Anne of Avonlea

by L. M. Montgomery

  XV

  The Beginning of Vacation

  Anne locked the schoolhouse door on a still, yellow evening, when thewinds were purring in the spruces around the playground, and the shadowswere long and lazy by the edge of the woods. She dropped the key intoher pocket with a sigh of satisfaction. The school year was ended, shehad been reengaged for the next, with many expressions of satisfaction.. . . only Mr. Harmon Andrews told her she ought to use the strapoftener . . . and two delightful months of a well-earned vacationbeckoned her invitingly. Anne felt at peace with the world and herselfas she walked down the hill with her basket of flowers in her hand.Since the earliest mayflowers Anne had never missed her weeklypilgrimage to Matthew's grave. Everyone else in Avonlea, except Marilla,had already forgotten quiet, shy, unimportant Matthew Cuthbert; but hismemory was still green in Anne's heart and always would be. She couldnever forget the kind old man who had been the first to give her thelove and sympathy her starved childhood had craved.

  At the foot of the hill a boy was sitting on the fence in the shadow ofthe spruces . . . a boy with big, dreamy eyes and a beautiful, sensitiveface. He swung down and joined Anne, smiling; but there were traces oftears on his cheeks.

  "I thought I'd wait for you, teacher, because I knew you were going tothe graveyard," he said, slipping his hand into hers. "I'm going there,too . . . I'm taking this bouquet of geraniums to put on Grandpa Irving'sgrave for grandma. And look, teacher, I'm going to put this bunch ofwhite roses beside Grandpa's grave in memory of my little mother. . .because I can't go to her grave to put it there. But don't you thinkshe'll know all about it, just the same?"

  "Yes, I am sure she will, Paul."

  "You see, teacher, it's just three years today since my little motherdied. It's such a long, long time but it hurts just as much as ever. . . and I miss her just as much as ever. Sometimes it seems to methat I just can't bear it, it hurts so."

  Paul's voice quivered and his lip trembled. He looked down at his roses,hoping that his teacher would not notice the tears in his eyes.

  "And yet," said Anne, very softly, "you wouldn't want it to stop hurting . . . you wouldn't want to forget your little mother even if you could."

  "No, indeed, I wouldn't . . . that's just the way I feel. You're so goodat understanding, teacher. Nobody else understands so well . . . not evengrandma, although she's so good to me. Father understood pretty well,but still I couldn't talk much to him about mother, because it made himfeel so bad. When he put his hand over his face I always knew it wastime to stop. Poor father, he must be dreadfully lonesome withoutme; but you see he has nobody but a housekeeper now and he thinkshousekeepers are no good to bring up little boys, especially when he hasto be away from home so much on business. Grandmothers are better, nextto mothers. Someday, when I'm brought up, I'll go back to father andwe're never going to be parted again."

  Paul had talked so much to Anne about his mother and father that shefelt as if she had known them. She thought his mother must have beenvery like what he was himself, in temperament and disposition; and shehad an idea that Stephen Irving was a rather reserved man with a deepand tender nature which he kept hidden scrupulously from the world.

  "Father's not very easy to get acquainted with," Paul had said once. "Inever got really acquainted with him until after my little mother died.But he's splendid when you do get to know him. I love him the best inall the world, and Grandma Irving next, and then you, teacher. I'd loveyou next to father if it wasn't my DUTY to love Grandma Irving best,because she's doing so much for me. YOU know, teacher. I wish she wouldleave the lamp in my room till I go to sleep, though. She takes it rightout as soon as she tucks me up because she says I mustn't be a coward.I'm NOT scared, but I'd RATHER have the light. My little mother usedalways to sit beside me and hold my hand till I went to sleep. I expectshe spoiled me. Mothers do sometimes, you know."

  No, Anne did not know this, although she might imagine it. She thoughtsadly of HER "little mother," the mother who had thought her so"perfectly beautiful" and who had died so long ago and was buried besideher boyish husband in that unvisited grave far away. Anne could notremember her mother and for this reason she almost envied Paul.

