nest in order. As Phil said, it was almost as good as getting married. You had the fun of home-making without the bother of a husband. All brought something with them to adorn or make comfortable the little house. Prists and Phil and Stella had knick-knacks and pictures galore, which latter they proceeded to hang according to taste in reckless disregard of Miss Patti's new paper. We'll putty the holes up when we leave, dear. She'll never know, they said to protesting Anne. Diana had given Anne a pine-needle cushion, and Miss Ada had given both her and Priscilla a fearfully and wonderfully embroidered one. Marilla had sent a big box of preserves, and darkly hinted at a hamper for thanksgiving, and Mrs. Lynde gave Anne a patchwork quilt and loaned her five more. You take them, she said authoritatively. They might as well be in use as packed away in that trunk in the garret from moths to gnaw. No moths would ever have ventured near those quilts, for they reeked of mothbols to such an extent that they had to be hung in the orchard of Patti's place a full fortnight before they could be endured indoors. Therely aristocratic Spofford Avenue had rarely beheld such a display. The gruff old millionaire who lived next door came over and wanted to buy the gorgeous red and yellow tulip pattern one which Mrs. Rachel had given Anne. He said his mother used to make quilts like that, and by Jove he wanted one to remind him of her. Anne would not sell it, much to his disappointment, but she wrote all about it to Mrs. Lynde. That highly gratified lady sent word back that she had one just like it to spare, so the tobacco king got his quilt after all and insisted on having it spread on his bed to the disgust of his fashionable wife. Mrs. Lynde's quilt served a very useful purpose that winter. Patti's place, for all its many virtues, had its faults also. It was really a rather cold house, and when the frosty nights came the girls were very glad to snuggle down under Mrs. Lynde's quilts and hoped that the loan of them might be accounted under her for righteousness. Anne had the blue room she had coveted at sight. Priscilla and Stella had the large one. Phil was blissfully content with the little one over the kitchen, and Aunt Jamesena was to have the downstairs one off the living room. Rusty at first slept on the doorstep. Anne, walking home from Redmond a few days after her return, became aware that people she met surveyed her with a covert, indulgent smile. Anne wondered uneasily what was the matter with her. Was her hat crooked? Was her belt loose? Craning her head to investigate, Anne, for the first time, saw Rusty. Trotting along beside her, close to her heels, was quite the most forlorn specimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld. The animal was well past kittenhood, lank, thin, disreputable-looking. Pieces of both ears were lacking, one eye was temporarily out of repair, and one jowl ludicrously swollen. As for colour, if a once black cat had been well and thoroughly singed, the result would have resembled the hue of this wave's thin, draggled, unsightly fur. Anne shooed, but the cat would not shoe. As long as she stood, he sat back on his haunches and gazed at her reproachfully out of his one good eye. When she resumed her walk, he followed. Anne resigned herself to his company until she reached the gate of Patty's place, which she coldly shut in his face, fondly supposing she had seen the last of him. But when fifteen minutes later fell open the door, there sat the Rusty brown cat on the step. More, he promptly darted in and sprang upon Anne's lap with a half-pleading, half-triumphant meow. Anne, said Stella severely, do you own that animal? No, I do not, protested disgusted Anne. The creature followed me home from somewhere. I couldn't get rid of him. Ugh, get down! I like decent cats reasonably well, but I don't like beasties of your complexion. Pussy, however, refused to get down. He coolly curled up in Anne's lap and began to purr. He has evidently adopted you, laughed Priscilla. I won't be adopted, said Anne stubbornly. Poor creature is starving, said Phil pittingly, while his bones are almost coming through his skin. Well, I'll give him a square meal, and then he must return to whence he came, said Anne resolutely. The cat was fed and put out. In the morning he was still on the doorstep. On the doorstep he continued to sit, bolting in whenever the door was opened. No coolness of welcome had