And my cheek must yet have the smear of the mould ...
I have dreamed a dream as here I lay
Next to your heart ... in my dream I died
And was buried deep, deep in the yard beside
The old church on the hill.
(Oh, the dream was bitter!)
By my gravestone a rose was blowing red,
Red as love.
The world was full of the laughter of spring ...
I heard it down there in my clammy bed ...
The little birds sang in the trees above,
The wind was glad with the clouds that fled
All white and pearly across the sky,
And the pretty shadows went winking by
Like tricksy, madcap thoughts awing.
You had buried me in my wedding gown
Of silk and lace ...
My hair curled blackly my neck adown,
But my lips, I knew, were white in my face,
And the flower I held in my stiff hand yet
Was slimy and wet.
(Keep me from death, oh my lover!)
Still, though the clay was heaped over me,
I could see ... I could see
The folk going by to the old church door;
Wives and mothers and maids went by
All fine and silken, rosy and sweet:
Some came with a tear their graves to greet
But to mine only old mad Margaret came,
And she laughed to herself as she read my name
With an evil laughter evil and sly,
That pierced like a dart to my cold heart’s core.
I saw the old maid go bitterly in
Who had known no love ...
Two brothers who hated each other well ...
Miser Jock with his yellow skin ...
A girl with the innocent eyes of a dove ...
A young wife with a bonny child ...
And Lawrence, the man who never smiled
With his lips but always mocked with his eyes.
(Oh love, the grave makes us far too wise,
I knew why he mocked!)
Then I felt a thrill the dank earth through
And I knew ... oh, I knew
That it came from your step on our path from the dale ...
Almost my heart began to beat!
And you passed by with another bride
Proud of her golden ring at your side ...
That slim white girl who lives at the mill,
Who has loved you always and loves you still,
With her hair the colour of harvest wheat
And her lips as red as mine were pale.
How I hated her, so tall and fair,
And shining of hair ...
Love, I am so little and dark!
My heart, that had once soared up like a lark
At your glance, was as a stone in my breast;
Never once did you look my way,
Only at her you looked and kissed
With your eyes her eyes of amethyst ...
My eyes were sunk in cruel decay
And the worms crawled in the silk of my vest ...
(Keep me from death, oh my lover!)
Love, hold me close for I am a-cold!
It was only a dream ... as a dream it has fled.
Kiss me warm from its lingering chill,
Burn from my face the taint of the dead,
Kiss my hair that is black not gold ...
Am I not as sweet as the girl at the mill?
(Oh, the dream was bitter!)
Anne Blythe
DR. BLYTHE:- “Anne-girl, I’ve no earthly wish to interfere with anything you want to write. But isn’t that rather morbid?”
SUSAN, under her breath:- “She never wrote like that before Walter died. I wish I’d gone to school longer and then maybe I’d understand it. And I’ve never made light of dreams since Miss Oliver’s dreams in the war. But I do think Absalom Flagg might have waited a little longer before marrying again. I wonder if Mrs. Dr. dear was thinking of him and Jen Elliott. As for the old maid who had never known love ... well, I’ve got past the stage of caring. Mrs. Blythe didn’t mean to hurt my feelings and that I will tie to.”
ANNE:- “The whole thing was the outcome of some story I heard long ago.”
DR. BLYTHE:- “It just doesn’t seem like you ... not like my Anne-girl of old Avonlea days, that’s all.”
ANNE, trying to laugh:- “Would you marry as quick as that if I died, Gilbert?”
DR. BLYTHE, really laughing:- “Quicker, if Susan would have me. Isn’t it about time for supper?”
SUSAN:- “It is ready and your favourite pie is ready, too.”
DR. BLYTHE, thinking:- “I imagine it’s time Anne had a trip somewhere.”
MAY SONG
Across the sunlit sea
The singing birds return,
Those travellers far and free
To many an ancient bourne.
The winds are very gay
O’er every gusty hill,
Glad vagabonds of May
To frolic where they will.
Sun-odours wild and sweet
As some old memory
Fill reedy hollows, meet
For lurking alchemy.