  "My birthday is next week," said Paul, as they walked up the long redhill, basking in the June sunshine, "and father wrote me that he issending me something that he thinks I'll like better than anything elsehe could send. I believe it has come already, for Grandma is keeping thebookcase drawer locked and that is something new. And when I asked herwhy, she just looked mysterious and said little boys mustn't be toocurious. It's very exciting to have a birthday, isn't it? I'll beeleven. You'd never think it to look at me, would you? Grandma saysI'm very small for my age and that it's all because I don't eat enoughporridge. I do my very best, but Grandma gives such generous platefuls. . . there's nothing mean about Grandma, I can tell you. Ever since youand I had that talk about praying going home from Sunday Schoolthat day, teacher . . . when you said we ought to pray about all ourdifficulties . . . I've prayed every night that God would give me enoughgrace to enable me to eat every bit of my porridge in the mornings. ButI've never been able to do it yet, and whether it's because I have toolittle grace or too much porridge I really can't decide. Grandma saysfather was brought up on porridge, and it certainly did work well inhis case, for you ought to see the shoulders he has. But sometimes,"concluded Paul with a sigh and a meditative air "I really think porridgewill be the death of me."

  Anne permitted herself a smile, since Paul was not looking at her.All Avonlea knew that old Mrs. Irving was bringing her grandson up inaccordance with the good, old-fashioned methods of diet and morals.

  "Let us hope not, dear," she said cheerfully. "How are your rock peoplecoming on? Does the oldest Twin still continue to behave himself?"

  "He HAS to," said Paul emphatically. "He knows I won't associate withhim if he doesn't. He is really full of wickedness, I think."

  "And has Nora found out about the Golden Lady yet?"

  "No; but I think she suspects. I'm almost sure she watched me the lasttime I went to the cave. _I_ don't mind if she finds out . . . it is onlyfor HER sake I don't want her to . . . so that her feelings won't be hurt.But if she is DETERMINED to have her feelings hurt it can't be helped."

  "If I were to go to the shore some night with you do you think I couldsee your rock people too?"

  Paul shook his head gravely.

  "No, I don't think you could see MY rock people. I'm the only person whocan see them. But you could see rock people of your own. You're one ofthe kind that can. We're both that kind. YOU know, teacher," he added,squeezing her hand chummily. "Isn't it splendid to be that kind,teacher?"

  "Splendid," Anne agreed, gray shining eyes looking down into blueshining ones. Anne and Paul both knew

  "How fair the realm Imagination opens to the view,"

  and both knew the way to that happy land. There the rose of joy bloomedimmortal by dale and stream; clouds never darkened the sunny sky; sweetbells never jangled out of tune; and kindred spirits abounded. Theknowledge of that land's geography . . . "east o' the sun, west o' themoon" . . . is priceless lore, not to be bought in any market place. Itmust be the gift of the good fairies at birth and the years can neverdeface it or take it away. It is better to possess it, living in agarret, than to be the inhabitant of palaces without it.

  The Avonlea graveyard was as yet the grass-grown solitude it had alwaysbeen. To be sure, the Improvers had an eye on it, and Priscilla Granthad read a paper on cemeteries before the last meeting of the Society.At some future time the Improvers meant to have the lichened, waywardold board fence replaced by a neat wire railing, the grass mown and theleaning monuments straightened up.

  Anne put on Matthew's grave the flowers she had brought for it, and thenwent over to the little poplar shaded corner where Hester Gray slept.Ever since the day of the spring picnic Anne had put flowers on Hester'sgrave when she visited Matthew's. The evening before she had made apilgrimage back to the
little deserted garden in the woods and broughttherefrom some of Hester's own white roses.

  "I thought you would like them better than any others, dear," she saidsoftly.

  Anne was still sitting there when a shadow fell over the grass and shelooked up to see Mrs. Allan. They walked home together.

  Mrs. Allan's face was not the face of the girlbride whom the ministerhad brought to Avonlea five years before. It had lost some of its bloomand youthful curves, and there were fine, patient lines about eyes andmouth. A tiny grave in that very cemetery accounted for some of them;and some new ones had come during the recent illness, now happily over,of her little son. But Mrs. Allan's dimples were as sweet and sudden asever, her eyes as clear and bright and true; and what her face lackedof girlish beauty was now more than atoned for in added tenderness andstrength.

  "I suppose you are looking forward to your vacation, Anne?" she said, asthey left the graveyard.

  Anne nodded.

