Diana of Orchard Slope
A Green Gables Variation
Libbie Hawker
Contents
1. A Visit from Miss Cuthbert
2. The Imported Orphan
3. Idylls at Idlewild
4. Diana Finds Her Vinegar
5. Anne Is Introduced
6. School Begins
7. The Incident of the Slate
8. A Grave Injustice
9. An Unexpectedly Potent Cordial
10. Mrs. Barry Tells a Falsehood
11. The Realities of Tragedy
12. The Secret Letters
13. Diana Dares
14. A Night of Desperation
15. Mrs. Barry Makes Amends
16. The Winter Concert
17. Anne Tames Aunt Josephine
18. The Dangers of Imagination
19. Summertime
20. A Select Party and a Singular Disaster
21. Diana On Her Own
22. Josephine’s Letter
23. A Departure in Styles
24. The Shocking Fate of the Lily Maid
25. The Exposition
26. A Dream Denied
27. Miss Stacy Offers Advice
28. When the World Has Humbled Us
29. An Argument Won
30. Anne Earns an Encore
Also by Libbie Hawker
About the Author
A Visit from Miss Cuthbert
Bowers of white blossoms arced above the Avenue, raining down late-season petals in a gentle shower as the Barrys’ buggy rolled through. The wheels grumbled softly in the reddish ruts of the road, and all along the verge of the lane, ferns nodded and swayed in the summery breeze. The buggy’s lacquered black sides reflected the Avenue’s proliferation of apple blossoms like stars against a night sky.
Mr. Barry looked just as fine as his carriage did, sitting straight and proud in the driver’s seat with his back to his young daughter, who gazed out dreamily at the landscape as the pair of them drove on.
When they left the flowery seclusion of the Avenue behind and the farmland around the village of Avonlea was revealed to them, Diana Barry sat up straighter, pulling her shoulders level and square, just like her mother had taught her… just in case anyone should see her. The day was lovely, without a single cloud to mar the smooth blueness of the sky, which was the same perfect azure tint as Aunt Josephine’s prized Wedgwood vase. But Diana couldn’t quite make herself enjoy the pleasures of the afternoon. Over the jolly rolling of the carriage’s wheels and the rhythm of the horse’s steady trot, the girl could hear her mother’s voice chiding her from inside her own head. “Sit up straight, Diana. A lady’s back is always straight. Don’t run in the house, Diana. In fact, don’t run anywhere. Ladies do not run. Diana, put your napkin on your lap. A lady doesn’t go about with stains on her skirt.”
She did want to be a lady… someday, when she was thoroughly grown up. But Diana was only eleven years old. She felt as if she still had miles and miles of growing up to do, and that the ladylike Diana whom Mrs. Barry worked so hard to cultivate was still like a sprout curled inside its seed. There was plenty of time yet for a proper lady to emerge… wasn’t there? Now, with the Avenue in full flower and the red roads of Avonlea positively thick with the delicious, blossom-and-fern perfume of summertime, Diana felt sure that being a little girl was a much more pressing business.
“If only Mother saw things my way,” she muttered as the cart rumbled over the bridge’s split timbers.
The bridge spanned the narrow middle of the big pond—Barry’s Pond, Avonlea folks called it, for Diana’s family had lived beside that sparkling expanse of jewel-bright water since the first farmers on Prince Edward Island settled dear old Avonlea. Barry’s Pond widened and spread to either side of the bridge; around its edges were fringes of dark-green reeds where blackbirds swayed and sang all summer long and where, in the spring and autumn, choirs of frogs filled the purple dusk with music.
Orchard Slope crowned the hill beyond, looking down on the pond like a gracefully aging monarch gazing with quiet beneficence upon her queendom. The grand old farmhouse was tall and white, with a wide porch along one side where cool breezes played in the summertime, carrying the scent of sun-warmed hay up from the fields beyond the pond. The windows below peaked gables caught the afternoon light, glinting with the sheen of gold. One of those windows was Diana’s, her own little sanctuary of quiet hours and evening stillness, of thought and memory, which even at her tender age she was already learning to cherish.