the least effect on him. Of nobody save Anne did he take the least notice. Out of compassion the girls fed him. But when a week had passed they decided that something must be done. The cat's appearance had improved. His eye and cheek had resumed their normal appearance. He was not quite so thin, and he had been seen washing his face. But for all that we can't keep him, said Stella. Anne Jimsey is coming next week and she will bring the Sarah cat with her. We can't keep two cats. And if we did this rusty coat would fight all the time with the Sarah cat. He's a fighter by nature. He had a pitched battle last evening with the tobacco king's cat and routed him, horse, foot, and artillery. We must get rid of him, agreed Anne, looking darkly at the subject of their discussion who was purring on the hearth rug with an air of lamb-like meekness. But the question is, how? How can four unprotected females get rid of a cat who won't be got rid of? We must chloroform him, said Phil briskly. That is the most humane way. Who of us knows anything about chloroforming a cat? demanded Anne gloomily. I do, honey. It's one of my few, sadly few, useful accomplishments. I've disposed of several at home. You take the cat in the morning and give him a good breakfast. Then you take an old burlap bag. There's one on the back porch. Put the cat in it and turn him over a wooden box. Then take a two ounce bottle of chloroform, uncork it and slip it under the edge of the box. Put a heavy weight on top of the box and leave it till evening. The cat will be dead, curled up peacefully as if he were asleep. No pain, no struggle. It sounds easy, said Anne dubiously. It is easy. Just leave it to me. I'll see to it, said Phil reassuringly. Accordingly the chloroform was procured, and the next morning Rusty was lured to his doom. He ate his breakfast, licked his chops, and climbed into Anne's lap. Anne's heart misgave her. This poor creature loved her, trusted her. How could she be a party to this destruction? Here, take him, she said hastily to Phil. I feel like a murderess. He won't suffer, you know, comforted Phil. But Anne had fled. The fatal deed was done in the back porch. Nobody went near it that day. But at dusk Phil declared that Rusty must be buried. Chris and Stella must dig his grave in the orchard, declared Phil, and Anne must come with me to lift the box off. That's the part I always hate. The two conspirators tiptoed reluctantly to the back porch. Phil gingerly lifted the stone she had put on the box. Suddenly, faint but distinct, sounded an unmistakable meow under the box. He—he isn't dead, gasped Anne, sitting blankly down on the kitchen doorstep. He must be, said Phil incredulously. Another tiny meow proved that he wasn't. The two girls stared at each other. What will we do? questioned Anne. Why, in the world, don't you come? demanded Stella appearing in the doorway. We've got the grave ready. What, silent still and silent all? she quoted teasingly. Oh no, the voices of the dead sound like the distant torrents fall. Promptly counter-quoted Anne, pointing solemnly to the box. A burst of laughter broke the tension. We must leave him here till morning, said Phil, replacing the stone. He hasn't meowed for five minutes. Perhaps the meows we heard were his dying groan. Or perhaps we merely imagined them under the strain of our guilty consciences. But when the box was lifted in the morning, Rusty bounded at one gay leap to Anne's shoulder, where he began to lick her face affectionately. Never was there a cat more decidedly alive. There's a knot-hole in the box, groaned Phil. I never saw it. That's why he didn't die. Now we've got to do it all over again. No, we haven't, declared Anne suddenly. Rusty isn't going to be killed again. He's my cat, and you've just got to make the best of it. Oh, well, if you'll settle with Aunt Jimsy and the Sarah-cat, said Stella, with the air of one washing her hands at the whole affair. From that time Rusty was one of the family. He slept a nights on the scrubbing cushion in the back porch, and lived on the fat of the land. By the time Aunt Jimzina came, he was plump and glossy and tolerably respectable. But, like Kipling's cat, he walked by himself. His paw was against every cat, and every cat's paw against him. One by one he vanquished the aristocratic felines of Spofford Avenue. As for human beings, he loved Anne and Anne alone. Nobody else even dared stroke him. An angry spit and something