AN EPOCH IN ANNE’S LIFE
Anne was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of Lovers’
Lane. It was a September evening and all the gaps and clearings in the
woods were brimmed up with ruby sunset light. Here and there the lane
was splashed with it, but for the most part it was already quite
shadowy beneath the maples, and the spaces under the firs were filled
with a clear violet dusk like airy wine. The winds were out in their
tops, and there is no sweeter music on earth than that which the wind
makes in the fir-trees at evening.
The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them dreamily,
repeating aloud the battle canto from “Marmion”—which had also been
part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy
had made them learn off by heart—and exulting in its rushing lines and
the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines:
“The stubborn spearsmen still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,”
she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy
herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to
behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and
looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be
told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not.
“Isn’t this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so
glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best;
but when evening comes I think it’s lovelier still.”
“It’s a very fine evening,” said Diana, “but oh, I have such news,
Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses.”
“Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and
Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it,” cried Anne.
“No. Charlotte’s beau won’t agree to that, because nobody ever has been
married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a
funeral. It’s too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again.”
“Jane’s mother is going to let her have a birthday party?”
Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment.
“I can’t think what it can be,” said Anne in despair, “unless it’s that
Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer-meeting last night.
Did he?”
“I should think not,” exclaimed Diana indignantly. “I wouldn’t be
likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you
couldn’t guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine to-day, and
Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop
with her for the Exhibition. There!”
“Oh, Diana,” whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a
maple-tree for support, “do you really mean it? But I’m afraid Marilla
won’t let me go. She will say that she can’t encourage gadding about.
That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them
in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands
Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I’d be better at home learning
my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I
felt so heart-broken that I wouldn’t say my prayers when I went to bed.
But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said
them.”
“I’ll tell you,” said Diana, “we’ll get mother to ask Marilla. She’ll
be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we’ll have the time
of our lives, Anne. I’ve never been to an Exhibition, and it’s so
aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and
Ruby have been twice, and they’re going this year again.”
“I’m not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go
or not,” said Anne resolutely. “If I did and then was disappointed, it
would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I’m very glad my
new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn’t think I needed a
new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and
that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very
pretty, Diana—navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes
my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn’t intend to have
Matthew going to Mrs. Lynde to make them. I’m so glad. It is ever so
much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable. At least, it is
easier for me. I suppose it doesn’t make such a difference to naturally
good people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought
a lovely piece of blue broadcloth, and it’s being made by a real
dressmaker over at Carmody. It’s to be done Saturday night, and I’m
trying not to imagine myself walking up the church aisle on Sunday in
my new suit and cap, because I’m afraid it isn’t right to imagine such
things. But it just slips into my mind in spite of me. My cap is so
pretty. Matthew bought it for me the day we were over at Carmody. It is
one of those little blue velvet ones that are all the rage, with gold
cord and tassels. Your new hat is elegant, Diana, and so becoming. When
I saw you come into church last Sunday my heart swelled with pride to
think you were my dearest friend. Do you suppose it’s wrong for us to
think so much about our clothes? Marilla says it is very sinful. But it
_is_ such an interesting subject, isn’t it?”
Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was arranged that Mr.
Barry should take the girls in on the following Tuesday. As
Charlottetown was thirty miles away and Mr. Barry wished to go and
return the same day, it was necessary to make a very early start. But
Anne counted it all joy, and was up before sunrise on Tuesday morning.
A glance from her window assured her that the day would be fine, for
the eastern sky behind the firs of the Haunted Wood was all silvery and
cloudless. Through the gap in the trees a light was shining in the
western gable of Orchard Slope, a token that Diana was also up.
Anne was dressed by the time Matthew had the fire on and had the
breakfast ready when Marilla came down, but for her own part was much
too excited to eat. After breakfast the jaunty new cap and jacket were
donned, and Anne hastened over the brook and up through the firs to
Orchard Slope. Mr. Barry and Diana were waiting for her, and they were
soon on the road.
It was a long drive, but Anne and Diana enjoyed every minute of it. It
was delightful to rattle along over the moist roads in the early red
sunlight that was creeping across the shorn harvest fields. The air was
fresh and crisp, and little smoke-blue mists curled through the valleys
and floated off from the hills. Sometimes the road went through woods
where maples were beginning to hang out scarlet banners; sometimes it
crossed rivers on bridges that made Anne’s flesh cringe with the old,
half-delightful fear; sometimes it wound along a harbour shore and
passed by a little cluster of weather-gray fishing huts; again it
mounted to hills whence a far sweep of curving upland or misty blue sky
could be seen; but wherever it went there was much of interest to
discuss. It was almost noon when they reached town and found their way
to “Beechwood.” It was quite a fine old mansion, set back from the
street in a seclusion of green elms and branching beeches. Miss Barry
met them at the door with a twinkle in her sharp black eyes.
