Anne of the Island

  Chapter XXXIX

  Deals with Weddings

  Anne felt that life partook of the nature of an anticlimax during thefirst few weeks after her return to Green Gables. She missed the merrycomradeship of Patty's Place. She had dreamed some brilliant dreamsduring the past winter and now they lay in the dust around her. In herpresent mood of self-disgust, she could not immediately begin dreamingagain. And she discovered that, while solitude with dreams is glorious,solitude without them has few charms.

  She had not seen Roy again after their painful parting in the parkpavilion; but Dorothy came to see her before she left Kingsport.

  "I'm awfully sorry you won't marry Roy," she said. "I did want you for asister. But you are quite right. He would bore you to death. I love him,and he is a dear sweet boy, but really he isn't a bit interesting. Helooks as if he ought to be, but he isn't."

  "This won't spoil OUR friendship, will it, Dorothy?" Anne had askedwistfully.

  "No, indeed. You're too good to lose. If I can't have you for a sisterI mean to keep you as a chum anyway. And don't fret over Roy. He isfeeling terribly just now--I have to listen to his outpourings everyday--but he'll get over it. He always does."

  "Oh--ALWAYS?" said Anne with a slight change of voice. "So he has 'gotover it' before?"

  "Dear me, yes," said Dorothy frankly. "Twice before. And he raved to mejust the same both times. Not that the others actually refused him--theysimply announced their engagements to some one else. Of course, when hemet you he vowed to me that he had never really loved before--that theprevious affairs had been merely boyish fancies. But I don't think youneed worry."

  Anne decided not to worry. Her feelings were a mixture of relief andresentment. Roy had certainly told her she was the only one he had everloved. No doubt he believed it. But it was a comfort to feel that shehad not, in all likelihood, ruined his life. There were other goddesses,and Roy, according to Dorothy, must needs be worshipping at some shrine.Nevertheless, life was stripped of several more illusions, and Annebegan to think drearily that it seemed rather bare.

  She came down from the porch gable on the evening of her return with asorrowful face.

  "What has happened to the old Snow Queen, Marilla?"

  "Oh, I knew you'd feel bad over that," said Marilla. "I felt bad myself.That tree was there ever since I was a young girl. It blew down in thebig gale we had in March. It was rotten at the core."

  "I'll miss it so," grieved Anne. "The porch gable doesn't seem the sameroom without it. I'll never look from its window again without a senseof loss. And oh, I never came home to Green Gables before that Dianawasn't here to welcome me."

  "Diana has something else to think of just now," said Mrs. Lyndesignificantly.

  "Well, tell me all the Avonlea news," said Anne, sitting down on theporch steps, where the evening sunshine fell over her hair in a finegolden rain.

  "There isn't much news except what we've wrote you," said Mrs. Lynde. "Isuppose you haven't heard that Simon Fletcher broke his leg last week.It's a great thing for his family. They're getting a hundred things donethat they've always wanted to do but couldn't as long as he was about,the old crank."

  "He came of an aggravating family," remarked Marilla.

  "Aggravating? Well, rather! His mother used to get up in prayer-meetingand tell all her children's shortcomings and ask prayers for them.'Course it made them mad, and worse than ever."

  "You haven't told Anne the news about Jane," suggested Marilla.

  "Oh, Jane," sniffed Mrs. Lynde. "Well," she conceded grudgingly, "JaneAndrews is home from the West--came last week--and she's going to bemarried to a Winnipeg millionaire. You may be sure Mrs. Harmon lost notime in telling it far and wide."

  "Dear old Jane--I'm so glad," said Anne heartily. "She deserves the goodthings of life."

  "Oh, I ain't saying anything against Jane. She's a nice enough girl. Butshe isn't in the millionaire class, and you'll find there's not much torecommend that man but his money, that's what. Mrs. Harmon says he's anEnglishman who has made money in mines but _I_ believe he'll turn out tobe a Yankee. He certainly must have money, for he has just showered Janewith jewelry. Her engagement ring is a diamond cluster so big that itlooks like a plaster on Jane's fat paw."

