Anne of the Island by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . The Round of Life 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. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. L. M. Montgomery (2006). Anne of the Island. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/51/pg51-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html. The lead image was generated using HackerNoon's Stable Disffusion Al Image Generator feature, via the prompt "Anne of the Island".

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