Further Chronicles of Avonlea

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FURTHER CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA

Which have to do with many personalities and events in and about
Avonlea, the Home of the Heroine of Green Gables, including tales
of Aunt Cynthia, The Materializing of Cecil, David Spencer's
Daughter, Jane's Baby, The Failure of Robert Monroe, The Return
of Hester, The Little Brown Book of Miss Emily, Sara's Way, The
Son of Thyra Carewe, The Education of Betty, The Selflessness of
Eunice Carr, The Dream-Child, The Conscience Case of David Bell,
Only a Common Fellow, and finally the story of Tannis of the
Flats.

All related by
L. M. MONTGOMERY

Author of "Anne of Green Gables," "Anne of Avonlea," "Anne of the
Island," "Chronicles of Avonlea," "Kilmeny of the Orchard," etc.

INTRODUCTION

It is no exaggeration to say that what Longfellow did for Acadia,
Miss Montgomery has done for Prince Edward Island. More than a
million readers, young people as well as their parents and uncles
and aunts, possess in the picture-galleries of their memories the
exquisite landscapes of Avonlea, limned with as poetic a pencil
as Longfellow wielded when he told the ever-moving story of Grand
Pre.

Only genius of the first water has the ability to conjure up such
a character as Anne Shirley, the heroine of Miss Montgomery's
first novel, "Anne of Green Gables," and to surround her with
people so distinctive, so real, so true to psychology. Anne is
as lovable a child as lives in all fiction. Natasha in Count
Tolstoi's great novel, "War and Peace," dances into our ken, with
something of the same buoyancy and naturalness; but into what a
commonplace young woman she develops! Anne, whether as the gay
little orphan in her conquest of the master and mistress of
Green Gables, or as the maturing and self-forgetful maiden of
Avonlea, keeps up to concert-pitch in her charm and her
winsomeness. There is nothing in her to disappoint hope or
imagination.

Part of the power of Miss Montgomery--and the largest part--is
due to her skill in compounding humor and pathos. The humor is
honest and golden; it never wearies the reader; the pathos is
never sentimentalized, never degenerates into bathos, is never
morbid. This combination holds throughout all her works, longer
or shorter, and is particularly manifest in the present
collection of fifteen short stories, which, together with those
in the first volume of the Chronicles of Avonlea, present a
series of piquant and fascinating pictures of life in Prince
Edward Island.

The humor is shown not only in the presentation of quaint and
unique characters, but also in the words which fall from their
mouths. Aunt Cynthia "always gave you the impression of a
full-rigged ship coming gallantly on before a favorable wind;" no
further description is needed--only one such personage could be
found in Avonlea. You would recognize her at sight. Ismay
Meade's disposition is summed up when we are told that she is
"good at having presentiments--after things happen." What
cleverer embodiment of innate obstinacy than in Isabella
Spencer--"a wisp of a woman who looked as if a breath would sway
her but was so set in her ways that a tornado would hardly have
caused her to swerve an inch from her chosen path;" or than in
Mrs. Eben Andrews (in "Sara's Way") who "looked like a woman
whose opinions were always very decided and warranted to wear!"

This gift of characterization in a few words is lavished also on
material objects, as, for instance; what more is needed to
describe the forlornness of the home from which Anne was rescued
than the statement that even the trees around it "looked like
orphans"?

The poetic touch, too, never fails in the right place and is
never too frequently introduced in her descriptions. They throw
a glamor over that Northern land which otherwise you might
imagine as rather cold and barren. What charming Springs they
must have there! One sees all the fruit-trees clad in bridal
garments of pink and white; and what a translucent sky smiles
down on the ponds and the reaches of bay and cove!

"The Eastern sky was a great arc of crystal, smitten through with
auroral crimsonings."

"She was as slim and lithe as a young white-stemmed birch-tree;
her hair was like a soft dusky cloud, and her eyes were as blue
as Avonlea Harbor in a fair twilight, when all the sky is a-bloom
over it."

Sentiment with a humorous touch to it prevails in the first two
stories of the present book. The one relates to the
disappearance of a valuable white Persian cat with a blue spot in
its tail. "Fatima" is like the apple of her eye to the rich old
aunt who leaves her with two nieces, with a stern injunction not
to let her out of the house. Of course both Sue and Ismay detest
cats; Ismay hates them, Sue loathes them; but Aunt Cynthia's
favor is worth preserving. You become as much interested in
Fatima's fate as if she were your own pet, and the climax is no
less unexpected than it is natural, especially when it is made
also the last act of a pretty comedy of love.