that sounded much like very improper language greeted anyone who did. The airs that cat puts on are perfectly intolerable, declared Stella. Him was a nice old push-nims-him-was, vowed Anne, cuddling her pet defiantly. Well, I don't know how he and the Sarah-cat will ever make out to live together, said Stella pessimistically. Catfights in the orchard and nights are bad enough, but catfights here in the living-room are unthinkable. In due time Aunt Jamesina arrived. Anne and Priscilla and Phil had awaited her advent rather dubiously. But when Aunt Jamesina was enthroned in the rocking-chair before the open fire, they figuratively bowed down and worshipped her. Aunt Jamesina was a tiny old woman, with a little, softly triangular face, and large, soft, blue eyes that were a light with unquenchable youth, and as full of hopes as a girl's. She had pink cheeks and snow-white hair which she wore in quaint little puffs over her ears. It's a very old-fashioned way, she said, knitting industriously at something as dainty and pink as a sunset cloud. But I am old fashioned. My clothes are, and it stands to reason my opinions are, too. I don't say there are any the better of that, mind you. In fact, I dare say they're a good deal the worse. But they've worn nice and easy. New shoes are smarter than old ones, but the old ones are more comfortable. I'm old enough to indulge myself in the matter of shoes and opinions. I mean to take it real easy here. I know you expect me to look after you and keep you proper, but I'm not going to do it. You're old enough to know how to behave if you're ever going to be. So as far as I'm concerned, concluded Aunt Jamesina with a twinkle in her young eyes, you can all go to destruction in your own way. Oh, will somebody separate those cats? pleaded stellar shudderingly. Aunt Jamesina had brought with her not only the Sarah cat, but Joseph. Joseph, she explained, had belonged to a dear friend of hers who had gone to live in Vancouver. She couldn't take Joseph with her, so she begged me to take him. I really couldn't refuse. He's a beautiful cat. That is, his disposition is beautiful. She called him Joseph because his coat is of many colors. It certainly was. Joseph, as the disgusted Stella said, looked like a walking rag-bag. It was impossible to say what his ground color was. His legs were white with black spots on them. His back was gray with a huge patch of yellow on one side and a black patch on the other. His tail was yellow with a gray tip. One ear was black and one yellow. A black patch over one eye gave him a fearfully rakish look. In reality he was meek and inoffensive of a social disposition. In one respect, if in no other, Joseph was like a lily of the field. He toiled not, neither did he spin nor catch mice. Yet Solomon, in all his glories, slept not on softer cushions or feasted more fully on fat things. Joseph and the Saracate arrived by express in separate boxes. After they had been released and fed, Joseph selected the cushion and corner which appealed to him, and the Saracate gravely sat herself down before the fire and proceeded to wash her face. She was a large, sleek, gray and white cat with an enormous dignity which was not at all impaired by any consciousness of her bulbayan origin. She had been given to Aunt Jamesena by her washerwoman. Her name was Sarah, so my husband always called puss the Saracate, explained at Jamesena. She is eight years old and a remarkable mouser. Don't worry, Stella. The Saracate never fights, and Joseph rarely. They'll have to fight here in self-defense, said Stella. At this juncture Rusty arrived on the scene. He bounded joyously halfway across the room before he saw the intruders. Then he stopped short. His tail expanded until it was as big as three tails. The fur on his back rose up in a defiant arch. Rusty lowered his head, uttered a fearful shriek of hatred and defiance, and launched himself at the Saracate. The stately animal had stopped washing her face and was looking at him curiously. She met his onslaught with one contemptuous sweep of her capable paw. Rusty went rolling helplessly over on the rug. He picked himself up daisily. What sort of a cat was this who had boxed his ears? He looked dubiously at the Saracate. Would he? Or would he not? The Saracate deliberately turned her back on him and resumed her toilet operations. Rusty decided that he would not. He never did. From that time on the Saracate ruled the roost. Rusty