VII
The Pointing of Duty
Anne leaned back in her chair one mild October evening and sighed. Shewas sitting at a table covered with text books and exercises, but theclosely written sheets of paper before her had no apparent connectionwith studies or school work.
"What is the matter?" asked Gilbert, who had arrived at the open kitchendoor just in time to hear the sigh.
Anne colored, and thrust her writing out of sight under some schoolcompositions.
"Nothing very dreadful. I was just trying to write out some of mythoughts, as Professor Hamilton advised me, but I couldn't get them toplease me. They seem so still and foolish directly they're written downon white paper with black ink. Fancies are like shadows . . . you can'tcage them, they're such wayward, dancing things. But perhaps I'll learnthe secret some day if I keep on trying. I haven't a great many sparemoments, you know. By the time I finish correcting school exercises andcompositions, I don't always feel like writing any of my own."
"You are getting on splendidly in school, Anne. All the children likeyou," said Gilbert, sitting down on the stone step.
"No, not all. Anthony Pye doesn't and WON'T like me. What is worse, hedoesn't respect me . . . no, he doesn't. He simply holds me in contemptand I don't mind confessing to you that it worries me miserably. Itisn't that he is so very bad . . . he is only rather mischievous, but noworse than some of the others. He seldom disobeys me; but he obeys witha scornful air of toleration as if it wasn't worthwhile disputing thepoint or he would . . . and it has a bad effect on the others. I've triedevery way to win him but I'm beginning to fear I never shall. I want to,for he's rather a cute little lad, if he IS a Pye, and I could like himif he'd let me."
"Probably it's merely the effect of what he hears at home."
"Not altogether. Anthony is an independent little chap and makes up hisown mind about things. He has always gone to men before and he says girlteachers are no good. Well, we'll see what patience and kindnesswill do. I like overcoming difficulties and teaching is really veryinteresting work. Paul Irving makes up for all that is lacking in theothers. That child is a perfect darling, Gilbert, and a genius into thebargain. I'm persuaded the world will hear of him some day," concludedAnne in a tone of conviction.
"I like teaching, too," said Gilbert. "It's good training, for onething. Why, Anne, I've learned more in the weeks I've been teaching theyoung ideas of White Sands than I learned in all the years I went toschool myself. We all seem to be getting on pretty well. The Newbridgepeople like Jane, I hear; and I think White Sands is tolerably satisfiedwith your humble servant . . . all except Mr. Andrew Spencer. I met Mrs.Peter Blewett on my way home last night and she told me she thought ither duty to inform me that Mr. Spencer didn't approve of my methods."
"Have you ever noticed," asked Anne reflectively, "that when peoplesay it is their duty to tell you a certain thing you may prepare forsomething disagreeable? Why is it that they never seem to think it aduty to tell you the pleasant things they hear about you? Mrs. H. B.DonNELL called at the school again yesterday and told me she thoughtit HER duty to inform me that Mrs. Harmon Andrew didn't approve ofmy reading fairy tales to the children, and that Mr. Rogerson thoughtPrillie wasn't coming on fast enough in arithmetic. If Prillie wouldspend less time making eyes at the boys over her slate she might dobetter. I feel quite sure that Jack Gillis works her class sums for her,though I've never been able to catch him red-handed."
"Have you succeeded in reconciling Mrs. DonNELL's hopeful son to hissaintly name?"
"Yes," laughed Anne, "but it was really a difficult task. At first, whenI called him 'St. Clair' he would not take the least notice until I'dspoken two or three times; and then, when the other boys nudged him, hewould look up with such an aggrieved air, as if I'd called him John orCharlie and he couldn't be expected to know I meant him. So I kepthim in after school one night and talked kindly to him. I told him hismother wished me to call him St. Clair and I couldn't go against herwishes. He saw it when it was all explained out . . . he's really a veryreasonable little fellow . . . and he said _I_ could call him St. Clairbut that he'd 'lick the stuffing' out of any of the boys that tried it.Of course, I had to rebuke him again for using such shocking language.Since then _I_ call him St. Clair and the boys call him Jake and allgoes smoothly. He informs me that he means to be a carpenter, but Mrs.DonNELL says I am to make a college professor out of him."
The mention of college gave a new direction to Gilbert's thoughts, andthey talked for a time of their plans and wishes . . . gravely, earnestly,hopefully, as youth loves to talk, while the future is yet an untroddenpath full of wonderful possibilities.
Gilbert had finally made up his mind that he was going to be a doctor.
