Further Chronicles of Avonlea

by L. M. Montgomery

THE first summer Mr. Irving and Miss Lavendar - Diana

  and I could never call her anything else, even after

  she was married - were at Echo Lodge after their

  marriage, both Diana and I spent a great deal of time

  with them. We became acquainted with many of the

  Grafton people whom we had not known before, and among

  others, the family of Mr. Mack Leith. We often went up

  to the Leiths in the evening to play croquet. Millie

  and Margaret Leith were very nice girls, and the boys

  were nice, too. Indeed, we liked every one in the

  family, except poor old Miss Emily Leith. We tried hard

  enough to like her, because she seemed to like Diana

  and me very much, and always wanted to sit with us and

  talk to us, when we would much rather have been

  somewhere else. We often felt a good deal of impatience

  at these times, but I am very glad to think now that we

  never showed it.

  In a way, we felt sorry for Miss Emily. She was Mr.

  Leith's old-maid sister and she was not of much

  importance in the household. But, though we felt sorry

  for her, we couldn't like her. She really was fussy and

  meddlesome; she liked to poke a finger into every one's

  pie, and she was not at all tactful. Then, too, she had

  a sarcastic tongue, and seemed to feel bitter towards

  all the young folks and their love affairs. Diana and I

  thought this was because she had never had a lover of

  her own.

  Somehow, it seemed impossible to think of lovers in

  connection with Miss Emily. She was short and stout and

  pudgy, with a face so round and fat and red that it

  seemed quite featureless; and her hair was scanty and

  gray. She walked with a waddle, just like Mrs. Rachel

  Lynde, and she was always rather short of breath. It

  was hard to believe Miss Emily had ever been young; yet

  old Mr. Murray, who lived next door to the Leiths, not

  only expected us to believe it, but assured us that she

  had been very pretty.

  "That, at least, is impossible," said Diana to me.

  And then, one day, Miss Emily died. I'm afraid no one

  was very sorry. It seems to me a most dreadful thing to

  go out of the world and leave not one person behind to

  be sorry because you have gone. Miss Emily was dead and

  buried before Diana and I heard of it at all. The first

  I knew of it was when I came home from Orchard Slope

  one day and found a queer, shabby little black

  horsehair trunk, all studded with brass nails, on the

  floor of my room at Green Gables. Marilla told me that

  Jack Leith had brought it over, and said that it had

  belonged to Miss Emily and that, when she was dying,

  she asked them to send it to me.

  "But what is in it? And what am I to do with it?" I

  asked in bewilderment.

  "There was nothing said about what you were to do with

  it. Jack said they didn't know what was in it, and

  hadn't looked into it, seeing that it was your

  property. It seems a rather queer proceeding - but

  you're always getting mixed up in queer proceedings,

  Anne. As for what is in it, the easiest way to find

  out, I reckon, is to open it and see. The key is tied

  to it. Jack said Miss Emily said she wanted you to have

  it because she loved you and saw her lost youth in you.

  I guess she was a bit delirious at the last and

  wandered a good deal. She said she wanted you 'to

  understand her.' "

  I ran over to Orchard Slope and asked Diana to come

  over and examine the trunk with me. I hadn't received

  any instructions about keeping its contents secret and

  I knew Miss Emily wouldn't mind Diana knowing about

  them, whatever they were.

  It was a cool, gray afternoon and we got back to Green

  Gables just as the rain was beginning to fall. When we

  went up to my room the wind was rising and whistling

  through the boughs of the big old Snow Queen outside of

  my window. Diana was excited, and, I really believe, a

  little bit frightened.

  We opened the old trunk. It was very small, and there

  was nothing in it but a big cardboard box. The box was

  tied up and the knots sealed with wax. We lifted it out

  and untied it. I touched Diana's fingers as we did it,

  and both of us exclaimed at once, "How cold your hand

  is!"

