Anne of the Island
old constant companionship could never be theirs again. Anne looked up
at Diana’s light and thought how it had beaconed to her for many years;
but soon it would shine through the summer twilights no more. Two big,
painful tears welled up in her gray eyes.
“Oh,” she thought, “how horrible it is that people have to grow up—and
marry—and _change!_”
Chapter XXIX
Diana’s Wedding
“After all, the only real roses are the pink ones,” said Anne, as she
tied white ribbon around Diana’s bouquet in the westward-looking gable
at Orchard Slope. “They are the flowers of love and faith.”
Diana was standing nervously in the middle of the room, arrayed in her
bridal white, her black curls frosted over with the film of her wedding
veil. Anne had draped that veil, in accordance with the sentimental
compact of years before.
“It’s all pretty much as I used to imagine it long ago, when I wept
over your inevitable marriage and our consequent parting,” she laughed.
“You are the bride of my dreams, Diana, with the ‘lovely misty veil’;
and I am _your_ bridesmaid. But, alas! I haven’t the puffed
sleeves—though these short lace ones are even prettier. Neither is my
heart wholly breaking nor do I exactly hate Fred.”
“We are not really parting, Anne,” protested Diana. “I’m not going far
away. We’ll love each other just as much as ever. We’ve always kept
that ‘oath’ of friendship we swore long ago, haven’t we?”
“Yes. We’ve kept it faithfully. We’ve had a beautiful friendship,
Diana. We’ve never marred it by one quarrel or coolness or unkind word;
and I hope it will always be so. But things can’t be quite the same
after this. You’ll have other interests. I’ll just be on the outside.
But ‘such is life’ as Mrs. Rachel says. Mrs. Rachel has given you one
of her beloved knitted quilts of the ‘tobacco stripe’ pattern, and she
says when I am married she’ll give me one, too.”
“The mean thing about your getting married is that I won’t be able to
be your bridesmaid,” lamented Diana.
“I’m to be Phil’s bridesmaid next June, when she marries Mr. Blake, and
then I must stop, for you know the proverb ‘three times a bridesmaid,
never a bride,’” said Anne, peeping through the window over the pink
and snow of the blossoming orchard beneath. “Here comes the minister,
Diana.”
“Oh, Anne,” gasped Diana, suddenly turning very pale and beginning to
tremble. “Oh, Anne—I’m so nervous—I can’t go through with it—Anne, I
know I’m going to faint.”
“If you do I’ll drag you down to the rainwater hogshed and drop you
in,” said Anne unsympathetically. “Cheer up, dearest. Getting married
can’t be so very terrible when so many people survive the ceremony. See
how cool and composed I am, and take courage.”
“Wait till your turn comes, Miss Anne. Oh, Anne, I hear father coming
upstairs. Give me my bouquet. Is my veil right? Am I very pale?”
“You look just lovely. Di, darling, kiss me good-bye for the last time.
Diana Barry will never kiss me again.”
“Diana Wright will, though. There, mother’s calling. Come.”
Following the simple, old-fashioned way in vogue then, Anne went down
to the parlor on Gilbert’s arm. They met at the top of the stairs for
the first time since they had left Kingsport, for Gilbert had arrived
only that day. Gilbert shook hands courteously. He was looking very
well, though, as Anne instantly noted, rather thin. He was not pale;
there was a flush on his cheek that had burned into it as Anne came
along the hall towards him, in her soft, white dress with
lilies-of-the-valley in the shining masses of her hair. As they entered
the crowded parlor together a little murmur of admiration ran around
the room. “What a fine-looking pair they are,” whispered the
impressible Mrs. Rachel to Marilla.
Fred ambled in alone, with a very red face, and then Diana swept in on
her father’s arm. She did not faint, and nothing untoward occurred to
interrupt the ceremony. Feasting and merry-making followed; then, as
the evening waned, Fred and Diana drove away through the moonlight to
their new home, and Gilbert walked with Anne to Green Gables.
Something of their old comradeship had returned during the informal
mirth of the evening. Oh, it was nice to be walking over that
well-known road with Gilbert again!
The night was so very still that one should have been able to hear the
whisper of roses in blossom—the laughter of daisies—the piping of
grasses—many sweet sounds, all tangled up together. The beauty of
moonlight on familiar fields irradiated the world.
“Can’t we take a ramble up Lovers’ Lane before you go in?” asked
Gilbert as they crossed the bridge over the Lake of Shining Waters, in
which the moon lay like a great, drowned blossom of gold.
Anne assented readily. Lovers’ Lane was a veritable path in a fairyland
that night—a shimmering, mysterious place, full of wizardry in the
white-woven enchantment of moonlight. There had been a time when such a
walk with Gilbert through Lovers’ Lane would have been far too
dangerous. But Roy and Christine had made it very safe now. Anne found
herself thinking a good deal about Christine as she chatted lightly to
Gilbert. She had met her several times before leaving Kingsport, and
had been charmingly sweet to her. Christine had also been charmingly
sweet. Indeed, they were a most cordial pair. But for all that, their
acquaintance had not ripened into friendship. Evidently Christine was
not a kindred spirit.
“Are you going to be in Avonlea all summer?” asked Gilbert.
“No. I’m going down east to Valley Road next week. Esther Haythorne
wants me to teach for her through July and August. They have a summer
term in that school, and Esther isn’t feeling well. So I’m going to
substitute for her. In one way I don’t mind. Do you know, I’m beginning
to feel a little bit like a stranger in Avonlea now? It makes me
sorry—but it’s true. It’s quite appalling to see the number of children
who have shot up into big boys and girls—really young men and
women—these past two years. Half of my pupils are grown up. It makes me
feel awfully old to see them in the places you and I and our mates used
to fill.”
