Anne of Avonlea
promptly christened, were to meet once a fortnight at the homes of the
members. It was admitted that they could not expect to affect many
improvements so late in the season; but they meant to plan the next
summer’s campaign, collect and discuss ideas, write and read papers,
and, as Anne said, educate the public sentiment generally.
There was some disapproval, of course, and . . . which the Improvers
felt much more keenly . . . a good deal of ridicule. Mr. Elisha Wright
was reported to have said that a more appropriate name for the
organization would be Courting Club. Mrs. Hiram Sloane declared she had
heard the Improvers meant to plough up all the roadsides and set them
out with geraniums. Mr. Levi Boulter warned his neighbors that the
Improvers would insist that everybody pull down his house and rebuild
it after plans approved by the society. Mr. James Spencer sent them
word that he wished they would kindly shovel down the church hill. Eben
Wright told Anne that he wished the Improvers could induce old Josiah
Sloane to keep his whiskers trimmed. Mr. Lawrence Bell said he would
whitewash his barns if nothing else would please them but he would
_not_ hang lace curtains in the cowstable windows. Mr. Major Spencer
asked Clifton Sloane, an Improver who drove the milk to the Carmody
cheese factory, if it was true that everybody would have to have his
milk-stand hand-painted next summer and keep an embroidered centerpiece
on it.
In spite of . . . or perhaps, human nature being what it is, because of
. . . this, the Society went gamely to work at the only improvement
they could hope to bring about that fall. At the second meeting, in the
Barry parlor, Oliver Sloane moved that they start a subscription to
re-shingle and paint the hall; Julia Bell seconded it, with an uneasy
feeling that she was doing something not exactly ladylike. Gilbert put
the motion, it was carried unanimously, and Anne gravely recorded it in
her minutes. The next thing was to appoint a committee, and Gertie Pye,
determined not to let Julia Bell carry off all the laurels, boldly
moved that Miss Jane Andrews be chairman of said committee. This motion
being also duly seconded and carried, Jane returned the compliment by
appointing Gertie on the committee, along with Gilbert, Anne, Diana,
and Fred Wright. The committee chose their routes in private conclave.
Anne and Diana were told off for the Newbridge road, Gilbert and Fred
for the White Sands road, and Jane and Gertie for the Carmody road.
“Because,” explained Gilbert to Anne, as they walked home together
through the Haunted Wood, “the Pyes all live along that road and they
won’t give a cent unless one of themselves canvasses them.”
The next Saturday Anne and Diana started out. They drove to the end of
the road and canvassed homeward, calling first on the “Andrew girls.”
“If Catherine is alone we may get something,” said Diana, “but if Eliza
is there we won’t.”
Eliza was there . . . very much so . . . and looked even grimmer than
usual. Miss Eliza was one of those people who give you the impression
that life is indeed a vale of tears, and that a smile, never to speak
of a laugh, is a waste of nervous energy truly reprehensible. The
Andrew girls had been “girls” for fifty odd years and seemed likely to
remain girls to the end of their earthly pilgrimage. Catherine, it was
said, had not entirely given up hope, but Eliza, who was born a
pessimist, had never had any. They lived in a little brown house built
in a sunny corner scooped out of Mark Andrew’s beech woods. Eliza
complained that it was terrible hot in summer, but Catherine was wont
to say it was lovely and warm in winter.
Eliza was sewing patchwork, not because it was needed but simply as a
protest against the frivolous lace Catherine was crocheting. Eliza
listened with a frown and Catherine with a smile, as the girls
explained their errand. To be sure, whenever Catherine caught Eliza’s
eye she discarded the smile in guilty confusion; but it crept back the
next moment.
“If I had money to waste,” said Eliza grimly, “I’d burn it up and have
the fun of seeing a blaze maybe; but I wouldn’t give it to that hall,
not a cent. It’s no benefit to the settlement . . . just a place for
young folks to meet and carry on when they’s better be home in their
beds.”
“Oh, Eliza, young folks must have some amusement,” protested Catherine.
“I don’t see the necessity. _We_ didn’t gad about to halls and places
when we were young, Catherine Andrews. This world is getting worse
every day.”
“I think it’s getting better,” said Catherine firmly.
“_You_ think!” Miss Eliza’s voice expressed the utmost contempt. “It
doesn’t signify what you _think_, Catherine Andrews. Facts is facts.”
“Well, I always like to look on the bright side, Eliza.”
“There isn’t any bright side.”
“Oh, indeed there is,” cried Anne, who couldn’t endure such heresy in
silence. “Why, there are ever so many bright sides, Miss Andrews. It’s
really a beautiful world.”
“You won’t have such a high opinion of it when you’ve lived as long in
it as I have,” retorted Miss Eliza sourly, “and you won’t be so
enthusiastic about improving it either. How is your mother, Diana? Dear
me, but she has failed of late. She looks terrible run down. And how
long is it before Marilla expects to be stone blind, Anne?”
“The doctor thinks her eyes will not get any worse if she is very
careful,” faltered Anne.
Eliza shook her head.
“Doctors always talk like that just to keep people cheered up. I
wouldn’t have much hope if I was her. It’s best to be prepared for the
worst.”
“But oughtn’t we be prepared for the best too?” pleaded Anne. “It’s
just as likely to happen as the worst.”