The morns are fair and white
Unto the crystal noon,
Magic is spun at night
Beneath an ivory moon.
The world is full of songs ...
Like hearts of voiceless birds ...
To us the joy belongs
Of giving to them words.
To us the joy of May,
Of every lyric thing ...
What though our heads are grey?
No one is old in spring.
No one is old and sad,
Immortal youth is here ...
We’ll just be mad and glad
With the mad, glad young year!
Walter Blythe
SUSAN BAKER:- “I used to think no one could be old and sad in spring but I have learned different.”
RILLA FORD (who is home for a visit):- “Walter wrote that in Rainbow Valley, too. Oh, it brings it all back to me. Mother ... mother!”
ANNE:- “Rilla darling, Walter has gone to eternal spring. We all felt as he did once. And perhaps he was right. The years are still mad and glad in May ... it is only we who have changed.”
Here Comes the Bride
The old church at Glen St. Mary was crowded. Somehow this particular wedding seemed unusual. It was not often there was a church wedding in Glen St. Mary and still less often one of the summer colony. Somebody from Charlottetown was playing the wedding march very faintly and softly and the two families most concerned stood in small clusters or alone, the collective reverberence of their words rising and falling in soft waves of sound.
A bored reporter from the Daily Enterprise was covering the function.
“The old church at Glen St. Mary was thronged with guests this afternoon for the marriage of Evelyn, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. James March, who are spending their summer in Glen St. Mary, to Dr. D’Arcy Phillips, professor of biology at McGill and son of Mrs. F.W. Phillips and the late Frederick Phillips of Mowbray Narrows.
“The church was beautifully decorated with white mums by the teenage girls’ class of Glen St. Mary and the lovely bride was given away by her father. She wore ivory satin, fashioned with a mid-Victorian line and a halo of seed pearls held in place her wedding veil of rare old lace. It was whispered that the rather faded bow of blue ribbon hidden under the pearls was worn by Mrs. Gilbert Blythe at her own wedding. ‘Something borrowed and something blue,’ you know.
“Miss Marnie March was maid of honour for her sister and the three bridesmaids, Miss Rhea Bailey, Miss Diana Blythe and Miss Janet Small, wore period gowns of silver cloth and picture hats of periwinkle blue with bouquets of blue iris, etc., etc., etc.
“The reception afterwards was held at Merestead, the beautiful new summer home of the Marc
hes at Glen St. Mary, where glowing roses made an attractive decoration for the glowing rooms. The bride’s table was centred with the handsome wedding cake made by Mary Hamilton, who has been with the Marches thirty years as cook, nurse, and beloved member of the household.
“Mrs. March received her guests in a modish gown of grey, with a slight train, smart hat of black straw, and corsage of deep purple Princess violets.
“Mrs. Frederick Phillips was in blue chiffon, matching hat, and corsage of yellow rosebuds.
“Later the bride and groom left to spend their honeymoon at the groom’s camp, Juniper Island, Muskoka, Ontario. The bride’s going-away ensemble etc., etc., etc.
“Among the guests were Mrs. Helen Bailey, Miss Prue Davis, Mrs. Barbara Morse, Mr. Douglas March (great-uncle of the bride, a hearty octogenarian of Mowbray Narrows), Mrs. Dr. Blythe, etc.”
Aunt Helen Bailey, sister of the bride’s father and the mother of three unwedded and unbespoken daughters, among them one of the bridesmaids, thinking,
“So Amy has really got Evelyn off her hands at last. What a relief it must be to her! A girl like Evelyn ... past her first youth ... with one of those skins that age early ... not like Mrs. Blythe’s. Will that woman ever grow old! ... and that affair with Elmer Owen ... it’s really quite a triumph to get her married, even to a poor young professor like D’Arcy Phillips. I can remember him running barefoot round Glen St. Mary and cutting up didoes with the Ingleside boys.
“Amy was simply heartbroken when the engagement to Elmer was broken off. She tried to brazen it off but everyone knew. Of course Evelyn never cared a scrap for him ... it was his money she was after. That girl hasn’t a particle of heart ... she couldn’t love anyone.
