Anne of Avonlea
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.