  In the box was a quaint, pretty, old-fashioned gown,

  not at all faded, made of blue muslin, with a little

  darker blue flower in it. Under it we found a sash, a

  yellowed feather fan, and an envelope full of withered

  flowers. At the bottom of the box was a little brown

  book.

  It was small and thin, like a girl's exercise book,

  with leaves that had once been blue and pink, but were

  now quite faded, and stained in places. On the fly leaf

  was written, in a very delicate hand, "Emily Margaret

  Leith," and the same writing covered the first few

  pages of the book. The rest were not written on at all.

  We sat there on the floor, Diana and I, and read the

  little book together, while the rain thudded against

  the window panes.

  June 19, 18 --

  I came to-day to spend a while with Aunt Margaret in

  Charlottetown. It is so pretty here, where she lives -

  and ever so much nicer than on the farm at home. I have

  no cows to milk here or pigs to feed. Aunt Margaret has

  given me such a lovely blue muslin dress, and I am to

  have it made to wear at a garden party out at Brighton

  next week. I never had a muslin dress before - nothing

  but ugly prints and dark woolens. I wish we were rich,

  like Aunt Margaret. Aunt Margaret laughed when I said

  this, and declared she would give all her wealth for my

  youth and beauty and light-heartedness. I am only

  eighteen and I know I am very merry but I wonder if I

  am really pretty. It seems to me that I am when I look

  in Aunt Margaret's beautiful mirrors. They make me look

  very different from the old cracked one in my room at

  home which always twisted my face and turned me green.

  But Aunt Margaret spoiled her compliment by telling me

  I look exactly as she did at my age. If I thought I'd

  ever look as Aunt Margaret does now, I don't know what

  I'd do. She is so fat and red.

  June 29.

  Last week I went to the garden party and I met a young

  man called Paul Osborne. He is a young artist from

  Montreal who is boarding over at Heppoch. He is the

  handsomest man I have ever seen - very tall and

  slender, with dreamy, dark eyes and a pale, clever

  face. I have not been able to keep from thinking about

  him ever since, and to-day he came over here and asked

  if he could paint me. I felt very much flattered and so

  pleased when Aunt Margaret gave him permission. He says

  he wants to paint me as "Spring," standing under the

  poplars where a fine rain of sunshine falls through. I
r />   am to wear my blue muslin gown and a wreath of flowers

  on my hair. He says I have such beautiful hair. He has

  never seen any of such a real pale gold. Somehow it

  seems even prettier than ever to me since he praised

  it.

  I had a letter from home to-day. Ma says the blue hen

  stole her nest and came off with fourteen chickens, and

  that pa has sold the little spotted calf. Somehow those

  things don't interest me like they once did.

  July 9.

  The picture is coming on very well, Mr. Osborne says. I

  know he is making me look far too pretty in it,

  although her persists in saying he can't do me justice.

  He is going to send it to some great exhibition when

  finished, but he says he will make a little water-color

  copy for me.

  He comes every day to paint and we talk a great deal

  and he reads me lovely things out of his books. I don't

  understand them all, but I try to, and he explains them

  so nicely and is so patient with my stupidity. And he

  says any one with my eyes and hair and coloring does

  not need to be clever. He says I have the sweetest,

  merriest laugh in the world. But I will not write down

  all the compliments he has paid me. I dare say he does

  not mean them at all.

  In the evening we stroll among the spruces or sit on

  the bench under the acacia tree. Sometimes we don't

  talk at all, but I never find the time long. Indeed,

  the minutes just seem to fly - and then the moon will

  come up, round and red, over the harbor and Mr. Osborne

  will sigh and say he supposes it is time for him to go.

  July 24.

  I am so happy. I am frightened at my happiness. Oh, I

  didn't think life could ever be so beautiful for me as

  it is!

  Paul loves me! He told me so to-night as we walked by

  the harbor and watched the sunset, and he asked me to

  be his wife. I have cared for him ever since I met him,

  but I am afraid I am not clever and well-educated

  enough for a wife for Paul. Because, of course, I'm

  only an ignorant little country girl and have lived all

  my life on a farm. Why, my hands are quite rough yet

  from the work I've done. But Paul just laughed when I

  said so, and took my hands and kissed them. Then he

  looked into my eyes and laughed again, because I

  couldn't hide from him how much I loved him.

