“I wouldn’t have been so brave without you beside me,” Diana said shyly.
Heavy bootsteps sounded on the porch. A moment later the front door opened and the girls heard men’s voices coming down the hall.
“The doctor,” Anne said, as Diana bundled up the soiled cloths.
The man who strode in beside Matthew Cuthbert was no one Diana recognized.
“I’m Doctor White, from Spencervale,” he said to the girls, though he never took his eyes off of Minnie May.
“I… I had to go clear to Spencervale to find him,” Matthew muttered, shy as ever. “The rest had all gone down to see the Premier.”
“You were wonderful, Matthew,” Diana said warmly, which only made Matthew blush and look away. “What a good neighbor you are, to drive all night for my baby sister!”
Dr. White had retrieved a long, trumpet-like device from his bag. He placed its bell over the sleeping girl’s chest and set his ear against the opposite end. After a few moments he straightened and smiled encouragingly at Diana and Anne. “Her breathing is quite clear now. She’s over the worst of it, and should sleep soundly for many hours. There is little for me to do here, except to leave you with some medicine in case she relapses. Tell me, girls: How did you do it?”
Diana stepped back and allowed Anne to explain—and certainly Anne had no lack of words. She told of the ipecac and the steam, and even admitted that at the very last, she had lost all hope. But then Minnie May turned the corner. “You must just imagine my relief, Doctor,” Anne said, “because I can’t express it in words. You know there are some things that cannot be expressed in words.”
Matthew laid his hand gently on Anne’s shoulder. She took his unspoken cue, turning to look up at him with an acquiescent nod.
“I must go now,” she said to Diana and the doctor. “It has been a terribly long night, hasn’t it? My nice, warm bed is calling to me!”
Diana left Minnie May to the doctor and followed Anne and Matthew out onto the front porch. Anne paused, gazing at Diana with full, grateful eyes as Matthew pulled the sleigh nearer.
“Anne, how can I ever thank you?”
“Why, there’s no thanks needed, silly Diana. You know I would do anything for you.”
Diana wrapped Anne in a long embrace. “We’ll be friends forever,” Diana vowed, “and nothing will ever come between us again. Nothing! Not even my mother. Not even Gilbert.”
Anne stepped back from the embrace, eyeing Diana with a glint of amusement. “Why did you say that, of all things?” But there was something else in Anne’s look besides amusement… something sharp and suspicious, but so fleeting that Diana wasn’t entirely certain she’d seen it at all.
Diana laughed lightly. “It’s been such a long, tiring night. I don’t even know what I did say, dear Cordelia Fitzgerald, also known as Anne.”
“We’ll be friends again, won’t we?” Anne asked soberly, her eyes lit with longing. “You’ll write to me again?”
“Every day,” Diana promised. And she meant it.
Mrs. Barry Makes Amends
Diana slept so soundly that even the loud morning trills of the robins, perched in the apple tree just outside her window, couldn’t wake her. Nor could the bright, forcefully white light of a sun-soaked winter morning. Consumed by exhaustion, she slept nearly till the afternoon, and only wakened when her stomach, unbreakfasted and surly, rumbled her into action. She lay quietly under her covers for a long time despite her hunger, listening to the gleeful twittering of the birds, who rejoiced in the clear skies and the warmth of the fleeting winter sun. The late-morning light made Diana’s lace curtains glow like beams of glory. It was such a pretty morning, such a cheerful day… and all the more because Minnie May was safe, and Anne and Diana were unquestionably good friends again.
Gradually, Diana became aware of another sound, growing louder and louder until the birdsong could no longer mask it. It was the crunch and clop of a horse’s hooves in the hard snow, and the hiss of a sleigh’s runners. She rolled out of her bed and peeked through the curtains to the yard below. Dr. White had returned, driving his remarkably smart sleigh, pulled by a big black horse, all the way from Spencervale. No doubt he had come to check on Minnie May’s progress.
