XXIX
Poetry and Prose
For the next month Anne lived in what, for Avonlea, might be calleda whirl of excitement. The preparation of her own modest outfit forRedmond was of secondary importance. Miss Lavendar was getting ready tobe married and the stone house was the scene of endless consultationsand plannings and discussions, with Charlotta the Fourth hovering on theoutskirts of things in agitated delight and wonder. Then the dressmakercame, and there was the rapture and wretchedness of choosing fashionsand being fitted. Anne and Diana spent half their time at Echo Lodge andthere were nights when Anne could not sleep for wondering whether shehad done right in advising Miss Lavendar to select brown rather thannavy blue for her traveling dress, and to have her gray silk madeprincess.
Everybody concerned in Miss Lavendar's story was very happy. Paul Irvingrushed to Green Gables to talk the news over with Anne as soon as hisfather had told him.
"I knew I could trust father to pick me out a nice little secondmother," he said proudly. "It's a fine thing to have a father you candepend on, teacher. I just love Miss Lavendar. Grandma is pleased, too.She says she's real glad father didn't pick out an American for hissecond wife, because, although it turned out all right the first time,such a thing wouldn't be likely to happen twice. Mrs. Lynde says shethoroughly approves of the match and thinks its likely Miss Lavendarwill give up her queer notions and be like other people, now that she'sgoing to be married. But I hope she won't give her queer notions up,teacher, because I like them. And I don't want her to be like otherpeople. There are too many other people around as it is. YOU know,teacher."
Charlotta the Fourth was another radiant person.
"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, it has all turned out so beautiful. When Mr.Irving and Miss Lavendar come back from their tower I'm to go up toBoston and live with them . . . and me only fifteen, and the other girlsnever went till they were sixteen. Ain't Mr. Irving splendid? Hejust worships the ground she treads on and it makes me feel so queersometimes to see the look in his eyes when he's watching her. It beggarsdescription, Miss Shirley, ma'am. I'm awful thankful they're so fondof each other. It's the best way, when all's said and done, though somefolks can get along without it. I've got an aunt who has been marriedthree times and says she married the first time for love and the lasttwo times for strictly business, and was happy with all three except atthe times of the funerals. But I think she took a resk, Miss Shirley,ma'am."
"Oh, it's all so romantic," breathed Anne to Marilla that night. "If Ihadn't taken the wrong path that day we went to Mr. Kimball's I'd neverhave known Miss Lavendar; and if I hadn't met her I'd never have takenPaul there . . . and he'd never have written to his father about visitingMiss Lavendar just as Mr. Irving was starting for San Francisco. Mr.Irving says whenever he got that letter he made up his mind to send hispartner to San Francisco and come here instead. He hadn't heard anythingof Miss Lavendar for fifteen years. Somebody had told him then thatshe was to be married and he thought she was and never asked anybodyanything about her. And now everything has come right. And I had ahand in bringing it about. Perhaps, as Mrs. Lynde says, everything isforeordained and it was bound to happen anyway. But even so, it's niceto think one was an instrument used by predestination. Yes indeed, it'svery romantic."
"I can't see that it's so terribly romantic at all," said Marilla rathercrisply. Marilla thought Anne was too worked up about it and had plentyto do with getting ready for college without "traipsing" to Echo Lodgetwo days out of three helping Miss Lavendar. "In the first place twoyoung fools quarrel and turn sulky; then Steve Irving goes to the Statesand after a spell gets married up there and is perfectly happy from allaccounts. Then his wife dies and after a decent interval he thinks he'llcome home and see if his first fancy'll have him. Meanwhile, she's beenliving single, probably because nobody nice enough came along to wanther, and they meet and agree to be married after all. Now, where is theromance in all that?"
"Oh, there isn't any, when you put it that way," gasped Anne, ratheras if somebody had thrown cold water over her. "I suppose that's howit looks in prose. But it's very different if you look at it throughpoetry . . . and _I_ think it's nicer . . ." Anne recovered herself andher eyes shone and her cheeks flushed . . . "to look at it throughpoetry."