“Not in my experience, and I’ve fifty-seven years to set against your
sixteen,” retorted Eliza. “Going, are you? Well, I hope this new
society of yours will be able to keep Avonlea from running any further
down hill but I haven’t much hope of it.”
Anne and Diana got themselves thankfully out, and drove away as fast as
the fat pony could go. As they rounded the curve below the beech wood a
plump figure came speeding over Mr. Andrews’ pasture, waving to them
excitedly. It was Catherine Andrews and she was so out of breath that
she could hardly speak, but she thrust a couple of quarters into Anne’s
hand.
“That’s my contribution to painting the hall,” she gasped. “I’d like to
give you a dollar but I don’t dare take more from my egg money for
Eliza would find it out if I did. I’m real interested in your society
and I believe you’re going to do a lot of good. I’m an optimist. I
_have_ to be, living with Eliza. I must hurry back before she misses me
. . . she thinks I’m feeding the hens. I hope you’ll have good luck
canvassing, and don’t be cast down over what Eliza said. The world _is_
getting better . . . it certainly is.”
The next house was Daniel Blair’s.
“Now, it all depends on whether his wife is home or not,” said Diana,
as they jolted along a deep-rutted lane. “If she is we won’t get a
cent. Everybody says Dan Blair doesn’t dare have his hair cut without
asking her permission; and it’s certain she’s very close, to state it
moderately. She says she has to be just before she’s generous. But Mrs.
Lynde says she’s so much ‘before’ that generosity never catches up with
her at all.”
Anne related their experience at the Blair place to Marilla that
evening.
“We tied the horse and then rapped at the kitchen door. Nobody came but
the door was open and we could hear somebody in the pantry, going on
dreadfully. We couldn’t make out the words but Diana says she knows
they were swearing by the sound of them. I can’t believe that of Mr.
Blair, for he is always so quiet and meek; but at least he had great
provocation, for Marilla, when that poor man came to the door, red as a
beet, with perspiration streaming down his face, he had on one of his
wife’s big gingham aprons. ‘I can’t get this durned thing off,’ he
said, ‘for the strings are tied in a hard knot and I can’t bust ’em, so
you’ll have to excuse me, ladies.’ We begged him not to mention it and
went in and sat down. Mr. Blair sat down too; he twisted the apron
around to his back and rolled it up, but he did look so ashamed and
worried that I felt sorry for him, and Diana said she feared we had
called at an inconvenient time. ‘Oh, not at all,’ said Mr. Blair,
trying to smile . . . you know he is always very polite . . . ‘I’m a
little busy . . . getting ready to bake a cake as it were. My wife got
a telegram today that her sister from Montreal is coming tonight and
she’s gone to the train to meet her and left orders for me to make a
cake for tea. She writ out the recipe and told me what to do but I’ve
clean forgot half the directions already. And it says, ‘flavor
according to taste.’ What does that mean? How can you tell? And what if
my taste doesn’t happen to be other people’s taste? Would a tablespoon
of vanilla be enough for a small layer cake?”
“I felt sorrier than ever for the poor man. He didn’t seem to be in his
proper sphere at all. I had heard of henpecked husbands and now I felt
that I saw one. It was on my lips to say, ‘Mr. Blair, if you’ll give us
a subscription for the hall I’ll mix up your cake for you.’ But I
suddenly thought it wouldn’t be neighborly to drive too sharp a bargain
with a fellow creature in distress. So I offered to mix the cake for
him without any conditions at all. He just jumped at my offer. He said
he’d been used to making his own bread before he was married but he
feared cake was beyond him, and yet he hated to disappoint his wife. He
got me another apron, and Diana beat the eggs and I mixed the cake. Mr.
Blair ran about and got us the materials. He had forgotten all about
his apron and when he ran it streamed out behind him and Diana said she
thought she would die to see it. He said he could bake the cake all
right . . . he was used to that . . . and then he asked for our list
and he put down four dollars. So you see we were rewarded. But even if
he hadn’t given a cent I’d always feel that we had done a truly
Christian act in helping him.”
Theodore White’s was the next stopping place. Neither Anne nor Diana
had ever been there before, and they had only a very slight
acquaintance with Mrs. Theodore, who was not given to hospitality.
Should they go to the back or front door? While they held a whispered
consultation Mrs. Theodore appeared at the front door with an armful of
newspapers. Deliberately she laid them down one by one on the porch
floor and the porch steps, and then down the path to the very feet of
her mystified callers.
“Will you please wipe your feet carefully on the grass and then walk on
these papers?” she said anxiously. “I’ve just swept the house all over
and I can’t have any more dust tracked in. The path’s been real muddy
since the rain yesterday.”
“Don’t you dare laugh,” warned Anne in a whisper, as they marched along
the newspapers. “And I implore you, Diana, not to look at me, no matter
what she says, or I shall not be able to keep a sober face.”
The papers extended across the hall and into a prim, fleckless parlor.
Anne and Diana sat down gingerly on the nearest chairs and explained
their errand. Mrs. White heard them politely, interrupting only twice,
once to chase out an adventurous fly, and once to pick up a tiny wisp
of grass that had fallen on the carpet from Anne’s dress. Anne felt
wretchedly guilty; but Mrs. White subscribed two dollars and paid the
money down . . . “to prevent us from having to go back for it,” Diana
said when they got away. Mrs. White had the newspapers gathered up
before they had their horse untied and as they drove out of the yard
they saw her busily wielding a broom in the hall.