Anne laughed and sighed. She felt very old and mature and wise—which
showed how young she was. She told herself that she longed greatly to
go back to those dear merry days when life was seen through a rosy mist
of hope and illusion, and possessed an indefinable something that had
passed away forever. Where was it now—the glory and the dream?
“‘So wags the world away,’” quoted Gilbert practically, and a trifle
absently. Anne wondered if he were thinking of Christine. Oh, Avonlea
was going to be so lonely now—with Diana gone!
Chapter XXX
Mrs. Skinner’s Romance
Anne stepped off the train at Valley Road station and looked about to
see if any one had come to meet her. She was to board with a certain
Miss Janet Sweet, but she saw no one who answered in the least to her
preconception of that lady, as formed from Esther’s letter. The only
person in sight was an elderly woman, sitting in a wagon with mail bags
piled around her. Two hundred would have been a charitable guess at her
weight; her face was as round and red as a harvest-moon and almost as
featureless. She wore a tight, black, cashmere dress, made in the
fashion of ten years ago, a little dusty black straw hat trimmed with
bows of yellow ribbon, and faded black lace mits.
“Here, you,” she called, waving her whip at Anne. “Are you the new
Valley Road schoolma’am?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I thought so. Valley Road is noted for its good-looking
schoolma’ams, just as Millersville is noted for its humly ones. Janet
Sweet asked me this morning if I could bring you out. I said, ‘Sartin I
kin, if she don’t mind being scrunched up some. This rig of mine’s
kinder small for the mail bags and I’m some heftier than Thomas!’ Just
wait, miss, till I shift these bags a bit and I’ll tuck you in somehow.
It’s only two miles to Janet’s. Her next-door neighbor’s hired boy is
coming for your trunk tonight. My name is Skinner—Amelia Skinner.”
Anne was eventually tucked in, exchanging amused smiles with herself
during the process.
“Jog along, black mare,” commanded Mrs. Skinner, gathering up the reins
in her pudgy hands. “This is my first trip on the mail rowte. Thomas
wanted to hoe his turnips today so he asked me to come. So I jest sot
down and took a standing-up snack and started. I sorter like it. O’
course it’s rather tejus. Part of the time I sits and thinks and the
rest I jest sits. Jog along, black mare. I want to git home airly.
Thomas is terrible lonesome when I’m away. You see, we haven’t been
married very long.”
“Oh!” said Anne politely.
“Just a month. Thomas courted me for quite a spell, though. It was real
romantic.” Anne tried to picture Mrs. Skinner on speaking terms with
romance and failed.
“Oh?” she said again.
“Yes. Y’see, there was another man after me. Jog along, black mare. I’d
been a widder so long folks had given up expecting me to marry again.
But when my darter—she’s a schoolma’am like you—went out West to teach
I felt real lonesome and wasn’t nowise sot against the idea. Bime-by
Thomas began to come up and so did the other feller—William Obadiah
Seaman, his name was. For a long time I couldn’t make up my mind which
of them to take, and they kep’ coming and coming, and I kep’ worrying.
Y’see, W.O. was rich—he had a fine place and carried considerable
style. He was by far the best match. Jog along, black mare.”
“Why didn’t you marry him?” asked Anne.
“Well, y’see, he didn’t love me,” answered Mrs. Skinner, solemnly.
Anne opened her eyes widely and looked at Mrs. Skinner. But there was
not a glint of humor on that lady’s face. Evidently Mrs. Skinner saw
nothing amusing in her own case.
“He’d been a widder-man for three yers, and his sister kept house for
him. Then she got married and he just wanted some one to look after his
house. It was worth looking after, too, mind you that. It’s a handsome
house. Jog along, black mare. As for Thomas, he was poor, and if his
house didn’t leak in dry weather it was about all that could be said
for it, though it looks kind of pictureaskew. But, y’see, I loved
Thomas, and I didn’t care one red cent for W.O. So I argued it out with
myself. ‘Sarah Crowe,’ say I—my first was a Crowe—‘you can marry your
rich man if you like but you won’t be happy. Folks can’t get along
together in this world without a little bit of love. You’d just better
tie up to Thomas, for he loves you and you love him and nothing else
ain’t going to do you.’ Jog along, black mare. So I told Thomas I’d
take him. All the time I was getting ready I never dared drive past
W.O.’s place for fear the sight of that fine house of his would put me
in the swithers again. But now I never think of it at all, and I’m just
that comfortable and happy with Thomas. Jog along, black mare.”
“How did William Obadiah take it?” queried Anne.
“Oh, he rumpussed a bit. But he’s going to see a skinny old maid in
Millersville now, and I guess she’ll take him fast enough. She’ll make
him a better wife than his first did. W.O. never wanted to marry her.
He just asked her to marry him ’cause his father wanted him to, never
dreaming but that she’d say ‘no.’ But mind you, she said ‘yes.’ There
was a predicament for you. Jog along, black mare. She was a great
housekeeper, but most awful mean. She wore the same bonnet for eighteen
years. Then she got a new one and W.O. met her on the road and didn’t
know her. Jog along, black mare. I feel that I’d a narrer escape. I
might have married him and been most awful miserable, like my poor
cousin, Jane Ann. Jane Ann married a rich man she didn’t care anything
about, and she hasn’t the life of a dog. She come to see me last week