Anne of Avonlea
looked uneasily at Anne, as she walked steadily on, glancing neither to
the right nor to the left. Had she heard Corcoran’s unmistakable offer
and his own too plain acceptance of it? Confound Corcoran! If he
couldn’t put his meaning into less dangerous phrases he’d get into
trouble some of these long-come-shorts. And confound redheaded
school-ma’ams with a habit of popping out of beechwoods where they had
no business to be. If Anne had heard, Judson Parker, measuring her corn
in his own half bushel, as the country saying went, and cheating
himself thereby, as such people generally do, believed that she would
tell it far and wide. Now, Judson Parker, as has been seen, was not
overly regardful of public opinion; but to be known as having accepted
a bribe would be a nasty thing; and if it ever reached Isaac Spencer’s
ears farewell forever to all hope of winning Louisa Jane with her
comfortable prospects as the heiress of a well-to-do farmer. Judson
Parker knew that Mr. Spencer looked somewhat askance at him as it was;
he could not afford to take any risks.
“Ahem . . . Anne, I’ve been wanting to see you about that little matter
we were discussing the other day. I’ve decided not to let my fences to
that company after all. A society with an aim like yours ought to be
encouraged.”
Anne thawed out the merest trifle.
“Thank you,” she said.
“And . . . and . . . you needn’t mention that little conversation of
mine with Jerry.”
“I have no intention of mentioning it in any case,” said Anne icily,
for she would have seen every fence in Avonlea painted with
advertisements before she would have stooped to bargain with a man who
would sell his vote.
“Just so . . . just so,” agreed Judson, imagining that they understood
each other beautifully. “I didn’t suppose you would. Of course, I was
only stringing Jerry . . . he thinks he’s so all-fired cute and smart.
I’ve no intention of voting for Amesbury. I’m going to vote for Grant
as I’ve always done . . . you’ll see that when the election comes off.
I just led Jerry on to see if he would commit himself. And it’s all
right about the fence . . . you can tell the Improvers that.”
“It takes all sorts of people to make a world, as I’ve often heard, but
I think there are some who could be spared,” Anne told her reflection
in the east gable mirror that night. “I wouldn’t have mentioned the
disgraceful thing to a soul anyhow, so my conscience is clear on _that_
score. I really don’t know who or what is to be thanked for this. _I_
did nothing to bring it about, and it’s hard to believe that Providence
ever works by means of the kind of politics men like Judson Parker and
Jerry Corcoran have.”
XV
The Beginning of Vacation
Anne locked the schoolhouse door on a still, yellow evening, when the
winds were purring in the spruces around the playground, and the
shadows were long and lazy by the edge of the woods. She dropped the
key into her pocket with a sigh of satisfaction. The school year was
ended, she had been reengaged for the next, with many expressions of
satisfaction. . . . only Mr. Harmon Andrews told her she ought to use
the strap oftener . . . and two delightful months of a well-earned
vacation beckoned her invitingly. Anne felt at peace with the world and
herself as she walked down the hill with her basket of flowers in her
hand. Since the earliest mayflowers Anne had never missed her weekly
pilgrimage to Matthew’s grave. Everyone else in Avonlea, except
Marilla, had already forgotten quiet, shy, unimportant Matthew
Cuthbert; but his memory was still green in Anne’s heart and always
would be. She could never forget the kind old man who had been the
first to give her the love and sympathy her starved childhood had
craved.
At the foot of the hill a boy was sitting on the fence in the shadow of
the spruces . . . a boy with big, dreamy eyes and a beautiful,
sensitive face. He swung down and joined Anne, smiling; but there were
traces of tears on his cheeks.
“I thought I’d wait for you, teacher, because I knew you were going to
the graveyard,” he said, slipping his hand into hers. “I’m going there,
too . . . I’m taking this bouquet of geraniums to put on Grandpa
Irving’s grave for grandma. And look, teacher, I’m going to put this
bunch of white roses beside Grandpa’s grave in memory of my little
mother. . . because I can’t go to her grave to put it there. But don’t
you think she’ll know all about it, just the same?”
“Yes, I am sure she will, Paul.”
“You see, teacher, it’s just three years today since my little mother
died. It’s such a long, long time but it hurts just as much as ever . .
. and I miss her just as much as ever. Sometimes it seems to me that I
just can’t bear it, it hurts so.”
Paul’s voice quivered and his lip trembled. He looked down at his
roses, hoping that his teacher would not notice the tears in his eyes.
“And yet,” said Anne, very softly, “you wouldn’t want it to stop
hurting . . . you wouldn’t want to forget your little mother even if
you could.”
“No, indeed, I wouldn’t . . . that’s just the way I feel. You’re so
good at understanding, teacher. Nobody else understands so well . . .
not even grandma, although she’s so good to me. Father understood
pretty well, but still I couldn’t talk much to him about mother,
because it made him feel so bad. When he put his hand over his face I
always knew it was time to stop. Poor father, he must be dreadfully
lonesome without me; but you see he has nobody but a housekeeper now
and he thinks housekeepers are no good to bring up little boys,
especially when he has to be away from home so much on business.
Grandmothers are better, next to mothers. Someday, when I’m brought up,
I’ll go back to father and we’re never going to be parted again.”
