“Well, you don’t think I’ll mind that, do you? Why, I’m glad of it. I knew I should have had some such rule myself, but I hadn’t enough decision to make it or stick to it. When I can shuffle off the responsibility on you it will be a real relief. If you won’t let me cast in my lot with you I’ll die of the disappointment and then I’ll come back and haunt you. I’ll camp on the very doorstep of Patty’s Place and you won’t be able to go out or come in without falling over my spook.”
Again Anne and Priscilla exchanged eloquent looks.
“Well,” said Anne, “of course we can’t promise to take you until we’ve consulted with Stella; but I don’t think she’ll object, and, as far as we are concerned, you may come and glad welcome.”
“If you get tired of our simple life you can leave us, and no questions asked,” added Priscilla.
Phil sprang up, hugged them both jubilantly, and went on her way rejoicing.
“I hope things will go right,” said Priscilla soberly.
“We must make them go right,” avowed Anne. “I think Phil will fit into our ’appy little ’ome very well.”
“Oh, Phil’s a dear to rattle round with and be chums. And, of course, the more there are of us the easier it will be on our slim purses. But how will she be to live with? You have to summer and winter with anyone before you know if she’s livable or not.”
“Oh, well, we’ll all be put to the test, as far as that goes. And we must quit us like sensible folk, living and let live. Phil isn’t selfish, though she’s a little thoughtless, and I believe we will all get on beautifully in Patty’s Place.”
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 practising 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 colour of her cheeks was hectically brilliant; besides, she was very thin; the hands that held her hymnbook 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 schoolgirl 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