The grand old trees that gave Orchard Slope its name spread like a softly colored quilt below the house’s feet, stretching down the lazy hill to the reeds and willows of the shoreline. June had been mild and sweet thus far, and so most of the gnarled, age-bent boughs still bore their crowns of blossom. Apple and pear, plum and cherry, they shared their glories with bowers of white and pale green, and rose-pinks that ranged from the most delicate blush of dawn to a deep, passionate hue that could almost be called crimson.
Diana loved that ancient orchard. If her room under the gable was her sanctuary, then the orchard was her cathedral, the one place in all the world where she could walk alone, dreamy-slow and wandering through all her most precious and personal thoughts, without any fear of the judgment of family or peers intruding. To see Orchard Slope again after two long weeks in Carmody made her heart throb with delight—a delight that was almost equal to her worry.
The horses trotted on up the hill, and Father pulled them in smartly, so that the cart stopped in just the right place for Diana to jump off onto the old white house’s porch. She smiled gratefully at her father as she swung over the side of the cart. His dark brown eyes twinkled in response, and his bristly mustache shifted with a conspiratorial grin. Jumping from the cart to the porch was a game they had played since Diana was a tiny girl.
And she should have known, as her father drove the horses on toward the barn, that her mother would see, and would disapprove. Mrs. Barry had never appreciated the sport, and had worked hard to quell Diana’s taste for “wild acrobatics.” Diana heard her mother’s reproachful sniff, even before the hollow thud of her own boots against the porch wood had died away.
She turned quickly to face her mother, clasping her hands at her waist and looking up contritely, hoping her dress wasn’t irredeemably wrinkled from the train ride from Carmody.
Mrs. Barry raked Diana with her eyes, from head to heels and back again. Diana’s mother was a remarkably pretty woman, although she did tend somewhat toward stoutness, with smooth skin and neat black hair that had only a few strands of silver at the temples. She always kept her hair swept up in a bun that was neither ostentatious nor particularly stylish, but managed to look flawlessly elegant all the same… even when she was baking bread or sweeping the floor. She had dark, shining eyes that never missed a single detail of whatever she surveyed: kitchen, orchard, dining table or daughter. Her well-shaped lips were as pink as the pinkest blossoms in the orchard, but Diana had often thought she would like them better if they weren’t so often pursed in disapproval.
“I’m sorry,” Diana said quickly. She had learned that it was better to apologize for unladylike behavior before her mother had a chance to scold her for it.
Mother raised one black brow. “How was your visit with Aunt Josephine?”
Diana smothered a sigh. Aunt Josephine was her father’s aunt, which made her Diana’s great-aunt, though the whole family referred to her simply as Aunt. Doubtless to call her “great-aunt” would have incited that lady’s considerable wrath. She was technically a spinster, having never married, but she lived like no other spinster did, enjoying a life of wealth and high style that fairly took Diana’s b
reath away. Diana had been sent on plenty of visits to Charlottetown so that she might visit with Aunt Josephine. She was required to spend at least a few days with the chilly old maid on every school vacation. The visits were always dull and oppressive affairs, with Diana doing her best to exhibit perfect behavior, and failing more often than she dared admit. Meanwhile Aunt Josephine behaved in the stiffest and stuffiest manner at all times, in all circumstances, as if she thought little girls were made of spun sugar and Diana might shatter into a million pieces if she, the old dame, so much as looked at her in the wrong way.
Mother’s plan, Diana knew, was to so impress Aunt Josephine with Diana’s charm and ladylike grace that the spinster would divert a stream of her considerable fortune toward Orchard Slope, for the sweeping beauty of the farm was nearly all the riches this branch of the Barry family tree possessed. In recent years, Mother had grown fond of reminding both Diana and Mr. Barry that they scarcely had two pennies saved toward Diana’s marriage and trousseau. For Diana’s part, she didn’t see why any quantity of pennies, even down to a paltry two, were necessary for a marriage. And anyhow, it was woefully premature to consider Diana’s future now. Mother was locally famous for declaring that she would never allow her daughter to marry until the age of twenty-one. The Barrys had ten whole years to plan and save for their eldest daughter’s wedding; twenty-one was a whole lifetime away.