Miss Montgomery delights in depicting the romantic episodes
hidden in the hearts of elderly spinsters as, for instance, in
the case of Charlotte Holmes, whose maid Nancy would have sent
for the doctor and subjected her to a porous plaster while
waiting for him, had she known that up stairs there was a
note-book full of original poems. Rather than bear the stigma
of never having had a love-affair, this sentimental lady
invents one to tell her mocking young friends. The dramatic and
unexpected denouement is delightful fun.

Another note-book reveals a deeper romance in the case of Miss
Emily; this is related by Anne of Green Gables, who once or
twice flashes across the scene, though for the most part her
friends and neighbors at White Sands or Newbridge or Grafton as
well as at Avonlea are the persons involved.

In one story, the last, "Tannis of the Flats," the secret of
Elinor Blair's spinsterhood is revealed in an episode which
carries the reader from Avonlea to Saskatchewan and shows the
unselfish devotion of a half-breed Indian girl. The story is
both poignant and dramatic. Its one touch of humor is where
Jerome Carey curses his fate in being compelled to live in that
desolate land in "the picturesque language permissible in the
far Northwest."

Self-sacrifice, as the real basis of happiness, is a favorite
theme in Miss Montgomery's fiction. It is raised to the nth
power in the story entitled, "In Her Selfless Mood," where an
ugly, misshapen girl devotes her life and renounces marriage for
the sake of looking after her weak and selfish half-brother. The
same spirit is found in "Only a Common Fellow," who is haloed
with a certain splendor by renouncing the girl he was to marry in
favor of his old rival, supposed to have been killed in France,
but happily delivered from that tragic fate.

Miss Montgomery loves to introduce a little child or a baby as a
solvent of old feuds or domestic quarrels. In "The Dream Child,"
a foundling boy, drifting in through a storm in a dory, saves a
heart-broken mother from insanity. In "Jane's Baby," a
baby-cousin brings reconciliation between the two sisters,
Rosetta and Carlotta, who had not spoken for twenty years because
"the slack-twisted" Jacob married the younger of the two.

Happiness generally lights up the end of her stories, however
tragic they may set out to be. In "The Son of His Mother," Thyra
is a stern woman, as "immovable as a stone image." She had only
one son, whom she worshipped; "she never wanted a daughter, but
she pitied and despised all sonless women." She demanded
absolute obedience from Chester--not only obedience, but also
utter affection, and she hated his dog because the boy loved him:
"She could not share her love even with a dumb brute." When
Chester falls in love, she is relentless toward the beautiful
young girl and forces Chester to give her up. But a terrible
sorrow brings the old woman and the young girl into sympathy, and
unspeakable joy is born of the trial.

Happiness also comes to "The Brother who Failed." The Monroes
had all been successful in the eyes of the world except Robert:
one is a millionaire, another a college president, another a
famous singer. Robert overhears the old aunt, Isabel, call him a
total failure, but, at the family dinner, one after another
stands up and tells how Robert's quiet influence and unselfish
aid had started them in their brilliant careers, and the old
aunt, wiping the tears from her eyes, exclaims: "I guess there's
a kind of failure that's the best success."

In one story there is an element of the supernatural, when
Hester, the hard older sister, comes between Margaret and her
lover and, dying, makes her promise never to become Hugh Blair's
wife, but she comes back and unites them. In this, Margaret,
just like the delightful Anne, lives up to the dictum that
"nothing matters in all God's universe except love." The story
of the revival at Avonlea has also a good moral.

There is something in these continued Chronicles of Avonlea,
like the delicate art which has made "Cranford" a classic: the
characters are so homely and homelike and yet tinged with
beautiful romance! You feel that you are made familiar with a
real town and its real inhabitants; you learn to love them and
sympathize with them. Further Chronicles of Avonlea is a book to
read; and to know.

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.

CONTENTS

I. Aunt Cynthia's Persian Cat
II. The Materializing of Cecil
III. Her Father's Daughter
IV. Jane's Baby
V. The Dream-Child
VI. The Brother Who Failed
VII. The Return of Hester
VIII. The Little Brown Book of Miss Emily
IX. Sara's Way
X. The Son of His Mother
XI. The Education of Betty
XII. In Her Selfless Mood
XIII. The Conscience Case of David Bell
XIV. Only a Common Fellow
XV. Tannis of the Flats

FURTHER CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA

I. AUNT CYNTHIA'S PERSIAN CAT

Max always blesses the animal when it is referred to; and I don't
deny that things have worked together for good after all. But
when I think of the anguish of mind which Ismay and I underwent
on account of that abominable cat, it is not a blessing that
arises uppermost in my thoughts.