never again interfered with her. But Joseph rashly sat up and yawned. Rusty, burning to avenge his disgrace, swooped down on him. Joseph, pacific by nature, could fight upon occasion and fight well. The result was a series of drawn battles. Every day Rusty and Joseph fought at sight, and took Rusty's part and detested Joseph. Stella was in despair, but Aunt Jamesena only laughed. Let them fight it out, she said tolerantly. They'll make friends after a bit. Joseph needs some exercise. He was getting too fat, and Rusty has to learn he isn't the only cat in the world. Eventually Joseph and Rusty accepted the situation and from sworn enemies became sworn friends. They slept on the same cushion with their paws about each other and gravely washed each other's faces. We've all got used to each other, said Phil, and I've learned how to wash dishes and sweep a floor. But you needn't try to make us believe you can chloroform a cat, laughed Anne. It was all the fault of the not-hole, protested Phil. It was a good thing the not-hole was there, said Aunt Jamesena rather severely. Kittens have to be drowned, I admit, or the world would be overrun. But no decent grown-up cat should be done to death unless he sucks eggs. You wouldn't have thought Rusty very decent if you'd seen him when he came here, said Stella. He positively looked like the old Nick. I don't believe old Nick can be so very ugly, said Aunt Jamesena reflectively. He wouldn't do so much harm if he was. I always think of him as a rather handsome gentleman. Chapter 17 of Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery Read for LibriVox by Karen Savage Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer Anne of the Island Chapter 17 A Letter from Davy It's beginning to snow, girls, said Phil, coming in one November evening, and there are the loveliest little stars and crosses all over the garden walk. I never noticed before what exquisite things snowflakes really are. One has time to notice things like that in the simple life. Bless you all for permitting me to live it. It's really delightful to feel worried because butter has gone up five cents a pound. Has it? demanded Stella, who kept the household accounts. It has, and here's your butter. I'm getting quite expert at marketing. It's better fund them flirting, concluded Phil gravely. Everything is going up scandulously, sighed Stella. Never mind. Thank goodness air and salvation are still free, said Aunt Jamesena. And so is laughter, added Anne. There's no tax on it yet, and that is well, because you're all going to laugh presently. I'm going to read you Davy's letter. His spelling has improved immensely this past year. Though he's not strong at apostrophes, and he certainly possesses the gift of writing an interesting letter. Listen and laugh before we settle down to the evening's study-grind. Dear Anne, ran Davy's letter. I take my pen to tell you that we are all pretty well and hope this will find you the same. It's snowing some to-day, and Marilla says the old woman in the sky is shaking her feather beds. Is the old woman in the sky God's wife, Anne? I want to know. Mrs. Lynde has been real sick, but she is better now. She fell down the cellar stairs last week. When she fell she grabbed hold of the shelf with all the milk-pales and stew-pans on it, and it gave way and went down with her and made a splendid crash. Marilla thought it was an earthquake at first. One of the stew-pans was all dinged up, and Mrs. Lynde strained her ribs. The doctor came and gave her medicine to rub on her ribs, but she didn't understand him and took it all inside instead. The doctor said it was a wonder it didn't kill her, but it didn't, and it cured her ribs, and Mrs. Lynde says doctors don't know much anyhow. But we couldn't fix up the stew-pan. Marilla had to throw it out. Thanksgiving was last week. There was no school when we had a great dinner. I ate mince pie and roast turkey and fruit cake and donuts and cheese and jam and chocolate cake. Marilla said I'd die, but I didn't. Dora had earache after it. Only it wasn't in her ears. It was in her stomach. I didn't have earache anywhere. Our new teacher is a man. He does things for jokes. Last week he made all us third-class boys write a composition on what kind of a wife we'd like to have and the girls on what kind of a husband. He laughed fit to kill when he read them. This was mine. I thought you'd like to see it. The kind of a wife I'd like to have. She