“I can put up with him for the sake of Captain Jim, Mrs. Doctor, dear, for I liked the old man. And I will see that he gets bite and sup, and every mouse the traps account for. But do not ask me to do more than that, Mrs. Doctor, dear. Cats is cats, and take my word for it, they will never be anything else. And at least, Mrs. Doctor, dear, do keep him away from the blessed wee man. Picture to yourself how awful it would be if he was to suck the darling’s breath.”
“That might be fitly called a CAT-astrophe,” said Gilbert.
“Oh, you may laugh, doctor, dear, but it would be no laughing matter.”
“Cats never suck babies’ breaths,” said Gilbert. “That is only an old superstition, Susan.”
“Oh, well, it may be a superstition or it may not, doctor, dear. All that I know is, it has happened. My sister’s husband’s nephew’s wife’s cat sucked their baby’s breath, and the poor innocent was all but gone when they found it. And superstition or not, if I find that yellow beast lurking near our baby I will whack him with the poker, Mrs. Doctor, dear.”
Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Elliott were living comfortably and harmoniously in the green house. Leslie was busy with sewing, for she and Owen were to be married at Christmas. Anne wondered what she would do when Leslie was gone.
“Changes come all the time. Just as soon as things get really nice they change,” she said with a sigh.
“The old Morgan place up at the Glen is for sale,” said Gilbert, apropos of nothing in especial.
“Is it?” asked Anne indifferently.
“Yes. Now that Mr. Morgan has gone, Mrs. Morgan wants to go to live with her children in Vancouver. She will sell cheaply, for a big place like that in a small village like the Glen will not be very easy to dispose of.”
“Well, it’s certainly a beautiful place, so it is likely she will find a purchaser,” said Anne, absently, wondering whether she should hemstitch or feather-stitch little Jem’s “short” dresses. He was to be shortened the next week, and Anne felt ready to cry at the thought of it.
“Suppose we buy it, Anne?” remarked Gilbert quietly.
Anne dropped her sewing and stared at him.
“You’re not in earnest, Gilbert?”
“Indeed I am, dear.”
“And leave this darling spot — our house of dreams?” said Anne incredulously. “Oh, Gilbert, it’s — it’s unthinkable!”
“Listen patiently to me, dear. I know just how you feel about it. I feel the same. But we’ve always known we would have to move some day.”
“Oh, but not so soon, Gilbert — not just yet.”
“We may never get such a chance again. If we don’t buy the Morgan place someone else will — and there is no other house in the Glen we would care to have, and no other really good site on which to build. This little house is — well, it is and has been what no other house can ever be to us, I admit, but you know it is out-of-the-way down here for a doctor. We have felt the inconvenience, though we’ve made the best of it. And it’s a tight fit for us now. Perhaps, in a few years, when Jem wants a room of his own, it will be entirely too small.”
“Oh, I know — I know,” said Anne, tears filling her eyes. “I know all that can be said against it, but I love it so — and it’s so beautiful here.”
“You would find it very lonely here after Leslie goes — and Captain Jim has gone too. The Morgan place is beautiful, and in time we would love it. You know you have always admired it, Anne.”
“Oh, yes, but — but — this has all seemed to come up so suddenly, Gilbert. I’m dizzy. Ten minutes ago I had no thought of leaving this dear spot. I was planning what I meant to do for it in the spring — what I meant to do in the garden. And if we leave this place who will get it? It IS out-of-the-way, so it’s likely some poor, shiftless, wandering family will rent it — and over-run it — and oh, that would be desecration. It would hurt me horribly.”
“I know. But we cannot sacrifice our own interests to such considerations, Anne-girl. The Morgan place will suit us in every essential particular — we really can’t afford to miss such a chance. Think of that big lawn with those magnificent old trees; and of that splendid hardwood grove behind it — twelve acres of it. What a play place for our children! There’s a fine orchard, too, and you’ve always admired that high brick wall around the garden with the door in it — you’ve thought it was so like a story-book garden. And there is almost as fine a view of the harbor and the dunes from the Morgan place as from here.”
“You can’t see the lighthouse star from it.”
“Yes, You can see it from the attic window. THERE’S another advantage, Anne-girl — you love big garrets.”
“There’s no brook in the garden.”
“Well, no, but there is one running through the maple grove into the Glen pond. And the pond itself isn’t far away. You’ll be able to fancy you have your own Lake of Shining Waters again.”
“Well, don’t say anything more about it just now, Gilbert. Give me time to think — to get used to the idea.”
“All right. There is no great hurry, of course. Only — if we decide to buy, it would be well to be moved in and settled before winter.”
