When Anne reached
the school that morning. .
.for the first
time in her life she had traversed
the Birch Path deaf and blind
to its beauties. . .all was quiet
and still. The preceding teacher
had trained the children to be
in their places at her arrival,
and when Anne entered the schoolroom
she was confronted by prim rows
of "shining morning faces" and
bright, inquisitive eyes. She
hung up her hat and faced her
pupils, hoping that she did not
look as frightened and foolish
as she felt and that they would
not perceive
how she was trembling.
She had sat up until nearly
twelve the preceding night composing
a speech she meant to make to
her pupils upon opening the school.
She had revised and improved
it painstakingly, and then she
had learned it off by heart.
It was a very good speech and
had some very fine ideas in it,
especially about mutual help
and earnest striving after knowledge.
The only trouble was that she
could not now remember a word
of it.
After what
seemed to her a year. . .about
ten seconds in
reality . . .she said faintly, "Take
your Testaments, please," and
sank breathlessly into her chair
under cover of the rustle and
clatter of desk lids that followed.
While the children read their
verses Anne marshalled her shaky
wits into order and looked over
the array of little pilgrims
to the Grownup Land.
Most of them were, of course,
quite well known to her. Her
own classmates had passed out
in the preceding year but the
rest had all gone to school with
her, excepting the primer class
and ten newcomers to Avonlea.
Anne secretly felt more interest
in these ten than in those whose
possibilities were already fairly
well mapped out to her. To be
sure, they might be just as commonplace
as the rest; but on the other
hand there MIGHT be a genius
among them. It was a thrilling
idea.
Sitting by himself at a corner
desk was Anthony Pye. He had
a dark, sullen little face, and
was staring at Anne with a hostile
expression in his black eyes.
Anne instantly made up her mind
that she would win that boy's
affection and discomfit the Pyes
utterly.
In the other corner another
strange boy was sitting with
Arty Sloane. . .a jolly looking
little chap, with a snub nose,
freckled face, and big, light
blue eyes, fringed with whitish
lashes. . . probably the DonNELL
boy; and if resemblance went
for anything, his sister was
sitting across the aisle with
Mary Bell. Anne wondered what
sort of mother the child had,
to send her to school dressed
as she was. She wore a faded
pink silk dress, trimmed with
a great deal of cotton lace,
soiled white kid slippers, and
silk stockings. Her sandy hair
was tortured into innumerable
kinky and unnatural curls, surmounted
by a flamboyant bow of pink ribbon
bigger than her head. Judging
from her expression she was very
well satisfied with herself.
A pale little thing, with smooth
ripples of fine, silky, fawn-colored
hair flowing over her shoulders,
must, Anne thought, be Annetta
Bell, whose parents had formerly
lived in the Newbridge school
district, but, by reason of hauling
their house fifty yards north
of its old site were now in Avonlea.
Three pallid little girls crowded
into one seat were certainly
Cottons; and there was no doubt
that the small beauty with the
long brown curls and hazel eyes,
who was casting coquettish looks
at Jack Gills over the edge of
her Testament, was Prillie Rogerson,
whose father had recently married
a second wife and brought Prillie
home from her grandmother's in
Grafton. A tall, awkward girl
in a back seat, who seemed to
have too many feet and hands,
Anne could not place at all,
but later on discovered that
her name was Barbara Shaw and
that she had come to live with
an Avonlea aunt. She was also
to find that if Barbara ever
managed to walk down the aisle
without falling over her own
or somebody else's feet the Avonlea
scholars wrote the unusual fact
up on the porch wall to commemorate
it.
But when Anne's eyes met those
of the boy at the front desk
facing her own, a queer little
thrill went over her, as if she
had found her genius. She knew
this must be Paul Irving and
that Mrs. Rachel Lynde had been
right for once when she prophesied
that he would be unlike the Avonlea
children. More than that, Anne
realized that he was unlike other
children anywhere, and that there
was a soul subtly akin to her
own gazing at her out of the
very dark blue eyes that were
watching her so intently.
