Anne of Avonlea
“I’ve always heard that Mrs. Theodore White was the neatest woman alive
and I’ll believe it after this,” said Diana, giving way to her
suppressed laughter as soon as it was safe.
“I am glad she has no children,” said Anne solemnly. “It would be
dreadful beyond words for them if she had.”
At the Spencers’ Mrs. Isabella Spencer made them miserable by saying
something ill-natured about everyone in Avonlea. Mr. Thomas Boulter
refused to give anything because the hall, when it had been built,
twenty years before, hadn’t been built on the site he recommended. Mrs.
Esther Bell, who was the picture of health, took half an hour to detail
all her aches and pains, and sadly put down fifty cents because she
wouldn’t be there that time next year to do it . . . no, she would be
in her grave.
Their worst reception, however, was at Simon Fletcher’s. When they
drove into the yard they saw two faces peering at them through the
porch window. But although they rapped and waited patiently and
persistently nobody came to the door. Two decidedly ruffled and
indignant girls drove away from Simon Fletcher’s. Even Anne admitted
that she was beginning to feel discouraged. But the tide turned after
that. Several Sloane homesteads came next, where they got liberal
subscriptions, and from that to the end they fared well, with only an
occasional snub. Their last place of call was at Robert Dickson’s by
the pond bridge. They stayed to tea here, although they were nearly
home, rather than risk offending Mrs. Dickson, who had the reputation
of being a very “touchy” woman.
While they were there old Mrs. James White called in.
“I’ve just been down to Lorenzo’s,” she announced. “He’s the proudest
man in Avonlea this minute. What do you think? There’s a brand new boy
there . . . and after seven girls that’s quite an event, I can tell
you.” Anne pricked up her ears, and when they drove away she said.
“I’m going straight to Lorenzo White’s.”
“But he lives on the White Sands road and it’s quite a distance out of
our way,” protested Diana. “Gilbert and Fred will canvass him.”
“They are not going around until next Saturday and it will be too late
by then,” said Anne firmly. “The novelty will be worn off. Lorenzo
White is dreadfully mean but he will subscribe to _anything_ just now.
We mustn’t let such a golden opportunity slip, Diana.” The result
justified Anne’s foresight. Mr. White met them in the yard, beaming
like the sun upon an Easter day. When Anne asked for a subscription he
agreed enthusiastically.
“Certain, certain. Just put me down for a dollar more than the highest
subscription you’ve got.”
“That will be five dollars . . . Mr. Daniel Blair put down four,” said
Anne, half afraid. But Lorenzo did not flinch.
“Five it is . . . and here’s the money on the spot. Now, I want you to
come into the house. There’s something in there worth seeing . . .
something very few people have seen as yet. Just come in and pass
_your_ opinion.”
“What will we say if the baby isn’t pretty?” whispered Diana in
trepidation as they followed the excited Lorenzo into the house.
“Oh, there will certainly be something else nice to say about it,” said
Anne easily. “There always is about a baby.”
The baby _was_ pretty, however, and Mr. White felt that he got his five
dollars’ worth of the girls’ honest delight over the plump little
newcomer. But that was the first, last, and only time that Lorenzo
White ever subscribed to anything.
Anne, tired as she was, made one more effort for the public weal that
night, slipping over the fields to interview Mr. Harrison, who was as
usual smoking his pipe on the veranda with Ginger beside him. Strickly
speaking he was on the Carmody road; but Jane and Gertie, who were not
acquainted with him save by doubtful report, had nervously begged Anne
to canvass him.
Mr. Harrison, however, flatly refused to subscribe a cent, and all
Anne’s wiles were in vain.
“But I thought you approved of our society, Mr. Harrison,” she mourned.
“So I do . . . so I do . . . but my approval doesn’t go as deep as my
pocket, Anne.”
“A few more experiences such as I have had today would make me as much
of a pessimist as Miss Eliza Andrews,” Anne told her reflection in the
east gable mirror at bedtime.
VII
The Pointing of Duty
Anne leaned back in her chair one mild October evening and sighed. She
was sitting at a table covered with text books and exercises, but the
closely written sheets of paper before her had no apparent connection
with studies or school work.
“What is the matter?” asked Gilbert, who had arrived at the open
kitchen door just in time to hear the sigh.
Anne colored, and thrust her writing out of sight under some school
compositions.
“Nothing very dreadful. I was just trying to write out some of my
thoughts, as Professor Hamilton advised me, but I couldn’t get them to
please me. They seem so still and foolish directly they’re written down
on white paper with black ink. Fancies are like shadows . . . you can’t
cage them, they’re such wayward, dancing things. But perhaps I’ll learn
the secret some day if I keep on trying. I haven’t a great many spare
moments, you know. By the time I finish correcting school exercises and
compositions, I don’t always feel like writing any of my own.”
“You are getting on splendidly in school, Anne. All the children like
you,” said Gilbert, sitting down on the stone step.
“No, not all. Anthony Pye doesn’t and _won’t_ like me. What is worse,
he doesn’t respect me . . . no, he doesn’t. He simply holds me in
contempt and I don’t mind confessing to you that it worries me
miserably. It isn’t that he is so very bad . . . he is only rather
mischievous, but no worse than some of the others. He seldom disobeys
me; but he obeys with a scornful air of toleration as if it wasn’t
worthwhile disputing the point or he would . . . and it has a bad
effect on the others. I’ve tried every way to win him but I’m beginning
to fear I never shall. I want to, for he’s rather a cute little lad, if
he _is_ a Pye, and I could like him if he’d let me.”
