Chapter XXVIII
A June Evening
"I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was alwaysJune," said Anne, as she came through the spice and bloom of the twilitorchard to the front door steps, where Marilla and Mrs. Rachel weresitting, talking over Mrs. Samson Coates' funeral, which they hadattended that day. Dora sat between them, diligently studying herlessons; but Davy was sitting tailor-fashion on the grass, looking asgloomy and depressed as his single dimple would let him.
"You'd get tired of it," said Marilla, with a sigh.
"I daresay; but just now I feel that it would take me a long time to gettired of it, if it were all as charming as today. Everything loves June.Davy-boy, why this melancholy November face in blossom-time?"
"I'm just sick and tired of living," said the youthful pessimist.
"At ten years? Dear me, how sad!"
"I'm not making fun," said Davy with dignity. "I'mdis--dis--discouraged"--bringing out the big word with a valiant effort.
"Why and wherefore?" asked Anne, sitting down beside him.
"'Cause the new teacher that come when Mr. Holmes got sick give me tensums to do for Monday. It'll take me all day tomorrow to do them. Itisn't fair to have to work Saturdays. Milty Boulter said he wouldn't dothem, but Marilla says I've got to. I don't like Miss Carson a bit."
"Don't talk like that about your teacher, Davy Keith," said Mrs. Rachelseverely. "Miss Carson is a very fine girl. There is no nonsense abouther."
"That doesn't sound very attractive," laughed Anne. "I like people tohave a little nonsense about them. But I'm inclined to have a betteropinion of Miss Carson than you have. I saw her in prayer-meeting lastnight, and she has a pair of eyes that can't always look sensible. Now,Davy-boy, take heart of grace. 'Tomorrow will bring another day' andI'll help you with the sums as far as in me lies. Don't waste thislovely hour 'twixt light and dark worrying over arithmetic."
"Well, I won't," said Davy, brightening up. "If you help me with thesums I'll have 'em done in time to go fishing with Milty. I wish oldAunt Atossa's funeral was tomorrow instead of today. I wanted to go toit 'cause Milty said his mother said Aunt Atossa would be sure to riseup in her coffin and say sarcastic things to the folks that come to seeher buried. But Marilla said she didn't."
"Poor Atossa laid in her coffin peaceful enough," said Mrs. Lyndesolemnly. "I never saw her look so pleasant before, that's what. Well,there weren't many tears shed over her, poor old soul. The ElishaWrights are thankful to be rid of her, and I can't say I blame them amite."
"It seems to me a most dreadful thing to go out of the world and notleave one person behind you who is sorry you are gone," said Anne,shuddering.
"Nobody except her parents ever loved poor Atossa, that's certain, noteven her husband," averred Mrs. Lynde. "She was his fourth wife. He'dsort of got into the habit of marrying. He only lived a few years afterhe married her. The doctor said he died of dyspepsia, but I shall alwaysmaintain that he died of Atossa's tongue, that's what. Poor soul, shealways knew everything about her neighbors, but she never was very wellacquainted with herself. Well, she's gone anyhow; and I suppose the nextexcitement will be Diana's wedding."
"It seems funny and horrible to think of Diana's being married," sighedAnne, hugging her knees and looking through the gap in the Haunted Woodto the light that was shining in Diana's room.
"I don't see what's horrible about it, when she's doing so well," saidMrs. Lynde emphatically. "Fred Wright has a fine farm and he is a modelyoung man."
"He certainly isn't the wild, dashing, wicked, young man Diana oncewanted to marry," smiled Anne. "Fred is extremely good."
"That's just what he ought to be. Would you want Diana to marry a wickedman? Or marry one yourself?"
"Oh, no. I wouldn't want to marry anybody who was wicked, but I thinkI'd like it if he COULD be wicked and WOULDN'T. Now, Fred is HOPELESSLYgood."
"You'll have more sense some day, I hope," said Marilla.
Marilla spoke rather bitterly. She was grievously disappointed. She knewAnne had refused Gilbert Blythe. Avonlea gossip buzzed over the fact,which had leaked out, nobody knew how. Perhaps Charlie Sloane hadguessed and told his guesses for truth. Perhaps Diana had betrayed itto Fred and Fred had been indiscreet. At all events it was known; Mrs.Blythe no longer asked Anne, in public or private, if she had heardlately from Gilbert, but passed her by with a frosty bow. Anne, whohad always liked Gilbert's merry, young-hearted mother, was grieved insecret over this. Marilla said nothing; but Mrs. Lynde gave Anne manyexasperated digs about it, until fresh gossip reached that worthy lady,through the medium of Moody Spurgeon MacPherson's mother, that Anne hadanother "beau" at college, who was rich and handsome and good all inone. After that Mrs. Rachel held her tongue, though she still wished inher inmost heart that Anne had accepted Gilbert. Riches were all verywell; but even Mrs. Rachel, practical soul though she was, did notconsider them the one essential. If Anne "liked" the Handsome Unknownbetter than Gilbert there was nothing more to be said; but Mrs. Rachelwas dreadfully afraid that Anne was going to make the mistake ofmarrying for money. Marilla knew Anne too well to fear this; but shefelt that something in the universal scheme of things had gone sadlyawry.
"What is to be, will be," said Mrs. Rachel gloomily, "and what isn'tto be happens sometimes. I can't help believing it's going to happen inAnne's case, if Providence doesn't interfere, that's what." Mrs. Rachelsighed. She was afraid Providence wouldn't interfere; and she didn'tdare to.
Anne had wandered down to the Dryad's Bubble and was curled up among theferns at the root of the big white birch where she and Gilbert had sooften sat in summers gone by. He had gone into the newspaper officeagain when college closed, and Avonlea seemed very dull without him. Henever wrote to her, and Anne missed the letters that never came. To besure, Roy wrote twice a week; his letters were exquisite compositionswhich would have read beautifully in a memoir or biography. Anne feltherself more deeply in love with him than ever when she read them; buther heart never gave the queer, quick, painful bound at sight of hisletters which it had given one day when Mrs. Hiram Sloane had handed herout an envelope addressed in Gilbert's black, upright handwriting. Annehad hurried home to the east gable and opened it eagerly--to find atypewritten copy of some college society report--"only that and nothingmore." Anne flung the harmless screed across her room and sat down towrite an especially nice epistle to Roy.
Diana was to be married in five more days. The gray house at OrchardSlope was in a turmoil of baking and brewing and boiling and stewing,for there was to be a big, old-timey wedding. Anne, of course, was tobe bridesmaid, as had been arranged when they were twelve years old, andGilbert was coming from Kingsport to be best man. Anne was enjoying theexcitement of the various preparations, but under it all she carried alittle heartache. She was, in a sense, losing her dear old chum; Diana'snew home would be two miles from Green Gables, and the old constantcompanionship could never be theirs again. Anne looked up at Diana'slight and thought how it had beaconed to her for many years; but soon itwould shine through the summer twilights no more. Two big, painful tearswelled up in her gray eyes.
"Oh," she thought, "how horrible it is that people have to grow up--andmarry--and CHANGE!"
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