She knew Paul was ten but he
looked no more than eight. He
had the most beautiful little
face she had ever seen in a child.
. . features of exquisite delicacy
and refinement, framed in a halo
of chestnut curls. His mouth
was delicious, being full without
pouting, the crimson lips just
softly touching and curving into
finely finished little corners
that narrowly escaped being dimpled.
He had a sober, grave, meditative
expression, as if his spirit
was much older than his body;
but when Anne smiled softly at
him it vanished in a sudden answering
smile, which seemed an illumination
of his whole being, as if some
lamp had suddenly kindled into
flame inside of him, irradiating
him from top to toe. Best of
all, it was involuntary, born
of no external effort or motive,
but simply the outflashing of
a hidden personality, rare and
fine and sweet. With a quick
interchange of smiles Anne and
Paul were fast friends forever
before a word had passed between
them.
The day went by like a dream.
Anne could never clearly recall
it afterwards. It almost seemed
as if it were not she who was
teaching but somebody else. She
heard classes and worked sums
and set copies mechanically.
The children behaved quite well;
only two cases of discipline
occurred. Morley Andrews was
caught driving a pair of trained
crickets in the aisle. Anne stood
Morley on the platform for an
hour and. . .which Morley felt
much more keenly. . . confiscated
his crickets. She put them in
a box and on the way from school
set them free in Violet Vale;
but Morley believed, then and
ever afterwards, that she took
them home and kept them for her
own amusement.
The other culprit was Anthony
Pye, who poured the last drops
of water from his slate bottle
down the back of Aurelia Clay's
neck. Anne kept Anthony in at
recess and talked to him about
what was expected of gentlemen,
admonishing him that they never
poured water down ladies' necks.
She wanted all her boys to be
gentlemen, she said. Her little
lecture was quite kind and touching;
but unfortunately Anthony remained
absolutely untouched. He listened
to her in silence, with the same
sullen expression, and whistled
scornfully as he went out. Anne
sighed; and then cheered herself
up by remembering that winning
a Pye's affections, like the
building of Rome, wasn't the
work of a day. In fact, it was
doubtful whether some of the
Pyes had any affections to win;
but Anne hoped better things
of Anthony, who looked as if
he might be a rather nice boy
if one ever got behind his sullenness.
When school
was dismissed and the children
had gone Anne dropped
wearily into her chair. Her head
ached and she felt woefully discouraged.
There was no real reason for
discouragement, since nothing
very dreadful had occurred; but
Anne was very tired and inclined
to believe that she would never
learn to like teaching. And how
terrible it would be to be doing
something you didn't like every
day for. . .well, say forty years.
Anne was of two minds whether
to have her cry out then and
there, or wait till she was safely
in her own white room at home.
Before she could decide there
was a click of heels and a silken
swish on the porch floor, and
Anne found herself confronted
by a lady whose appearance made
her recall a recent criticism
of Mr. Harrison's on an overdressed
female he had seen in a Charlottetown
store. "She looked like a head-on
collision between a fashion plate
and a nightmare."
The newcomer was gorgeously
arrayed in a pale blue summer
silk, puffed, frilled, and shirred
wherever puff, frill, or shirring
could possibly be placed. Her
head was surmounted by a huge
white chiffon hat, bedecked with
three long but rather stringy
ostrich feathers. A veil of pink
chiffon, lavishly sprinkled with
huge black dots, hung like a
flounce from the hat brim to
her shoulders and floated off
in two airy streamers behind
her. She wore all the jewelry
that could be crowded on one
small woman, and a very strong
odor of perfume attended her.
"I am Mrs. DonNELL. . .Mrs.
H. B. DonNELL," announced this
vision, "and I have come in to
see you about something Clarice
Almira told me when she came
home to dinner today. It annoyed
me EXCESSIVELY."
"I'm sorry," faltered
Anne, vainly trying to recollect
any
incident of the morning connected
with the Donnell children.
"Clarice Almira
told me that you pronounced
our name DONnell.
Now, Miss Shirley, the correct
pronunciation of our name is
DonNELL. . . accent on the last
syllable. I hope you'll remember
this in future."
