XIX
Just a Happy Day
"After all," Anne had said to Marilla once, "I believe the nicest andsweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderfulor exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures,following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string."
Life at Green Gables was full of just such days, for Anne's adventuresand misadventures, like those of other people, did not all happen atonce, but were sprinkled over the year, with long stretches of harmless,happy days between, filled with work and dreams and laughter andlessons. Such a day came late in August. In the forenoon Anne and Dianarowed the delighted twins down the pond to the sandshore to pick "sweetgrass" and paddle in the surf, over which the wind was harping an oldlyric learned when the world was young.
In the afternoon Anne walked down to the old Irving place to see Paul.She found him stretched out on the grassy bank beside the thick firgrove that sheltered the house on the north, absorbed in a book of fairytales. He sprang up radiantly at sight of her.
"Oh, I'm so glad you've come, teacher," he said eagerly, "becauseGrandma's away. You'll stay and have tea with me, won't you? It's solonesome to have tea all by oneself. YOU know, teacher. I've had seriousthoughts of asking Young Mary Joe to sit down and eat her tea with me,but I expect Grandma wouldn't approve. She says the French have to bekept in their place. And anyhow, it's difficult to talk with Young MaryJoe. She just laughs and says, 'Well, yous do beat all de kids I everknowed.' That isn't my idea of conversation."
"Of course I'll stay to tea," said Anne gaily. "I was dying to be asked.My mouth has been watering for some more of your grandma's deliciousshortbread ever since I had tea here before."
Paul looked very sober.
"If it depended on me, teacher," he said, standing before Anne with hishands in his pockets and his beautiful little face shadowed with suddencare, "You should have shortbread with a right good will. But it dependson Mary Joe. I heard Grandma tell her before she left that she wasn't togive me any shortcake because it was too rich for little boys' stomachs.But maybe Mary Joe will cut some for you if I promise I won't eat any.Let us hope for the best."
"Yes, let us," agreed Anne, whom this cheerful philosophy suitedexactly, "and if Mary Joe proves hard-hearted and won't give me anyshortbread it doesn't matter in the least, so you are not to worry overthat."
"You're sure you won't mind if she doesn't?" said Paul anxiously.
"Perfectly sure, dear heart."
"Then I won't worry," said Paul, with a long breath of relief,"especially as I really think Mary Joe will listen to reason. She's nota naturally unreasonable person, but she has learned by experience thatit doesn't do to disobey Grandma's orders. Grandma is an excellent womanbut people must do as she tells them. She was very much pleased withme this morning because I managed at last to eat all my plateful ofporridge. It was a great effort but I succeeded. Grandma says she thinksshe'll make a man of me yet. But, teacher, I want to ask you a veryimportant question. You will answer it truthfully, won't you?"
"I'll try," promised Anne.
"Do you think I'm wrong in my upper story?" asked Paul, as if his veryexistence depended on her reply.
"Goodness, no, Paul," exclaimed Anne in amazement. "Certainly you'renot. What put such an idea into your head?"
"Mary Joe . . . but she didn't know I heard her. Mrs. Peter Sloane'shired girl, Veronica, came to see Mary Joe last evening and I heard themtalking in the kitchen as I was going through the hall. I heard Mary Joesay, 'Dat Paul, he is de queeres' leetle boy. He talks dat queer. I tinkdere's someting wrong in his upper story.' I couldn't sleep last nightfor ever so long, thinking of it, and wondering if Mary Joe was right. Icouldn't bear to ask Grandma about it somehow, but I made up my mind I'dask you. I'm so glad you think I'm all right in my upper story."
"Of course you are. Mary Joe is a silly, ignorant girl, and you arenever to worry about anything she says," said Anne indignantly, secretlyresolving to give Mrs. Irving a discreet hint as to the advisability ofrestraining Mary Joe's tongue.
"Well, that's a weight off my mind," said Paul. "I'm perfectly happynow, teacher, thanks to you. It wouldn't be nice to have something wrongin your upper story, would it, teacher? I suppose the reason MaryJoe imagines I have is because I tell her what I think about thingssometimes."
"It is a rather dangerous practice," admitted Anne, out of the depths ofher own experience.
"Well, by and by I'll tell you the thoughts I told Mary Joe and you cansee for yourself if there's anything queer in them," said Paul, "butI'll wait till it begins to get dark. That is the time I ache to tellpeople things, and when nobody else is handy I just HAVE to tell MaryJoe. But after this I won't, if it makes her imagine I'm wrong in myupper story. I'll just ache and bear it."
"And if the ache gets too bad you can come up to Green Gables and tellme your thoughts," suggested Anne, with all the gravity that endearedher to children, who so dearly love to be taken seriously.