must have good manners and get my meals on time and do what I tell her and always be very polite to me. She must be fifteen years old. She must be good to the poor and keep her house tidy and be good tempered and go to church regularly. She must be very handsome and have curly hair. If I get a wife that is just what I like, it'll be an awful good husband to her. I think a woman ought to be awful good to her husband. Some poor women haven't any husbands. The end. I was at Mrs. Isaac Wright's funeral at White Sands last week. The husband of the corpse felt real sorry. Mrs. Lynn says Mrs. Wright's grandfather stole a sheep, but Marilla says we mustn't speak ill of the dead. Why mustn't we, Anne? I want to know. It's pretty safe, ain't it? Mrs. Lynn was awful mad the other day because I asked her if she was alive and know his time. I didn't mean to hurt her feelings. I just wanted to know. Was she, Anne? Mr. Harrison wanted to get rid of his dog, so he hung them once, but he come to life and scooted for the barn while Mr. Harrison was digging the grave, so he hung them again, and he stayed dead that time. Mr. Harrison has a new man working for him. He's awful awkward. Mr. Harrison says he is left-handed in both his feet. Mr. Barry's hired man is lazy. Mrs. Barry says that, but Mr. Barry says he ain't lazy exactly. Only he thinks it easier to pray for things than to work for them. Mrs. Harmon Andrews' prize pigged that she talked so much of died in a fit. Mrs. Lynn says it was a judgment on her for pride, but I think it was hard on the pig. Milty Bolter has been sick. The doctor gave him medicine and it tasted horrid. I offered to take it for him for a quarter, but the Bolters are so mean. Milty says he'd rather take it himself and save his money. I asked Mrs. Bolter how her person would go about catching a man, and she got awful mad and said she didn't know. She had never chased men. The Avis is going to paint the hall again. They're tired of having it blue. The new minister was here to tea last night. He took three pieces of pie. If I did that, Mrs. Lynn would call me piggy. And he yet fastened took big bites and marrullas, always telling me not to do that. Why can ministers do what boys can't? I want to know. I haven't any more news. Here are six kisses. X, X, X, X, X, X. Doris sends one. Here's hers. X. Your loving friend, David Keith. P.S. Anne. Who is the devil's father? I want to know. The Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Red for LibriVox by Karen Savage. Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island. Chapter 18. Miss Josephine Remembers the Anne Girl. When Christmas holidays came, the girls of Patty's place gathered to their respective homes, but Aunt Jamesina elected to stay where she was. I couldn't go to any of the places I've been invited and take those three cats, she said, and I'm not going to leave the poor creatures here alone for nearly three weeks. If we had any decent neighbors who would feed them, I might, but there's nothing except millionaires on this street, so I'll stay here and keep Patty's place warm for you. Anne went home with the usual joyous anticipations, which were not wholly fulfilled. She found Avonlea in the grip of such an early, cold and stormy winter as even the oldest inhabitant could not recall. Green Gables was literally hemmed in by huge drifts. Almost every day of that ill-starred vacation it stormed fiercely, and even on fine days it drifted unceasingly. No sooner were the roads broken than they filled in again. It was almost impossible to stir out. The Avis tried on three evenings to have a party in honour of the college students, and on each evening the storm was so wild that nobody could go, so they gave up the attempt and despair. Anne, despite her love of and loyalty to Green Gables, could not help thinking longingly of Patty's place, its cozy open fire, Aunt Jamesina's mirthful eyes, the three cats, the merry chatter of the girls, the pleasantness of Friday evenings when college friends dropped in to talk of grave and gay. Anne was lonely. Diana, during the whole of the holidays, was imprisoned at home with a bad attack of bronchitis. She could not come to Green Gables, and it was rarely Anne could get to Orchard Slope, for the old way through the haunted woods was impassable with drifts, and the long way over the frozen lake of shining waters was almost as bad. Ruby Gillis was sleeping in the white-heaped graveyard. Jane