"Do you know, Mrs. Blythe—sometimes I feel so good and generous—like my only mission in life is to help and to give—and to believe in people, and love them?"
No, it was not an angel sitting on the sofa in the parlor at Ingleside, who said these words—but it may as well have been. Harriet Birch looked enough like an angel, with hair like spun-gold—eyes of cornflower blue—and a pale, almost translucent skin—really, Anne reflected, the only thing that kept her from being hopelessly pretty were the small, wire-rimmed spectacles she had to wear. Without them, Harriet said, "I'd walk into walls, Mrs. Blythe—true's you live."
Anne smiled as Harriet rolled onto her stomach with a look of distaste. "Whatever could be wrong with those ambitions, dear?" she asked gently.
"Oh—nothing," said Harriet bitterly—she had perfected a way of speaking bitterly, after much practice in her bedroom mirror. "Only that it is impossible to be a writer—a really good writer—and feel that way. To write one must see the world as it really is—'a hideous cesspool of sadness and degradation,' I think, is how Shakespeare put it."
"I don't think anyone has ever put it quite like that, dear," laughed Anne.
"Well, maybe it was Marlowe." Harriet waved her hand dismissively. "Anyway, Mrs. Blythe—I feel I am at an impasse—I simply don't know what to do. Should I have Matilda tell Bronwen her plans of elopement with Sir Jacques—or should Bronwen find them out on her own? I think it would be so dramatic for Bronwen to find it out—and, in a fit of depression, to take a drink of strychnine—and to die, of course."
"Of course."
"And her funeral takes place on the very day that Matilda was planning to elope, and so of course she can't go through with it—Sir Jacques never gets the message she sends to wait—and he thinks she is not coming and throws himself into the river, where he drowns! Oh, Mrs. Blythe! Hand me my pen! I feel positively inspired!"
Anne passed the pen—with only a tiny dimple showing in her cheek. Perhaps she was remembering similarly maudlin escapades of one Cordelia Montmorency—and her bosom friend, Geraldine Seymour—but still, it was really a trial not to laugh!
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"Who exactly is Harriet Birch?" Miss Cornelia, having come up for a chat after supper, wanted to know. "I've never heard of any Birches in these parts before."
"The family isn't from the Island," Anne explained, having a rare cuddle with the sleeping Shirley. Susan so seldom let anyone else rock him to sleep. How new and sweet was his baby-smell—like all the sweet things ever before in the world rolled into one fat little baby with cherub cheeks. "Thaddeus Birch is a second cousin to Carter Flagg—the family's come up to stay for the rest of the season to help in the store, since Carter broke his leg."
"Some folks say he did it on purpose," Miss Cornelia explained. "I for one can't see a reason why he'd do such a thing, but it did happen in such a ridiculous way."
"I don't think falling off of a ladder is too terribly ridiculous…"
"Not in itself, Anne, dearie. Here's how it really happened, though: his wife was away visiting her sister and left Carter the washing up to do. Why you'd leave a man the washing up to do is beyond me, but that is not the point. Anyway, they'd had the minister's wife over for tea and had a big to-do. Carter washed up like she told him—washed everything in the house but their fine wedding china. He was afraid he'd break it—he looked around for a safe place to put it, until she got back—and decided he'd put in in the top of the spare room closet. There wasn't much there that could get at it. Only he fell as he was lifting it all up and crash! Everything came down on top of him." Miss Cornelia stabbed her needlepoint emphatically.
"Oh, Miss Cornelia! Was Mrs. Flagg very angry?"
"You bet she was, dearie," said Miss Cornelia satisfactedly. "And more about that plates than the leg, I can tell you. Look what a sweet baby that is! When I look at your brood, Anne, it makes me wish I was twenty years younger so I could have one of my own."
"Shirley is sweetest when he is sleeping—and sweeter still when he is awake," Anne said, with the passion of all mothers since the beginning of time. "Harriet said, tonight, that he was 'gorgeous'—and I thanked her for it—but that is too big and complicated a word for my littlest boy. He is simply sweet and good. But Harriet has an ever-expanding vocabulary—and likes to demonstrate it without cease."
"She certainly seems taken with you, doesn't she, Anne?"
"She does," Anne agreed. "Oh, it's because it got back to her that I used to fool around a bit with my pen—and it is Harriet's greatest ambition to be a writer. Of course I am not a very great writer, but since writers are scarce in these parts, she'll take what she can get. And so she consorts with me."
