Anne of the Island
must quit us like sensible folk, living and let live. Phil isn’t
selfish, though she’s a little thoughtless, and I believe we will all
get on beautifully in Patty’s Place.”
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 tone 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 Abe,” his prophesying over and done with, Mrs.
Peter Sloane, 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
Sloane, 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 be-plumed and be-silked bride into the Harmon Andrews’ pew, Anne
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. Anne
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.
Harmon 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 beau 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 was 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 gazed that day in dismay and surprise. 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 color of her cheeks was hectically
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 Sands school. She’ll be in her grave, poor girl, when White
Sands school opens, that’s what.”
Anne listened in 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.
Herb 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 to 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 the 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, twilit road. The robins were
singing vespers in the 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 wrote 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
Aunt Atossa.”
“Who is Aunt Atossa?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard? She’s Mrs. Samson Coates of Spencervale—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 Aunt Atossa 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 Aunt Atossa was cutting potato sets in the Wright
kitchen. She wore a faded old wrapper, and her gray hair was decidedly
untidy. Aunt Atossa 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 Aunt Atossa 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 today and thought you might like some.”
“Oh, thanks,” said Aunt Atossa 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 Aunt Atossa 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.”
Aunt Atossa sniffed.
“I suppose you got that notion out of some of those silly magazines you
read so many 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.”
Aunt Atossa sighed heavily, as if all forebodings upon the occasion of
George Barry’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 Aunt Atossa,
amiably. “Just whip in and whip out before you have time to say how-do
decently. It’s college airs, I s’pose. You’d be wiser to keep away from
Ruby Gillis. The doctors say consumption’s catching. I always knew
Ruby’d get something, gadding 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 Aunt Atossa
triumphantly. “I hear you are 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 Aunt Atossa significantly.
“You’ll fade soon—you’re all complexion and hair. And the Wrights are
terrible fickle. You ought to wear a hat, _Miss Shirley_. Your nose is
freckling scandalous. My, but you _are_ redheaded! Well, I s’pose 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 s’pose I oughtn’t to
complain. The Cuthberts always did think themselves a cut higher than
any one else round 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 Atossa! Wouldn’t it sour almost
any one? 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 Aunt Atossa are cousins, you know. Oh, dear, I’m
glad that’s over. She’s so malicious—she seems to put a bad flavor in
everything. Father tells such a funny story about her. One time they
had a minister in Spencervale who was a very good, spiritual man but
very deaf. He couldn’t hear any ordinary conversation at all. Well,
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 Aunt Atossa 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 Spencervale church and she never