Anne's House of Dreams
But tonight our lovers thought only of joy and never of sorrow. For
the morrow was their wedding day, and their house of dreams awaited
them on the misty, purple shore of Four Winds Harbor.
CHAPTER 4
THE FIRST BRIDE OF GREEN GABLES
Anne wakened on the morning of her wedding day to find the sunshine
winking in at the window of the little porch gable and a September
breeze frolicking with her curtains.
“I’m so glad the sun will shine on me,” she thought happily.
She recalled the first morning she had wakened in that little porch
room, when the sunshine had crept in on her through the blossom-drift
of the old Snow Queen. That had not been a happy wakening, for it
brought with it the bitter disappointment of the preceding night. But
since then the little room had been endeared and consecrated by years
of happy childhood dreams and maiden visions. To it she had come back
joyfully after all her absences; at its window she had knelt through
that night of bitter agony when she believed Gilbert dying, and by it
she had sat in speechless happiness the night of her betrothal. Many
vigils of joy and some of sorrow had been kept there; and today she
must leave it forever. Henceforth it would be hers no more;
fifteen-year-old Dora was to inherit it when she had gone. Nor did
Anne wish it otherwise; the little room was sacred to youth and
girlhood--to the past that was to close today before the chapter of
wifehood opened.
Green Gables was a busy and joyous house that forenoon. Diana arrived
early, with little Fred and Small Anne Cordelia, to lend a hand. Davy
and Dora, the Green Gables twins, whisked the babies off to the garden.
“Don’t let Small Anne Cordelia spoil her clothes,” warned Diana
anxiously.
“You needn’t be afraid to trust her with Dora,” said Marilla. “That
child is more sensible and careful than most of the mothers I’ve known.
She’s really a wonder in some ways. Not much like that other
harum-scarum I brought up.”
Marilla smiled across her chicken salad at Anne. It might even be
suspected that she liked the harum-scarum best after all.
“Those twins are real nice children,” said Mrs. Rachel, when she was
sure they were out of earshot. “Dora is so womanly and helpful, and
Davy is developing into a very smart boy. He isn’t the holy terror for
mischief he used to be.”
“I never was so distracted in my life as I was the first six months he
was here,” acknowledged Marilla. “After that I suppose I got used to
him. He’s taken a great notion to farming lately, and wants me to let
him try running the farm next year. I may, for Mr. Barry doesn’t think
he’ll want to rent it much longer, and some new arrangement will have
to be made.”
“Well, you certainly have a lovely day for your wedding, Anne,” said
Diana, as she slipped a voluminous apron over her silken array. “You
couldn’t have had a finer one if you’d ordered it from Eaton’s.”
“Indeed, there’s too much money going out of this Island to that same
Eaton’s,” said Mrs. Lynde indignantly. She had strong views on the
subject of octopus-like department stores, and never lost an
opportunity of airing them. “And as for those catalogues of theirs,
they’re the Avonlea girls’ Bible now, that’s what. They pore over them
on Sundays instead of studying the Holy Scriptures.”
“Well, they’re splendid to amuse children with,” said Diana. “Fred and
Small Anne look at the pictures by the hour.”
“_I_ amused ten children without the aid of Eaton’s catalogue,” said
Mrs. Rachel severely.
“Come, you two, don’t quarrel over Eaton’s catalogue,” said Anne gaily.
“This is my day of days, you know. I’m so happy I want every one else
to be happy, too.”
“I’m sure I hope your happiness will last, child,” sighed Mrs. Rachel.
She did hope it truly, and believed it, but she was afraid it was in
the nature of a challenge to Providence to flaunt your happiness too
openly. Anne, for her own good, must be toned down a trifle.
But it was a happy and beautiful bride who came down the old,
homespun-carpeted stairs that September noon--the first bride of Green
Gables, slender and shining-eyed, in the mist of her maiden veil, with
her arms full of roses. Gilbert, waiting for her in the hall below,
looked up at her with adoring eyes. She was his at last, this evasive,
long-sought Anne, won after years of patient waiting. It was to him
she was coming in the sweet surrender of the bride. Was he worthy of
her? Could he make her as happy as he hoped? If he failed her--if he
could not measure up to her standard of manhood--then, as she held out
her hand, their eyes met and all doubt was swept away in a glad
certainty. They belonged to each other; and, no matter what life might
hold for them, it could never alter that. Their happiness was in each
other’s keeping and both were unafraid.
They were married in the sunshine of the old orchard, circled by the
loving and kindly faces of long-familiar friends. Mr. Allan married
them, and the Reverend Jo made what Mrs. Rachel Lynde afterwards
pronounced to be the “most beautiful wedding prayer” she had ever
heard. Birds do not often sing in September, but one sang sweetly from
some hidden bough while Gilbert and Anne repeated their deathless vows.
Anne heard it and thrilled to it; Gilbert heard it, and wondered only
that all the birds in the world had not burst into jubilant song; Paul
heard it and later wrote a lyric about it which was one of the most
admired in his first volume of verse; Charlotta the Fourth heard it and
was blissfully sure it meant good luck for her adored Miss Shirley.