She couldn’t imagine what had inspired Mother’s great urgency on the subject. During her private strolls through the twilit orchard, she often supposed (ungraciously, she admitted) that Mother simply wanted some of Aunt Josephine’s fortune for herself, and thought Diana the likeliest way to get it.
But of course, she would never give voice to that thought, not for all the money in Canada. Diana squared her shoulders unconsciously, as she always did when facing her mother, and answered in a carefully cultured tone, “My visit with Aunt Josephine was very well, thank you, Mother.”
Mrs. Barry’s manner relaxed some… some. “Did you give her the cake I baked?”
“Yes. She said it looked good enough to eat, but I never saw her eat any of it.”
Mother’s lips pursed again. “That woman has always been as skinny as a broomstick. I wonder if anyone has seen her eat anything, ever.”
Diana knew Mother’s pride was agitated, if not wounded. Her cakes were great favorites at the fair and at Avonlea society gatherings. Only Aunt Josephine, who was the very picture of austerity, could deny herself of Rebecca Barry’s baking.
“And did you play the piano for your aunt?” Mother asked, after a pause.
Diana blushed despite her best efforts to remain unflustered. “Yes… .” She had played piano, after a fashion. “Aunt Josephine has offered to pay so that I might take music lessons.”
At that happy news, Mother’s smile seemed genuine rather than cool. The truth was, though, that Aunt Josephine had little choice but to contribute toward Diana’s musical cultivation. Diana was all but certain that, if the Premier were to hear her play, he would outlaw her piano recitals, declaring them a form of unusual torture. She was simply dismal at the piano. It was Mrs. Barry’s idea that Diana should learn to play, since she accounted musical accomplishment an essential feature of all true ladies. Diana enjoyed singing very much, and thought perhaps that she could have a very good voice, if it were trained by a proper instructor. But although Mrs. Barry’s convictions were firm where music was concerned, she thought singing too ostentatious a pursuit for a proper young woman. Ladies did not warble in satin gowns and diamonds, before the eyes of crowds at concerts and recitals. They did not flaunt themselves before audiences, like peacocks strutting in a yard. Ladies sat sedately upon piano benches and tickled out gentle airs with their delicate, white fingers.
“Your dress is wrinkled,” Mother said, bracing one fist against her rounded hip. “I have told you so many times, Diana, that you must be careful of your appearance.”
“It’s only wrinkled from the train ride,” Diana protested. “How am I to sit on a train bench for more than an hour without getting a few wrinkles?”
Mother’s eyes flashed a warning. Diana knew she was tip-toeing dangerously around the edge of pertness. She lowered her face contritely. “I’m very tired, Mother. I’d like to change my clothes now and rest before supper, if I may.”
Wordlessly, Mrs. Barry stepped aside to allow her daughter into the house. But her icy silence stifled any welcome Diana might have hoped to find upon her homecoming. “I’m a hopeless disappointment,” she thought as she climbed the stairs to her room, “to Mother and to Aunt Josephine, and… oh, to everyone in the whole world, except maybe Father.” She knew it was true, but try as she might, she couldn’t make herself feel exactly terrible about it. She liked being Diana—Diana just as she was, with her tumbling black curls and her wrinkled skirt and her utter lack of talent for the piano. She was fine as she was. But somehow the rest of the world didn’t seem to agree with her. More and more, she had begun to feel like a cast-off, like a dandelion seed blowing about on the wind and never finding any place to land, any place where she belonged. It was a terribly lonesome sensation.