“Probably it’s merely the effect of what he hears at home.”
“Not altogether. Anthony is an independent little chap and makes up his
own mind about things. He has always gone to men before and he says
girl teachers are no good. Well, we’ll see what patience and kindness
will do. I like overcoming difficulties and teaching is really very
interesting work. Paul Irving makes up for all that is lacking in the
others. That child is a perfect darling, Gilbert, and a genius into the
bargain. I’m persuaded the world will hear of him some day,” concluded
Anne in a tone of conviction.
“I like teaching, too,” said Gilbert. “It’s good training, for one
thing. Why, Anne, I’ve learned more in the weeks I’ve been teaching the
young ideas of White Sands than I learned in all the years I went to
school myself. We all seem to be getting on pretty well. The Newbridge
people like Jane, I hear; and I think White Sands is tolerably
satisfied with your humble servant . . . all except Mr. Andrew Spencer.
I met Mrs. Peter Blewett on my way home last night and she told me she
thought it her duty to inform me that Mr. Spencer didn’t approve of my
methods.”
“Have you ever noticed,” asked Anne reflectively, “that when people say
it is their duty to tell you a certain thing you may prepare for
something disagreeable? Why is it that they never seem to think it a
duty to tell you the pleasant things they hear about you? Mrs. H. B.
Don_nell_ called at the school again yesterday and told me she thought
it _her_ duty to inform me that Mrs. Harmon Andrews didn’t approve of
my reading fairy tales to the children, and that Mr. Rogerson thought
Prillie wasn’t coming on fast enough in arithmetic. If Prillie would
spend less time making eyes at the boys over her slate she might do
better. I feel quite sure that Jack Gillis works her class sums for
her, though I’ve never been able to catch him red-handed.”
“Have you succeeded in reconciling Mrs. Don_nell’s_ hopeful son to his
saintly name?”
“Yes,” laughed Anne, “but it was really a difficult task. At first,
when I called him ‘St. Clair’ he would not take the least notice until
I’d spoken two or three times; and then, when the other boys nudged
him, he would look up with such an aggrieved air, as if I’d called him
John or Charlie and he couldn’t be expected to know I meant him. So I
kept him in after school one night and talked kindly to him. I told him
his mother wished me to call him St. Clair and I couldn’t go against
her wishes. He saw it when it was all explained out . . . he’s really a
very reasonable little fellow . . . and he said _I_ could call him St.
Clair but that he’d ‘lick the stuffing’ out of any of the boys that
tried it. Of course, I had to rebuke him again for using such shocking
language. Since then _I_ call him St. Clair and the boys call him Jake
and all goes smoothly. He informs me that he means to be a carpenter,
but Mrs. Don_nell_ says I am to make a college professor out of him.”
The mention of college gave a new direction to Gilbert’s thoughts, and
they talked for a time of their plans and wishes . . . gravely,
earnestly, hopefully, as youth loves to talk, while the future is yet
an untrodden path full of wonderful possibilities.
Gilbert had finally made up his mind that he was going to be a doctor.
“It’s a splendid profession,” he said enthusiastically. “A fellow has
to fight something all through life . . . didn’t somebody once define
man as a fighting animal? . . . and I want to fight disease and pain
and ignorance . . . which are all members one of another. I want to do
my share of honest, real work in the world, Anne . . . add a little to
the sum of human knowledge that all the good men have been accumulating
since it began. The folks who lived before me have done so much for me
that I want to show my gratitude by doing something for the folks who
will live after me. It seems to me that is the only way a fellow can
get square with his obligations to the race.”
“I’d like to add some beauty to life,” said Anne dreamily. “I don’t
exactly want to make people _know_ more . . . though I know that _is_
the noblest ambition . . . but I’d love to make them have a pleasanter
time because of me . . . to have some little joy or happy thought that
would never have existed if I hadn’t been born.”
“I think you’re fulfilling that ambition every day,” said Gilbert
admiringly.
And he was right. Anne was one of the children of light by birthright.
After she had passed through a life with a smile or a word thrown
across it like a gleam of sunshine the owner of that life saw it, for
the time being at least, as hopeful and lovely and of good report.
Finally Gilbert rose regretfully.
“Well, I must run up to MacPhersons’. Moody Spurgeon came home from
Queen’s today for Sunday and he was to bring me out a book Professor
Boyd is lending me.”
“And I must get Marilla’s tea. She went to see Mrs. Keith this evening
and she will soon be back.”
Anne had tea ready when Marilla came home; the fire was crackling
cheerily, a vase of frost-bleached ferns and ruby-red maple leaves
adorned the table, and delectable odors of ham and toast pervaded the
air. But Marilla sank into her chair with a deep sigh.
“Are your eyes troubling you? Does your head ache?” queried Anne
anxiously.
“No. I’m only tired . . . and worried. It’s about Mary and those
children . . . Mary is worse . . . she can’t last much longer. And as
for the twins, _I_ don’t know what is to become of them.”
“Hasn’t their uncle been heard from?”
“Yes, Mary had a letter from him. He’s working in a lumber camp and
‘shacking it,’ whatever that means. Anyway, he says he can’t possibly