Marilla glanced at the radiant young face and refrained from furthersarcastic comments. Perhaps some realization came to her that after allit was better to have, like Anne, "the vision and the faculty divine". . . that gift which the world cannot bestow or take away, of looking atlife through some transfiguring . . . or revealing? . . . medium, wherebyeverything seemed apparelled in celestial light, wearing a glory anda freshness not visible to those who, like herself and Charlotta theFourth, looked at things only through prose.
"When's the wedding to be?" she asked after a pause.
"The last Wednesday in August. They are to be married in the gardenunder the honeysuckle trellis . . . the very spot where Mr. Irvingproposed to her twenty-five years ago. Marilla, that IS romantic, evenin prose. There's to be nobody there except Mrs. Irving and Paul andGilbert and Diana and I, and Miss Lavendar's cousins. And they willleave on the six o'clock train for a trip to the Pacific coast. Whenthey come back in the fall Paul and Charlotta the Fourth are to go up toBoston to live with them. But Echo Lodge is to be left just as it is. . .only of course they'll sell the hens and cow, and board up the windows. . . and every summer they're coming down to live in it. I'm so glad. Itwould have hurt me dreadfully next winter at Redmond to think of thatdear stone house all stripped and deserted, with empty rooms . . . or farworse still, with other people living in it. But I can think of it now,just as I've always seen it, waiting happily for the summer to bringlife and laughter back to it again."
There was more romance in the world than that which had fallen tothe share of the middle-aged lovers of the stone house. Anne stumbledsuddenly on it one evening when she went over to Orchard Slope by thewood cut and came out into the Barry garden. Diana Barry and Fred Wrightwere standing together under the big willow. Diana was leaning againstthe gray trunk, her lashes cast down on very crimson cheeks. One handwas held by Fred, who stood with his face bent toward her, stammeringsomething in low earnest tones. There were no other people in the worldexcept their two selves at that magic moment; so neither of them sawAnne, who, after one dazed glance of comprehension, turned and spednoiselessly back through the spruce wood, never stopping till she gainedher own gable room, where she sat breathlessly down by her window andtried to collect her scattered wits.
"Diana and Fred are in love with each other," she gasped. "Oh, it doesseem so . . . so . . . so HOPELESSLY grown up."
Anne, of late, had not been without her suspicions that Diana wasproving false to the melancholy Byronic hero of her early dreams. Butas "things seen are mightier than things heard," or suspected, therealization that it was actually so came to her with almost the shock ofperfect surprise. This was succeeded by a queer, little lonely feeling. . . as if, somehow, Diana had gone forward into a new world, shuttinga gate behind her, leaving Anne on the outside.
"Things are changing so fast it almost frightens me," Anne thought,a little sadly. "And I'm afraid that this can't help making somedifference between Diana and me. I'm sure I can't tell her all mysecrets after this . . . she might tell Fred. And what CAN she see inFred? He's very nice and jolly . . . but he's just Fred Wright."
It is always a very puzzling question . . . what can somebody see insomebody else? But how fortunate after all that it is so, for ifeverybody saw alike . . . well, in that case, as the old Indian said,"Everybody would want my squaw." It was plain that Diana DID seesomething in Fred Wright, however Anne's eyes might be holden. Dianacame to Green Gables the next evening, a pensive, shy young lady, andtold Anne the whole story in the dusky seclusion of the east gable. Bothgirls cried and kissed and laughed.
"I'm so happy," said Diana, "but it does seem ridiculous to think of mebeing engaged."
"What is it really like to be engaged?" asked
Anne curiously.
"Well, that all depends on who you're engaged to," answered Diana, withthat maddening air of superior wisdom always assumed by those who areengaged over those who are not. "It's perfectly lovely to be engaged toFred . . . but I think it would be simply horrid to be engaged to anyoneelse."
"There's not much comfort for the rest of us in that, seeing that thereis only one Fred," laughed Anne.
"Oh, Anne, you don't understand," said Diana in vexation. "I didn'tmean THAT . . . it's so hard to explain. Never mind, you'll understandsometime, when your own turn comes."
"Bless you, dearest of Dianas, I understand now. What is an imaginationfor if not to enable you to peep at life through other people's eyes?"