Diana was eager to hear what he had to say, but there was not enough time to dress and neaten up her hair, which looked like a rat’s nest after her long sleep. She could listen from the top of the stairs, though, without being seen… and that was exactly what she did, creeping in her stocking feet down as far as the first landing, where she knew she would not be seen from the rooms below.
Mrs. Barry gave Dr. White an effusive welcome. Diana, satisfied that Minnie May was past the point of danger, had gone up to bed before her parents returned from Charlottetown, but she supposed Mary Joe had informed them of the long, terrible night and of the part Anne Shirley had played. Diana leaned as far as she dared over the rail to listen.
“Please, Dr. White, sit down,” Mrs. Barry said from the parlor.
“How has your littlest girl fared through the night?” the doctor said.
“Very well. Her breathing sounds fine, just fine. Oh, Doctor, I am such a fool. The French girl tried to warn me that Minnie May had the croup, but I didn’t believe it.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Barry. You mustn’t blame yourself. These attacks can come on quite suddenly.”
“But oh, I never should have gone off and left my children with one of them so sick! I’m only grateful that Diana had the presence of mind to run to the Cuthberts’ for help.”
There was a pause, and then Dr. White said wonderingly, “That little redheaded girl they have over at the Cuthberts’ is as smart as they make ’em. I tell you she saved that baby’s life, for it would have been too late by the time I got here.”
Silence again. Mrs. Barry seemed to be digesting the doctor’s words. Finally, in a subdued tone, she invited the doctor into the room where Minnie May slept so that he might examine her.
The doctor’s visit was brief, for Minnie May really had made an astonishing recovery. Her color was good, her breathing easy, and she slept like one who is determined to wake up fully refreshed and renewed. When Dr. White had driven away, Mr. Barry joined his wife in the parlor.
“What a terrible lout I’ve been, George,” Mrs. Barry said, so quiet with regret that Diana could hardly catch her words.
“Now, Rebecca…”
“It’s true. Oh, I was too hard on that child… little Anne. I suspected her of mischief simply because she is an orphan. Didn’t the Lord say to love the little children, and to help those who are less fortunate than we? I must forgive Anne Shirley… and apologize, too… ask her forgiveness in turn. It’s the right thing to do. Oh, why was I ever so hard on her?”
“Perhaps,” Father said cautiously, “you have been rather hard on Diana, too.”
Diana stiffened in surprise at those words, and listened all the more keenly.
“It wouldn’t go amiss to be softer with Diana,” Mr. Barry went on. “She’s a good girl, Rebecca… obedient, most of the time, and bright and kind-hearted. She doesn’t need such a watchful eye, nor such rigid shepherding. Some girls do, but not our Di.”
“She is a good girl,” Mrs. Barry agreed with a faint laugh that sounded rather bitter. “But so was I when I was her age… or close to her age, a little older… and yet my goodness didn’t save me from nearly having my reputation ruined.”
“Ruined?” Mr. Barry said, startled. “Come now. That can’t be true.”
“It is true. I was too full of imagination and romance in those days, too apt to chase after adventure instead of pursuing more suitable things, more ladylike and sedate things. I was properly wild, George! I didn’t realize it at the time, but looking back now—now that I am a mother with two daughters to care for—now I can see that I was wild.”
Diana bit her lip. It was flatly impossible to imagine the staid, proper Mrs. Barry in any conceivable posture of wildness.
&
nbsp; “I had imaginative, pert friends like Anne Shirley, oh yes, and they led me into adventures I was better left out of. It wasn’t long before I was known as… well, before I was thought most definitely not a lady, and soon everyone had decided it was quite impossible for me ever to become one. I was lucky to make a match with you… and then only because you didn’t know anything about my reputation.”
“Why, you’re the very best woman I know,” Father said, disbelieving.
“With you, I had a chance to transcend the stories that were told about me, to make myself anew,” Mother said with an unexpected note of warmth in her voice. “Oh, George, I don’t want Diana to go through the same. I want her to make a good match and have a happy, proper life. She is precious to me. My firstborn. I would do anything to ensure her life is one of joy and respect and ease. I would even be so strict with her that I make her hate me, if I must. Her future and her happiness mean that much to me.”