Gilbert went out, and Anne put away Little Jem’s short dresses with trembling hands. She could not sew any more that day. With tear-wet eyes she wandered over the little domain where she had reigned so happy a queen. The Morgan place was all that Gilbert claimed. The grounds were beautiful, the house old enough to have dignity and repose and traditions, and new enough to be comfortable and up-to-date. Anne had always admired it; but admiring is not loving; and she loved this house of dreams so much. She loved EVERYTHING about it — the garden she had tended, and which so many women had tended before her — the gleam and sparkle of the little brook that crept so roguishly across the corner — the gate between the creaking fir trees — the old red sandstone step — the stately Lombardies — the two tiny quaint glass cupboards over the chimney-piece in the living-room — the crooked pantry door in the kitchen — the two funny dormer windows upstairs — the little jog in the staircase — why, these things were a part of her! How could she leave them?
And how this little house, consecrated aforetime by love and joy, had been re-consecrated for her by her happiness and sorrow! Here she had spent her bridal moon; here wee Joyce had lived her one brief day; here the sweetness of motherhood had come again with Little Jem; here she had heard the exquisite music of her baby’s cooing laughter; here beloved friends had sat by her fireside. Joy and grief, birth and death, had made sacred forever this little house of dreams.
And now she must leave it. She knew that, even while she had contended against the idea to Gilbert. The little house was outgrown. Gilbert’s interests made the change necessary; his work, successful though it had been, was hampered by his location. Anne realised that the end of their life in this dear place drew nigh, and that she must face the fact bravely. But how her heart ached!
“It will be just like tearing something out of my life,” she sobbed. “And oh, if I could hope that some nice folk would come here in our place — or even that it would be left vacant. That itself would be better than having it overrun with some horde who know nothing of the geography of dreamland, and nothing of the history that has given this house its soul and its identity. And if such a tribe come here the place will go to rack and ruin in no time — an old place goes down so quickly if it is not carefully attended to. They’ll tear up my garden — and let the Lombardies get ragged — and the paling will come to look like a mouth with half the teeth missing — and the roof will leak — and the plaster fall — and they’ll stuff pillows and rags in broken window panes — and everything will be out-at-elbows.”
Anne’s imagination pictured forth so vividly the coming degeneration of her dear little house that it hurt her as severely as if it had already been an accomplished fact. She sat down on the stairs and had a long, bitter cry. Susan found her there and enquired with much concern what the trouble was.
“No, no, Susan, we haven’t quarrelled. It’s only — Gilbert is going to buy the Morgan place, and we’ll have to go and live at the Glen. And it will break my heart.”
Susan did not enter into Anne’s feelings at all. She was, indeed, quite rejoiced over the prospect of living at the Glen. Her one grievance against her place in the little house was its lonesome location.
“Why, Mrs. Doctor, dear, it will be splendid. The Morgan house is such a fine, big one.”
“I hate big houses,” sobbed Anne.
“Oh, well, you will not hate them by the time you have half a dozen children,” remarked Susan calmly. “And this house is too small already for us. We have no spare room, since Mrs. Moore is here, and that pantry is the most aggravating place I ever tried to work in. There is a corner every way you turn. Besides, it is out-of-the-world down here. There is really nothing at all but scenery.”
“Out of your world perhaps, Susan — but not out of mine,” said Anne with a faint smile.
“I do not quite understand you, Mrs. Doctor, dear, but of course I am not well educated. But if Dr. Blythe buys the Morgan place he will make no mistake, and that you may tie to. They have water in it, and the pantries and closets are beautiful, and there is not another such cellar in P. E. Island, so I have been told. Why, the cellar here, Mrs. Doctor, dear, has been a heart-break to me, as well you know.”
“Oh, go away, Susan, go away,” said Anne forlornly. “Cellars and pantries and closets don’t make a HOME. Why don’t you weep with those who weep?”
“Well, I never was much hand for weeping, Mrs. Doctor, dear. I would rather fall to and cheer people up than weep with them. Now, do not you cry and spoil your pretty eyes. This house is very well and has served your turn, but it is high time you had a better.”
Susan’s point of view seemed to be that of most people. Leslie was the only one who sympathised understandingly with Anne. She had a good cry, too, when she heard the news. Then they both dried their tears and went to work at the preparations for moving.
“Since we must go let us go as soon as we can and have it over,” said poor Anne with bitter resignation.
“You know you will like that lovely old place at the Glen after you have lived in it long enough to have dear memories woven about it,” said Leslie. “Friends will come there, as they have come here — happiness will glorify it for you. Now, it’s just a house to you — but the years will make it a home.”
Anne and Leslie had another cry the next week when they shortened Little Jem. Anne felt the tragedy of it until evening when in his long nightie she found her own dear baby again.
“But it will be rompers next — and then trousers — and in no time he will be grown-up,” she sighed.
“Well, you would not want him to stay a baby always, Mrs. Doctor, dear, would you?” said Susan. “Bless his innocent heart, he looks too sweet for anything in his little short dresses, with his dear feet sticking out. And think of the save in the ironing, Mrs. Doctor, dear.”
“Anne, I have just had a letter from Owen,” said Leslie, entering with a bright face. “And, oh! I have such good news. He writes me that he is going to buy this place from the church trustees and keep it to spend our summer vacations in. Anne, are you not glad?”