"You must be my bridesmaid, you know, Anne. Promise me that . . .wherever you may be when I'm married."
"I'll come from the ends of the earth if necessary," promised Annesolemnly.
"Of course, it won't be for ever so long yet," said Diana, blushing."Three years at the very least . . . for I'm only eighteen and mother saysno daughter of hers shall be married before she's twenty-one. Besides,Fred's father is going to buy the Abraham Fletcher farm for him and hesays he's got to have it two thirds paid for before he'll give it to himin his own name. But three years isn't any too much time to get readyfor housekeeping, for I haven't a speck of fancy work made yet. But I'mgoing to begin crocheting doilies tomorrow. Myra Gillis had thirty-sevendoilies when she was married and I'm determined I shall have as many asshe had."
"I suppose it would be perfectly impossible to keep house with onlythirty-six doilies," conceded Anne, with a solemn face but dancing eyes.
Diana looked hurt.
"I didn't think you'd make fun of me, Anne," she said reproachfully.
"Dearest, I wasn't making fun of you," cried Anne repentantly. "Iwas only teasing you a bit. I think you'll make the sweetest littlehousekeeper in the world. And I think it's perfectly lovely of you to beplanning already for your home o'dreams."
Anne had no sooner uttered the phrase, "home o'dreams," than itcaptivated her fancy and she immediately began the erection of one ofher own. It was, of course, tenanted by an ideal master, dark, proud,and melancholy; but oddly enough, Gilbert Blythe persisted in hangingabout too, helping her arrange pictures, lay out gardens, and accomplishsundry other tasks which a proud and melancholy hero evidentlyconsidered beneath his dignity. Anne tried to banish Gilbert's imagefrom her castle in Spain but, somehow, he went on being there, soAnne, being in a hurry, gave up the attempt and pursued her aerialarchitecture with such success that her "home o'dreams" was built andfurnished before Diana spoke again.
"I suppose, Anne, you must think it's funny I should like Fred so wellwhen he's so different from the kind of man I've always said I wouldmarry . . . the tall, slender kind? But somehow I wouldn't want Fred to betall and slender . . . because, don't you see, he wouldn't be Fred then.Of course," added Diana rather dolefully, "we will be a dreadfully pudgycouple. But after all that's better than one of us being short and fatand the other tall and lean, like Morgan Sloane and his wife. Mrs. Lyndesays it always makes her think of the long and short of it when she seesthem together."
"Well," said Anne to herself that night, as she brushed her hair beforeher gilt framed mirror, "I am glad Diana is so happy and satisfied.But when my turn comes . . . if it ever does . . . I do hope there'll besomething a little more thrilling about it. But then Diana thought sotoo, once. I've heard her say time and again she'd never get engaged anypoky commonplace way . . . he'd HAVE to do something splendid to win her.But she has changed. Perhaps I'll change too. But I won't . . . andI'm determined I won't. Oh, I think these engagements are dreadfullyunsettling things when they happen to your intimate friends."
XXX
A Wedding at the Stone House
The last week in August came. Miss Lavendar was to be married in it.Two weeks later Anne and Gilbert would leave for Redmond College. In aweek's time Mrs. Rachel Lynde would move to Green Gables and set upher lares and penates in the erstwhile spare room, which was alreadyprepared for her coming. She had sold all her superfluous householdplenishings by auction and was at present reveling in the congenialoccupation of helping the Allans pack up. Mr. Allan was to preach hisfarewell sermon the next Sunday. The old order was changing rapidly togive place to the new, as Anne felt with a little sadness threading allher excitement and happiness.
"Changes ain't totally pleasant but they're excellent things," said Mr.Harrison philosophically. "Two years is about long enough for thingsto stay exactly the same. If they stayed put any longer they might growmossy."
Mr. Harrison was smoking on his veranda. His wife had self-sacrificinglytold that he might smoke in the house if he took care to sit by anopen window. Mr. Harrison rewarded this concession by going outdoorsaltogether to smoke in fine weather, and so mutual goodwill reigned.
