Reading books romantic stories you will plunge into the world of feelings and love. Most of the time the story ends happily. Very interesting and informative to read books historical romance novels to feel the atmosphere of that time.Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery (freenovel24 .txt) đź“–
- Author: Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Book online «Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery (freenovel24 .txt) 📖». Author Lucy Maud Montgomery
“Speaking of stories, Diana,” remarked Anne, in a significant, confidential tone, “do you know that lately I have been wondering if I could write a short story — a story that would be good enough to be published?”
“Why, of course you could,” said Diana, after she had grasped the amazing suggestion. “You used to write perfectly thrilling stories years ago in our old Story Club.”
“Well, I hardly meant one of that kind of stories,” smiled Anne. “I’ve been thinking about it a little of late, but I’m almost afraid to try, for, if I should fail, it would be too humiliating.”
“I heard Priscilla say once that all Mrs. Morgan’s first stories were rejected. But I’m sure yours wouldn’t be, Anne, for it’s likely editors have more sense nowadays.”
“Margaret Burton, one of the Junior girls at Redmond, wrote a story last winter and it was published in the Canadian Woman. I really do think I could write one at least as good.”
“And will you have it published in the Canadian Woman?”
“I might try one of the bigger magazines first. It all depends on what kind of a story I write.”
“What is it to be about?”
“I don’t know yet. I want to get hold of a good plot. I believe this is very necessary from an editor’s point of view. The only thing I’ve settled on is the heroine’s name. It is to be AVERIL LESTER. Rather pretty, don’t you think? Don’t mention this to any one, Diana. I haven’t told anybody but you and Mr. Harrison. HE wasn’t very encouraging — he said there was far too much trash written nowadays as it was, and he’d expected something better of me, after a year at college.”
“What does Mr. Harrison know about it?” demanded Diana scornfully.
They found the Gillis home gay with lights and callers. Leonard Kimball, of Spencervale, and Morgan Bell, of Carmody, were glaring at each other across the parlor. Several merry girls had dropped in. Ruby was dressed in white and her eyes and cheeks were very brilliant. She laughed and chattered incessantly, and after the other girls had gone she took Anne upstairs to display her new summer dresses.
“I’ve a blue silk to make up yet, but it’s a little heavy for summer wear. I think I’ll leave it until the fall. I’m going to teach in White Sands, you know. How do you like my hat? That one you had on in church yesterday was real dinky. But I like something brighter for myself. Did you notice those two ridiculous boys downstairs? They’ve both come determined to sit each other out. I don’t care a single bit about either of them, you know. Herb Spencer is the one I like. Sometimes I really do think he’s MR. RIGHT. At Christmas I thought the Spencervale schoolmaster was that. But I found out something about him that turned me against him. He nearly went insane when I turned him down. I wish those two boys hadn’t come tonight. I wanted to have a nice good talk with you, Anne, and tell you such heaps of things. You and I were always good chums, weren’t we?”
Ruby slipped her arm about Anne’s waist with a shallow little laugh. But just for a moment their eyes met, and, behind all the luster of Ruby’s, Anne saw something that made her heart ache.
“Come up often, won’t you, Anne?” whispered Ruby. “Come alone — I want you.”
“Are you feeling quite well, Ruby?”
“Me! Why, I’m perfectly well. I never felt better in my life. Of course, that congestion last winter pulled me down a little. But just see my color. I don’t look much like an invalid, I’m sure.”
Ruby’s voice was almost sharp. She pulled her arm away from Anne, as if in resentment, and ran downstairs, where she was gayer than ever, apparently so much absorbed in bantering her two swains that Diana and Anne felt rather out of it and soon went away.
“What are you dreaming of, Anne?”
The two girls were loitering one evening in a fairy hollow of the brook. Ferns nodded in it, and little grasses were green, and wild pears hung finely-scented, white curtains around it.
Anne roused herself from her reverie with a happy sigh.
“I was thinking out my story, Diana.”
“Oh, have you really begun it?” cried Diana, all alight with eager interest in a moment.
“Yes, I have only a few pages written, but I have it all pretty well thought out. I’ve had such a time to get a suitable plot. None of the plots that suggested themselves suited a girl named AVERIL.”
“Couldn’t you have changed her name?”
“No, the thing was impossible. I tried to, but I couldn’t do it, any more than I could change yours. AVERIL was so real to me that no matter what other name I tried to give her I just thought of her as AVERIL behind it all. But finally I got a plot that matched her. Then came the excitement of choosing names for all my characters. You have no idea how fascinating that is. I’ve lain awake for hours thinking over those names. The hero’s name is PERCEVAL DALRYMPLE.”
“Have you named ALL the characters?” asked Diana wistfully. “If you hadn’t I was going to ask you to let me name one — just some unimportant person. I’d feel as if I had a share in the story then.”
