Chapter XXXVI

The Gardners’Call

“Here is a letter with an Indian stamp for you, Aunt Jimsie,” said

Phil. “Here are three for Stella, and two for Pris, and a glorious fat

one for me from Jo. There’s nothing for you, Anne, except a circular.”

Nobody noticed Anne’s flush as she took the thin letter Phil tossed her

carelessly. But a few minutes later Phil looked up to see a

transfigured Anne.

“Honey, what good thing has happened?”

“The Youth’s Friend has accepted a little sketch I sent them a

fortnight ago,” said Anne, trying hard to speak as if she were

accustomed to having sketches accepted every mail, but not quite

succeeding.

“Anne Shirley! How glorious! What was it? When is it to be published?

Did they pay you for it?”

“Yes; they’ve sent a check for ten dollars, and the editor writes that

he would like to see more of my work. Dear man, he shall. It was an old

sketch I found in my box. I re-wrote it and sent it in—but I never

really thought it could be accepted because it had no plot,” said Anne,

recalling the bitter experience of Averil’s Atonement.

“What are you going to do with that ten dollars, Anne? Let’s all go up

town and get drunk,” suggested Phil.

“I _am_ going to squander it in a wild soulless revel of some sort,”

declared Anne gaily. “At all events it isn’t tainted money—like the

check I got for that horrible Reliable Baking Powder story. I spent

_it_ usefully for clothes and hated them every time I put them on.”

“Think of having a real live author at Patty’s Place,” said Priscilla.

“It’s a great responsibility,” said Aunt Jamesina solemnly.

“Indeed it is,” agreed Pris with equal solemnity. “Authors are kittle

cattle. You never know when or how they will break out. Anne may make

copy of us.”

“I meant that the ability to write for the Press was a great

responsibility,” said Aunt Jamesina severely, “and I hope Anne

realizes, it. My daughter used to write stories before she went to the

foreign field, but now she has turned her attention to higher things.

She used to say her motto was ‘Never write a line you would be ashamed

to read at your own funeral.’ You’d better take that for yours, Anne,

if you are going to embark in literature. Though, to be sure,” added

Aunt Jamesina perplexedly, “Elizabeth always used to laugh when she

said it. She always laughed so much that I don’t know how she ever came

to decide on being a missionary. I’m thankful she did—I prayed that she

might—but—I wish she hadn’t.”

Then Aunt Jamesina wondered why those giddy girls all laughed.

Anne’s eyes shone all that day; literary ambitions sprouted and budded

in her brain; their exhilaration accompanied her to Jennie Cooper’s

walking party, and not even the sight of Gilbert and Christine, walking

just ahead of her and Roy, could quite subdue the sparkle of her starry

hopes. Nevertheless, she was not so rapt from things of earth as to be

unable to notice that Christine’s walk was decidedly ungraceful.

“But I suppose Gilbert looks only at her face. So like a man,” thought

Anne scornfully.

“Shall you be home Saturday afternoon?” asked Roy.

“Yes.”

“My mother and sisters are coming to call on you,” said Roy quietly.

Something went over Anne which might be described as a thrill, but it

was hardly a pleasant one. She had never met any of Roy’s family; she

realized the significance of his statement; and it had, somehow, an

irrevocableness about it that chilled her.

“I shall be glad to see them,” she said flatly; and then wondered if

she really would be glad. She ought to be, of course. But would it not

be something of an ordeal? Gossip had filtered to Anne regarding the

light in which the Gardners viewed the “infatuation” of son and

brother. Roy must have brought pressure to bear in the matter of this

call. Anne knew she would be weighed in the balance. From the fact that

they had consented to call she understood that, willingly or

unwillingly, they regarded her as a possible member of their clan.

“I shall just be myself. I shall not _try_ to make a good impression,”

thought Anne loftily. But she was wondering what dress she would better

wear Saturday afternoon, and if the new style of high hair-dressing

would suit her better than the old; and the walking party was rather

spoiled for her. By night she had decided that she would wear her brown

chiffon on Saturday, but would do her hair low.

Friday afternoon none of the girls had classes at Redmond. Stella took

the opportunity to write a paper for the Philomathic Society, and was

sitting at the table in the corner of the living-room with an untidy

litter of notes and manuscript on the floor around her. Stella always

vowed she never could write anything unless she threw each sheet down

as she completed it. Anne, in her flannel blouse and serge skirt, with

her hair rather blown from her windy walk home, was sitting squarely in

the middle of the floor, teasing the Sarah-cat with a wishbone. Joseph

and Rusty were both curled up in her lap. A warm plummy odor filled the

whole house, for Priscilla was cooking in the kitchen. Presently she

came in, enshrouded in a huge work-apron, with a smudge of flour on her

nose, to show Aunt Jamesina the chocolate cake she had just iced.

