Part 1 out of 5
ANNE of the ISLAND
Lucy Maud Montgomery
all the girls all over the world
who have "wanted more" about
All precious things discovered late
To those that seek them issue forth,
For Love in sequel works with Fate,
And draws the veil from hidden worth.
Table of Contents
I The Shadow of Change . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
II Garlands of Autumn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
III Greeting and Farewell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
IV April's Lady . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
V Letters from Home. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
VI In the Park. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
VII Home Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
VIII Anne's First Proposal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .105
IX An Unwelcome Lover and a Welcome Friend. . . . . . .113
X Patty's Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .126
XI The Round of Life. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .139
XII "Averil's Atonement" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .153
XIII The Way of Transgressors . . . . . . . . . . . . . .165
XIV The Summons. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .181
XV A Dream Turned Upside Down . . . . . . . . . . . . .194
XVI Adjusted Relationships . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .202
XVII A Letter from Davy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .219
XVIII Miss Josepine Remembers the Anne-girl. . . . . . . .225
XIX An Interlude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .234
XX Gilbert Speaks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .240
XXI Roses of Yesterday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .249
XXII Spring and Anne Return to Green Gables . . . . . . .256
XXIII Paul Cannot Find the Rock People . . . . . . . . . .263
XXIV Enter Jonas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .269
XXV Enter Prince Charming. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .278
XXVI Enter Christine. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .288
XXVII Mutual Confidences . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .294
XXVIII A June Evening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .303
XXIX Diana's Wedding. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .311
XXX Mrs. Skinner's Romance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .317
XXXI Anne to Philippa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .323
XXXII Tea with Mrs. Douglas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .328
XXXIII "He Just Kept Coming and Coming" . . . . . . . . . .336
XXXIV John Douglas Speaks at Last. . . . . . . . . . . . .342
XXXV The Last Redmond Year Opens. . . . . . . . . . . . .350
XXXV1 The Gardners' Call . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .361
XXXVII Full-fledged B.A.'s. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .370
XXXVIII False Dawn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .379
XXXIX Deals with Weddings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .388
XL A Book of Revelation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .400
XLI Love Takes Up the Glass of Time. . . . . . . . . . .407
ANNE of the ISLAND
Lucy Maud Montgomery
The Shadow of Change
"Harvest is ended and summer is gone," quoted Anne Shirley,
gazing across the shorn fields dreamily. She and Diana Barry had
been picking apples in the Green Gables orchard, but were now
resting from their labors in a sunny corner, where airy fleets of
thistledown drifted by on the wings of a wind that was still
summer-sweet with the incense of ferns in the Haunted Wood.
But everything in the landscape around them spoke of autumn.
The sea was roaring hollowly in the distance, the fields were bare
and sere, scarfed with golden rod, the brook valley below Green
Gables overflowed with asters of ethereal purple, and the Lake of
Shining Waters was blue -- blue -- blue; not the changeful blue
of spring, nor the pale azure of summer, but a clear, steadfast,
serene blue, as if the water were past all moods and tenses of emotion
and had settled down to a tranquility unbroken by fickle dreams.
"It has been a nice summer," said Diana, twisting the new ring on
her left hand with a smile. "And Miss Lavendar's wedding seemed
to come as a sort of crown to it. I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Irving
are on the Pacific coast now."
"It seems to me they have been gone long enough to go around the world,"
"I can't believe it is only a week since they were married.
Everything has changed. Miss Lavendar and Mr. and Mrs. Allan gone
-- how lonely the manse looks with the shutters all closed!
I went past it last night, and it made me feel as if everybody
in it had died."
"We'll never get another minister as nice as Mr. Allan," said Diana,
with gloomy conviction. "I suppose we'll have all kinds of supplies
this winter, and half the Sundays no preaching at all. And you and
Gilbert gone -- it will be awfully dull."
"Fred will be here," insinuated Anne slyly.
"When is Mrs. Lynde going to move up?" asked Diana, as if she
had not heard Anne's remark.
"Tomorrow. I'm glad she's coming -- but it will be another change.
Marilla and I cleared everything out of the spare room yesterday.
Do you know, I hated to do it? Of course, it was silly -- but
it did seem as if we were committing sacrilege. That old spare
room has always seemed like a shrine to me. When I was a child
I thought it the most wonderful apartment in the world. You
remember what a consuming desire I had to sleep in a spare room bed
-- but not the Green Gables spare room. Oh, no, never there!
