Anne of the Island
hero put a little spice of human nature in him.”
“_Averil_ couldn’t have married _Maurice_. He was bad.”
“She’d have reformed him. You can reform a man; you can’t reform a
jelly-fish, 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 worth
while. 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 is 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, entrapping 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 some 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.
“Anne, 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 is 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 any one 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 up heart. “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 Averil’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
this second rejection with the calmness of despair. She locked the
story away in the garret trunk where the old Story Club tales reposed;
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 sidewise 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 everyday 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. Lynde 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,” “mooning,” and “getting a husband.”
Ow!!
Chapter XIII
The Way of Transgressors
Davy and Dora were ready for Sunday School. They were going alone,
which did not often happen, for Mrs. Lynde always attended Sunday
School. But Mrs. Lynde had twisted her ankle and was lame, 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 Marilla had one of her headaches.
Davy came downstairs slowly. Dora was waiting in the hall for him,
having been made ready by Mrs. Lynde. Davy had attended to his own
preparations. He had a cent 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—perforce—in Mrs. Lynde’s kitchen,
all last Sunday afternoon? Davy, therefore, should have been in a
placid frame of mind. As a matter of fact, despite text and catechism,
he was inwardly as a ravening wolf.
Mrs. Lynde limped out of her kitchen as he joined Dora.
“Are you clean?” she demanded severely.
“Yes—all of me that shows,” Davy answered with a defiant scowl.
Mrs. Rachel sighed. She had her suspicions about Davy’s neck and ears.
But she knew that if she attempted to make a personal examination Davy
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
squirm or 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.”
Davy deigned no response. He marched away down the lane, followed by
the meek Dora. But his soul seethed within. Davy had suffered, or
thought he had suffered, many things at the hands and tongue of Mrs.
Rachel Lynde since she had come to Green Gables, for Mrs. Lynde 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 Davy to go
fishing with the Timothy Cottons. Davy was still boiling over this.
As soon as he was out of the lane Davy 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 Davy.
“Oh, Davy, don’t swear,” gasped Dora in dismay.
“‘Darn’ isn’t swearing—not real swearing. And I don’t care if it is,”
retorted Davy recklessly.
“Well, if you _must_ say dreadful words don’t say them on Sunday,”
pleaded Dora.
Davy 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 Davy. “Doesn’t He know
a fellow must have some way of ’spressing his feelings?”
“Davy!!!” said Dora. She expected that Davy would be struck down dead
on the spot. But nothing happened.
“Anyway, I ain’t going to stand any more of Mrs. Lynde’s bossing,”
spluttered Davy. “Anne 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, Davy stepped off the green grass of the
roadside, ankle 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 Davy hurled cent and nickel over Mr. Barry’s fence with fierce
delight.
“Satan made you do that,” said Dora reproachfully.
“He didn’t,” cried Davy indignantly. “I just thought it out for myself.
And I’ve thought of something else. I’m not going 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, ’cause 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 Davy. “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 scarlet.
“Well, you didn’t slap him or seem a bit cross,” retorted Davy. “I’ll
tell her _that_, too, if you don’t come. We’ll take the short cut 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 Davy. “Why,
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 Davy 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. Davy 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 back yard, and hailed Davy’s
appearance with whoops of delight. Pete, Tommy, Adolphus, and Mirabel
Cotton were all alone. Their mother and older sisters were away. Dora
was thankful Mirabel was there, at least. She had been afraid she would
be alone in a crowd of boys. Mirabel 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 Davy.
“Whoop,” yelled the Cottons. They rushed away to dig worms at once,
Mirabel 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 Davy, 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