I never was fond of cats, although I admit they are well enough
in their place, and I can worry along comfortably with a nice,
matronly old tabby who can take care of herself and be of some
use in the world. As for Ismay, she hates cats and always did.

But Aunt Cynthia, who adored them, never could bring herself to
understand that any one could possibly dislike them. She firmly
believed that Ismay and I really liked cats deep down in our
hearts, but that, owing to some perverse twist in our moral
natures, we would not own up to it, but willfully persisted in
declaring we didn't.

Of all cats I loathed that white Persian cat of Aunt Cynthia's.
And, indeed, as we always suspected and finally proved, Aunt
herself looked upon the creature with more pride than affection.
She would have taken ten times the comfort in a good, common puss
that she did in that spoiled beauty. But a Persian cat with a
recorded pedigree and a market value of one hundred dollars
tickled Aunt Cynthia's pride of possession to such an extent that
she deluded herself into believing that the animal was really the
apple of her eye.

It had been presented to her when a kitten by a missionary nephew
who had brought it all the way home from Persia; and for the next
three years Aunt Cynthia's household existed to wait on that cat,
hand and foot. It was snow-white, with a bluish-gray spot on the
tip of its tail; and it was blue-eyed and deaf and delicate.
Aunt Cynthia was always worrying lest it should take cold and
die. Ismay and I used to wish that it would--we were so tired of
hearing about it and its whims. But we did not say so to Aunt
Cynthia. She would probably never have spoken to us again and
there was no wisdom in offending Aunt Cynthia. When you have an
unencumbered aunt, with a fat bank account, it is just as well to
keep on good terms with her, if you can. Besides, we really
liked Aunt Cynthia very much--at times. Aunt Cynthia was one of
those rather exasperating people who nag at and find fault with
you until you think you are justified in hating them, and who
then turn round and do something so really nice and kind for you
that you feel as if you were compelled to love them dutifully
instead.

So we listened meekly when she discoursed on Fatima--the cat's
name was Fatima--and, if it was wicked of us to wish for the
latter's decease, we were well punished for it later on.

One day, in November, Aunt Cynthia came sailing out to
Spencervale. She really came in a phaeton, drawn by a fat gray
pony, but somehow Aunt Cynthia always gave you the impression of
a full rigged ship coming gallantly on before a favorable wind.

That was a Jonah day for us all through. Everything had gone
wrong. Ismay had spilled grease on her velvet coat, and the fit
of the new blouse I was making was hopelessly askew, and the
kitchen stove smoked and the bread was sour. Moreover, Huldah
Jane Keyson, our tried and trusty old family nurse and cook and
general "boss," had what she called the "realagy" in her
shoulder; and, though Huldah Jane is as good an old creature as
ever lived, when she has the "realagy" other people who are in
the house want to get out of it and, if they can't, feel about as
comfortable as St. Lawrence on his gridiron.

And on top of this came Aunt Cynthia's call and request.

"Dear me," said Aunt Cynthia, sniffing, "don't I smell smoke?
You girls must manage your range very badly. Mine never smokes.
But it is no more than one might expect when two girls try to
keep house without a man about the place."

"We get along very well without a man about the place," I said
loftily. Max hadn't been in for four whole days and, though
nobody wanted to see him particularly, I couldn't help wondering
why. "Men are nuisances."

"I dare say you would like to pretend you think so," said Aunt
Cynthia, aggravatingly. "But no woman ever does really think so,
you know. I imagine that pretty Anne Shirley, who is visiting
Ella Kimball, doesn't. I saw her and Dr. Irving out walking this
afternoon, looking very well satisfied with themselves. If you
dilly-dally much longer, Sue, you will let Max slip through your
fingers yet."

That was a tactful thing to say to ME, who had refused Max Irving
so often that I had lost count. I was furious, and so I smiled
most sweetly on my maddening aunt.

"Dear Aunt, how amusing of you," I said, smoothly. "You talk as
if I wanted Max."

"So you do," said Aunt Cynthia.

"If so, why should I have refused him time and again?" I asked,
smilingly. Right well Aunt Cynthia knew I had. Max always told
her.