At this auspicious moment the knocker sounded. Nobody paid any

attention to it save Phil, who sprang up and opened it, expecting a boy

with the hat she had bought that morning. On the doorstep stood Mrs.

Gardner and her daughters.

Anne scrambled to her feet somehow, emptying two indignant cats out of

her lap as she did so, and mechanically shifting her wishbone from her

right hand to her left. Priscilla, who would have had to cross the room

to reach the kitchen door, lost her head, wildly plunged the chocolate

cake under a cushion on the inglenook sofa, and dashed upstairs. Stella

began feverishly gathering up her manuscript. Only Aunt Jamesina and

Phil remained normal. Thanks to them, everybody was soon sitting at

ease, even Anne. Priscilla came down, apronless and smudgeless, Stella

reduced her corner to decency, and Phil saved the situation by a stream

of ready small talk.

Mrs. Gardner was tall and thin and handsome, exquisitely gowned,

cordial with a cordiality that seemed a trifle forced. Aline Gardner

was a younger edition of her mother, lacking the cordiality. She

endeavored to be nice, but succeeded only in being haughty and

patronizing. Dorothy Gardner was slim and jolly and rather tomboyish.

Anne knew she was Roy’s favorite sister and warmed to her. She would

have looked very much like Roy if she had had dreamy dark eyes instead

of roguish hazel ones. Thanks to her and Phil, the call really went off

very well, except for a slight sense of strain in the atmosphere and

two rather untoward incidents. Rusty and Joseph, left to themselves,

began a game of chase, and sprang madly into Mrs. Gardner’s silken lap

and out of it in their wild career. Mrs. Gardner lifted her lorgnette

and gazed after their flying forms as if she had never seen cats

before, and Anne, choking back slightly nervous laughter, apologized as

best she could.

“You are fond of cats?” said Mrs. Gardner, with a slight intonation of

tolerant wonder.

Anne, despite her affection for Rusty, was not especially fond of cats,

but Mrs. Gardner’s tone annoyed her. Inconsequently she remembered that

Mrs. John Blythe was so fond of cats that she kept as many as her

husband would allow.

“They _are_ adorable animals, aren’t they?” she said wickedly.

“I have never liked cats,” said Mrs. Gardner remotely.

“I love them,” said Dorothy. “They are so nice and selfish. Dogs are

_too_ good and unselfish. They make me feel uncomfortable. But cats are

gloriously human.”

“You have two delightful old china dogs there. May I look at them

closely?” said Aline, crossing the room towards the fireplace and

thereby becoming the unconscious cause of the other accident. Picking

up Magog, she sat down on the cushion under which was secreted

Priscilla’s chocolate cake. Priscilla and Anne exchanged agonized

glances but could do nothing. The stately Aline continued to sit on the

cushion and discuss china dogs until the time of departure.

Dorothy lingered behind a moment to squeeze Anne’s hand and whisper

impulsively.

“I _know_ you and I are going to be chums. Oh, Roy has told me all

about you. I’m the only one of the family he tells things to, poor

boy—nobody _could_ confide in mamma and Aline, you know. What glorious

times you girls must have here! Won’t you let me come often and have a

share in them?”

“Come as often as you like,” Anne responded heartily, thankful that one

of Roy’s sisters was likable. She would never like Aline, so much was

certain; and Aline would never like her, though Mrs. Gardner might be

won. Altogether, Anne sighed with relief when the ordeal was over.

“‘Of all sad words of tongue or pen

The saddest are it might have been,’”

quoted Priscilla tragically, lifting the cushion. “This cake is now

what you might call a flat failure. And the cushion is likewise ruined.

Never tell me that Friday isn’t unlucky.”

“People who send word they are coming on Saturday shouldn’t come on

Friday,” said Aunt Jamesina.

“I fancy it was Roy’s mistake,” said Phil. “That boy isn’t really

responsible for what he says when he talks to Anne. Where _is_ Anne?”

Anne had gone upstairs. She felt oddly like crying. But she made

herself laugh instead. Rusty and Joseph had been _too_ awful! And

Dorothy _was_ a dear.