Paul had talked so much to Anne about his mother and father that she
felt as if she had known them. She thought his mother must have been
very like what he was himself, in temperament and disposition; and she
had an idea that Stephen Irving was a rather reserved man with a deep
and tender nature which he kept hidden scrupulously from the world.
“Father’s not very easy to get acquainted with,” Paul had said once. “I
never got really acquainted with him until after my little mother died.
But he’s splendid when you do get to know him. I love him the best in
all the world, and Grandma Irving next, and then you, teacher. I’d love
you next to father if it wasn’t my _duty_ to love Grandma Irving best,
because she’s doing so much for me. _You_ know, teacher. I wish she
would leave the lamp in my room till I go to sleep, though. She takes
it right out as soon as she tucks me up because she says I mustn’t be a
coward. I’m _not_ scared, but I’d _rather_ have the light. My little
mother used always to sit beside me and hold my hand till I went to
sleep. I expect she spoiled me. Mothers do sometimes, you know.”
No, Anne did not know this, although she might imagine it. She thought
sadly of _her_ “little mother,” the mother who had thought her so
“perfectly beautiful” and who had died so long ago and was buried
beside her boyish husband in that unvisited grave far away. Anne could
not remember her mother and for this reason she almost envied Paul.
“My birthday is next week,” said Paul, as they walked up the long red
hill, basking in the June sunshine, “and father wrote me that he is
sending me something that he thinks I’ll like better than anything else
he could send. I believe it has come already, for Grandma is keeping
the bookcase drawer locked and that is something new. And when I asked
her why, she just looked mysterious and said little boys mustn’t be too
curious. It’s very exciting to have a birthday, isn’t it? I’ll be
eleven. You’d never think it to look at me, would you? Grandma says I’m
very small for my age and that it’s all because I don’t eat enough
porridge. I do my very best, but Grandma gives such _generous_
platefuls . . . there’s nothing mean about Grandma, I can tell you.
Ever since you and I had that talk about praying going home from Sunday
School that day, teacher . . . when you said we ought to pray about all
our difficulties . . . I’ve prayed every night that God would give me
enough grace to enable me to eat every bit of my porridge in the
mornings. But I’ve never been able to do it yet, and whether it’s
because I have too little grace or too much porridge I really can’t
decide. Grandma says father was brought up on porridge, and it
certainly did work well in his case, for you ought to see the shoulders
he has. But sometimes,” concluded Paul with a sigh and a meditative air
“I really think porridge will be the death of me.”
Anne permitted herself a smile, since Paul was not looking at her. All
Avonlea knew that old Mrs. Irving was bringing her grandson up in
accordance with the good, old-fashioned methods of diet and morals.
“Let us hope not, dear,” she said cheerfully. “How are your rock people
coming on? Does the oldest Twin still continue to behave himself?”
“He _has_ to,” said Paul emphatically. “He knows I won’t associate with
him if he doesn’t. He is really full of wickedness, _I_ think.”
“And has Nora found out about the Golden Lady yet?”
“No; but I think she suspects. I’m almost sure she watched me the last
time I went to the cave. _I_ don’t mind if she finds out . . . it is
only for _her_ sake I don’t want her to . . . so that her feelings
won’t be hurt. But if she is _determined_ to have her feelings hurt it
can’t be helped.”
“If I were to go to the shore some night with you do you think I could
see your rock people too?”
Paul shook his head gravely.
“No, I don’t think you could see _my_ rock people. I’m the only person
who can see them. But you could see rock people of your own. You’re one
of the kind that can. We’re both that kind. _You_ know, teacher,” he
added, squeezing her hand chummily. “Isn’t it splendid to be that kind,
teacher?”
“Splendid,” Anne agreed, gray shining eyes looking down into blue
shining ones. Anne and Paul both knew
“How fair the realm
Imagination opens to the view,”
and both knew the way to that happy land. There the rose of joy bloomed
immortal by dale and stream; clouds never darkened the sunny sky; sweet
bells never jangled out of tune; and kindred spirits abounded. The
knowledge of that land’s geography . . . “east o’ the sun, west o’ the
moon” . . . is priceless lore, not to be bought in any market place. It
must be the gift of the good fairies at birth and the years can never
deface it or take it away. It is better to possess it, living in a
garret, than to be the inhabitant of palaces without it.
The Avonlea graveyard was as yet the grass-grown solitude it had always
been. To be sure, the Improvers had an eye on it, and Priscilla Grant
had read a paper on cemeteries before the last meeting of the Society.
At some future time the Improvers meant to have the lichened, wayward
old board fence replaced by a neat wire railing, the grass mown and the
leaning monuments straightened up.
Anne put on Matthew’s grave the flowers she had brought for it, and
then went over to the little poplar shaded corner where Hester Gray
slept. Ever since the day of the spring picnic Anne had put flowers on
Hester’s grave when she visited Matthew’s. The evening before she had
made a pilgrimage back to the little deserted garden in the woods and
brought therefrom some of Hester’s own white roses.
“I thought you would like them better than any others, dear,” she said
softly.
Anne was still sitting there when a shadow fell over the grass and she
looked up to see Mrs. Allan. They walked home together.
Mrs. Allan’s face was not the face of the girlbride whom the minister
had brought to Avonlea five years before. It had lost some of its bloom