“So you’ve come to see me at last, you Anne-girl,” she said. “Mercy,
child, how you have grown! You’re taller than I am, I declare. And
you’re ever so much better-looking than you used to be, too. But I dare
say you know that without being told.”
“Indeed I didn’t,” said Anne radiantly. “I know I’m not so freckled as
I used to be, so I’ve much to be thankful for, but I really hadn’t
dared to hope there was any other improvement. I’m so glad you think
there is, Miss Barry.”
Miss Barry’s house was furnished with “great magnificence,” as Anne
told Marilla afterwards. The two little country girls were rather
abashed by the splendour of the parlour where Miss Barry left them when
she went to see about dinner.
“Isn’t it just like a palace?” whispered Diana. “I never was in Aunt
Josephine’s house before, and I’d no idea it was so grand. I just wish
Julia Bell could see this—she puts on such airs about her mother’s
parlour.”
“Velvet carpet,” sighed Anne luxuriously, “_and_ silk curtains! I’ve
dreamed of such things, Diana. But do you know I don’t believe I feel
very comfortable with them after all. There are so many things in this
room and all so splendid that there is no scope for imagination. That
is one consolation when you are poor—there are so many more things you
can imagine about.”
Their sojourn in town was something that Anne and Diana dated from for
years. From first to last it was crowded with delights.
On Wednesday Miss Barry took them to the Exhibition grounds and kept
them there all day.
“It was splendid,” Anne related to Marilla later on. “I never imagined
anything so interesting. I don’t really know which department was the
most interesting. I think I liked the horses and the flowers and the
fancy work best. Josie Pye took first prize for knitted lace. I was
real glad she did. And I was glad that I felt glad, for it shows I’m
improving, don’t you think, Marilla, when I can rejoice in Josie’s
success? Mr. Harmon Andrews took second prize for Gravenstein apples
and Mr. Bell took first prize for a pig. Diana said she thought it was
ridiculous for a Sunday-school superintendent to take a prize in pigs,
but I don’t see why. Do you? She said she would always think of it
after this when he was praying so solemnly. Clara Louise MacPherson
took a prize for painting, and Mrs. Lynde got first prize for home-made
butter and cheese. So Avonlea was pretty well represented, wasn’t it?
Mrs. Lynde was there that day, and I never knew how much I really liked
her until I saw her familiar face among all those strangers. There were
thousands of people there, Marilla. It made me feel dreadfully
insignificant. And Miss Barry took us up to the grand stand to see the
horse-races. Mrs. Lynde wouldn’t go; she said horse-racing was an
abomination, and she being a church-member, thought it her bounden duty
to set a good example by staying away. But there were so many there I
don’t believe Mrs. Lynde’s absence would ever be noticed. I don’t
think, though, that I ought to go very often to horse-races, because
they _are_ awfully fascinating. Diana got so excited that she offered
to bet me ten cents that the red horse would win. I didn’t believe he
would, but I refused to bet, because I wanted to tell Mrs. Allan all
about everything, and I felt sure it wouldn’t do to tell her that. It’s
always wrong to do anything you can’t tell the minister’s wife. It’s as
good as an extra conscience to have a minister’s wife for your friend.
And I was very glad I didn’t bet, because the red horse _did_ win, and
I would have lost ten cents. So you see that virtue was its own reward.
We saw a man go up in a balloon. I’d love to go up in a balloon,
Marilla; it would be simply thrilling; and we saw a man selling
fortunes. You paid him ten cents and a little bird picked out your
fortune for you. Miss Barry gave Diana and me ten cents each to have
our fortunes told. Mine was that I would marry a dark-complected man
who was very wealthy, and I would go across water to live. I looked
carefully at all the dark men I saw after that, but I didn’t care much
for any of them, and anyhow I suppose it’s too early to be looking out
for him yet. Oh, it was a never-to-be-forgotten day, Marilla. I was so
tired I couldn’t sleep at night. Miss Barry put us in the spare room,
according to promise. It was an elegant room, Marilla, but somehow
sleeping in a spare room isn’t what I used to think it was. That’s the
worst of growing up, and I’m beginning to realize it. The things you
wanted so much when you were a child don’t seem half so wonderful to
you when you get them.”
Thursday the girls had a drive in the park, and in the evening Miss
Barry took them to a concert in the Academy of Music, where a noted
prima donna was to sing. To Anne the evening was a glittering vision of
delight.