“I wonder what really went wrong between her and Elmer ... nobody knows, though that silly Mrs. Blythe looks so wise when it is spoken of. Of course his parents never approved of it, but at one time he seemed quite taken with her. Amy certainly thought she had him trussed and skewered. How she used to purr over it! Such a ring! It must almost have killed Evelyn to give it back. It will be a long time before D’Arcy Phillips will be able to give her a square emerald.
“It was really indelicate the way she snapped D’Arcy up the moment Elmer threw her over. But it’s easy enough to get a man if you don’t care what you do. My poor girls haven’t the audacity necessary for today. They’re sweet and well-bred and womanly, but that doesn’t count any longer. It’s all very well for Dr. Blythe to say girls are the same in all ages. A lot he knows! No, nowadays you’ve got to stalk your man.
“Why don’t they come? The seats in these country churches are always so hard. Look at that mosquito on Morton Gray’s fat jowl! Doesn’t the man feel it? No, he’s probably too thick-skinned to feel anything. I wish I could give it a slap ... my nerves are getting jumpy.
“What a lot of guests! And all the yokels from Glen St. Mary and Mowbray Narrows. I suppose a fashionable wedding is a treat to them. Prue Davis has a new dress and is trying to look as if it were an ordinary occasion. Poor Prue! Barbara Morse is making nasty remarks about everyone. I know by the look on her face. Ah, Mrs. Blythe has just snubbed her. I can tell by the look on her face. But it won’t cure Barbara. The ruling passion! She’d gossip at a funeral, so why not at a fashionable wedding, where everyone knows the bride is taking the groom as a consolation prize and he is taking her heaven knows why ... probably because she just went after him. It’s all nonsense of Mrs. Blythe to say they have always been in love. Everybody knows they fought like cat and dog all their lives. Evelyn has an indomitable will under all that surface sugar ... just like Mrs. Blythe. I wonder if Dr. Blythe is as happy as he pretends to be. No man could be.
“Is that really Jim’s old Uncle Douglas there? I suppose they can have all their country cousins since the groom is only D’Arcy and the wedding in Glen St. Mary. But if it had been Elmer, at some fashionable church in town, they’d have been kept in the background. Uncle Douglas is evidently enjoying himself. A wedding feast is a wedding feast no matter how it comes about. He’ll have something to talk about for years. What is Rose Osgood wearing? She must simply have put her hand in the family ragbag and pulled out the first thing she grabbed. I wonder how Mrs. Blythe, living in Glen St. Mary, always contrives to look so up-to-date. Well, I suppose her daughters ...
“There goes Wagner at last, thank goodness. Here they come. Four ushers ... four bridesmaids ... two flower girls and a page. Humph! Well, I hope everything’s paid for. Those white mums must have cost Jim a small fortune. I don’t believe for a moment they came from the Ingleside garden. How could anyone grow mums like that in a little country place like Glen St. Mary? Where Jim finds the money I’m sure I can’t imagine.
“Evelyn’s looking well, but she shouldn’t have her dress cut that way ... it gives her sway back away ... lordosis is the name nowadays, I believe ... Evelyn is positively triumphant ... no shrinking violet about her. I remember the day Amy gave the coming-out tea for her debutante daughter. And was she awkward! But of course seven seasons should give anyone poise.
“D’Arcy isn’t much to look at ... his face is too long ... but poor Rhea looks quite as well as the other bridesmaids. That shade of blue is so trying ... probably Evelyn selected it for that reason. Marnie looks like a gypsy as usual ... only gypsies aren’t quite so plump, are they? Amy will find it even harder to get her settled than Evelyn. Diana Blythe looks rather well. There really is something about those Blythe girls ... though I’d never admit it to their mother.