"It's a splendid profession," he said enthusiastically. "A fellow has tofight something all through life . . . didn't somebody once define manas a fighting animal? . . . and I want to fight disease and pain andignorance . . . which are all members one of another. I want to do myshare of honest, real work in the world, Anne . . . add a little to thesum of human knowledge that all the good men have been accumulatingsince it began. The folks who lived before me have done so much for methat I want to show my gratitude by doing something for the folks whowill live after me. It seems to me that is the only way a fellow can getsquare with his obligations to the race."
"I'd like to add some beauty to life," said Anne dreamily. "I don'texactly want to make people KNOW more . . . though I know that IS thenoblest ambition . . . but I'd love to make them have a pleasanter timebecause of me . . . to have some little joy or happy thought that wouldnever have existed if I hadn't been born."
"I think you're fulfilling that ambition every day," said Gilbertadmiringly.
And he was right. Anne was one of the children of light by birthright.After she had passed through a life with a smile or a word thrown acrossit like a gleam of sunshine the owner of that life saw it, for the timebeing at least, as hopeful and lovely and of good report.
Finally Gilbert rose regretfully.
"Well, I must run up to MacPhersons'. Moody Spurgeon came home fromQueen's today for Sunday and he was to bring me out a book ProfessorBoyd is lending me."
"And I must get Marilla's tea. She went to see Mrs. Keith this eveningand she will soon be back."
Anne had tea ready when Marilla came home; the fire was cracklingcheerily, a vase of frost-bleached ferns and ruby-red maple leavesadorned the table, and delectable odors of ham and toast pervaded theair. But Marilla sank into her chair with a deep sigh.
"Are your eyes troubling you? Does your head ache?" queried Anneanxiously.
"No. I'm only tired . . . and worried. It's about Mary and those children . . . Mary is worse . . . she can't last much longer. And as for thetwins, _I_ don't know what is to become of them."
"Hasn't their uncle been heard from?"
"Yes, Mary had a letter from him. He's working in a lumber camp and'shacking it,' whatever that means. Anyway, he says he can't possiblytake the children till the spring. He expects to be married then andwill have a home to take them to; but he says she must get some of theneighbors to keep them for the winter. She says she can't bear to askany of them. Mary never got on any too well with the East Grafton peopleand that's a fact. And the long and short of it is, Anne, that I'msure Mary wants me to take those children . . . she didn't say so but sheLOOKED it."
"Oh!" Anne clasped her hands, all athrill with excitement. "And ofcourse you will, Marilla, won't you?"
"I haven't made up my mind," said Marilla rather tartly. "I don't rushinto things in your headlong way, Anne. Third cousinship is a prettyslim claim. And it will be a fearful responsibility to have two childrenof six years to look after . . . twins, at that."
Marilla had an idea that twins were just twice as bad as singlechildren.
"Twins are very interesting . . . at least one pair of them," said Anne."It's only when there are two or three pairs that it gets monotonous.And I think it would be real nice for yo
u to have something to amuse youwhen I'm away in school."
"I don't reckon there'd be much amusement in it . . . more worry andbother than anything else, I should say. It wouldn't be so risky if theywere even as old as you were when I took you. I wouldn't mind Dora somuch . . . she seems good and quiet. But that Davy is a limb."
Anne was fond of children and her heart yearned over the Keith twins.The remembrance of her own neglected childhood was very vivid withher still. She knew that Marilla's only vulnerable point was her sterndevotion to what she believed to be her duty, and Anne skillfullymarshalled her arguments along this line.
"If Davy is naughty it's all the more reason why he should have goodtraining, isn't it, Marilla? If we don't take them we don't know whowill, nor what kind of influences may surround them. Suppose Mrs.Keith's next door neighbors, the Sprotts, were to take them. Mrs. Lyndesays Henry Sprott is the most profane man that ever lived and you can'tbelieve a word his children say. Wouldn't it be dreadful to have thetwins learn anything like that? Or suppose they went to the Wiggins'.Mrs. Lynde says that Mr. Wiggins sells everything off the place that canbe sold and brings his family up on skim milk. You wouldn't like yourrelations to be starved, even if they were only third cousins, wouldyou? It seems to me, Marilla, that it is our duty to take them."
"I suppose it is," assented Marilla gloomily. "I daresay I'll tell MaryI'll take them. You needn't look so delighted, Anne. It will mean a gooddeal of extra work for you. I can't sew a stitch on account of my eyes,so you'll have to see to the making and mending of their clothes. Andyou don't like sewing."
"I hate it," said Anne calmly, "but if you are willing to take thosechildren from a sense of duty surely I can do their sewing from a senseof duty. It does people good to have to do things they don't like . . . inmoderation."
Anne of Avonlea Page 7