“Oh, Marilla, it was beyond description. I was so excited I couldn’t
even talk, so you may know what it was like. I just sat in enraptured
silence. Madame Selitsky was perfectly beautiful, and wore white satin
and diamonds. But when she began to sing I never thought about anything
else. Oh, I can’t tell you how I felt. But it seemed to me that it
could never be hard to be good any more. I felt like I do when I look
up to the stars. Tears came into my eyes, but, oh, they were such happy
tears. I was so sorry when it was all over, and I told Miss Barry I
didn’t see how I was ever to return to common life again. She said she
thought if we went over to the restaurant across the street and had an
ice-cream it might help me. That sounded so prosaic; but to my surprise
I found it true. The ice-cream was delicious, Marilla, and it was so
lovely and dissipated to be sitting there eating it at eleven o’clock
at night. Diana said she believed she was born for city life. Miss
Barry asked me what my opinion was, but I said I would have to think it
over very seriously before I could tell her what I really thought. So I
thought it over after I went to bed. That is the best time to think
things out. And I came to the conclusion, Marilla, that I wasn’t born
for city life and that I was glad of it. It’s nice to be eating
ice-cream at brilliant restaurants at eleven o’clock at night once in
awhile; but as a regular thing I’d rather be in the east gable at
eleven, sound asleep, but kind of knowing even in my sleep that the
stars were shining outside and that the wind was blowing in the firs
across the brook. I told Miss Barry so at breakfast the next morning
and she laughed. Miss Barry generally laughed at anything I said, even
when I said the most solemn things. I don’t think I liked it, Marilla,
because I wasn’t trying to be funny. But she is a most hospitable lady
and treated us royally.”
Friday brought going-home time, and Mr. Barry drove in for the girls.
“Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves,” said Miss Barry, as she bade
them good-bye.
“Indeed we have,” said Diana.
“And you, Anne-girl?”
“I’ve enjoyed every minute of the time,” said Anne, throwing her arms
impulsively about the old woman’s neck and kissing her wrinkled cheek.
Diana would never have dared to do such a thing, and felt rather aghast
at Anne’s freedom. But Miss Barry was pleased, and she stood on her
veranda and watched the buggy out of sight. Then she went back into her
big house with a sigh. It seemed very lonely, lacking those fresh young
lives. Miss Barry was a rather selfish old lady, if the truth must be
told, and had never cared much for anybody but herself. She valued
people only as they were of service to her or amused her. Anne had
amused her, and consequently stood high in the old lady’s good graces.
But Miss Barry found herself thinking less about Anne’s quaint speeches
than of her fresh enthusiasms, her transparent emotions, her little
winning ways, and the sweetness of her eyes and lips.
“I thought Marilla Cuthbert was an old fool when I heard she’d adopted
a girl out of an orphan asylum,” she said to herself, “but I guess she
didn’t make much of a mistake after all. If I’d a child like Anne in
the house all the time I’d be a better and happier woman.”
Anne and Diana found the drive home as pleasant as the drive
in—pleasanter, indeed, since there was the delightful consciousness of
home waiting at the end of it. It was sunset when they passed through
White Sands and turned into the shore road. Beyond, the Avonlea hills
came out darkly against the saffron sky. Behind them the moon was
rising out of the sea that grew all radiant and transfigured in her
light. Every little cove along the curving road was a marvel of dancing
ripples. The waves broke with a soft swish on the rocks below them, and
the tang of the sea was in the strong, fresh air.
“Oh, but it’s good to be alive and to be going home,” breathed Anne.
When she crossed the log bridge over the brook the kitchen light of
Green Gables winked her a friendly welcome back, and through the open
door shone the hearth fire, sending out its warm red glow athwart the
chilly autumn night. Anne ran blithely up the hill and into the
kitchen, where a hot supper was waiting on the table.
“So you’ve got back?” said Marilla, folding up her knitting.
“Yes, and, oh, it’s so good to be back,” said Anne joyously. “I could
kiss everything, even to the clock. Marilla, a broiled chicken! You
don’t mean to say you cooked that for me!”
“Yes, I did,” said Marilla. “I thought you’d be hungry after such a
drive and need something real appetizing. Hurry and take off your
things, and we’ll have supper as soon as Matthew comes in. I’m glad
you’ve got back, I must say. It’s been fearful lonesome here without
you, and I never put in four longer days.”
After supper Anne sat before the fire between Matthew and Marilla, and
gave them a full account of her visit.
“I’ve had a splendid time,” she concluded happily, “and I feel that it
marks an epoch in my life. But the best of it all was the coming home.”