The bird sang until the ceremony was ended and then it wound up with
one mad little, glad little trill. Never had the old gray-green house
among its enfolding orchards known a blither, merrier afternoon. All
the old jests and quips that must have done duty at weddings since Eden
were served up, and seemed as new and brilliant and mirth-provoking as
if they had never been uttered before. Laughter and joy had their way;
and when Anne and Gilbert left to catch the Carmody train, with Paul as
driver, the twins were ready with rice and old shoes, in the throwing
of which Charlotta the Fourth and Mr. Harrison bore a valiant part.
Marilla stood at the gate and watched the carriage out of sight down
the long lane with its banks of goldenrod. Anne turned at its end to
wave her last good-bye. She was gone--Green Gables was her home no
more; Marilla’s face looked very gray and old as she turned to the
house which Anne had filled for fourteen years, and even in her
absence, with light and life.
But Diana and her small fry, the Echo Lodge people and the Allans, had
stayed to help the two old ladies over the loneliness of the first
evening; and they contrived to have a quietly pleasant little supper
time, sitting long around the table and chatting over all the details
of the day. While they were sitting there Anne and Gilbert were
alighting from the train at Glen St. Mary.
CHAPTER 5
THE HOME COMING
Dr. David Blythe had sent his horse and buggy to meet them, and the
urchin who had brought it slipped away with a sympathetic grin, leaving
them to the delight of driving alone to their new home through the
radiant evening.
Anne never forgot the loveliness of the view that broke upon them when
they had driven over the hill behind the village. Her new home could
not yet be seen; but before her lay Four Winds Harbor like a great,
shining mirror of rose and silver. Far down, she saw its entrance
between the bar of sand dunes on one side and a steep, high, grim, red
sandstone cliff on the other. Beyond the bar the sea, calm and
austere, dreamed in the afterlight. The little fishing village,
nestled in the cove where the sand-dunes met the harbor shore, looked
like a great opal in the haze. The sky over them was like a jewelled
cup from which the dusk was pouring; the air was crisp with the
compelling tang of the sea, and the whole landscape was infused with
the subtleties of a sea evening. A few dim sails drifted along the
darkening, fir-clad harbor shores. A bell was ringing from the tower
of a little white church on the far side; mellowly and dreamily sweet,
the chime floated across the water blent with the moan of the sea. The
great revolving light on the cliff at the channel flashed warm and
golden against the clear northern sky, a trembling, quivering star of
good hope. Far out along the horizon was the crinkled gray ribbon of a
passing steamer’s smoke.
“Oh, beautiful, beautiful,” murmured Anne. “I shall love Four Winds,
Gilbert. Where is our house?”
“We can’t see it yet--the belt of birch running up from that little
cove hides it. It’s about two miles from Glen St. Mary, and there’s
another mile between it and the light-house. We won’t have many
neighbors, Anne. There’s only one house near us and I don’t know who
lives in it. Shall you be lonely when I’m away?”
“Not with that light and that loveliness for company. Who lives in
that house, Gilbert?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t look--exactly--as if the occupants would be
kindred spirits, Anne, does it?”
The house was a large, substantial affair, painted such a vivid green
that the landscape seemed quite faded by contrast. There was an
orchard behind it, and a nicely kept lawn before it, but, somehow,
there was a certain bareness about it. Perhaps its neatness was
responsible for this; the whole establishment, house, barns, orchard,
garden, lawn and lane, was so starkly neat.
“It doesn’t seem probable that anyone with that taste in paint could be
VERY kindred,” acknowledged Anne, “unless it were an accident--like our
blue hall. I feel certain there are no children there, at least. It’s
even neater than the old Copp place on the Tory road, and I never
expected to see anything neater than that.”
They had not met anybody on the moist, red road that wound along the
harbor shore. But just before they came to the belt of birch which hid
their home, Anne saw a girl who was driving a flock of snow-white geese
along the crest of a velvety green hill on the right. Great, scattered
firs grew along it. Between their trunks one saw glimpses of yellow
harvest fields, gleams of golden sand-hills, and bits of blue sea. The
girl was tall and wore a dress of pale blue print. She walked with a
certain springiness of step and erectness of bearing. She and her
geese came out of the gate at the foot of the hill as Anne and Gilbert
passed. She stood with her hand on the fastening of the gate, and
looked steadily at them, with an expression that hardly attained to
interest, but did not descend to curiosity. It seemed to Anne, for a
fleeting moment, that there was even a veiled hint of hostility in it.
But it was the girl’s beauty which made Anne give a little gasp--a
beauty so marked that it must have attracted attention anywhere. She
was hatless, but heavy braids of burnished hair, the hue of ripe wheat,
were twisted about her head like a coronet; her eyes were blue and
star-like; her figure, in its plain print gown, was magnificent; and
her lips were as crimson as the bunch of blood-red poppies she wore at
her belt.
“Gilbert, who is the girl we have just passed?” asked Anne, in a low
voice.
“I didn’t notice any girl,” said Gilbert, who had eyes only for his
bride.
“She was standing by that gate--no, don’t look back. She is still
watching us. I never saw such a beautiful face.”
“I don’t remember seeing any very handsome girls while I was here.
There are some pretty girls up at the Glen, but I hardly think they
could be called beautiful.”
“This girl is. You can’t have seen her, or you would remember her.
Nobody could forget her. I never saw such a face except in pictures.