Anne Of The Island

L >> Lucy Maud Montgomery >> Anne Of The Island


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
her and Priscilla a fearfully and wonderfully embroidered one. Marilla
had sent a big box of preserves, and darkly hinted at a hamper for
Thanksgiving, and Mrs. Lynde gave Anne a patchwork quilt and loaned her
five more.

"You take them," she said authoritatively. "They might as well be in use
as packed away in that trunk in the garret for moths to gnaw."

No moths would ever have ventured near those quilts, for they reeked of
mothballs to such an extent that they had to be hung in the orchard of
Patty's Place a full fortnight before they could be endured indoors.
Verily, aristocratic Spofford Avenue had rarely beheld such a display.
The gruff old millionaire who lived "next door" came over and wanted to
buy the gorgeous red and yellow "tulip-pattern" one which Mrs. Rachel
had given Anne. He said his mother used to make quilts like that, and by
Jove, he wanted one to remind him of her. Anne would not sell it, much
to his disappointment, but she wrote all about it to Mrs. Lynde. That
highly-gratified lady sent word back that she had one just like it to
spare, so the tobacco king got his quilt after all, and insisted on
having it spread on his bed, to the disgust of his fashionable wife.

Mrs. Lynde's quilts served a very useful purpose that winter. Patty's
Place for all its many virtues, had its faults also. It was really a
rather cold house; and when the frosty nights came the girls were very
glad to snuggle down under Mrs. Lynde's quilts, and hoped that the loan
of them might be accounted unto her for righteousness. Anne had the blue
room she had coveted at sight. Priscilla and Stella had the large one.
Phil was blissfully content with the little one over the kitchen; and
Aunt Jamesina was to have the downstairs one off the living-room. Rusty
at first slept on the doorstep.

Anne, walking home from Redmond a few days after her return, became
aware that the people that she met surveyed her with a covert, indulgent
smile. Anne wondered uneasily what was the matter with her. Was her hat
crooked? Was her belt loose? Craning her head to investigate, Anne, for
the first time, saw Rusty.

Trotting along behind her, close to her heels, was quite the most
forlorn specimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld. The animal was
well past kitten-hood, lank, thin, disreputable looking. Pieces of both
ears were lacking, one eye was temporarily out of repair, and one jowl
ludicrously swollen. As for color, if a once black cat had been well and
thoroughly singed the result would have resembled the hue of this waif's
thin, draggled, unsightly fur.

Anne "shooed," but the cat would not "shoo." As long as she stood he sat
back on his haunches and gazed at her reproachfully out of his one good
eye; when she resumed her walk he followed. Anne resigned herself to his
company until she reached the gate of Patty's Place, which she coldly
shut in his face, fondly supposing she had seen the last of him.
But when, fifteen minutes later, Phil opened the door, there sat the
rusty-brown cat on the step. More, he promptly darted in and sprang upon
Anne's lap with a half-pleading, half-triumphant "miaow."

"Anne," said Stella severely, "do you own that animal?"

"No, I do NOT," protested disgusted Anne. "The creature followed me home
from somewhere. I couldn't get rid of him. Ugh, get down. I like decent
cats reasonably well; but I don't like beasties of your complexion."

Pussy, however, refused to get down. He coolly curled up in Anne's lap
and began to purr.

"He has evidently adopted you," laughed Priscilla.

"I won't BE adopted," said Anne stubbornly.

"The poor creature is starving," said Phil pityingly. "Why, his bones
are almost coming through his skin."

"Well, I'll give him a square meal and then he must return to whence he
came," said Anne resolutely.

The cat was fed and put out. In the morning he was still on the
doorstep. On the doorstep he continued to sit, bolting in whenever the
door was opened. No coolness of welcome had the least effect on him;
of nobody save Anne did he take the least notice. Out of compassion the
girls fed him; but when a week had passed they decided that something
must be done. The cat's appearance had improved. His eye and cheek had
resumed their normal appearance; he was not quite so thin; and he had
been seen washing his face.

"But for all that we can't keep him," said Stella. "Aunt Jimsie is
coming next week and she will bring the Sarah-cat with her. We can't
keep two cats; and if we did this Rusty Coat would fight all the time
with the Sarah-cat. He's a fighter by nature. He had a pitched battle
last evening with the tobacco-king's cat and routed him, horse, foot and
artillery."

"We must get rid of him," agreed Anne, looking darkly at the subject
of their discussion, who was purring on the hearth rug with an air of
lamb-like meekness. "But the question is--how? How can four unprotected
females get rid of a cat who won't be got rid of?"

"We must chloroform him," said Phil briskly. "That is the most humane
way."

"Who of us knows anything about chloroforming a cat?" demanded Anne
gloomily.

"I do, honey. It's one of my few--sadly few--useful accomplishments.
I've disposed of several at home. You take the cat in the morning and
give him a good breakfast. Then you take an old burlap bag--there's one
in the back porch--put the cat on it and turn over him a wooden box.
Then take a two-ounce bottle of chloroform, uncork it, and slip it under
the edge of the box. Put a heavy weight on top of the box and leave it
till evening. The cat will be dead, curled up peacefully as if he were
asleep. No pain--no struggle."