"Is her writing any good?"
"It is very tragic—and pathetic—she is very young and may improve—but in short, Miss Cornelia, speaking in the here and now—no. I read her latest installment earlier and howled with laughter in all the places I was supposed to cry."
"Oh, well," said Miss Cornelia placidly. "Put that sweet baby in his cradle, Anne, and come here and help me. I need you to wind this yarn."
Anne did as she was bade, passing the desk, where she had set Harriet's odious story as she went. She gave it a little grimace—and then laughed.
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It was another late night for Dr. Blythe—it was nearly midnight by the time that Gilbert returned to Ingleside. He was beat—but there were two new souls in the world tonight thanks to his efforts. So all in all, you could say it'd been productive. The kitchen lamp had been left on low for him, but the upstairs hallway was dark. He could hear the sounds of the children breathing—Jem's small snores—the twins' murmuring—the baby's milky sighs. It was nice to come home to such a home, wasn't it? Yes, it was!
He ate the lunch Susan left out for him at his desk, pouring over his medical journals, but he was too tired to really concentrate on the stuff. He needed something light to read—like this little story Anne had set out for him. He read the first page—and laughed—really, it was the best work of humor his wife had ever written. It reminded him of those stories she and Diana and Jane and the girls were always pouring over in school. Why, it was good, it really was! And he hadn't known that Anne'd been writing again!
Gilbert read it over again when he was through, and liked the little story more a second time. He even had to clamp his hand over his mouth to stifle some guffaws. Surely a humor magazine or newspaper would publish something like this? He'd always felt bad that Anne had given up her pen when they were married. Perhaps—perhaps it didn't have to be so?
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Fortuitiously—or perhaps not—perhaps forebodingly is the world we are looking for—Susan was laid up with a cold later in the month, so Anne had to go to the grocery instead. It was a fine October day, so she did not mind the walk, and she had always loved going to the grocers. It was so pleasant to see all the nice, new things lined up in wait, ready to be bought or appreciated at any moment. Especially in October. There were such tangy, mysterious things in the store in October—bins of shiny apples and muted-color pears—rows of pert little pumpkins—and boxes of tangled, knobby gourds. Anne waved to the George Crawfords, who were setting on their porch, as she crossed the footbridge into town. They waved back.
"Three cheers for Mrs. Blythe!"
"Thank—you," said Anne uncertainly, and hurried on.
She got a similar greeting from the Tom Elliotts. "Good work, Anne!"
"Thank you," said Anne forcefully. To herself, "What is going on?"
It was Carter Flagg himself who cleared it up. "Mind if I get your autograph?"
"On what?" Anne asked exasperatedly.
"Your story, 'a course," said the lame Carter. He hobbled over on his crutch and plopped the weeks issue of Glen Notes down in front of her.
A TRAGIC TALE, the headline read, and then, underneath, in smaller print: BY ANNE SHIRLEY BLYTHE.
"By Anne—Shirley—Blythe!" gasped poor Anne, and snatched the paper away in horror.
Oh, it wasn't—it couldn't be—but it was! Harriet's story—her pathetic, terrible little story—in the paper—with Anne's name attached to it. Anne did not know which horrified her more—Harriet's white, accusing little face behind the counter—or the idea that everyone would think she had written this drivel!
"The doctor was in here at sunup, bought five copies, hot off the presses," Carter went on. "'Course I wouldn't take his money. A writer shouldn't have to pay for her own work. Come on now! Don't be in such a hurry. Why don't you sit and read it for us?"
Gilbert—bought five copies—! Anne put two and two together and came up with a very displeasing sum. She groaned inwardly.
"Thank you, Mr. Flagg but—I—must finish my shop," she said desperately. "Susan is home with the children—and—we're making pumpkin pies later on today—"
"Autograph!" Carter Flagg reminded her. Anne took his pen and blindly, scribbled her name in the margin. To be asked for her autograph for a story she hadn't written—while the true author was standing there, arms akimbo, watching—and it was such a story!
Anne threw things into her basket at random and fled.
But she was not fast enough. Harriet was waiting for her outside the store.
"Might I have a small word with you Mrs. Blythe?" Her tone was acid.
"Y—es," stammered poor Anne.
"Shall we walk together?" asked Harriet formally—and coldly.
Anne drew herself up. She would not let this—child—condescend to her, no matter what wrongs had been committed, and how. "Of course," she said graciously.