When she had hung up her old dress and buttoned a new one, she peeked into the little cupboard beside her bed and found her trove of treasures: the beautiful, bright books she had been made to leave behind for her trip to Carmody. She had borrowed the books from some of her friends on the last day of school, trading old favorites for these new treasures, which she planned to thoroughly enjoy over the long, warm weeks of summer.
Diana lifted the books reverently, feeling the cool smoothness of their covers one by one, then holding them in a bundle to admire the rainbow their spines made, stacked one atop the other. She longed to delve into each and every one, and didn’t know which to choose first. Every one seemed equally appealing, with gold-embossed titles that promised romance and adventure. The Rose of Whitfield. Patricia’s Pride. Envy and Eleanora. It was a decision too great for any girl to bear. She spread the books across her chenille-covered bed, then closed her eyes and reached out, letting fate guide her hand.
She chose Sunset Song, the newest from Charlotte E. Morgan, whom all the older girls at school were simply wild about. Mrs. Morgan’s stories were always deliciously tragic, with sad-eyed heroes and slender, pale heroines and shocking twists of the plot that often left Diana sleepless with excitement long after she’d blown out her candle at night. Rumor held that Charlotte E. Morgan lived not terribly far away from Avonlea, somewhere in the Maritimes. Diana secretly hoped there was no truth to that story. Mrs. Morgan was a heroine in Diana’s eyes, a figure of impossible grandness. The cosmopolitan landscape was surely Mrs. Morgan’s natural habitat. Diana felt that her image of the authoress would be somehow tainted, even ruined altogether, if she must truly picture the Charlotte E. Morgan living out her days in a prosaic, pokey old place of Avonlea’s breed.
Sunset Song was small enough to fit in the pocket of Diana’s skirt. Its weight against her hip felt friendly and encouraging. She slipped downstairs on quiet feet. Mother was working in the kitchen, so Diana was free to enjoy the stillness of the parlor alone. She settled on the sofa—a chummy old blue one that was much too faded and informal for Mrs. Barry’s liking, but was as soft and comfortable as a cloud. It was Diana’s favorite place for reading and dreaming. She paused for a moment, savoring the buttery yellow light that spilled into the parlor and cast its cheerful presence all around. The light itself seemed to carry the essence of the orchard trees in past the window—their warm stillness, their sense of wisdom and quiet dignity. When she had filled herself up with the peace and beauty of the afternoon, Diana opened her book and began to read.
Alas, she was only two pages into the story, reveling in Charlotte E. Morgan’s lush description of a grand stone house that stood amid a garden of sweet peonies, when Father came in from the barn. She heard his low, happy voice as he greeted Mother in the kitchen, and then they began to talk, and Diana’s concentrati
on was ruined.
Diana Barry was a bright little girl, make no mistake… but she had always found it difficult to concentrate on her reading when there were noises about. Perhaps that was why she loved the orchard so much, and the territories beyond—the pond’s green shoreline, the fringes of the dark wood where jaunty little ferns sprouted and the only sound was the soothing rustle of leaves overhead. As her mother and father talked, she read and re-read the lines of her book, but she could not return to the story’s enchantment. She was caught up in the conversation from the kitchen.
“And where is my little Diana?” Father asked.
“Probably off reading a book somewhere,” Mother said with a sigh.
“Then I won’t disturb her.”
“I wish you would, George. You encourage Diana too much in her reading.”
“Come now, Rebecca. You know I believe girls ought to be just as literate as boys.”
“I don’t disagree with you,” Mrs. Barry said, “necessarily. But there is a limit, George. There must be a limit. Time spent absorbed in novels is time Diana could spend learning useful skills.”
“She is only eleven years old, darling!”
“Years fly by,” was Mrs. Barry’s prediction of doom. “If the time comes for courting and all Diana knows is how to read a novel, she’ll have no prospects at all.”
“Why, what talk! She’ll have plenty of prospects. She’s the prettiest little girl on the island.”
Diana glowed with pride at that—pride, and affection for her father, whom she often suspected was the only person in all the world who truly understood her.
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