"It sounds easy," said Anne dubiously.

"It IS easy. Just leave it to me. I'll see to it," said Phil
reassuringly.

Accordingly the chloroform was procured, and the next morning Rusty was
lured to his doom. He ate his breakfast, licked his chops, and climbed
into Anne's lap. Anne's heart misgave her. This poor creature loved
her--trusted her. How could she be a party to this destruction?

"Here, take him," she said hastily to Phil. "I feel like a murderess."

"He won't suffer, you know," comforted Phil, but Anne had fled.

The fatal deed was done in the back porch. Nobody went near it that day.
But at dusk Phil declared that Rusty must be buried.

"Pris and Stella must dig his grave in the orchard," declared Phil, "and
Anne must come with me to lift the box off. That's the part I always
hate."

The two conspirators tip-toed reluctantly to the back porch. Phil
gingerly lifted the stone she had put on the box. Suddenly, faint but
distinct, sounded an unmistakable mew under the box.

"He--he isn't dead," gasped Anne, sitting blankly down on the kitchen
doorstep.

"He must be," said Phil incredulously.

Another tiny mew proved that he wasn't. The two girls stared at each
other.

"What will we do?" questioned Anne.

"Why in the world don't you come?" demanded Stella, appearing in the
doorway. "We've got the grave ready. 'What silent still and silent
all?'" she quoted teasingly.

"'Oh, no, the voices of the dead Sound like the distant torrent's
fall,'" promptly counter-quoted Anne, pointing solemnly to the box.

A burst of laughter broke the tension.

"We must leave him here till morning," said Phil, replacing the stone.
"He hasn't mewed for five minutes. Perhaps the mews we heard were his
dying groan. Or perhaps we merely imagined them, under the strain of our
guilty consciences."

But, when the box was lifted in the morning, Rusty bounded at one gay
leap to Anne's shoulder where he began to lick her face affectionately.
Never was there a cat more decidedly alive.

"Here's a knot hole in the box," groaned Phil. "I never saw it. That's
why he didn't die. Now, we've got to do it all over again."

"No, we haven't," declared Anne suddenly. "Rusty isn't going to be
killed again. He's my cat--and you've just got to make the best of it."

"Oh, well, if you'll settle with Aunt Jimsie and the Sarah-cat," said
Stella, with the air of one washing her hands of the whole affair.

From that time Rusty was one of the family. He slept o'nights on the
scrubbing cushion in the back porch and lived on the fat of the land.
By the time Aunt Jamesina came he was plump and glossy and tolerably
respectable. But, like Kipling's cat, he "walked by himself." His paw
was against every cat, and every cat's paw against him. One by one he
vanquished the aristocratic felines of Spofford Avenue. As for human
beings, he loved Anne and Anne alone. Nobody else even dared stroke
him. An angry spit and something that sounded much like very improper
language greeted any one who did.

"The airs that cat puts on are perfectly intolerable," declared Stella.

"Him was a nice old pussens, him was," vowed Anne, cuddling her pet
defiantly.

"Well, I don't know how he and the Sarah-cat will ever make out to
live together," said Stella pesimistically. "Cat-fights in the orchard
o'nights are bad enough. But cat-fights here in the livingroom are
unthinkable." In due time Aunt Jamesina arrived. Anne and Priscilla and
Phil had awaited her advent rather dubiously; but when Aunt Jamesina was
enthroned in the rocking chair before the open fire they figuratively
bowed down and worshipped her.

Aunt Jamesina was a tiny old woman with a little, softly-triangular
face, and large, soft blue eyes that were alight with unquenchable
youth, and as full of hopes as a girl's. She had pink cheeks and
snow-white hair which she wore in quaint little puffs over her ears.

"It's a very old-fashioned way," she said, knitting industriously
at something as dainty and pink as a sunset cloud. "But _I_ am
old-fashioned. My clothes are, and it stands to reason my opinions are,
too. I don't say they're any the better of that, mind you. In fact, I
daresay they're a good deal the worse. But they've worn nice and
easy. New shoes are smarter than old ones, but the old ones are more
comfortable. I'm old enough to indulge myself in the matter of shoes and
opinions. I mean to take it real easy here. I know you expect me to look
after you and keep you proper, but I'm not going to do it. You're old
enough to know how to behave if you're ever going to be. So, as far as I
am concerned," concluded Aunt Jamesina, with a twinkle in her young
eyes, "you can all go to destruction in your own way."

"Oh, will somebody separate those cats?" pleaded Stella, shudderingly.

Aunt Jamesina had brought with her not only the Sarah-cat but Joseph.
Joseph, she explained, had belonged to a dear friend of hers who had
gone to live in Vancouver.

"She couldn't take Joseph with her so she begged me to take him. I
really couldn't refuse. He's a beautiful cat--that is, his disposition
is beautiful. She called him Joseph because his coat is of many colors."