  We are to be married next spring and Paul says he will

  take me to Europe. That will be very nice, but nothing

  matters so long as I am with him.

  Paul's people are very wealthy and his mother and

  sisters are very fashionable. I am frightened of them,

  but I did not tell Paul so because I think it would

  hurt him and oh, I wouldn't do that for the world.

  There is nothing I wouldn't suffer if it would do him

  any good. I never thought any one could feel so. I used

  to think if I loved anybody I would want him to do

  everything for me and wait on me as if I were a

  princess. But that is not the way at all. Love makes

  you very humble and you want to do everything yourself

  for the one you love.

  August 10.

  Paul went home to-day. Oh, it is so terrible! I don't

  know how I can bear to live even for a little while

  without him. But this is silly of me, because I know he

  has to go and he will write often and come to me often.

  But, still, it is so lonesome. I didn't cry when he

  left me because I wanted him to remember me smiling in

  the way he liked best, but I have been crying ever

  since and I can't stop, no matter how hard I try. We

  have had such a beautiful fortnight. Every day seemed

  dearer and happier than the last, and now it is ended

  and I feel as if it could never be the same again. Oh,

  I am very foolish - but I love him so dearly and if I

  were to lose his love I know I would die.

  August 17.

  I think my heart is dead. But no, it can't be, for it

  aches too much.

  Paul's mother came here to see me to-day. She was not

  angry or disagreeable. I wouldn't have been so

  frightened of her if she had been. As it was, I felt

  that I couldn't say a word. She is very beautiful and

  stately and wonderful, with a low, cold voice and

  proud, dark eyes. Her face is like Paul's but without

  the loveableness of his.

 

  She talked to me for a long time and she said terrible

  things - terrible, because I knew they were all true. I

  seemed to see everything through her eyes. She said

  that Paul was infatuated with my youth and beauty but

  that it would not last and what else I to give him? She

  said Paul must marry a woman of his own class, who

  could do honor to his fame and position. She said that

  he was very talented and had a great career before him,

  but that if he married me it would ruin his life.

  I saw it all, just as she explained it out, and I told

  her at last that I would not marry Paul, and she might

  tell him so. But she smiled and said I must tell him

  myself, because he would not believe any one else. I

  could have begged her to spare me that, but I knew it

  would be of no use. I do not think she has any pity or

  mercy for any one. Besides, what she said was quite

  true.

  When she thanked me for being so reasonable I told her

  I was not doing it to please her, but for Paul's sake,

  because I would not spoil his life, and that I would

  always hate her. She smiled again and went away.

  Oh, how can I bear it? I did not know any one could

  suffer like this!

  August 18.

  I have done it. I wrote to Paul to-day. I knew I must

  tell him by letter, because I could never make him

  believe it face to face. I was afraid I could not even

  do it by letter. I suppose a clever woman easily could,

  but I am so stupid. I wrote a great many letters and

  tore them up, because I felt sure they wouldn't

  convince Paul. At last I got one that I thought would

  do. I knew I must make it seems as if I were very

  frivolous and heartless, or he would never believe. I

  spelled some words wrong and put in some mistakes of

  grammar on purpose. I told him I had just been flirting

  with him, and that I had another fellow at home I liked

  better. I said fellow because I knew it would disgust

  him. I said that it was only because he was rich that I

  was tempted to marry him.

  I thought would my heart would break while I was

  writing those dreadful falsehoods. But it was for his

  sake, because I must not spoil his life. His mother

  told me I would be a millstone around his neck. I love

  Paul so much that I would do anything rather than be

  that. It would be easy to die for him, but I don't see

  how I can go on living. I think my letter will convince

  Paul.

  I suppose it convinced
Paul, because there was no

  further entry in the little brown book. When we had

  finished it the tears were running down both our faces.