  "Yes. . . . I could roll the word as a sweet morsel under my tongue. Ithink the summer is going to be lovely. For one thing, Mrs. Morgan iscoming to the Island in July and Priscilla is going to bring her up. Ifeel one of my old 'thrills' at the mere thought."

  "I hope you'll have a good time, Anne. You've worked very hard this pastyear and you have succeeded."

  "Oh, I don't know. I've come so far short in so many things. I haven'tdone what I meant to do when I began to teach last fall. I haven't livedup to my ideals."

  "None of us ever do," said Mrs. Allan with a sigh. "But then, Anne, youknow what Lowell says, 'Not failure but low aim is crime.' We must haveideals and try to live up to them, even if we never quite succeed. Lifewould be a sorry business without them. With them it's grand and great.Hold fast to your ideals, Anne."

  "I shall try. But I have to let go most of my theories," said Anne,laughing a little. "I had the most beautiful set of theories you everknew when I started out as a schoolma'am, but every one of them hasfailed me at some pinch or another."

  "Even the theory on corporal punishment," teased Mrs. Allan.

  But Anne flushed.

  "I shall never forgive myself for whipping Anthony."

  "Nonsense, dear, he deserved it. And it agreed with him. You have had notrouble with him since and he has come to think there's nobody like you.Your kindness won his love after the idea that a 'girl was no good' wasrooted out of his stubborn mind."

  "He may have deserved it, but that is not the point. If I had calmly anddeliberately decided to whip him because I thought it a just punishmentfor him I would not feel over it as I do. But the truth is, Mrs. Allan,that I just flew into a temper and whipped him because of that. I wasn'tthinking whether it was just or unjust . . . even if he hadn't deserved itI'd have done it just the same. That is what humiliates me."

  "Well, we all make mistakes, dear, so just put it behind you. We shouldregret our mistakes and learn from them, but never carry them forwardinto the future with us. There goes Gilbert Blythe on his wheel . . . homefor his vacation too, I suppose. How are you and he getting on with yourstudies?"

  "Pretty well. We plan to finish the Virgil tonight . . . there are onlytwenty lines to do. Then we are not going to study any more untilSeptember."

  "Do you think you will ever get to college?"

  "Oh, I don't know." Anne looked dreamily afar to the opal-tintedhorizon. "Marilla's eyes will never be much better than they are now,although we are so thankful to think that they will not get worse. Andthen there are the twins . . . somehow I don't believe their uncle willever really send for them. Perhaps college may be around the bend in theroad, but I haven't got to the bend yet and I don't think much about itlest I might grow discontented."

  "Well, I should like to see you go to college, Anne; but if you neverdo, don't be discontented about it. We make our own lives wherever weare, after all . . . college can only help us to do it more easily. Theyare broad or narrow according to what we put into them, not what we getout. Life is rich and full here . . . everywhere . . . if we can onlylearn how to open our whole hearts to its richness and fulness."

  "I think I understand what you mean," said Anne thoughtfully, "and Iknow I have so much to feel thankful for . . . oh, so much . . . my work,and Paul Irving, and the dear twins, and all my friends. Do you know,Mrs. Allan, I'm so thankful for friendship. It beautifies life so much."

  "True friendship is a very helpful thing indeed," said Mrs. Allan,"and we should have a very high ideal of it, and never sully it by anyfailure in truth and sincerity. I fear the name of friendship is oftendegraded to a kind of intimacy that has nothing of real friendship init."

  "Yes . . . like Gertie Pye's and Julia Bell's. They are very intimateand go everywhere together; but Gertie is always saying nasty things ofJulia behind her back and everybody thinks she is jealous of her becauseshe is always so pleased when anybody criticizes Julia. I think it isdesecration to call that friendship. If we have friends we should lookonly for the best in them and give them the best that is in us, don'tyou think? Then friendship would be the most beautiful thing in theworld."

  "Friendship IS very beautiful," smiled Mrs. Allan, "but some day . . ."

  Then she paused abruptly. In the delicate, white-browed face beside her,with its candid eyes and mobile features, there was still far more ofthe child than of the woman. Anne's heart so far harbored only dreams offriendship and ambition, and Mrs. Allan did not wish to brush the bloomfrom her sweet unconsciousness. So she left her sentence for the futureyears to finish.