It would have been too terrible -- I couldn't have slept a wink
from awe. I never WALKED through that room when Marilla sent me in
on an errand -- no, indeed, I tiptoed through it and held my breath,
as if I were in church, and felt relieved when I got out of it.
The pictures of George Whitefield and the Duke of Wellington
hung there, one on each side of the mirror, and frowned so sternly
at me all the time I was in, especially if I dared peep in the mirror,
which was the only one in the house that didn't twist my face a little.
I always wondered how Marilla dared houseclean that room. And now it's
not only cleaned but stripped bare. George Whitefield and the Duke
have been relegated to the upstairs hall. `So passes the glory of
this world,' " concluded Anne, with a laugh in which there was a
little note of regret. It is never pleasant to have our old
shrines desecrated, even when we have outgrown them.
"I'll be so lonesome when you go," moaned Diana for the hundredth time.
"And to think you go next week!"
"But we're together still," said Anne cheerily. "We mustn't let next
week rob us of this week's joy. I hate the thought of going myself
-- home and I are such good friends. Talk of being lonesome!
It's I who should groan. YOU'LL be here with any number of your
old friends -- AND Fred! While I shall be alone among strangers,
not knowing a soul!"
"EXCEPT Gilbert -- AND Charlie Sloane," said Diana, imitating
Anne's italics and slyness.
"Charlie Sloane will be a great comfort, of course," agreed Anne
sarcastically; whereupon both those irresponsible damsels laughed.
Diana knew exactly what Anne thought of Charlie Sloane; but,
despite sundry confidential talks, she did not know just what
Anne thought of Gilbert Blythe. To be sure, Anne herself
did not know that.
"The boys may be boarding at the other end of Kingsport, for all
I know," Anne went on. "I am glad I'm going to Redmond, and I am
sure I shall like it after a while. But for the first few weeks
I know I won't. I shan't even have the comfort of looking forward
to the weekend visit home, as I had when I went to Queen's.
Christmas will seem like a thousand years away."
"Everything is changing -- or going to change," said Diana sadly.
"I have a feeling that things will never be the same again, Anne."
"We have come to a parting of the ways, I suppose," said Anne
thoughtfully. "We had to come to it. Do you think, Diana, that
being grown-up is really as nice as we used to imagine it would
be when we were children?"
"I don't know -- there are SOME nice things about it," answered
Diana, again caressing her ring with that little smile which
always had the effect of making Anne feel suddenly left out and
inexperienced. "But there are so many puzzling things, too.
Sometimes I feel as if being grown-up just frightened me -- and
then I would give anything to be a little girl again."
"I suppose we'll get used to being grownup in time," said Anne
cheerfully. "There won't be so many unexpected things about it
by and by -- though, after all, I fancy it's the unexpected
things that give spice to life. We're eighteen, Diana. In two
more years we'll be twenty. When I was ten I thought twenty was
a green old age. In no time you'll be a staid, middle-aged
matron, and I shall be nice, old maid Aunt Anne, coming to visit
you on vacations. You'll always keep a corner for me, won't you,
Di darling? Not the spare room, of course -- old maids can't
aspire to spare rooms, and I shall be as 'umble as Uriah Heep,
and quite content with a little over-the-porch or off-the-parlor
"What nonsense you do talk, Anne," laughed Diana. "You'll marry
somebody splendid and handsome and rich -- and no spare room in
Avonlea will be half gorgeous enough for you -- and you'll turn
up your nose at all the friends of your youth."
"That would be a pity; my nose is quite nice, but I fear turning
it up would spoil it," said Anne, patting that shapely organ.
"I haven't so many good features that I could afford to spoil
those I have; so, even if I should marry the King of the Cannibal
Islands, I promise you I won't turn up my nose at you, Diana."
With another gay laugh the girls separated, Diana to return to
Orchard Slope, Anne to walk to the Post Office. She found a
letter awaiting her there, and when Gilbert Blythe overtook her
on the bridge over the Lake of Shining Waters she was sparkling
with the excitement of it.
"Priscilla Grant is going to Redmond, too," she exclaimed.
"Isn't that splendid? I hoped she would, but she didn't think
her father would consent. He has, however, and we're to board
together. I feel that I can face an army with banners -- or all
the professors of Redmond in one fell phalanx -- with a chum like
Priscilla by my side."
"I think we'll like Kingsport," said Gilbert. "It's a nice old
burg, they tell me, and has the finest natural park in the world.
