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 a week's time Mrs.
Rachel Lynde would move to Green
Gables and set up her lares and
penates in the erstwhile spare
room, which was already prepared
for her coming. She had sold
all her superfluous household
plenishings by auction and was
at present reveling in the congenial
occupation of helping the Allans
pack up. Mr. Allan was to preach
his farewell sermon the next
Sunday. The old order was changing
rapidly to give place to the
new, as Anne felt with a little
sadness threading all her excitement
and happiness.
"Changes ain't totally pleasant
but they're excellent things," said
Mr. Harrison philosophically. "Two
years is about long enough for
things to stay exactly the same.
If they stayed put any longer
they might grow mossy."
Mr. Harrison was smoking on
his veranda. His wife had self-sacrificingly
told that he might smoke in the
house if he took care to sit
by an open window. Mr. Harrison
rewarded this concession by going
outdoors altogether 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 Miss Lavendar and Charlotta
the Fourth with their final preparations
for the morrow's bridal. Miss
Lavendar herself never had dahlias;
she did not like them and they
would not have suited the fine
retirement of her old-fashioned
garden. But flowers of any kind
were rather scarce in Avonlea
and the neighboring districts
that summer, thanks to Uncle
Abe's storm; and Anne and Diana
thought that a certain old cream-colored
stone jug, 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. In spite of his wife's
intimacy with Mrs. Lynde, the
best that could be said of the
relationship between her and
Mr. Harrison even under the new
regime, was that they preserved
an armed neutrality.
"Yes, I'm going," said Anne. "I'm
very glad with my head. . .and
very sorry with my heart."
"I s'pose you'll
be scooping up all the honors
that are lying
round loose at Redmond."
"I may try for one or two of
them," confessed Anne, "but I
don't care so much for things
like that as I did two years
ago. What I want to get out of
my college course is some knowledge
of the best way of living life
and doing the most and best with
it. I want to learn to understand
and help other people and myself."
Mr. Harrison nodded.
"That's the
idea exactly. That's what college
ought to be for,
instead of for turning out a
lot of B.A.'s, so chock full
of book-learning and 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 all the flowery spoil
that several predatory expeditions
in their own and their neighbors'
gardens had yielded. They found
the stone house agog with excitement.
Charlotta the Fourth was flying
around with such vim and briskness
that her blue bows seemed really
to possess the power of being
everywhere at once. Like the
helmet of Navarre, Charlotta's
blue bows waved ever in the thickest
of the fray.
"Praise be to goodness you've
come," she said devoutly, "for
there's heaps 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 the horsehair trunk
to be packed. . .and the roosters
for the chicken salad are running
out there beyant the henhouse
yet, crowing, Miss Shirley, ma'am.
And Miss Lavendar ain't to be
trusted to do a thing. I was
thankful when Mr. Irving came
a few minutes ago and took her
off for a 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 scouring everything's spoiled.
That's MY opinion, Miss Shirley,
ma'am."
Anne and Diana worked so heartily
that by ten o'clock even Charlotta
the Fourth was satisfied. She
braided her hair in innumerable
plaits and took her weary little
bones off to bed.
"But I'm sure
I shan't sleep a blessed wink,
Miss Shirley,
ma'am, for fear that something'll
go wrong at the last minute.
. .the cream won't whip. . .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,
the dimpled corners of her mouth
twitching. To Diana, Charlotta
the Fourth was, if not exactly
a thing of beauty, certainly
a joy forever.
"They're not things that go
by habit," said Charlotta the
Fourth with dignity. "They just
HAPPEN. . .and there you are.
ANYBODY can have a stroke. You
don't have to learn how. Mr.
Irving looks a lot like an uncle
of mine that had one once just
as he was sitting down to dinner
one day. But maybe everything'll
go all right. In this world you've
just got to hope for the best
and prepare for the worst and
take whatever God sends."
"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, and ever since the
big storm I can't help believing
there's a good deal in what Uncle
Abe says."
Anne, who knew better than
Diana just how much Uncle Abe
had to do with the storm, was
not much disturbed by this. She
slept the sleep of the just and
weary, and was roused at an unearthly
hour by Charlotta the Fourth.
"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, it's
awful to call you so early," came
wailing through the keyhole, "but
there's so much to do yet. .
.and oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am,
I'm skeered it's going to rain
and I wish you'd get up and tell
me you think it ain't." Anne
flew to the window, hoping against
hope that Charlotta the Fourth
was saying this merely by way
of rousing her effectually. But
alas, the morning did look unpropitious.
Below the window Miss Lavendar's
garden, which should have been
a glory of pale virgin sunshine,
lay dim and windless; and the
sky over the firs was dark with
moody clouds.
"Isn't it too mean!" said
Diana.
"We must hope for the best," said
Anne determinedly. "If it only
doesn't actually rain, a cool,
pearly gray day like this would
really be nicer than hot sunshine."
"But it will rain," mourned
Charlotta, creeping into the
room, a figure of fun, with her
many braids wound about her head,
the ends, tied up with white
thread, sticking out in all directions. "It'll
hold off till the last minute
and then pour cats and dogs.
And all the folks will get sopping.
. .and track mud all over the
house. . . and they won't be
able to be married under the
honeysuckle. . .and it's awful
unlucky for 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 of Miss Eliza Andrews'
book.