Anne had come over to ask Mrs. Harrison for some of her yellow dahlias.She and Diana were going through to Echo Lodge that evening to help MissLavendar and Charlotta the Fourth with their final preparations for themorrow's bridal. Miss Lavendar herself never had dahlias; she did notlike them and they would not have suited the fine retirement of herold-fashioned garden. But flowers of any kind were rather scarce inAvonlea and the neighboring districts that summer, thanks to Uncle Abe'sstorm; and Anne and Diana thought that a certain old cream-colored stonejug, usually kept sacred to doughnuts, brimmed over with yellow dahlias,would be just the thing to set in a dim angle of the stone house stairs,against the dark background of red hall paper.
"I s'pose you'll be starting off for college in a fortnight's time?"continued Mr. Harrison. "Well, we're going to miss you an awful lot,Emily and me. To be sure, Mrs. Lynde'll be over there in your place.There ain't nobody but a substitute can be found for them."
The irony of Mr. Harrison's tone is quite untransferable to paper. Inspite of his wife's intimacy with Mrs. Lynde, the best that could besaid of the relationship between her and Mr. Harrison even under the newregime, was that they preserved an armed neutrality.
"Yes, I'm going," said Anne. "I'm very glad with my head . . . and verysorry with my heart."
"I s'pose you'll be scooping up all the honors that are lying roundloose at Redmond."
"I may try for one or two of them," confessed Anne, "but I don't care somuch for things like that as I did two years ago. What I want to get outof my college course is some knowledge of the best way of living lifeand doing the most and best with it. I want to learn to understand andhelp other people and myself."
Mr. Harrison nodded.
"That's the idea exactly. That's what college ought to be for, insteadof for turning out a lot of B.A.'s, so chock full of book-learningand vanity that there ain't room for anything else. You're all right.College won't be able to do you much harm, I reckon."
Diana and Anne drove over to Echo Lodge after tea, taking with them allthe flowery spoil that several predatory expeditions in their own andtheir neighbors' gardens had yielded. They found the stone house agogwith excitement. Charlotta the Fourth was flying around with such vimand briskness that her blue bows seemed really to possess the power ofbeing everywhere at once. Like the helmet of Navarre, Charlotta's bluebows waved ever in the thickest of the fray.
"Praise be to goodness you've come," she said devoutly, "for there'sheaps of things to do . . . and the frosting on that cake WON'T harden. . . and there's all the silver to be rubbed up yet . . . and thehorsehair trunk to be packed . . . and the roosters for the chickensalad are running out there beyant the henhouse yet, crowing, MissShirley, ma'am. And Miss Lavendar ain't to be trusted to do a thing. Iwas thankful when Mr. Irving came a few minutes ago and took her off fora walk in the woods. Courting's all right in its place, Miss Shirley,ma'am, but if you try to mix it up with cooking and scouringeverything's spoiled. That's MY opinion, Miss Shirley, ma'am."
Anne and Diana worked so heartily that by ten o'clock even Charlottathe Fourth was satisfied. She braided her hair in innumerabl
e plaits andtook her weary little bones off to bed.
"But I'm sure I shan't sleep a blessed wink, Miss Shirley, ma'am, forfear that something'll go wrong at the last minute . . . the cream won'twhip . . . or Mr. Irving'll have a stroke and not be able to come."
"He isn't in the habit of having strokes, is he?" asked Diana, thedimpled corners of her mouth twitching. To Diana, Charlotta the Fourthwas, if not exactly a thing of beauty, certainly a joy forever.
"They're not things that go by habit," said Charlotta the Fourth withdignity. "They just HAPPEN . . . and there you are. ANYBODY can have astroke. You don't have to learn how. Mr. Irving looks a lot like anuncle of mine that had one once just as he was sitting down to dinnerone day. But maybe everything'll go all right. In this world you've justgot to hope for the best and prepare for the worst and take whatever Godsends."
"The only thing I'm worried about is that it won't be fine tomorrow,"said Diana. "Uncle Abe predicted rain for the middle of the week, andever since the big storm I can't help believing there's a good deal inwhat Uncle Abe says."
Anne, who knew better than Diana just how much Uncle Abe had to do withthe storm, was not much disturbed by this. She slept the sleep of thejust and weary, and was roused at an unearthly hour by Charlotta theFourth.