Andrews was teaching a school on western prairies. Gilbert, to be sure, was still faithful and waded up to Green Gables every possible evening. But Gilbert's visits were not what they once were. Anne almost dreaded them. It was very disconcerting to look up in the midst of a sudden silence and find Gilbert's hazel eyes fixed upon her with a quite unmistakable expression in their grave depths. And it was still more disconcerting to find herself blushing hotly and uncomfortably under his gaze, just as if—just as if—well, it was very embarrassing. Anne wished herself back at Paddy's place, where there was always somebody else about to take the edge off a delicate situation. At Green Gables, Marilla went promptly to Mrs. Lynn's domain when Gilbert came and insisted on taking the twins with her. The significance of this was unmistakable, and Anne was in a helpless fury over it. Davy, however, was perfectly happy. He reveled in getting out in the morning and shoveling out the paths to the well in the hen-house. He gloried in the Christmas-tide delicacies which Marilla and Mrs. Lynn vied with each other in preparing for Anne, and he was reading an enthralling tale in a school library-book of a wonderful hero who seemed blessed with a miraculous faculty for getting into scrapes from which he was usually delivered by an earthquake or a volcanic explosion, which blew him high and dry out of his troubles, landed him in a fortune, and closed the story with proper a-cloth. I tell you it's a bully story, Anne, he said ecstatically. I'd ever so much weed it than the Bible. Would you? smiled Anne. Davy peered curiously at her. You don't seem a bit shocked, Anne. Mrs. Lynn was awful shocked when I said it to her. No, I'm not shocked, Davy. I think it's quite natural that a nine-year-old boy would sooner read an adventure story than the Bible. But when you are older, I hope and think that you will realize what a wonderful book the Bible is. Oh, some parts of it are fine, conceded Davy. That story about Joseph now, it's bully. But if fine been Joseph, I wouldn't have forgiven the brothers. No, sir Ian. I'd have cut all their heads off. Mrs. Lynn was awful mad when I said that and shut the Bible up and said she'd never read me any more of it if I talk like that. So I don't talk now when she reads it Sunday afternoons. I just think things and say them to Milty Bolter next day in school. I told Milty the story about Elisha and the Bears, and it scared him so he's never made fun of Mr. Harrison's bald head once. Are there any Bears on PE Island, Anne? I want to know. Not nowadays, said Anne absently as the wind blew a scud of snow against the window. Oh, dear, will it ever stop storming? God knows, said Davy eerily, preparing to resume his reading. Anne was shocked this time. Davy, she exclaimed reproachfully. Mrs. Lynn says that, protested Davy. One night last week, Merullus said, Will Ludovic Speed and Theodore Dicks ever get married? And Mrs. Lynn said, God knows, just like that. Well, it wasn't right for her to say it, said Anne, promptly deciding upon which horn of this dilemma to impale herself. It isn't right for anybody to take that name in vain or speak it lightly, Davy. Don't ever do it again. Not if I say it slow and solemn like the minister, queried Davy gravely. No, not even then. Well, I won't. Ludovic Speed and Theodore Dicks live in Middle Grafton, and Mrs. Rachel says he's been courting her for a hundred years. Won't they soon be too old to get married, Anne? I hope Gilbert won't court you that long. When are you going to be married, Anne? Mrs. Lynn says it's a sure thing. Mrs. Lynn desert, began Anne hotly, then stopped. Awful old gossip, completed Davy calmly. That's what everyone calls her. But is it a sure thing, Anne? I want to know. You were a very silly little boy, Davy, said Anne, stalking hotly out of the room. The kitchen was deserted, and she sat down by the window in the fast-falling, wintry twilight. The sun had set, and the wind had died down. A pale, chilly moon looked out behind a bank of purple clouds in the west. The sky faded out, but the strip of yellow along the western horizon grew brighter and fiercer, as if all the stray gleams of light were concentrating in one spot. The distant hills, rimmed with priest-like furs, stood out in dark distinctness against it. Anne looked across the still, white fields, cold and lifeless in the harsh light of that grim sunset, and sighed. She was very