I've heard that the scenery in it is magnificent."
"I wonder if it will be -- can be -- any more beautiful than this,"
murmured Anne, looking around her with the loving, enraptured eyes
of those to whom "home" must always be the loveliest spot in the world,
no matter what fairer lands may lie under alien stars.
They were leaning on the bridge of the old pond, drinking deep of
the enchantment of the dusk, just at the spot where Anne had climbed
from her sinking Dory on the day Elaine floated down to Camelot.
The fine, empurpling dye of sunset still stained the western skies,
but the moon was rising and the water lay like a great, silver dream
in her light. Remembrance wove a sweet and subtle spell over the
two young creatures.
"You are very quiet, Anne," said Gilbert at last.
"I'm afraid to speak or move for fear all this wonderful beauty
will vanish just like a broken silence," breathed Anne.
Gilbert suddenly laid his hand over the slender white one lying
on the rail of the bridge. His hazel eyes deepened into darkness,
his still boyish lips opened to say something of the dream and hope
that thrilled his soul. But Anne snatched her hand away and
turned quickly. The spell of the dusk was broken for her.
"I must go home," she exclaimed, with a rather overdone carelessness.
"Marilla had a headache this afternoon, and I'm sure the twins will
be in some dreadful mischief by this time. I really shouldn't have
stayed away so long."
She chattered ceaselessly and inconsequently until they reached
the Green Gables lane. Poor Gilbert hardly had a chance to get
a word in edgewise. Anne felt rather relieved when they parted.
There had been a new, secret self-consciousness in her heart with
regard to Gilbert, ever since that fleeting moment of revelation
in the garden of Echo Lodge. Something alien had intruded into
the old, perfect, school-day comradeship -- something that
threatened to mar it.
"I never felt glad to see Gilbert go before," she thought, half-
resentfully, half-sorrowfully, as she walked alone up the lane.
"Our friendship will be spoiled if he goes on with this nonsense.
It mustn't be spoiled -- I won't let it. Oh, WHY can't boys be
Anne had an uneasy doubt that it was not strictly "sensible" that
she should still feel on her hand the warm pressure of Gilbert's,
as distinctly as she had felt it for the swift second his had
rested there; and still less sensible that the sensation was far
from being an unpleasant one -- very different from that which
had attended a similar demonstration on Charlie Sloane's part,
when she had been sitting out a dance with him at a White Sands
party three nights before. Anne shivered over the disagreeable
recollection. But all problems connected with infatuated swains
vanished from her mind when she entered the homely, unsentimental
atmosphere of the Green Gables kitchen where an eight-year-old
boy was crying grievously on the sofa.
"What is the matter, Davy?" asked Anne, taking him up in her arms.
"Where are Marilla and Dora?"
"Marilla's putting Dora to bed," sobbed Davy, "and I'm crying
'cause Dora fell down the outside cellar steps, heels over head,
and scraped all the skin off her nose, and -- "
"Oh, well, don't cry about it, dear. Of course, you are sorry
for her, but crying won't help her any. She'll be all right
tomorrow. Crying never helps any one, Davy-boy, and -- "
"I ain't crying 'cause Dora fell down cellar," said Davy, cutting
short Anne's wellmeant preachment with increasing bitterness.
"I'm crying, cause I wasn't there to see her fall. I'm always
missing some fun or other, seems to me."
"Oh, Davy!" Anne choked back an unholy shriek of laughter.
"Would you call it fun to see poor little Dora fall down the
steps and get hurt?"
"She wasn't MUCH hurt," said Davy, defiantly. "'Course, if
she'd been killed I'd have been real sorry, Anne. But the Keiths
ain't so easy killed. They're like the Blewetts, I guess. Herb
Blewett fell off the hayloft last Wednesday, and rolled right
down through the turnip chute into the box stall, where they had
a fearful wild, cross horse, and rolled right under his heels.
And still he got out alive, with only three bones broke. Mrs.
Lynde says there are some folks you can't kill with a meat-axe.
Is Mrs. Lynde coming here tomorrow, Anne?"
"Yes, Davy, and I hope you'll be always very nice and good to her."
"I'll be nice and good. But will she ever put me to bed at nights, Anne?"
"'Cause," said Davy very decidedly, "if she does I won't say my
prayers before her like I do before you, Anne."