"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, it's awful to call you so early," came wailingthrough the keyhole, "but there's so much to do yet . . . and oh, MissShirley, ma'am, I'm skeered it's going to rain and I wish you'd get upand tell me you think it ain't." Anne flew to the window, hoping againsthope that Charlotta the Fourth was saying this merely by way of rousingher effectually. But alas, the morning did look unpropitious. Below thewindow Miss Lavendar's garden, which should have been a glory of palevirgin sunshine, lay dim and windless; and the sky over the firs wasdark with moody clouds.
"Isn't it too mean!" said Diana.
"We must hope for the best," said Anne determinedly. "If it only doesn'tactually rain, a cool, pearly gray day like this would really be nicerthan hot sunshine."
"But it will rain," mourned Charlotta, creeping into the room, a figureof fun, with her many braids wound about her head, the ends, tied upwith white thread, sticking out in all directions. "It'll hold off tillthe last minute and then pour cats and dogs. And all the folks will getsopping . . . and track mud all over the house . . . and they won't beable to be married under the honeysuckle . . . and it's awful unluckyfor no sun to shine on a bride, say what you will, Miss Shirley, ma'am._I_ knew things were going too well to last."
Charlotta the Fourth seemed certainly to have borrowed a leaf out ofMiss Eliza Andrews' book.
It did not rain, though it kept on looking as if it meant to. By noonthe rooms were decorated, the table beautifully laid; and upstairs waswaiting a bride, "adorned for her husband."
"You do look sweet," said Anne rapturously.
"Lovely," echoed Diana.
"Everything's ready, Miss Shirley, ma'am, and nothing dreadful hashappened YET," was Charlotta's cheerful statement as she betook herselfto her little back room to dress. Out came all the braids; the resultantrampant crinkliness was plaited into two tails and tied, not with twobows alone, but with four, of brand-new ribbon, brightly blue. The twoupper bows rather gave the impression of overgrown wings sprouting fromCharlotta's neck, somewhat after the fashion of Raphael's cherubs. ButCharlotta the Fourth thought them very beautiful, and after she hadrustled into a white dress, so stiffly starched that it could standalone, she surveyed herself in her glass with great satisfaction . . . asatisfaction which lasted until she went out in the hall and caughta glimpse through the spare room door of a tall girl in some softlyclinging gown, pinning white, star-like flowers on the smooth ripples ofher ruddy hair.
"Oh, I'll NEVER be able to look like Miss Shirley," thought poorCharlotta despairingly. "You just have to be born so, I guess . . . don'tseem's if any amount of practice could give you that AIR."
By one o'clock the guests had come, including Mr. and Mrs. Allan, forMr. Allan was to perform the ceremony in the absence of the Graftonminister on his vacation. There was no formality about the marriage.Miss Lavendar came down the stairs to meet her bridegroom at the foot,and as he took her hand she lifted her big brown eyes to his with a lookthat made Charlotta the Fourth, who intercepted it, feel queerer thanever. They went out to the honeysuckle arbor, where Mr. Allan wasawaiting them. The guests grouped themselves as they pleased. Anne andDiana stood by the old stone bench, with Charlotta the Fourth betweenthem, desperately clutching their hands in her cold, tremulous littlepaws.
Mr. Allan opened his blue book and the ceremony proceeded. Just asMiss Lavendar and Stephen Irving were pronounced man and wife a verybeautiful and symbolic thing happened. The sun suddenly burst throughthe gray and poured a flood of radiance on the happy bride. Instantlythe garden was alive with dancing shadows and flickering lights.
"What a lovely omen," thought Anne, as she ran to kiss the bride. Thenthe three girls left the rest of the guests laughing around the bridalpair while they flew into the house to see that all was in readiness forthe feast.
"Thanks be to goodness, it's over, Miss Shirley, ma'am," breathedCharlotta the Fourth, "and they're married safe and sound, no matterwhat happens now. The bags of rice are in the pantry, ma'am, and the oldshoes are behind the door, and the cream for whipping is on the sullarsteps."