lonely, and she was sad at heart, for she was wondering if she would be able to return to Redmond next year. It did not seem likely. The only scholarship possible in the sophomore year was a very small affair. She would not take Morrill's money, and there seemed little prospect of being able to earn enough in the summer vacation. I suppose I'll just have to drop out next year, she thought drearily, and teach a district school again until I earn enough to finish my course, and by that time all my old class will have graduated and Patty's place will be out of the question. But there, I'm not going to be a coward. I'm thankful I can earn my way through if necessary. Here's Mr. Harrison waiting up the lane, announced Davey running out. I hope he's brought the mail. It's three days since we got it. I want to see what them pesky grits are doing. I'm a conservative, Anne, and I tell you, you have to keep your eye on them grits. Mr. Harrison had brought the mail, and Mary letters from Stelland, Priscilla and Phil soon dissipated Anne's blues. Anne Jamesena too had written, saying that she was keeping the hearthfire alight, and that the cats were all well, and the house plans doing fine. The weather has been real cold, she wrote. So I let the cats sleep in the house. Rusty and Joseph on the sofa in the living room, and the Sarah cat on the foot of my bed. It's real company to hear her purring when I wake up in the night and think of my poor daughter in the foreign field. If it was anywhere but in India, I wouldn't worry. But they say the snakes out there are terrible. It takes all the Sarah cats purring to drive away the thought of those snakes. I have enough faith for everything but the snakes. I can't think why Providence ever made them. Sometimes I don't think he did. I'm inclined to believe the old Harry had a hand in making them. Anne had left a thin, typewritten communication till the last, thinking it unimportant. When she had read it, she sat very still with tears in her eyes. What is the matter, Anne? asked Marilla. Miss Josephine Barry is dead, said Anne, in a low tone. So she has gone at last, said Marilla. Well, she has been sick for over a year, and the Barrys have been expecting to hear of her death any time. It is well she has at rest, where she has suffered dreadfully, Anne. She was always kind to you. She has been kind to the last, Marilla. This letter is from her lawyer. She has left me a thousand dollars in her will. Gracious, ain't dad an awful lot of money, exclaimed Davey. She's the woman you and Diana lit on when you jumped into the spare room bed, ain't she? Diana told me that story. Is that why she left you so much? Hush, Davey, said Anne, gently. She slipped away to the porch gable with a full heart, leaving Marilla and Mrs. Lynn to talk over the news to their heart's content. Do you suppose Anne will ever get married now? Speculated Davey anxiously. When Dorca Sloan got married last summer, she said if she'd had enough money to live on, she'd never been bothered with a man, but even a widower with eight children was better in living with a sister-in-law. Davey, Keith, do hold your tongue, said Mrs. Rachel severely. The way you talk is scandalous for a small boy, that's what. Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island Chapter 19 An Interlude To think that this is my twentieth birthday, and that I've left my teens behind me forever, said Anne, who was curled up on the hearth-brook with Rusty in her lap, to Aunt Jamesena, who was reading in her pet chair. They were alone in the living-room. Stella and Priscilla had gone to a committee meeting, and Phil was upstairs adorning herself for a party. I suppose you feel kind of sorry, said Aunt Jamesena. The teens are such a nice part of life. I'm glad I've never gone out of them myself. Anne laughed. You never will, Auntie. You'll be eighteen when you should be a hundred. Yes, I am sorry, and a little dissatisfied as well. Miss Stacy told me long ago that by the time I was twenty, my character would be formed for good or evil. I don't feel that it's what it should be. It's full of flaws. So is everybody's, said Aunt Jamesena cheerfully. Mines cracked in a hundred places. Your Miss Stacy likely meant that when you're twenty, your character would have got its permanent bent in one direction or another, and would go on developing in that line. Don't worry over it, Anne. Do your duty by God and your neighbor and yourself, and have