It certainly was. Joseph, as the disgusted Stella said, looked like a
walking rag-bag. It was impossible to say what his ground color was. His
legs were white with black spots on them. His back was gray with a huge
patch of yellow on one side and a black patch on the other. His tail was
yellow with a gray tip. One ear was black and one yellow. A black patch
over one eye gave him a fearfully rakish look. In reality he was meek
and inoffensive, of a sociable disposition. In one respect, if in no
other, Joseph was like a lily of the field. He toiled not neither did
he spin or catch mice. Yet Solomon in all his glory slept not on softer
cushions, or feasted more fully on fat things.

Joseph and the Sarah-cat arrived by express in separate boxes. After
they had been released and fed, Joseph selected the cushion and corner
which appealed to him, and the Sarah-cat gravely sat herself down
before the fire and proceeded to wash her face. She was a large, sleek,
gray-and-white cat, with an enormous dignity which was not at all
impaired by any consciousness of her plebian origin. She had been given
to Aunt Jamesina by her washerwoman.

"Her name was Sarah, so my husband always called puss the Sarah-cat,"
explained Aunt Jamesina. "She is eight years old, and a remarkable
mouser. Don't worry, Stella. The Sarah-cat NEVER fights and Joseph
rarely."

"They'll have to fight here in self-defense," said Stella.

At this juncture Rusty arrived on the scene. He bounded joyously half
way across the room before he saw the intruders. Then he stopped short;
his tail expanded until it was as big as three tails. The fur on his
back rose up in a defiant arch; Rusty lowered his head, uttered a
fearful shriek of hatred and defiance, and launched himself at the
Sarah-cat.

The stately animal had stopped washing her face and was looking at him
curiously. She met his onslaught with one contemptuous sweep of her
capable paw. Rusty went rolling helplessly over on the rug; he picked
himself up dazedly. What sort of a cat was this who had boxed his ears?
He looked dubiously at the Sarah-cat. Would he or would he not? The
Sarah-cat deliberately turned her back on him and resumed her toilet
operations. Rusty decided that he would not. He never did. From that
time on the Sarah-cat ruled the roost. Rusty never again interfered with
her.

But Joseph rashly sat up and yawned. Rusty, burning to avenge his
disgrace, swooped down upon him. Joseph, pacific by nature, could fight
upon occasion and fight well. The result was a series of drawn battles.
Every day Rusty and Joseph fought at sight. Anne took Rusty's part and
detested Joseph. Stella was in despair. But Aunt Jamesina only laughed.

"Let them fight it out," she said tolerantly. "They'll make friends after
a bit. Joseph needs some exercise--he was getting too fat. And Rusty has
to learn he isn't the only cat in the world."

Eventually Joseph and Rusty accepted the situation and from sworn
enemies became sworn friends. They slept on the same cushion with their
paws about each other, and gravely washed each other's faces.

"We've all got used to each other," said Phil. "And I've learned how to
wash dishes and sweep a floor."

"But you needn't try to make us believe you can chloroform a cat,"
laughed Anne.

"It was all the fault of the knothole," protested Phil.

"It was a good thing the knothole was there," said Aunt Jamesina rather
severely. "Kittens HAVE to be drowned, I admit, or the world would be
overrun. But no decent, grown-up cat should be done to death--unless he
sucks eggs."

"You wouldn't have thought Rusty very decent if you'd seen him when he
came here," said Stella. "He positively looked like the Old Nick."

"I don't believe Old Nick can be so very, ugly" said Aunt Jamesina
reflectively. "He wouldn't do so much harm if he was. _I_ always think
of him as a rather handsome gentleman."




Chapter XVII

A Letter from Davy


"It's beginning to snow, girls," said Phil, coming in one November
evening, "and there are the loveliest little stars and crosses all over
the garden walk. I never noticed before what exquisite things snowflakes
really are. One has time to notice things like that in the simple life.
Bless you all for permitting me to live it. It's really delightful to
feel worried because butter has gone up five cents a pound."

"Has it?" demanded Stella, who kept the household accounts.

"It has--and here's your butter. I'm getting quite expert at marketing.
It's better fun than flirting," concluded Phil gravely.

"Everything is going up scandalously," sighed Stella.

"Never mind. Thank goodness air and salvation are still free," said Aunt
Jamesina.

"And so is laughter," added Anne. "There's no tax on it yet and that is
well, because you're all going to laugh presently. I'm going to read
you Davy's letter. His spelling has improved immensely this past year,
though he is not strong on apostrophes, and he certainly possesses
the gift of writing an interesting letter. Listen and laugh, before we
settle down to the evening's study-grind."

"Dear Anne," ran Davy's letter, "I take my pen to tell you that we are
all pretty well and hope this will find you the same. It's snowing some
today and Marilla says the old woman in the sky is shaking her feather
beds. Is the old woman in the sky God's wife, Anne? I want to know.

"Mrs. Lynde has been real sick but she is better now. She fell down the
cellar stairs last week. When she fell she grabbed hold of the shelf
with all the milk pails and stewpans on it, and it gave way and went
down with her and made a splendid crash. Marilla thought it was an
earthquake at first.