"'Cause I don't think it would be nice to talk to God before
strangers, Anne. Dora can say hers to Mrs. Lynde if she likes,
but _I_ won't. I'll wait till she's gone and then say 'em. Won't
that be all right, Anne?"
"Yes, if you are sure you won't forget to say them, Davy-boy."
"Oh, I won't forget, you bet. I think saying my prayers is great fun.
But it won't be as good fun saying them alone as saying them to you.
I wish you'd stay home, Anne. I don't see what you want to go away
and leave us for."
"I don't exactly WANT to, Davy, but I feel I ought to go."
"If you don't want to go you needn't. You're grown up. When _I_'m
grown up I'm not going to do one single thing I don't want to do, Anne."
"All your life, Davy, you'll find yourself doing things you don't
want to do."
"I won't," said Davy flatly. "Catch me! I have to do things I
don't want to now 'cause you and Marilla'll send me to bed if I don't.
But when I grow up you can't do that, and there'll be nobody to tell me
not to do things. Won't I have the time! Say, Anne, Milty Boulter says
his mother says you're going to college to see if you can catch a man.
Are you, Anne? I want to know."
For a second Anne burned with resentment. Then she laughed,
reminding herself that Mrs. Boulter's crude vulgarity of thought
and speech could not harm her.
"No, Davy, I'm not. I'm going to study and grow and learn about many things."
"`Shoes and ships and sealing wax
And cabbages and kings,'"
"But if you DID want to catch a man how would you go about it?
I want to know," persisted Davy, for whom the subject evidently
possessed a certain fascination.
"You'd better ask Mrs. Boulter," said Anne thoughtlessly. "I
think it's likely she knows more about the process than I do."
"I will, the next time I see her," said Davy gravely.
"Davy! If you do!" cried Anne, realizing her mistake.
"But you just told me to," protested Davy aggrieved.
"It's time you went to bed," decreed Anne, by way of getting out
of the scrape.
After Davy had gone to bed Anne wandered down to Victoria Island
and sat there alone, curtained with fine-spun, moonlit gloom,
while the water laughed around her in a duet of brook and wind.
Anne had always loved that brook. Many a dream had she spun over
its sparkling water in days gone by. She forgot lovelorn youths,
and the cayenne speeches of malicious neighbors, and all the
problems of her girlish existence. In imagination she sailed
over storied seas that wash the distant shining shores of "faery
lands forlorn," where lost Atlantis and Elysium lie, with the
evening star for pilot, to the land of Heart's Desire. And she
was richer in those dreams than in realities; for things seen
pass away, but the things that are unseen are eternal.
Garlands of Autumn
The following week sped swiftly, crowded with innumerable "last things,"
as Anne called them. Good-bye calls had to be made and received, being
pleasant or otherwise, according to whether callers and called-upon were
heartily in sympathy with Anne's hopes, or thought she was too much
puffed-up over going to college and that it was their duty to "take her
down a peg or two."
The A.V.I.S. gave a farewell party in honor of Anne and Gilbert
one evening at the home of Josie Pye, choosing that place, partly
because Mr. Pye's house was large and convenient, partly because
it was strongly suspected that the Pye girls would have nothing
to do with the affair if their offer of the house for the party
was not accepted. It was a very pleasant little time, for the
Pye girls were gracious, and said and did nothing to mar the
harmony of the occasion -- which was not according to their wont.
Josie was unusually amiable -- so much so that she even remarked
condescendingly to Anne,
"Your new dress is rather becoming to you, Anne. Really, you
look ALMOST PRETTY in it."
"How kind of you to say so," responded Anne, with dancing eyes.
Her sense of humor was developing, and the speeches that would
have hurt her at fourteen were becoming merely food for amusement
now. Josie suspected that Anne was laughing at her behind those
wicked eyes; but she contented herself with whispering to Gertie,
as they went downstairs, that Anne Shirley would put on more airs
than ever now that she was going to college -- you'd see!
All the "old crowd" was there, full of mirth and zest and
youthful lightheartedness. Diana Barry, rosy and dimpled,
shadowed by the faithful Fred; Jane Andrews, neat and sensible
and plain; Ruby Gillis, looking her handsomest and brightest in a
cream silk blouse, with red geraniums in her golden hair; Gilbert
Blythe and Charlie Sloane, both trying to keep as near the
elusive Anne as possible; Carrie Sloane, looking pale and
melancholy because, so it was reported, her father would not
allow Oliver Kimball to come near the place; Moody Spurgeon
MacPherson, whose round face and objectionable ears were as round
and objectionable as ever; and Billy Andrews, who sat in a corner all
the evening, chuckled when any one spoke to him, and watched Anne
Shirley with a grin of pleasure on his broad, freckled countenance.