“You may name the little hired boy who lived with the LESTERS,” conceded Anne. “He is not very important, but he is the only one left unnamed.”
“Call him RAYMOND FITZOSBORNE,” suggested Diana, who had a store of such names laid away in her memory, relics of the old “Story Club,” which she and Anne and Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis had had in their schooldays.
Anne shook her head doubtfully.
“I’m afraid that is too aristocratic a name for a chore boy, Diana. I couldn’t imagine a Fitzosborne feeding pigs and picking up chips, could you?”
Diana didn’t see why, if you had an imagination at all, you couldn’t stretch it to that extent; but probably Anne knew best, and the chore boy was finally christened ROBERT RAY, to be called BOBBY should occasion require.
“How much do you suppose you’ll get for it?” asked Diana.
But Anne had not thought about this at all. She was in pursuit of fame, not filthy lucre, and her literary dreams were as yet untainted by mercenary considerations.
“You’ll let me read it, won’t you?” pleaded Diana.
“When it is finished I’ll read it to you and Mr. Harrison, and I shall want you to criticize it SEVERELY. No one else shall see it until it is published.”
“How are you going to end it — happily or unhappily?”
“I’m not sure. I’d like it to end unhappily, because that would be so much more romantic. But I understand editors have a prejudice against sad endings. I heard Professor Hamilton say once that nobody but a genius should try to write an unhappy ending.
And,” concluded Anne modestly, “I’m anything but a genius.”
“Oh I like happy endings best. You’d better let him marry her,” said Diana, who, especially since her engagement to Fred, thought this was how every story should end.
“But you like to cry over stories?”
“Oh, yes, in the middle of them. But I like everything to come right at last.”
“I must have one pathetic scene in it,” said Anne thoughtfully. “I might let ROBERT RAY be injured in an accident and have a death scene.”
“No, you mustn’t kill BOBBY off,” declared Diana, laughing. “He belongs to me and I want him to live and flourish. Kill somebody else if you have to.”
For the next fortnight Anne writhed or reveled, according to mood, in her literary pursuits. Now she would be jubilant over a brilliant idea, now despairing because some contrary character would NOT behave properly. Diana could not understand this.
“MAKE them do as you want them to,” she said.
“I can’t,” mourned Anne. “Averil is such an unmanageable heroine. She WILL do and say things I never meant her to. Then that spoils everything that went before and I have to write it all over again.”
Finally, however, the story was finished, and Anne read it to Diana in the seclusion of the porch gable. She had achieved her “pathetic scene” without sacrificing ROBERT RAY, and she kept a watchful eye on Diana as she read it. Diana rose to the occasion and cried properly; but, when the end came, she looked a little disappointed.
“Why did you kill MAURICE LENNOX?” she asked reproachfully.
“He was the villain,” protested Anne. “He had to be punished.”
“I like him best of them all,” said unreasonable Diana.
“Well, he’s dead, and he’ll have to stay dead,” said Anne, rather resentfully. “If I had let him live he’d have gone on persecuting AVERIL and PERCEVAL.”
“Yes — unless you had reformed him.”
“That wouldn’t have been romantic, and, besides, it would have made the story too long.”
“Well, anyway, it’s a perfectly elegant story, Anne, and will make you famous, of that I’m sure. Have you got a title for it?”
“Oh, I decided on the title long ago. I call it AVERIL’S ATONEMENT. Doesn’t that sound nice and alliterative? Now, Diana, tell me candidly, do you see any faults in my story?”
“Well,” hesitated Diana, “that part where AVERIL makes the cake doesn’t seem to me quite romantic enough to match the rest. It’s just what anybody might do. Heroines shouldn’t do cooking, I think.”
“Why, that is where the humor comes in, and it’s one of the best parts of the whole story,” said Anne. And it may be stated that in this she was quite right.
Diana prudently refrained from any further criticism, but Mr. Harrison was much harder to please. First he told her there was entirely too much description in the story.
“Cut out all those flowery passages,” he said unfeelingly.
Anne had an uncomfortable conviction that Mr. Harrison was right, and she forced herself to expunge most of her beloved descriptions, though it took three re-writings before the story could be pruned down to please the fastidious Mr. Harrison.
“I’ve left out ALL the descriptions but the sunset,” she said at last. “I simply COULDN’T let it go. It was the best of them all.”
“It hasn’t anything to do with the story,” said Mr. Harrison, “and you shouldn’t have laid the scene among rich city people. What do you know of them? Why didn’t you lay it right here in Avonlea — changing the name, of course, or else Mrs. Rachel Lynde would probably think she was the heroine.”
“Oh, that would never have done,” protested Anne. “Avonlea is the dearest place in the world, but it isn’t quite romantic enough for the scene of a story.”
“I daresay there’s been many a romance in Avonlea — and many a tragedy, too,” said Mr. Harrison drily. “But your folks ain’t like real folks anywhere. They talk too much and use too
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