Anne of the Island
“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 offense meant. Mrs. Hiram Sloane told me the other day that a
big envelope addressed to the Rollings 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 that 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 evening Diana popped into the porch gable,
bright-eyed and rosy cheeked, carrying a letter.
“Oh, Anne, here’s a 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 just be wild with delight.” Anne, puzzled, opened the letter and
glanced over the typewritten contents.
Miss Anne Shirley,
Green Gables,
Avonlea, P.E. Island.
“DEAR MADAM: We have much pleasure in informing you that your charming
story ‘Averil’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 ROLLINGS RELIABLE BAKING POWDER CO.”
“I don’t understand,” said Anne, blankly.
Diana clapped her hands.
“Oh, I _knew_ it would win 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—” Anne 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 Averil makes the cake? Well, I just stated that
she used the Rollings Reliable in it, and that was why it turned out so
well; and then, in the last paragraph, where _Perceval_ clasps _Averil_
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 Rollings Reliable.’”
“Oh,” gasped poor Anne, as if some one 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 honor of being a friend of the prizewinner 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 drawer as if it were
blood-money, cast herself on her bed and wept tears of shame and
outraged sensibility. Oh, she could never live this down—never!
Gilbert arrived at dusk, brimming over with congratulations, for he had
called at Orchard Slope and heard the news. But his congratulations
died on his lips at sight of Anne’s face.
“Why, Anne, what is the matter? I expected to find you radiant over
winning Rollings Reliable prize. Good for you!”
“Oh, Gilbert, not you,” implored Anne, in an _et-tu Brute_ 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 Queen’s? 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 Rollings 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 commonsense, 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 XVI
Adjusted Relationships
“It’s the homiest spot I ever saw—it’s homier 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 Jamesina, 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 hothouse
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 over-sorry 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 Pye
said she believed Anne Shirley had just copied the story; she was sure
she remembered reading it in a paper years before. The Sloanes, 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 any one could have done
it, if she tried. Aunt Atossa told Anne she was very sorry to hear she
had taken to writing novels; nobody born and bred in Avonlea would do
it; that was what came of adopting orphans from goodness knew where,
with goodness knew what kind of parents. Even Mrs. Rachel Lynde 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 Soph with
hosts of friends to greet on the merry opening day. Pris and Stella and
Gilbert were there, Charlie Sloane, looking more important than ever a
Sophomore looked before, Phil, with the Alec-and-Alonzo question still
unsettled, and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson. Moody Spurgeon had been
teaching school ever since leaving Queen’s, 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 Sophs,
who were among his fellow-boarders, swooped down upon him one night and
shaved half of his head. In this guise 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.
Aunt Jamesina did not come until the girls had Patty’s Place ready for
her. Miss Patty 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 postscript 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 enjoyed putting their nest in order! As Phil said, it
was almost as good as getting married. You had the fun of homemaking
without the bother of a husband. All brought something with them to
adorn or make comfortable the little house. Pris and Phil and Stella
had knick-knacks and pictures galore, which latter they proceeded to
hang according to taste, in reckless disregard of Miss Patty’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