Diana leaned against the wall, her heart fluttering with a strange new emotion. She had never realized before that her mother loved her so much. Truthfully, she had always thought her mother somewhat incapable of love… all prickles on the outside with nothing warm in the center. “Why, I almost feel as if I could forgive all her sternness, knowing where it comes from. I almost feel as if I ought to really try and live up to her high expectations.” Almost.
There was a faint creak as Mrs. Barry stood resolutely from the parlor sofa. “I must get my hat and coat. It’s time I went down to Green Gables and apologized to that little red-haired waif. I’ve been miserably cruel to her, but she saved my baby’s life, and I owe her friendship and understanding from now on.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Mr. Barry asked.
“No,” Mrs. Barry said decisively. “This is a task I must do alone.”
As it happened, Anne was still sound asleep when Mrs. Barry presented herself contritely at Green Gables. Marilla wouldn’t wake her, fearful that exhaustion from the long night would sicken the girl. But Mrs. Barry did humble herself in an eminently satisfactory way before Marilla and Matthew.
“Please tell Anne when she is awake that we would be honored to have her up for supper,” Mrs. Barry said to Anne’s sober, gray guardians.
And accordingly, once Anne had risen from bed and seen to some of her chores, she was given the news that she was to be the guest of honor at the Barrys’ for supper. Diana was out in her garden in red cap and long scarf, watching eagerly as Anne came flying across the fields like a bird freed from a snare. The two girls caught each other in a long hug, and whirled together among the drifted flower beds like two snowflakes borne aloft on a happy wind.
When Diana led Anne into the house, Mrs. Barry was there to greet her, wringing her hands anxiously.
“Anne, I treated you terribly, and I am sorry for it,” Mrs. Barry said earnestly. To Diana’s shock, tears flooded her mother’s eyes. She continued in a quavering voice, “I can never repay you for the kindness you did this family. Minnie May is alive because of you. Will you please forgive me, Anne?”
Anne’s face turned as red as her braids. But she said calmly, “I have no hard feelings for you, Mrs. Barry. I assure you once and for all that I did not mean to intoxicate Diana. Henceforth I shall cover the past with the mantle of oblivion.”
Diana shot a swift look of warning at her father, who covered his mouth—and his startled smile—at Anne’s lofty words.
But Mrs. Barry didn’t mind Anne’s over-dignified speech. She bent and kissed Anne on her freckled cheek, leaving a grateful tear behind.
The Winter Concert
February saw the orchard hung all about with delicate fringes of icicles, which charmed and sparkled from every branch and twig. Barry’s Pond—or the Lake of Shining Waters, as Anne still insisted it be called—had thawed at its dark center and then re-frozen when a cold snap blew in across the Gulf waters. Now the pond’s surface was a powdery white, with here and there great circles of the deepest blue-green to show where the ice had rotted. Winter was having her last hurrah, displaying all the crystalline beauty of her many diamond facets before springtime returned in earnest, with its flush of new, green growth and its gradual warming of the days.
Diana was pleased that winter still held on for yet a while longer, for it was her twelfth birthday, and she was to celebrate in high style. The Debating Club was hosting a concert and recital at the meeting hall, and various Barry relations were coming over from Newbridge for the occasion. Thanks to the fresh fall of snow and the convenient re-freezing of Avonlea and its surrounds, the Newbridge folks were to arrive in their biggest and finest pung sleigh. Diana couldn’t think of a jollier way to spend one’s birthday than on a sleigh ride.
Of course, her birthday was not such a spectacular occasion that it warranted her cousins’ attendance, but the concert was rumored to be the most exciting show of the season: Singers and elocutionists from all across the island were to put on the best material from their repertoires. Happily, the date coincided with Diana’s birthday, and so she was able to pretend that the whole affair was entirely in her honor. Her secret fantasy added to the sweetness of anticipation as she and Anne prepared.