"Yes, I will. But I hope Davy won't be there when I go because he makesfaces at me. I don't mind VERY much because he is such a little boy andI am quite a big one, but still it is not pleasant to have faces madeat you. And Davy makes such terrible ones. Sometimes I am frightened hewill never get his face straightened out again. He makes them at mein church when I ought to be thinking of sacred things. Dora likes methough, and I like her, but not so well as I did before she toldMinnie May Barry that she meant to marry me when I grew up. I may marrysomebody when I grow up but I'm far too young to be thinking of it yet,don't you think, teacher?"
"Rather young," agreed teacher.
"Speaking of marrying, reminds me of another thing that has beentroubling me of late," continued Paul. "Mrs. Lynde was down here oneday last week having tea with Grandma, and Grandma made me show hermy little mother's picture . . . the one father sent me for my birthdaypresent. I didn't exactly want to show it to Mrs. Lynde. Mrs. Lynde is agood, kind woman, but she isn't the sort of person you want to show yourmother's picture to. YOU know, teacher. But of course I obeyed Grandma.Mrs. Lynde said she was very pretty but kind of actressy looking, andmust have been an awful lot younger than father. Then she said, 'Some ofthese days your pa will be marrying again likely. How will you like tohave a new ma, Master Paul?' Well, the idea almost took my breath away,teacher, but I wasn't going to let Mrs. Lynde see THAT. I just lookedher straight in the face . . . like this . . . and I said, 'Mrs. Lynde,father made a pretty good job of picking out my first mother and I couldtrust him to pick out just as good a one the second time.' And I CANtrust him, teacher. But still, I hope, if he ever does give me a newmother, he'll ask my opinion about her before it's too late. There'sMary Joe coming to call us to tea. I'll go and consult with her aboutthe shortbread."
As a result of the "consultation," Mary Joe cut the shortbread and addeda dish of preserves to the bill of fare. Anne poured the tea and sheand Paul had a very merry meal in the dim old sitting room whose windowswere open to the gulf breezes, and they talked so much "nonsense" thatMary Joe was quite scandalized and told Veronica the next evening that"de school mees" was as queer as Paul. After tea Paul took Anne up tohis room to show her his mother's picture, which had been the mysteriousbirthday present kept by Mrs. Irving in the bookcase. Paul's littlelow-ceilinged room was a soft whirl of ruddy light from the sun that wassetting over the sea and swinging shadows from the fir trees that grewclose to the square, deep-set window. From out this soft glow and glamorshone a sweet, girlish face, with tender mother eyes, that was hangingon the wall at the foot of the bed.
"That's my little mother," said Paul with loving pride. "I got Grandmato hang it there where I'd see it as soon as I opened my eyes in themorning. I never mind not having the light when I go to bed now, becauseit just seems as if my little mother was right here with me. Father knewjust what I would like for a birthday present, although he never askedme. Isn't it wonderful how much fathers DO know?"
"Your mother was very lovely, Paul
, and you look a little like her. Buther eyes and hair are darker than yours."
"My eyes are the same color as father's," said Paul, flying about theroom to heap all available cushions on the window seat, "but father'shair is gray. He has lots of it, but it is gray. You see, father isnearly fifty. That's ripe old age, isn't it? But it's only OUTSIDE he'sold. INSIDE he's just as young as anybody. Now, teacher, please sithere; and I'll sit at your feet. May I lay my head against your knee?That's the way my little mother and I used to sit. Oh, this is realsplendid, I think."
"Now, I want to hear those thoughts which Mary Joe pronounces so queer,"said Anne, patting the mop of curls at her side. Paul never needed anycoaxing to tell his thoughts . . . at least, to congenial souls.
"I thought them out in the fir grove one night," he said dreamily. "Ofcourse I didn't BELIEVE them but I THOUGHT them. YOU know, teacher. Andthen I wanted to tell them to somebody and there was nobody but MaryJoe. Mary Joe was in the pantry setting bread and I sat down on thebench beside her and I said, 'Mary Joe, do you know what I think? Ithink the evening star is a lighthouse on the land where the fairiesdwell.' And Mary Joe said, 'Well, yous are de queer one. Dare ain't nosuch ting as fairies.' I was very much provoked. Of course, I knew thereare no fairies; but that needn't prevent my thinking there is. You know,teacher. But I tried again quite patiently. I said, 'Well then, MaryJoe, do you know what I think? I think an angel walks over the worldafter the sun sets . . . a great, tall, white angel, with silvery foldedwings . . . and sings the flowers and birds to sleep. Children can hearhim if they know how to listen.' Then Mary Joe held up her hands allover flour and said, 'Well, yous are de queer leetle boy. Yous makeme feel scare.' And she really did looked scared. I went out then andwhispered the rest of my thoughts to the garden. There was a littlebirch tree in the garden and it died. Grandma says the salt spraykilled it; but I think the dryad belonging to it was a foolish dryad whowandered away to see the world and got lost. And the little tree was solonely it died of a broken heart."