"Goodness alone knows why," said Aunt Cynthia, "but you may do it
once too often and find yourself taken at your word. There is
something very fascinating about this Anne Shirley."

"Indeed there is," I assented. "She has the loveliest eyes I
ever saw. She would be just the wife for Max, and I hope he will
marry her."

"Humph," said Aunt Cynthia. "Well, I won't entice you into
telling any more fibs. And I didn't drive out here to-day in all
this wind to talk sense into you concerning Max. I'm going to
Halifax for two months and I want you to take charge of Fatima
for me, while I am away."

"Fatima!" I exclaimed.

"Yes. I don't dare to trust her with the servants. Mind you
always warm her milk before you give it to her, and don't on any
account let her run out of doors."

I looked at Ismay and Ismay looked at me. We knew we were in for
it. To refuse would mortally offend Aunt Cynthia. Besides, if I
betrayed any unwillingness, Aunt Cynthia would be sure to put it
down to grumpiness over what she had said about Max, and rub it
in for years. But I ventured to ask, "What if anything happens
to her while you are away?"

"It is to prevent that, I'm leaving her with you," said Aunt
Cynthia. "You simply must not let anything happen to her. It
will do you good to have a little responsibility. And you will
have a chance to find out what an adorable creature Fatima really
is. Well, that is all settled. I'll send Fatima out to-morrow."

"You can take care of that horrid Fatima beast yourself," said
Ismay, when the door closed behind Aunt Cynthia. "I won't touch
her with a yard-stick. You had no business to say we'd take
her."

"Did I say we would take her?" I demanded, crossly. "Aunt
Cynthia took our consent for granted. And you know, as well as I
do, we couldn't have refused. So what is the use of being
grouchy?"

"If anything happens to her Aunt Cynthia will hold us
responsible," said Ismay darkly.

"Do you think Anne Shirley is really engaged to Gilbert Blythe?"
I asked curiously.

"I've heard that she was," said Ismay, absently. "Does she eat
anything but milk? Will it do to give her mice?"

"Oh, I guess so. But do you think Max has really fallen in love
with her?"

"I dare say. What a relief it will be for you if he has."

"Oh, of course," I said, frostily. "Anne Shirley or Anne Anybody
Else, is perfectly welcome to Max if she wants him. _I_
certainly do not. Ismay Meade, if that stove doesn't stop
smoking I shall fly into bits. This is a detestable day. I hate
that creature!"

"Oh, you shouldn't talk like that, when you don't even know her,"
protested Ismay. "Every one says Anne Shirley is lovely--"

"I was talking about Fatima," I cried in a rage.

"Oh!" said Ismay.

Ismay is stupid at times. I thought the way she said "Oh" was
inexcusably stupid.

Fatima arrived the next day. Max brought her out in a covered
basket, lined with padded crimson satin. Max likes cats and Aunt
Cynthia. He explained how we were to treat Fatima and when Ismay
had gone out of the room--Ismay always went out of the room when
she knew I particularly wanted her to remain--he proposed to me
again. Of course I said no, as usual, but I was rather pleased.
Max had been proposing to me about every two months for two
years. Sometimes, as in this case, he went three months, and
then I always wondered why. I concluded that he could not be
really interested in Anne Shirley, and I was relieved. I didn't
want to marry Max but it was pleasant and convenient to have him
around, and we would miss him dreadfully if any other girl
snapped him up. He was so useful and always willing to do
anything for us--nail a shingle on the roof, drive us to town,
put down carpets--in short, a very present help in all our
troubles.

So I just beamed on him when I said no. Max began counting on
his fingers. When he got as far as eight he shook his head and
began over again.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I'm trying to count up how many times I have proposed to you,"
he said. "But I can't remember whether I asked you to marry me
that day we dug up the garden or not. If I did it makes--"

"No, you didn't," I interrupted.

"Well, that makes it eleven," said Max reflectively. "Pretty
near the limit, isn't it? My manly pride will not allow me to
propose to the same girl more than twelve times. So the next
time will be the last, Sue darling."

"Oh," I said, a trifle flatly. I forgot to resent his calling me
darling. I wondered if things wouldn't be rather dull when Max
gave up proposing to me. It was the only excitement I had. But
of course it would be best--and he couldn't go on at it forever,
so, by the way of gracefully dismissing the subject, I asked him
what Miss Shirley was like.

"Very sweet girl," said Max. "You know I always admired those
gray-eyed girls with that splendid Titian hair."

I am dark, with brown eyes. Just then I detested Max. I got up
and said I was going to get some milk for Fatima.