a good time. That's my philosophy, and it's always worked pretty well. Where's Phil off due to-night? She's going to a dance, and she's got the sweetest dress for it. Creamy yellow silk and cobwebby lace. It just suits those brown tints of hers. There's magic in the words silk and lace, isn't there, said Aunt Jamesena. The very sound of them makes me feel like skipping off to a dance, and yellow silk. It makes one think of a dress of sunshine. I always wanted a yellow silk dress, but first my mother and then my husband wouldn't hear of it. The very first thing I'm going to do when I get to heaven is to get a yellow silk dress. Amid Anne's peel of laughter, Phil came downstairs, trailing clouds of glory, and surveyed herself in the long oval mirror on the wall. A flattering looking glass is a promoter of amyability, she said. The one in my room does certainly make me green. Do I look pretty nice, Anne? Do you really know how pretty you are, Phil? asked Anne in honest admiration. Of course I do. What are looking glasses in men for? That wasn't what I meant. Are all my ends tucked in? Is my skirt straight? And would this rose look better lower down? I'm afraid it's too high. It will make me look lopsided, but I hate things tickling my ears. Everything is just right, and that southwest dimple of yours is lovely. Anne, there's one thing in particular I like about you. You're so ungrudging. There isn't a particle of envy in you. Why should she be envious? demanded Anne Jamesena. She's not quite as good looking as you may be, but she's got a far handsomer nose. I know it, conceded Phil. My nose always has been a great comfort to me, confessed Anne. And I love the way your hair grows on your forehead, Anne. And that one wee curl, always looking as if it were going to drop, but never dropping. It's delicious. But as for nose's mind is a dreadful worry to me. I know by the time I'm forty it will be burning. What do you think I'll look like when I'm forty, Anne? Like an old matronly married woman, teased Anne. I won't, said Phil, sitting down comfortably to wait for her escort. Joseph, you calico-beasty, don't you dare jump on my lap. I won't go to a dance all over cat-hairs. No, Anne, I won't look matronly, but no doubt I'll be married. To Alec or Alonzo, asked Anne. To one of them, I suppose, sigh Phil, if I can ever decide which. It shouldn't be hard to decide, scolded Aunt Jamesina. I was born a seesaw, aunty, and nothing can ever prevent me from teetering. You ought to be more level-headed, Philippa. It's best to be level-headed, of course, agreed Philippa, but you miss lots of fun. As for Alec and Alonzo, if you knew them, you'd understand why it's difficult to choose between them. They're equally nice. Then take somebody who is nicer, suggested Aunt Jamesina. There's that senior who was so devoted to you, well, Leslie. He has such nice, large, mild eyes. They're a little bit too large and too mild, like a cow's, said Phil cruelly. What do you say about George Parker? There's nothing to say about him, except that he always looks as if he had just been starched and iron. Marr wholeworthy, then. You can't find a fault with him. No, he would do if he wasn't poor. I must marry a rich man, Aunt Jamesina. That, and good looks, is an indispensable qualification. I'd marry Gilbert Blythe, if he were rich. Oh, would you, said Anne, rather viciously. We don't like that idea a little bit, although we don't want Gilbert ourselves. Oh, no, mocked Phil. But don't let's talk of disagreeable subjects. I'll have to marry some time, I suppose, but I shall put off the evil day as long as I can. You mustn't marry anybody you don't love, Phil, when all said and done, said Aunt Jamesina. Oh, hearts that loved in the good old way have been out of the fashion this many a day, trilled Phil mockingly. There's the carriage. I fly. Bye-bye, you two old-fashioned darlings. When Phil had gone, Aunt Jamesina looked solemnly at Anne. That girl is pretty and sweet and good-hearted, but do you think she is quite right in her mind by spells, Anne? Oh, I don't think there's anything that mattered with Phil's mind, said Anne, hiding a smile. It's just her way of talking. Aunt Jamesina shook her head. Well, I hope so, Anne. I do hope so, because I love her. But I can't understand her. She beats me. She isn't like any of the girls I ever knew, or any of the girls I was myself. How many girls were you, Aunt Jamesina? About half a dozen, my dear.