“Oh, Leslie, ‘glad’ isn’t the word for it! It seems almost too good to be true. I sha’n’t feel half so badly now that I know this dear spot will never be desecrated by a vandal tribe, or left to tumble down in decay. Why, it’s lovely! It’s lovely!”
One October morning Anne wakened to the realisation that she had slept for the last time under the roof of her little house. The day was too busy to indulge regret and when evening came the house was stripped and bare. Anne and Gilbert were alone in it to say farewell. Leslie and Susan and Little Jem had gone to the Glen with the last load of furniture. The sunset light streamed in through the curtainless windows.
“It has all such a heart-broken, reproachful look, hasn’t it?” said Anne. “Oh, I shall be so homesick at the Glen tonight!”
“We have been very happy here, haven’t we, Anne-girl?” said Gilbert, his voice full of feeling.
Anne choked, unable to answer. Gilbert waited for her at the fir-tree gate, while she went over the house and said farewell to every room. She was going away; but the old house would still be there, looking seaward through its quaint windows. The autumn winds would blow around it mournfully, and the gray rain would beat upon it and the white mists would come in from the sea to enfold it; and the moonlight would fall over it and light up the old paths where the schoolmaster and his bride had walked. There on that old harbor shore the charm of story would linger; the wind would still whistle alluringly over the silver sand-dunes; the waves would still call from the red rock-coves.
“But we will be gone,” said Anne through her tears.
She went out, closing and locking the door behind her. Gilbert was waiting for her with a smile. The lighthouse star was gleaming northward. The little garden, where only marigolds still bloomed, was already hooding itself in shadows.
Anne knelt down and kissed the worn old step which she had crossed as a bride.
“Good-bye, dear little house of dreams,” she said.
ANNE OF INGLESIDE
Although Anne of Ingleside was Lucy Maud Montgomery’s final book about her popular heroine, Anne Shirley, it places sixth chronologically in the eight book Anne of Green Gables series. McClelland & Stewart published it in 1939. Anne of Ingleside takes place seven years after Anne’s House of Dreams. By now Anne has five children with another on the way and the novel deals with both her experiences as a mother and wife and relates amusing tales about her boys and girls. Montgomery dedicated the novel to her friend, Will Pritchard, from Prince Albert, Saskatchewan. Pritchard was perhaps the model for Gilbert Blythe, Anne Shirley’s beau and eventual husband. Parts of Anne of Ingleside first appeared in the Canadian magazine, the Onward, in 1932, as “Chronicles of Ingleside.” The secret told by Dovie Johnson originally appeared in Good Housekeeping in August 1935 as “I Know a Secret,” with some name changes and a different ending.
A Canadian first edition copy of Anne of Ingleside
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
A Russian edition of Anne of Ingleside
Chapter 1
“How white the moonlight is tonight!” said Anne Blythe to herself, as she went up the walk of the Wright garden to Diana Wright’s front door, where little cherry-blossom petals were coming down on the salty, breeze-stirred air.
She paused for a moment to look about her on hills and woods she had loved in olden days and still loved. Dear Avonlea! Glen St. Mary was hom
e to her now and had been home for many years but Avonlea had something that Glen St. Mary could never have. Ghosts of herself met her at every turn . . . the fields she had roamed in welcomed her . . . unfading echoes of the old sweet life were all about her . . . every spot she looked upon had some lovely memory. There were haunted gardens here and there where bloomed all the roses of yesteryear. Anne always loved to come home to Avonlea even when, as now, the reason for her visit had been a sad one. She and Gilbert had come up for the funeral of his father and Anne had stayed for a week. Marilla and Mrs. Lynde could not bear to have her go away too soon.
Her old porch gable room was always kept for her and when Anne had gone to it the night of her arrival she found that Mrs. Lynde had put a big, homey bouquet of spring flowers in it for her . . . a bouquet that, when Anne buried her face in it, seemed to hold all the fragrance of unforgotten years. The Anne-who-used-to-be was waiting there for her. Deep, dear old gladnesses stirred in her heart. The gable room was putting its arms around her . . . enclosing her . . . enveloping her. She looked lovingly at her old bed with the apple-leaf spread Mrs. Lynde had knitted and the spotless pillows trimmed with deep lace Mrs. Lynde had crocheted . . . at Marilla’s braided rugs on the floor . . . at the mirror that had reflected the face of the little orphan, with her unwritten child’s forehead, who had cried herself to sleep there that first night so long ago. Anne forgot that she was the joyful mother of five children . . . with Susan Baker again knitting mysterious bootees at Ingleside. She was Anne of Green Gables once more.
Mrs. Lynde found her still staring dreamily in the mirror when she came in, bringing clean towels.
“It’s real good to have you home again, Anne, that’s what. It’s nine years since you went away, but Marilla and I can’t seem to get over missing you. It’s not so lonesome now since Davy got married . . . Millie is a real nice little thing . . . such pies! . . . though she’s curious as a chipmunk about everything. But I’ve always said and always will say that there’s nobody like you.”
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 131