  Mrs. Lynde could not keep some bitterness out of her tone. Here wasJane Andrews, that plain little plodder, engaged to a millionaire, whileAnne, it seemed, was not yet bespoken by any one, rich or poor. And Mrs.Harmon Andrews did brag insufferably.

  "What has Gilbert Blythe been doing to at college?" asked Marilla. "Isaw him when he came home last week, and he is so pale and thin I hardlyknew him."

  "He studied very hard last winter," said Anne. "You know he took HighHonors in Classics and the Cooper Prize. It hasn't been taken for fiveyears! So I think he's rather run down. We're all a little tired."

  "Anyhow, you're a B.A. and Jane Andrews isn't and never will be," saidMrs. Lynde, with gloomy satisfaction.

  A few evenings later Anne went down to see Jane, but the latter wasaway in Charlottetown--"getting sewing done," Mrs. Harmon informed Anneproudly. "Of course an Avonlea dressmaker wouldn't do for Jane under thecircumstances."

  "I've heard something very nice about Jane," said Anne.

  "Yes, Jane has done pretty well, even if she isn't a B.A.," said Mrs.Harmon, with a slight toss of her head. "Mr. Inglis is worth millions,and they're going to Europe on their wedding tour. When they come backthey'll live in a perfect mansion of marble in Winnipeg. Jane has onlyone trouble--she can cook so well and her husband won't let her cook. Heis so rich he hires his cooking done. They're going to keep a cook andtwo other maids and a coachman and a man-of-all-work. But what aboutYOU, Anne? I don't hear anything of your being married, after all yourcollege-going."

  "Oh," laughed Anne, "I am going to be an old maid. I really can't findany one to suit me." It was rather wicked of her. She deliberately meantto remind Mrs. Andrews that if she became an old maid it was not becauseshe had not had at least one chance of marriage. But Mrs. Harmon tookswift revenge.

  "Well, the over-particular girls generally get left, I notice. Andwhat's this I hear about Gilbert Blythe being engaged to a Miss Stuart?Charlie Sloane tells me she is perfectly beautiful. Is it true?"

  "I don't know if it is true that he is engaged to Miss Stuart," repliedAnne, with Spartan composure, "but it is certainly true that she is verylovely."

  "I once thought you and Gilbert would have made a match of it," saidMrs. Harmon. "If you don't take care, Anne, all of your beaux will slipthrough your fingers."

  Anne decided not to continue her duel with Mrs. Harmon. You could notfence with an antagonist who met rapier thrust with blow of battle axe.

  "Since Jane is away," she said, rising haughtily, "I don't think I canstay longer this morning. I'll come down when she comes home."

  "Do," said Mrs. Harmon effusively. "Jane isn't a bit proud. She justmeans to associate with her old friends the same as ever. She'll be realglad to see you."

  Jane's millionaire arrived the last of May and carried her off in ablaze of splendor. Mrs. Lynde was spitefully gratified to find thatMr. Inglis was every day of forty, and short and thin and grayish. Mrs.Lynde did not spare him in her enumeration of his shortcomings, you maybe sure.

  "It will take all his gold to gild a pill like him, that's what," saidMrs. Rachel solemnly.

  "He looks kind and good-hearted," said Anne loyally, "and I'm sure hethinks the world of Jane."

  "Humph!" said Mrs. Rachel.

  Phil Gordon was married the next week and Anne went over to Bolingbroketo be her bridesmaid. Phil made a dainty fairy of a bride, and the Rev.Jo was so radiant in his happiness that nobody thought him plain.

  "We're going for a lovers' saunter through the land of Evangeline," saidPhil, "and then we'll settle down on Patterson Street. Mother thinksit is terrible--she thinks Jo might at least take a church in a decentplace. But the wilderness of the Patterson slums will blossom like therose for me if Jo is there. Oh, Anne, I'm so
happy my heart aches withit."