It did not
rain, though it kept on looking
as if it meant
to. By noon the rooms were decorated,
the table beautifully laid; and
upstairs was waiting 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 has
happened YET," was Charlotta's
cheerful statement as she betook
herself to her little back room
to dress. Out came all the braids;
the resultant rampant crinkliness
was plaited into two tails and
tied, not with two bows alone,
but with four, of brand-new ribbon,
brightly blue. The two upper
bows rather gave the impression
of overgrown wings sprouting
from Charlotta's neck, somewhat
after the fashion of Raphael's
cherubs. But Charlotta the Fourth
thought them very beautiful,
and after she had rustled into
a white dress, so stiffly starched
that it could stand alone, she
surveyed herself in her glass
with great satisfaction. . .a
satisfaction which lasted until
she went out in the hall and
caught a glimpse through the
spare room door of a tall girl
in some softly clinging gown,
pinning white, star-like flowers
on the smooth ripples of her
ruddy hair.
"Oh, I'll NEVER be able to
look like Miss Shirley," thought
poor Charlotta despairingly. "You
just have to be born so, I guess.
. . don't seem's if any amount
of practice could give you that
AIR."
By one o'clock the guests had
come, including Mr. and Mrs.
Allan, for Mr. Allan was to perform
the ceremony in the absence of
the Grafton minister 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 look that
made Charlotta the Fourth, who
intercepted it, feel queerer
than ever. They went out to the
honeysuckle arbor, where Mr.
Allan was awaiting them. The
guests grouped themselves as
they pleased. Anne and Diana
stood by the old stone bench,
with Charlotta the Fourth between
them, desperately clutching their
hands in her cold, tremulous
little paws.
Mr. Allan opened his blue book
and the ceremony proceeded. Just
as Miss Lavendar and Stephen
Irving were pronounced man and
wife a very beautiful and symbolic
thing happened. The sun suddenly
burst through the gray and poured
a flood of radiance on the happy
bride. Instantly the garden was
alive with dancing shadows and
flickering lights.
"What a lovely omen," thought
Anne, as she ran to kiss the
bride. Then the three girls left
the rest of the guests laughing
around the bridal pair while
they flew into the house to see
that all was in readiness for
the feast.
"Thanks be to goodness, it's
over, Miss Shirley, ma'am," breathed
Charlotta the Fourth, "and they're
married safe and sound, no matter
what happens now. The bags of
rice are in the pantry, ma'am,
and the old shoes are behind
the door, and the cream for whipping
is on the sullar steps."
At half past
two Mr. and Mrs. Irving left,
and everybody went
to Bright River to see them off
on the afternoon train. As Miss
Lavendar. . .I beg her pardon,
Mrs. Irving. . .stepped from
the door of her old home Gilbert
and the girls threw the rice
and Charlotta the Fourth hurled
an old shoe with such excellent
aim that she struck Mr. Allan
squarely on the 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 dinner bell
which had adorned the dining
room mantel. Paul's only motive
was to make a joyful noise; but
as the clangor died away, from
point and curve and hill across
the river came the chime of "fairy
wedding bells," ringing clearly,
sweetly, faintly and more faint,
as if Miss Lavendar's beloved
echoes were bidding her greeting
and farewell. And so, amid this
benediction of sweet sounds,
Miss Lavendar drove away from
the old life of dreams and make-believes
to a fuller life of realities
in the busy world 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 an engagement at
home. Anne and Charlotta had
come back to put things in order
and lock up the little stone
house. The garden was a pool
of late golden sunshine, with
butterflies hovering and bees
booming; but the little house
had already that indefinable
air of desolation which always
follows a festivity.
"Oh dear me, don't it look
lonesome?" sniffed Charlotta
the Fourth, who had been crying
all the way home from the station. "A
wedding ain't much cheerfuller
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 dishes washed, the uneaten
delicacies packed into a basket
for the delectation of Charlotta
the Fourth's young brothers at
home. Anne would not rest until
everything was in apple-pie order;
after Charlotta had gone home
with her plunder Anne went over
the still rooms, feeling like
one who trod alone some banquet
hall deserted, and closed the
blinds. Then she locked the door
and sat down under the silver
poplar to wait for Gilbert, feeling
very tired but still unweariedly
thinking "long, long thoughts."
"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 it beautiful
to think how everything has turned
out. . .how they have come together
again after all the years of
separation and misunderstanding?"
"Yes, it's beautiful," said
Gilbert, looking steadily down
into Anne's uplifted face, "but
wouldn't it have been more beautiful
still, Anne, if there had been
NO separation or misunderstanding.
. . if they had come hand in
hand all the way through life,
with no memories behind them
but those which belonged to each
other?"
For a moment Anne's heart fluttered
queerly and for the first time
her eyes faltered under Gilbert's
gaze and a rosy flush stained
the paleness of her face. It
was as if a veil that had hung
before her inner consciousness
had been lifted, giving to her
view a revelation of unsuspected
feelings and realities. Perhaps,
after all, romance did not come
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 of illumination
flung athwart its pages betrayed
the rhythm and the music, perhaps.
. . perhaps. . .love unfolded
naturally out of a beautiful
friendship, as a golden-hearted
rose slipping from its green
sheath.
Then the veil dropped again;
but the Anne who walked up the
dark lane was not quite the same
Anne who had driven gaily down
it the evening before. 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 history of the next four
years in the light of Anne's
remembered blush. Four years
of earnest, happy work. . .and
then the guerdon of a useful
knowledge gained and a sweet
heart won.
Behind them in the garden the
little stone house brooded among
the shadows. It was lonely but
not forsaken. It had not yet
done with dreams and laughter
and the joy of life; there were
to be future summers for the
little stone house; meanwhile,
it could wait. And over the river
in purple durance the echoes
bided their time. |