“‘I will’ ... oh, my dear, you needn’t shout it! Everyone knows you will only too willingly. Even in Glen St. Mary they all know that D’Arcy was your last chance. It’s odd how things get around! Of course the Blythes have lots of friends in Montreal and Toronto. And Mrs. Blythe may have the reputation of not being a gossip ... but she contrives to get things told ... clever woman. Well, as for Evelyn, a professor’s salary is better than an old maid’s pension, no doubt. They’re off to the vestry. Mrs. D’Arcy Phillips! You can see it sticking out all over her. Look at Diana Blythe making eyes at that young what’s-his-name. And yet they say the Blythe girls never flirt! I doubt if she’ll be able to rope him in, for all her mother’s fine tactics. However, that is none of my business. I’m sure I hope poor Evelyn will be happy. But it doesn’t seem to me that anyone can be very happy when she’s simply marrying one man to save her face because another jilted her. Is anyone really happy in this mad world? They say the Blythes ... but who knows what goes on behind the scenes? Not even old Susan Baker, I’ll bet my hat. Besides, she’s too loyal to admit ...
“Now for the reception and the presents ... and the usual silly remarks ... and then the trip to Muskoka in D’Arcy’s new flivver. I wonder if the Enterprise will mention that the car is a flivver! Some difference between that and Elmer’s fifteen-thousand-dollar streamliner ... or even Jim’s old Packard. But Evelyn will have to come down to a good many things. Jim always spoiled his family. There they come ... quite a procession. I believe that boy is in love with Diana Blythe ... if it lasts. No doubt Mrs. Blythe will do all she can to keep the fire burning. They tell me that woman is a terrible matchmaker. I wish I had the knack. Then perhaps my girls ... well, well, Diana Blythe, you’re welcome to your young man if some other girl doesn’t snatch him up ...”
Prue Davis, a bit passé and envious of all brides in general, thinking,
“It seems so funny that Evelyn is marrying D’Arcy Phillips after all, when she has used him so abominably for years. He’s only a poor young professor ... but of course any port in a storm. She’s twenty-five ... and looks it ... more, I should say. Is that why she picked young bridesmaids? Diana Blythe looks sweet. Somehow, those Blythe girls are the only girls I ever met I really liked ... and their mother is the only woman I ever felt I could love. If I’d had a mother like her! Well, we have to take what’s handed out to us in this world, parents and children alike. D’Arcy is nice and clever ... there was a time when I might have caught
him on the rebound ... after one of the worst of their quarrels. But I always drop my bread butter side down ... I’ve always been a fool and missed my chances. Of course the minute Evelyn crooked her finger he came to heel. Nobody else had any chance then. It’s just a way she has of looking up under her eyelids ... the Blythe girls all have it too, I’ve noticed ... well, some people have all the luck.
“I hope I won’t get this dress spotted ... receptions are such horrible things for that ... for heaven knows when I’ll get another. There they come ... Evelyn looks well ... she always knows how to wear her clothes, I’ll say that for her. It’s born in you. Look at Diana Blythe. I’ll bet that dress of hers didn’t cost a tenth as much as the others did ... I believe I heard a rumour she had it made in Charlottetown while the others came from Montreal ... and yet, look at it. Her hair, too. I never liked Evelyn’s ash-blonde hair. Heigh-ho! I found a grey hair today. We Davises all turn grey young. Oh, things are so beastly cruel. How do you do, Mrs. Blythe? A lovely wedding, wasn’t it?
“Now, Prue Davis, haven’t you any pride? Throw back your head and look as if you were sitting on top of the world.
“Thank heaven, that’s over. I don’t think any more people will speak to me. I don’t know many of the country folks here except the Blythes and they’ve gone. I wish the reception was over, too. I’m beginning to hate going to such things. ‘What, Prue Davis still! When are we going to attend your wedding?’ Apart from remarks like that, nobody would ever talk to me, except old married men. My looks are going and it’s no use having brains. When I say a clever thing to people they look startled and uncomfortable. I should just like to be quiet for years and years ... and not have to go on pretending to be bright and happy and quite, quite satisfied. But I suppose most people have to do it. Only sometimes I think Mrs. Blythe ...
“Oh, there’s someone else. How do you do, Mrs. Thompson? Oh, a lovely wedding! And such a charming bride! Oh, me! I’m not so easy to please as some girls, you know. And independence is very sweet, Mrs. Thompson.