"And when the poor, foolish little dryad gets tired of the world andcomes back to her tree HER heart will break," said Anne.
"Yes; but if dryads are foolish they must take the consequences, just asif they were real people," said Paul gravely. "Do you know what I thinkabout the new moon, teacher? I think it is a little golden boat full ofdreams."
"And when it tips on a cloud some of them spill out and fall into yoursleep."
"Exactly, teacher. Oh, you DO know. And I think the violets are littlesnips of the sky that fell down when the angels cut out holes for thestars to shine through. And the buttercups are made out of old sunshine;and I think the sweet peas will be butterflies when they go to heaven.Now, teacher, do you see anything so very queer about those thoughts?"
"No, laddie dear, they are not queer at all; they are strange andbeautiful thoughts for a little boy to think, and so people who couldn'tthink anything of the sort themselves, if they tried for a hundredyears, think them queer. But keep on thinking them, Paul . . . some dayyou are going to be a poet, I believe."
When Anne reached home she found a very different type of boyhoodwaiting to be put to bed. Davy was sulky; and when Anne had undressedhim he bounced into bed and buried his face in the pillow.
"Davy, you have forgotten to say your prayers," said Anne rebukingly.
"No, I didn't forget," said Davy defiantly, "but I ain't going to saymy prayers any more. I'm going to give up trying to be good, 'cause nomatter how good I am you'd like Paul Irving better. So I might as wellbe bad and have the fun of it."
"I don't like Paul Irving BETTER," said Anne seriously. "I like you justas well, only in a different way."
"But I want you to like me the same way," pouted Davy.
"You can't like different people the same way. You don't like Dora andme the same way, do you?"
Davy sat up and reflected.
"No . . . o . . . o," he admitted at last, "I like Dora because she's mysister but I like you because you're YOU."
"And I like Paul because he is Paul and Davy because he is Davy," saidAnne gaily.
"Well, I kind of wish I'd said my prayers then," said Davy, convinced bythis logic. "But it's too much bother getting out now to say them. I'llsay them twice over in the morning, Anne. Won't that do as well?"
No, Anne was positive it would not do as well. So Davy scrambled outand knelt down at her knee. When he had finished his devotions he leanedback on his little, bare, brown heels and looked up at her.
"Anne, I'm gooder than I used to be."
"Yes, indeed you are, Davy," said Anne, who never hesitated to givecredit where credit was due.
"I KNOW I'm gooder," said Davy confidently, "and I'll tell you how Iknow it. Today Marilla give me two pieces of bread and jam, one for meand one for Dora. One was a good deal bigger than the other and Marilladidn't say which was mine. But I give the biggest piece to Dora. Thatwas good of me, wasn't it?"
"Very good, and very manly, Davy."
"Of course," admitted Davy, "Dora wasn't very hungry and she only ethalf her slice and then she give the rest to me. But I didn't know shewas going to do that when I give it to her, so I WAS good, Anne."
In the twilight Anne sauntered down to the Dryad's Bubble and sawGilbert Blythe coming down through the dusky Haunted Wood. She had asudden realization that Gilbert was a schoolboy no longer. And how manlyhe looked--the tall, frank-faced fellow, with the clear, straightforwardeyes and the broad shoulders. Anne thought Gilbert was a very handsomelad, even though he didn't look at all like her ideal man. She and Dianahad long ago decided what kind of a man they admired and their tastesseemed exactly similar. He must be very tall and distinguished looking,with melancholy, inscrutable eyes, and a melting, sympathetic voice.There was nothing either melancholy or inscrutable in Gilbert'sphysiognomy, but of course that didn't matter in friendship!