At half past two Mr. and Mrs. Irving left, and everybody went to BrightRiver to see them off on the afternoon train. As Miss Lavendar . . . Ibeg her pardon, Mrs. Irving . . . stepped from the door of her old homeGilbert and the girls threw the rice and Charlotta the Fourth hurled anold shoe with such excellent aim that she struck Mr. Allan squarely onthe head. But it was reserved for Paul to give the prettiest send-off.He popped out of the porch ringing furiously a huge old brass dinnerbell which had adorned the dining room mantel. Paul's only motive was tomake a joyful noise; but as the clangor died away, from point and curveand hill across the river came the chime of "fairy wedding bells,"ringing clearly, sweetly, faintly and more faint, as if Miss Lavendar'sbeloved echoes were bidding her greeting and farewell. And so, amid thisbenediction of sweet sounds, Miss Lavendar drove away from the old lifeof dreams and make-believes to a fuller life of realities in the busyworld beyond.
Two hours later Anne and Charlotta the Fourth came down the lane again.Gilbert had gone to West Grafton on an errand and Diana had to keep anengagement at home. Anne and Charlotta had come back to put things inorder and lock up the little stone house. The garden was a pool of lategolden sunshine, with butterflies hovering and bees booming; but thelittle house had already that indefinable air of desolation which alwaysfollows a festivity.
"Oh dear me, don't it look lonesome?" sniffed Charlotta the Fourth, whohad been crying all the way home from the station. "A wedding ain't muchcheerfuller than a funeral after all, when it's all over, Miss Shirley,ma'am."
A busy evening followed. The decorations had to be removed, the disheswashed, the uneaten delicacies packed into a basket for the delectationof Charlotta the Fourth's young brothers at home. Anne would not restuntil everything was in apple-pie order; after Charlotta had gone homewith her plunder Anne went over the still rooms, feeling like one whotrod alone some banquet hall deserted, and closed the blinds. Thenshe locked the door and sat down under the silver poplar to wait forGilbert, feeling very tired but still unweariedly thinking "long, longthoughts."
"What are you thinking of, Anne?" asked Gilbert, coming down the walk.He had left his horse and buggy out at the road.
"Of Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving," answered Anne dreamily. "Isn't itbeautiful to think how everything has turned out . . . how they have cometogether again after all the years of separation and misunderstanding?"
"Yes, it's beautiful," said Gilbert, looking steadily down into Anne'suplifted face, "but wouldn't it have been more beautiful still, Anne, ifthere had been NO separation or misunderstanding . . . if they had comehand in hand all the way through life, with no memories behind them butthose which bel
onged to each other?"
For a moment Anne's heart fluttered queerly and for the first time hereyes faltered under Gilbert's gaze and a rosy flush stained thepaleness of her face. It was as if a veil that had hung before herinner consciousness had been lifted, giving to her view a revelation ofunsuspected feelings and realities. Perhaps, after all, romance did notcome into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down;perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways;perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft ofillumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music,perhaps . . . perhaps . . . love unfolded naturally out of a beautifulfriendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath.
Then the veil dropped again; but the Anne who walked up the dark lanewas not quite the same Anne who had driven gaily down it the eveningbefore. The page of girlhood had been turned, as by an unseen finger,and the page of womanhood was before her with all its charm and mystery,its pain and gladness.
Gilbert wisely said nothing more; but in his silence he read the historyof the next four years in the light of Anne's remembered blush. Fouryears of earnest, happy work . . . and then the guerdon of a usefulknowledge gained and a sweet heart won.
Behind them in the garden the little stone house brooded among theshadows. It was lonely but not forsaken. It had not yet done with dreamsand laughter and the joy of life; there were to be future summers forthe little stone house; meanwhile, it could wait. And over the river inpurple durance the echoes bided their time.
[Note:
The correct words were obtained from the L.C. Page & Company, Inc. edition of this book copyright 1909 - Thirteenth Impression, April 1911.
Italic emphases have been CAPITALIZED for emphasis, other italics, such as titles have been 'Placed in Single Quotes.' Italic I's are _I_.
Most spellings and combined words have been left as they were in the majority of the editions originally published. Some spelling errors we presume were not intended have been corrected.]
Anne of Avonlea Page 29