Anne had known beforehand of the party, but she had not known
that she and Gilbert were, as the founders of the Society, to be
presented with a very complimentary "address" and "tokens of
respect" -- in her case a volume of Shakespeare's plays, in
Gilbert's a fountain pen. She was so taken by surprise and
pleased by the nice things said in the address, read in Moody
Spurgeon's most solemn and ministerial tones, that the tears
quite drowned the sparkle of her big gray eyes. She had worked
hard and faithfully for the A.V.I.S., and it warmed the cockles
of her heart that the members appreciated her efforts so sincerely.
And they were all so nice and friendly and jolly -- even the Pye
girls had their merits; at that moment Anne loved all the world.
She enjoyed the evening tremendously, but the end of it rather
spoiled all. Gilbert again made the mistake of saying something
sentimental to her as they ate their supper on the moonlit
verandah; and Anne, to punish him, was gracious to Charlie Sloane
and allowed the latter to walk home with her. She found,
however, that revenge hurts nobody quite so much as the one who
tries to inflict it. Gilbert walked airily off with Ruby Gillis,
and Anne could hear them laughing and talking gaily as they
loitered along in the still, crisp autumn air. They were
evidently having the best of good times, while she was horribly
bored by Charlie Sloane, who talked unbrokenly on, and never,
even by accident, said one thing that was worth listening to.
Anne gave an occasional absent "yes" or "no," and thought how
beautiful Ruby had looked that night, how very goggly Charlie's
eyes were in the moonlight -- worse even than by daylight -- and
that the world, somehow, wasn't quite such a nice place as she
had believed it to be earlier in the evening.
"I'm just tired out -- that is what is the matter with me,"
she said, when she thankfully found herself alone in her own room.
And she honestly believed it was. But a certain little gush of joy,
as from some secret, unknown spring, bubbled up in her heart
the next evening, when she saw Gilbert striding down through the
Haunted Wood and crossing the old log bridge with that firm,
quick step of his. So Gilbert was not going to spend this last
evening with Ruby Gillis after all!
"You look tired, Anne," he said.
"I am tired, and, worse than that, I'm disgruntled. I'm tired
because I've been packing my trunk and sewing all day. But I'm
disgruntled because six women have been here to say good-bye to
me, and every one of the six managed to say something that seemed
to take the color right out of life and leave it as gray and
dismal and cheerless as a November morning."
"Spiteful old cats!" was Gilbert's elegant comment.
"Oh, no, they weren't," said Anne seriously. "That is just the
trouble. If they had been spiteful cats I wouldn't have minded
them. But they are all nice, kind, motherly souls, who like me
and whom I like, and that is why what they said, or hinted, had
such undue weight with me. They let me see they thought I was
crazy going to Redmond and trying to take a B.A., and ever since
I've been wondering if I am. Mrs. Peter Sloane sighed and said
she hoped my strength would hold out till I got through; and at
once I saw myself a hopeless victim of nervous prostration at the
end of my third year; Mrs. Eben Wright said it must cost an awful
lot to put in four years at Redmond; and I felt all over me that
it was unpardonable of me to squander Marilla's money and my own
on such a folly. Mrs. Jasper Bell said she hoped I wouldn't let
college spoil me, as it did some people; and I felt in my bones
that the end of my four Redmond years would see me a most
insufferable creature, thinking I knew it all, and looking down
on everything and everybody in Avonlea; Mrs. Elisha Wright said
she understood that Redmond girls, especially those who belonged
to Kingsport, were 'dreadful dressy and stuck-up,' and she
guessed I wouldn't feel much at home among them; and I saw
myself, a snubbed, dowdy, humiliated country girl, shuffling
through Redmond's classic halls in coppertoned boots."
Anne ended with a laugh and a sigh commingled. With her sensitive
nature all disapproval had weight, even the disapproval of those
for whose opinions she had scant respect. For the time being life
was savorless, and ambition had gone out like a snuffed candle.
"You surely don't care for what they said," protested Gilbert.
"You know exactly how narrow their outlook on life is, excellent
creatures though they are. To do anything THEY have never done
is anathema maranatha. You are the first Avonlea girl who has
ever gone to college; and you know that all pioneers are considered
to be afflicted with moonstruck madness."
