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

meant to darken its door again, and she hoped a fearful judgment would

come upon it. Then she sat down out of breath, and the minister, who

hadn’t heard a word she said, immediately remarked, in a very devout

voice, ‘amen! The Lord grant our dear sister’s prayer!’ You ought to

hear father tell the story.”

“Speaking of stories, Diana,” remarked Anne, in a significant,

confidential tone, “do you know that lately I have been wondering if I

could write a short story—a story that would be good enough to be

published?”

“Why, of course you could,” said Diana, after she had grasped the

amazing suggestion. “You used to write perfectly thrilling stories

years ago in our old Story Club.”

“Well, I hardly meant one of that kind of stories,” smiled Anne. “I’ve

been thinking about it a little of late, but I’m almost afraid to try,

for, if I should fail, it would be too humiliating.”

“I heard Priscilla say once that all Mrs. Morgan’s first stories were

rejected. But I’m sure yours wouldn’t be, Anne, for it’s likely editors

have more sense nowadays.”

“Margaret Burton, one of the Junior girls at Redmond, wrote a story

last winter and it was published in the _Canadian Woman_. I really do

think I could write one at least as good.”

“And will you have it published in the _Canadian Woman?_”

“I might try one of the bigger magazines first. It all depends on what

kind of a story I write.”

“What is it to be about?”

“I don’t know yet. I want to get hold of a good plot. I believe this is

very necessary from an editor’s point of view. The only thing I’ve

settled on is the heroine’s name. It is to be _Averil Lester_. Rather

pretty, don’t you think? Don’t mention this to any one, Diana. I

haven’t told anybody but you and Mr. Harrison. _He_ wasn’t very

encouraging—he said there was far too much trash written nowadays as it

was, and he’d expected something better of me, after a year at

college.”

“What does Mr. Harrison know about it?” demanded Diana scornfully.

They found the Gillis home gay with lights and callers. Leonard

Kimball, of Spencervale, and Morgan Bell, of Carmody, were glaring at

each other across the parlor. Several merry girls had dropped in. Ruby

was dressed in white and her eyes and cheeks were very brilliant. She

laughed and chattered incessantly, and after the other girls had gone

she took Anne upstairs to display her new summer dresses.

“I’ve a blue silk to make up yet, but it’s a little heavy for summer

wear. I think I’ll leave it until the fall. I’m going to teach in White

Sands, you know. How do you like my hat? That one you had on in church

yesterday was real dinky. But I like something brighter for myself. Did

you notice those two ridiculous boys downstairs? They’ve both come

determined to sit each other out. I don’t care a single bit about

either of them, you know. Herb Spencer is the one I like. Sometimes I

really do think he’s _Mr. Right_. At Christmas I thought the

Spencervale schoolmaster was that. But I found out something about him

that turned me against him. He nearly went insane when I turned him

down. I wish those two boys hadn’t come tonight. I wanted to have a

nice good talk with you, Anne, and tell you such heaps of things. You

and I were always good chums, weren’t we?”

Ruby slipped her arm about Anne’s waist with a shallow little laugh.

But just for a moment their eyes met, and, behind all the luster of

Ruby’s, Anne saw something that made her heart ache.

“Come up often, won’t you, Anne?” whispered Ruby. “Come alone—I want

you.”

“Are you feeling quite well, Ruby?”

“Me! Why, I’m perfectly well. I never felt better in my life. Of

course, that congestion last winter pulled me down a little. But just

see my color. I don’t look much like an invalid, I’m sure.”

Ruby’s voice was almost sharp. She pulled her arm away from Anne, as if

in resentment, and ran downstairs, where she was gayer than ever,

apparently so much absorbed in bantering her two swains that Diana and

Anne felt rather out of it and soon went away.