"I'll try to," gasped Anne,
choking back a wild desire to
laugh. "I know by experience
that it's very unpleasant to
have one's name SPELLED wrong
and I suppose it must be even
worse to have it pronounced wrong."
"Certainly
it is. And Clarice Almira also
informed me that
you call my son Jacob."
"He told me his name was Jacob," protested
Anne.
"I might well have expected
that," said Mrs. H. B. Donnell,
in a tone which implied that
gratitude in children was not
to be looked for in this degenerate
age. "That boy has such plebeian
tastes, Miss Shirley. When he
was born I wanted to call him
St. Clair . . .it sounds SO aristocratic,
doesn't it? But his father insisted
he should be called Jacob after
his uncle. I yielded, because
Uncle Jacob was a rich old bachelor.
And what do you think, Miss Shirley?
When our innocent boy was five
years old Uncle Jacob actually
went and got married and now
he has three boys of his own.
Did you ever hear of such ingratitude?
The moment the invitation to
the wedding. . .for he had the
impertinence to send us an invitation,
Miss Shirley. . .came to the
house I said, `No more Jacobs
for me, thank you.' From that
day I called my son St. Clair
and St. Clair I am determined
he shall be called. His father
obstinately continues to call
him Jacob, and the boy himself
has a perfectly unaccountable
preference for the vulgar name.
But St. Clair he is and St. Clair
he shall remain. You will kindly
remember this, Miss Shirley,
will you not? THANK you. I told
Clarice Almira that I was sure
it was only a misunderstanding
and that a word would set it
right. Donnell. . .accent on
the last syllable. . .and St.
Clair. . .on no account Jacob.
You'll remember? THANK you."
When Mrs. H.
B. DonNELL had skimmed away
Anne locked the
school door and went home. At
the foot of the hill she found
Paul Irving by the Birch Path.
He held out to her a cluster
of the dainty little wild orchids
which Avonlea children called "rice
lillies."
"Please, teacher, I found these
in Mr. Wright's field," he said
shyly, "and I came back to give
them to you because I thought
you were the kind of lady that
would like them, and because.
. ." he lifted his big beautiful
eyes. . ."I like you, teacher."
"You darling," said
Anne, taking the fragrant spikes.
As if Paul's
words had been a spell of magic,
discouragement and weariness
passed from her spirit, and hope
upwelled in her heart like a
dancing fountain. She went through
the Birch Path light-footedly,
attended by the sweetness of
her orchids as by a benediction.
"Well, how did you get along?" Marilla
wanted to know.
"Ask me that
a month later and I may be
able to tell you.
I can't now . . .I don't know
myself. . .I'm too near it. My
thoughts feel as if they had
been all stirred up until they
were thick and muddy. The only
thing I feel really sure of having
accomplished today is that I
taught Cliffie Wright that A
is A. He never knew it before.
Isn't it something to have started
a soul along a path that may
end in Shakespeare and Paradise
Lost?"
Mrs. Lynde came up later on
with more encouragement. That
good lady had waylaid the schoolchildren
at her gate and demanded of them
how they liked their new teacher.
"And every
one of them said they liked
you splendid, Anne,
except Anthony Pye. I must admit
he didn't. He said you `weren't
any good, just like all girl
teachers.' There's the Pye leaven
for you. But never mind."
"I'm not going to mind," said
Anne quietly, "and I'm going
to make Anthony Pye like me yet.
Patience and kindness will surely
win him."
"Well, you can never tell about
a Pye," said Mrs. Rachel cautiously. "They
go by contraries, like dreams,
often as not. As for that DonNELL
woman, she'll get no DonNELLing
from me, I can assure you. The
name is DONnell and always has
been. The woman is crazy, that's
what. She has a pug dog she calls
Queenie and it has its meals
at the table along with the family,
eating off a china plate. I'd
be afraid of a judgment if I
was her. Thomas says Donnell
himself is a sensible, hard-working
man, but he hadn't much gumption
when he picked out a wife, that's
what."
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