Gilbert stretched himself out on the ferns beside the Bubble and lookedapprovingly at Anne. If Gilbert had been asked to describe his idealwoman the description would have answered point for point to Anne, evento those seven tiny freckles whose obnoxious presence still continued tovex her soul. Gilbert was as yet little more than a boy; but a boy hashis dreams as have others, and in Gilbert's future there was always agirl with big, limpid gray eyes, and a face as fine and delicate as aflower. He had made up his mind, also, that his future must be worthy ofits goddess. Even in quiet Avonlea there were temptations to be metand faced. White Sands youth were a rather "fast" set, and Gilbert waspopular wherever he went. But he meant to keep himself worthy of Anne'sfriendship and perhaps some distant day her love; and he watched overword and thought and deed as jealously as if her clear eyes were topass in judgment on it. She held over him the unconscious influence thatevery girl, whose ideals are high and pure, wields over her friends; aninfluence which would endure as long as she was faithful to those idealsand which she would as certainly lose if she were ever false to them. InGilbert's eyes Anne's greatest charm was the fact that she never stoopedto the petty practices of so many of the Avonlea girls--the smalljealousies, the little deceits and rivalries, the palpable bids forfavor. Anne held herself apart from all this, not consciously or ofdesign, but simply because anything of the sort was utterly foreignto her transparent, impulsive nature, crystal clear in its motives andaspirations.
But Gilbert did not attempt to put his thoughts into words, for he hadalready too good reason to know that Anne would mercilessly and frostilynip all attempts at sentiment in the bud--or laugh at him, which was tentimes worse.
"You look like a real dryad under that birch tree," he said teasingly.
"I love birch trees," said Anne, laying her cheek against the creamysatin of the slim bole, with one of the pretty, caressing gestures thatcame so natural to her.
"Then you'll be glad to hear that Mr. Major Spencer has decided to setout a row of white birches all along the road front of his farm, by wayof encouraging the A.V.I.S.," said Gilbert. "He was talking to me aboutit today. Major Spenc
er is the most progressive and public-spiritedman in Avonlea. And Mr. William Bell is going to set out a sprucehedge along his road front and up his lane. Our Society is getting onsplendidly, Anne. It is past the experimental stage and is an acceptedfact. The older folks are beginning to take an interest in it and theWhite Sands people are talking of starting one too. Even Elisha Wrighthas come around since that day the Americans from the hotel had thepicnic at the shore. They praised our roadsides so highly and said theywere so much prettier than in any other part of the Island. And when, indue time, the other farmers follow Mr. Spencer's good example and plantornamental trees and hedges along their road fronts Avonlea will be theprettiest settlement in the province."
"The Aids are talking of taking up the graveyard," said Anne, "and Ihope they will, because there will have to be a subscription for that,and it would be no use for the Society to try it after the hall affair.But the Aids would never have stirred in the matter if the Societyhadn't put it into their thoughts unofficially. Those trees we plantedon the church grounds are flourishing, and the trustees have promisedme that they will fence in the school grounds next year. If they do I'llhave an arbor day and every scholar shall plant a tree; and we'll have agarden in the corner by the road."
"We've succeeded in almost all our plans so far, except in getting theold Boulter house removed," said Gilbert, "and I've given THAT upin despair. Levi won't have it taken down just to vex us. There's acontrary streak in all the Boulters and it's strongly developed in him."
"Julia Bell wants to send another committee to him, but I think thebetter way will just be to leave him severely alone," said Anne sagely.
"And trust to Providence, as Mrs. Lynde says," smiled Gilbert."Certainly, no more committees. They only aggravate him. Julia Bellthinks you can do anything, if you only have a committee to attemptit. Next spring, Anne, we must start an agitation for nice lawns andgrounds. We'll sow good seed betimes this winter. I've a treatise hereon lawns and lawnmaking and I'm going to prepare a paper on the subjectsoon. Well, I suppose our vacation is almost over. School opens Monday.Has Ruby Gillis got the Carmody school?"
"Yes; Priscilla wrote that she had taken her own home school, so theCarmody trustees gave it to Ruby. I'm sorry Priscilla is not comingback, but since she can't I'm glad Ruby has got the school. She will behome for Saturdays and it will seem like old times, to have her and Janeand Diana and myself all together again."
Marilla, just home from Mrs. Lynde's, was sitting on the back porch stepwhen Anne returned to the house.
"Rachel and I have decided to have our cruise to town tomorrow," shesaid. "Mr. Lynde is feeling better this week and Rachel wants to gobefore he has another sick spell."
"I intend to get up extra early tomorrow morning, for I've ever so muchto do," said Anne virtuously. "For one thing, I'm going to shift thefeathers from my old bedtick to the new one. I ought to have done itlong ago but I've just kept putting it off . . . it's such a detestabletask. It's a very bad habit to put off disagreeable things, and I nevermean to again, or else I can't comfortably tell my pupils not to do it.That would be inconsistent. Then I want to make a cake for Mr. Harrisonand finish my paper on gardens for the A.V.I.S., and write Stella, andwash and starch my muslin dress, and make Dora's new apron."
"You won't get half done," said Marilla pessimistically. "I never yetplanned to do a lot of things but something happened to prevent me."
Anne of Avonlea Page 19