  Anne was always glad in the happiness of her friends; but it issometimes a little lonely to be surrounded everywhere by a happinessthat is not your own. And it was just the same when she went back toAvonlea. This time it was Diana who was bathed in the wonderful glorythat comes to a woman when her first-born is laid beside her. Annelooked at the white young mother with a certain awe that had neverentered into her feelings for Diana before. Could this pale woman withthe rapture in her eyes be the little black-curled, rosy-cheeked Dianashe had played with in vanished schooldays? It gave her a queer desolatefeeling that she herself somehow belonged only in those past years andhad no business in the present at all.

  "Isn't he perfectly beautiful?" said Diana proudly.

  The little fat fellow was absurdly like Fred--just as round, just asred. Anne really could not say conscientiously that she thought himbeautiful, but she vowed sincerely that he was sweet and kissable andaltogether delightful.

  "Before he came I wanted a girl, so that I could call her ANNE," saidDiana. "But now that little Fred is here I wouldn't exchange him for amillion girls. He just COULDN'T have been anything but his own preciousself."

  "'Every little baby is the sweetest and the best,'" quoted Mrs. Allangaily. "If little Anne HAD come you'd have felt just the same abouther."

  Mrs. Allan was visiting in Avonlea, for the first time since leaving it.She was as gay and sweet and sympathetic as ever. Her old girl friendshad welcomed her back rapturously. The reigning minister's wife was anestimable lady, but she was not exactly a kindred spirit.

  "I can hardly wait till he gets old enough to talk," sighed Diana. "Ijust long to hear him say 'mother.' And oh, I'm determined that hisfirst memory of me shall be a nice one. The first memory I have ofmy mother is of her slapping me for something I had done. I am sure Ideserved it, and mother was always a good mother and I love her dearly.But I do wish my first memory of her was nicer."

  "I have just one memory of my mother and it is the sweetest of allmy memories," said Mrs. Allan. "I was five years old, and I had beenallowed to go to school one day with my two older sisters. When schoolcame out my sisters went home in different groups, each supposing I waswith the other. Instead I had run off with a little girl I had playedwith at recess. We went to her home, which was near the school, andbegan making mud pies. We were having a glorious time when my oldersister arrived, breathless and angry.

  "'You naughty girl" she cried, snatching my reluctant hand and draggingme along with her. 'Come home this minute. Oh, you're going to catch it!Mother is awful cross. She is going to give you a good whipping.'

  "I had never been whipped. Dread and terror filled my poor little heart.I have never been so miserable in my life as I was on that walk home. Ihad not meant to be naughty. Phemy Cameron had asked me to go home withher and I had not known it was wrong to go. And now I was to be whippedfor it. When we got home my sister dragged me into the kitchen wheremother was sitting by the fire in the twilight. My poor wee legs weretrembling so that I could hardly stand. And mother--mother just took meup in her arms, without one word of rebuke or harshness, kissed meand held me close to her heart. 'I was so frightened you were lost,darling,' she said tenderly. I could see the love shining in her eyes asshe looked down on me. She never scolded or reproached me for what I haddone--only told me I must never go away again without asking permission.She died very soon afterwards. That is the only memory I have of her.Isn't it a beautiful one?"

  Anne felt lonelier than ever as she walked home, going by way of theBirch Path and Willowmere. She had not walked that way for many moons.It was a darkly-purple bloomy night. The air was heavy with blossomfragrance--almost too heavy. The cloyed senses recoiled from it asfrom an overfull cup. The birches of the path had grown from the fairysaplings of old to big trees. Everything had changed. Anne felt that shewould be glad when the summer was over and she was away at work again.Perhaps life would not seem so empty then.

  "'I've tried the world--it wears no more The coloring of romance it wore,'"

  sighed Anne--and was straightway much comforted by the romance in theidea of the world being denuded of romance!