After much careful negotiation with Marilla, Anne had won permission to come home from school with Diana that Friday. The two girls had spent the whole afternoon before Diana’s mirror, trying on every one of Diana’s prettiest dresses and fixing their hair in every conceivable style, breaking only to have their tea, which they ate as quickly as Mrs. Barry would allow. Then back up the stairs they dashed to finalize the all-important decisions of dress and hairstyles.
Diana fixed the front of Anne’s hair up in a high, red-golden pompadour. She would have liked to do all of Anne’s hair that way, for the fashion really would have shown off her slender neck to perfection, but everyone would think it ridiculous on a girl who hadn’t yet turned seventeen, and Mrs. Barry would never let them out of the house so overly made-up, besides. Instead she fashioned a smart little pull-back that left Anne’s loose red waves tumbling down across the backs of her shoulders.
“That really does look becoming on you,” Diana said, pulling Anne close so they could both examine themselves in the mirror.
“I’m not sure any style can make red hair look becoming.”
“Nonsense,” Diana laughed. “Why, there are plenty of people who think red hair is pretty. One day it’ll come back in fashion, and then you’ll be the envy of every girl in Canada.”
“Which dress should I wear?” Anne said, turning away from the mirror. Her red hair really did vex her, for reasons Diana simply couldn’t understand. Anne and Diana were both wearing nothing but their shifts and stockings, for neither could settle on a dress.
“Wear this white,” Diana said, pulling one of her dresses from the pile on the bed. “It really does look best on you. It’ll make such an impression with the snow all around, and the moon will be shining by the time we get to the hall, so you’ll positively glow, like something ethereal.”
Anne’s eyes shone at the thought. “I would dearly love to be thought ‘ethereal,’ Diana.”
“But the waist is too big on you,” Diana said a little sadly as Anne pulled the dress on over her shift. “I’m going to keep getting fatter and fatter until I burst; I just know it. I’ll be as roly-poly as my mother someday.”
“Your mother is a very handsome lady,” Anne replied, “and you are the prettiest girl on the island, with your perfect black curls and your dimples. You don’t know how I long for dimples, Diana! Besides, I’ve seen how the boys look at you when you aren’t looking at them. When we’re finally old enough to go to dances, your card will always be full.”
“Well… I’ll get you a sash, anyway. That will keep the waist in.”
Diana had a marvelous collection of sashes. She settled on one of a smoky, grayish lavender shade to cinch about Anne’s waist. “See how nice it looks with your eyes,” she said as she tied it in a great, fluffy bow behind
Anne’s back.
“You have a real eye for pretty things,” Anne said appreciatively. “It’s a talent with you, Diana. Just look at my hair and my dress! I’ve never looked so nice or so grown-up in all my life.”
Diana did look at Anne, accordingly. They had known each other for almost a year, and in that time Anne had only grown prettier. With her critical, evaluating eye, Diana could clearly see the splendid woman her friend would someday become—willowy, graceful, with a face fashioned on classically beautiful lines. While she, Diana, looked into her own future and saw nothing but a plain, round dumpling. She was fearfully tempted to be jealous over Anne’s good looks, but with an effort she stamped those feelings under her heel. She chose instead to be glad of the compliment Anne had paid her. Diana was good with clothes and hair—and other pretty things, too, like flower arranging and icing cakes. “I ought to be glad of the good things in my nature,” she thought resolutely, “and not pity myself for the things I lack.” After all, everyone lacks something. Even those who seem the most fortunate may nurse deep and secret wounds.
Diana turned the subject as she dressed in her own outfit of cranberry red with a creamy white sash. She spoke happily of the excitement in school that day, for almost every scholar would attend the concert to watch older brothers and sisters recite. The children had talked of nothing else all day long. Some had even made bets as to who would recite which poems, and who would stumble over the more difficult words.
“I heard that Mr. Phillips is going to give a recitation,” Diana said, tying her sash as snugly as she could to emphasize what little waist she still possessed. “I suppose it will be some awful love poem he picked out just for Prissy. Did you ever? And everyone knows Prissy is going to do ‘Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight,’ and I expect it’ll be ever so good. I may not think much of Prissy, but she is very good at concerts. And then I heard Gil—”
Diana of Orchard Slope Page 15