  "Oh, poor, dear Miss Emily," sobbed Diana. "I'm so

  sorry I ever thought her funny and meddlesome."

  "She was good and strong and brave," I said. "I could

  never have been as unselfish as she was."

  I thought of Whittier's lines,

  "The outward, wayward life we see The hidden springs we

  may not know." At the back of the little brown book we

  found a faded water-color sketch of a young girl - such

  a slim, pretty little thing, with big blue eyes and

  lovely, long, rippling golden hair. Paul Osborne's name

  was written in faded ink across the corner.

  We put everything back in the box. Then we sat for a

  long time by my window in silence and thought of many

  things, until the rainy twilight came down and blotted

  out the world.

  Chapter IX

  Sara's Way

  THE warm June sunshine was coming down through the

  trees, white with the virginal bloom of apple-blossoms,

  and through the shining panes, making a tremulous

  mosaic upon Mrs. Eben Andrews' spotless kitchen floor.

  Through the open door, a wind, fragrant from long

  wanderings over orchards and clover meadows, drifted

  in, and, from the window, Mrs. Eben and her guest could

  look down over a long, misty valley sloping to a

  sparkling sea.

  Mrs. Jonas Andrews was spending the afternoon with her

  sister-in-law. She was a big, sonsy woman, with full-

  blown peony cheeks and large, dreamy, brown eyes. When

  she had been a slim, pink-and-white girl those eyes had

  been very romantic. Now they were so out of keeping

  with the rest of her appearance as to be ludicrous.

  Mrs. Eben, sitting at the other end of the small tea-

  table that was drawn up against the window, was a thin

  little woman, with a very sharp nose and light, faded

  blue eyes. She looked like a woman whose opinions were

  always very decided and warranted to wear.

  "How does Sara like teaching at Newbridge?" asked Mrs.

  Jonas, helping herself a second time to Mrs. Eben's

  matchless black fruit cake, and thereby bestowing a

  subtle compliment which Mrs. Eben did not fail to

  appreciate.

  "Well, I guess she likes it pretty well - better than

  down at White Sands, anyway," answered Mrs. Eben. "Yes,

  I may say it suits her. Of course it's a long walk

  there and back. I think it would have been wiser for

  her to keep on boarding at Morrison's, as she did all

  winter, but Sara is bound to be home all she can. And I

  must say the walk seems to agree with her."

  "I was down to see Jonas' aunt at Newbridge last

  night," said Mrs. Jonas, "and she said she'd heard that

  Sara had made up her mind to take Lige Baxter at last,

  and that they were to be married in the fall. She asked

  me if it was true. I said I didn't know, but I hoped to

  mercy it was. Now, is it, Louisa?"

  "Not a word of it," said Mrs. Eben sorrowfully. "Sara

  hasn't any more notion of taking Lige than ever she

  had. I'm sure it's not my fault. I've talked and argued

  till I'm tired. I declare to you, Amelia, I am terribly

  disappointed. I'd set my heart on Sara's marrying Lige

  - and now to think she won't!"

  "She is a very foolish girl," said Mrs. Jonas,

  judicially. "If Lige Baxter isn't good enough for her,

  who is?"

  "And he's so well off," said Mrs. Eben, "and does such

  a good business, and is well spoken of by every one.

  And that lovely new house of his at Newbridge, with bay

  windows and hardwood floors! I've dreamed and dreamed

  of seeing Sara there as mistress."

  "Maybe you'll see her there yet," said Mrs. Jonas, who

  always took a hopeful view of everything, even of

  Sara's contrariness. But she felt discouraged, too.

  Well, she had done her best.

  If Lige Baxter's broth was spoiled it was not for lack

  of cooks. Every Andrews in Avonlea had been trying for

  two years to bring about a match between him and Sara,

  and Mrs. Jonas had borne her part valiantly.

  Mrs. Eben's despondent reply was cut short by the

  appearance of Sara herself. The girl stood for a moment

  in the doorway and looked with a faintly amused air at