Harriet waited until they were off the main road before turning, with her eyes blazing. "You stole my story," she moaned. "Mrs. Blythe—when you knew I poured my heart's blood into it—and you took it anyway—you are nothing better than a common thief—you are—a—a criminal!"
"Harriet—dear—this is all a misunderstanding." Anne told a brief sketch of what must have happened. Harriet snorted.
"Likely—likely!" she sait hotly. "You forget, Mrs. Blythe, that I am a writer, too! I can recognize the ring of a fable when I hear it! Admit it! You were jealous—you stole it deliberately."
"If I had stolen it deliberately," said an exasperated Anne, "Why would I have submitted it to the Glen Notes, where you could see it?"
"Oh, it is not for me to tell you why!" said Harriet, trembling from head to foot. "It is just a facet of your cruel personality, I suppose—my aunt told me, when I became friends with you, that you were like that—that you were mean and petty and jealous!"
Harriet's aunt was Mrs. George Drew. Anne stiffened.
"If you'd like, Harriet, dear, I will go to the editor of the Notes right now and tell him a mistake has been made. He can publish a retraction and the credit for the story will—rightfully—go to you."
"And now she tries to make amends," said Harriet sarcastically. "You forget, Mrs. Blythe, that my father would rather die than let me write. My craft is done in absolute secrecy. Father would punish me forever if he knew I was writing stories rather than doing school-work. You'd like that, wouldn't you!"
"Heaven grant me patience," said Anne under her breath and snapped her mouth shut. "Harriet, please believe me when I say that I don't want your story. It is not at all in my style. And I never meant to hurt you, dear."
But Harriet was too far gone. "I should have known," she said, with fading self-indignation, and growning sadness, "That it would have been difficult for someone like you—to be friends with someone like me. I have my whole life ahead of me—and your time for doing anything of real importance is quite over. So I forgive you your jealousy—but Mrs. Blythe, I cannot ever forgive your betrayal. All semblances of friendship between us are gone-forever. And that is what hurts me the most. Goodbye."
"An actress—a self-righteous, vain little windbag!" said Anne to herself as she made her way back to the safe haven of Ingleside.
Gilbert met her at the door. Anne laughed wearily.
"Gilbert, don't congratulate me—I know you meant well—"
"Meant well! I meant well and I did well, Anne-girl! I've never seen a story so well-received as yours! Even Miss Cornelia liked it—she said it was the 'least wicked' work of fiction she had ever read."
Anne blanched, and told him everything, and now it was Gilbert's turn to look rueful.
"I suppose I should have checked with your first," he said, looking down and scuffing the toe of his shoe. "But you know, Anne, there is some guilt there, for me. I remember what high hopes you had of your writing when we were young—younger. It seems—a shame—that you have to give it all up to be the wife of a country doctor."
"The wife of a great doctor—and a mother to his children," Anne clarified. Her face shone with pride—and something else showed how touched she was. "Oh Gilbert, I did want that, once, but it was a quite different time then. I'm—quieter—now, inside, and it is more than enough for me to be your wife—and Jem's mother—mother to all our little babes. Most of the time words sting us because there is some semblance of truth to them—Harriet's stung me because there is not. The idea—that my time for 'doing anything of importance' is over! There is no more important thing than shaping young souls—and loving them—and loving you."
"By Jove, Anne-girl, you do have a way with words," said Gilbert, and caught his wife in his arms.
Inside Susan read her copy of the Glen Notes with a critical eye.
"All in all it is not bad," she said to the purring Matey-cat, curled up on the windowseat. "I admit it was tragic—although I do not generally approve of civilized people writing stories. But I am afraid this bodes not well for Walter dear, you cat of Captain Jim. I have suspected for some time now that he might become a poet."
Matey opened one green eye, lazily, and then closed it. There were worse things in the world to be.
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A/N: Thanks for the reviews!
To everyone who reviewed my Cecilia story, thanks also. I don't know if I have a sequel in mind for that yet. What would you all like to know about what happens to Cecilia next?
I am thinking of a fic about Juliet and Allan's twin daughters, Margaret and Stella—another about Pat of Silver Bush's little girl Judith—and I am definitely planning to write another 'Anne' sequel—one that comes between Rainbow Valley and Rilla of Ingleside. I'll tackle that when I'm done this one. I've always wondered what would happen then: when Walter was writing his sonnets to Rosamond—how Faith and Jem got together—and how it was for the Merediths to have Rosemary as their step-mother.