I found Ismay in a rage in the kitchen. She had been up in the
garret, and a mouse had run across her foot. Mice always get on
Ismay's nerves.

"We need a cat badly enough," she fumed, "but not a useless,
pampered thing, like Fatima. That garret is literally swarming
with mice. You'll not catch me going up there again."

Fatima did not prove such a nuisance as we had feared. Huldah
Jane liked her, and Ismay, in spite of her declaration that she
would have nothing to do with her, looked after her comfort
scrupulously. She even used to get up in the middle of the night
and go out to see if Fatima was warm. Max came in every day and,
being around, gave us good advice.

Then one day, about three weeks after Aunt Cynthia's departure,
Fatima disappeared--just simply disappeared as if she had been
dissolved into thin air. We left her one afternoon, curled up
asleep in her basket by the fire, under Huldah Jane's eye, while
we went out to make a call. When we came home Fatima was gone.

Huldah Jane wept and was as one whom the gods had made mad. She
vowed that she had never let Fatima out of her sight the whole
time, save once for three minutes when she ran up to the garret
for some summer savory. When she came back the kitchen door had
blown open and Fatima had vanished.

Ismay and I were frantic. We ran about the garden and through
the out-houses, and the woods behind the house, like wild
creatures, calling Fatima, but in vain. Then Ismay sat down on
the front doorsteps and cried.

"She has got out and she'll catch her death of cold and Aunt
Cynthia will never forgive us."

"I'm going for Max," I declared. So I did, through the spruce
woods and over the field as fast as my feet could carry me,
thanking my stars that there was a Max to go to in such a
predicament.

Max came over and we had another search, but without result.
Days passed, but we did not find Fatima. I would certainly have
gone crazy had it not been for Max. He was worth his weight in
gold during the awful week that followed. We did not dare
advertise, lest Aunt Cynthia should see it; but we inquired far
and wide for a white Persian cat with a blue spot on its tail,
and offered a reward for it; but nobody had seen it, although
people kept coming to the house, night and day, with every kind
of a cat in baskets, wanting to know if it was the one we had
lost.

"We shall never see Fatima again," I said hopelessly to Max and
Ismay one afternoon. I had just turned away an old woman with a
big, yellow tommy which she insisted must be ours--"cause it kem
to our place, mem, a-yowling fearful, mem, and it don't belong to
nobody not down Grafton way, mem."

"I'm afraid you won't," said Max. "She must have perished from
exposure long ere this."

"Aunt Cynthia will never forgive us," said Ismay, dismally. "I
had a presentiment of trouble the moment that cat came to this
house."

We had never heard of this presentiment before, but Ismay is good
at having presentiments--after things happen.

"What shall we do?" I demanded, helplessly. "Max, can't you find
some way out of this scrape for us?"

"Advertise in the Charlottetown papers for a white Persian cat,"
suggested Max. "Some one may have one for sale. If so, you must
buy it, and palm it off on your good Aunt as Fatima. She's very
short-sighted, so it will be quite possible."

"But Fatima has a blue spot on her tail," I said.

"You must advertise for a cat with a blue spot on its tail," said
Max.

"It will cost a pretty penny," said Ismay dolefully. "Fatima was
valued at one hundred dollars."

"We must take the money we have been saving for our new furs," I
said sorrowfully. "There is no other way out of it. It will
cost us a good deal more if we lose Aunt Cynthia's favor. She is
quite capable of believing that we have made away with Fatima
deliberately and with malice aforethought."

So we advertised. Max went to town and had the notice inserted
in the most important daily. We asked any one who had a white
Persian cat, with a blue spot on the tip of its tail, to dispose
of, to communicate with M. I., care of the _Enterprise_.

We really did not have much hope that anything would come of it,
so we were surprised and delighted over the letter Max brought
home from town four days later. It was a type-written screed
from Halifax stating that the writer had for sale a white Persian
cat answering to our description. The price was a hundred and
ten dollars, and, if M. I. cared to go to Halifax and inspect the
animal, it would be found at 110 Hollis Street, by inquiring for
"Persian."

"Temper your joy, my friends," said Ismay, gloomily. "The cat
may not suit. The blue spot may be too big or too small or not
in the right place. I consistently refuse to believe that any
good thing can come out of this deplorable affair."

Just at this moment there was a knock at the door and I hurried
out. The postmaster's boy was there with a telegram. I tore it
open, glanced at it, and dashed back into the room.

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