"Oh, I know. But FEELING is so different from KNOWING. My common
sense tells me all you can say, but there are times when common
sense has no power over me. Common nonsense takes possession of
my soul. Really, after Mrs. Elisha went away I hardly had the
heart to finish packing."
"You're just tired, Anne. Come, forget it all and take a walk
with me -- a ramble back through the woods beyond the marsh.
There should be something there I want to show you."
"Should be! Don't you know if it is there?"
"No. I only know it should be, from something I saw there in spring.
Come on. We'll pretend we are two children again and we'll go the
way of the wind."
They started gaily off. Anne, remembering the unpleasantness of
the preceding evening, was very nice to Gilbert; and Gilbert, who
was learning wisdom, took care to be nothing save the schoolboy
comrade again. Mrs. Lynde and Marilla watched them from the
"That'll be a match some day," Mrs. Lynde said approvingly.
Marilla winced slightly. In her heart she hoped it would, but it
went against her grain to hear the matter spoken of in Mrs. Lynde's
gossipy matter-of-fact way.
"They're only children yet," she said shortly.
Mrs. Lynde laughed good-naturedly.
"Anne is eighteen; I was married when I was that age. We old
folks, Marilla, are too much given to thinking children never
grow up, that's what. Anne is a young woman and Gilbert's a man,
and he worships the ground she walks on, as any one can see.
He's a fine fellow, and Anne can't do better. I hope she won't
get any romantic nonsense into her head at Redmond. I don't
approve of them coeducational places and never did, that's what.
I don't believe," concluded Mrs. Lynde solemnly, "that the
students at such colleges ever do much else than flirt."
"They must study a little," said Marilla, with a smile.
"Precious little," sniffed Mrs. Rachel. "However, I think Anne
will. She never was flirtatious. But she doesn't appreciate
Gilbert at his full value, that's what. Oh, I know girls!
Charlie Sloane is wild about her, too, but I'd never advise her
to marry a Sloane. The Sloanes are good, honest, respectable people,
of course. But when all's said and done, they're SLOANES."
Marilla nodded. To an outsider, the statement that Sloanes were
Sloanes might not be very illuminating, but she understood.
Every village has such a family; good, honest, respectable people
they may be, but SLOANES they are and must ever remain, though
they speak with the tongues of men and angels.
Gilbert and Anne, happily unconscious that their future was thus
being settled by Mrs. Rachel, were sauntering through the shadows
of the Haunted Wood. Beyond, the harvest hills were basking in
an amber sunset radiance, under a pale, aerial sky of rose and blue.
The distant spruce groves were burnished bronze, and their long shadows
barred the upland meadows. But around them a little wind sang among
the fir tassels, and in it there was the note of autumn.
"This wood really is haunted now -- by old memories," said Anne,
stooping to gather a spray of ferns, bleached to waxen whiteness
by frost. "It seems to me that the little girls Diana and I used
to be play here still, and sit by the Dryad's Bubble in the
twilights, trysting with the ghosts. Do you know, I can never go
up this path in the dusk without feeling a bit of the old fright
and shiver? There was one especially horrifying phantom which we
created -- the ghost of the murdered child that crept up behind
you and laid cold fingers on yours. I confess that, to this day,
I cannot help fancying its little, furtive footsteps behind me
when I come here after nightfall. I'm not afraid of the White
Lady or the headless man or the skeletons, but I wish I had never
imagined that baby's ghost into existence. How angry Marilla
and Mrs. Barry were over that affair," concluded Anne, with
The woods around the head of the marsh were full of purple vistas,
threaded with gossamers. Past a dour plantation of gnarled spruces
and a maple-fringed, sun-warm valley they found the "something"
Gilbert was looking for.
"Ah, here it is," he said with satisfaction.
"An apple tree -- and away back here!" exclaimed Anne delightedly.
"Yes, a veritable apple-bearing apple tree, too, here in the very
midst of pines and beeches, a mile away from any orchard. I was
here one day last spring and found it, all white with blossom.
So I resolved I'd come again in the fall and see if it had been
apples. See, it's loaded. They look good, too -- tawny as
russets but with a dusky red cheek. Most wild seedlings are
green and uninviting."
"I suppose it sprang years ago from some chance-sown seed," said
Anne dreamily." And how it has grown and flourished and held its
own here all alone among aliens, the brave determined thing!"
"Here's a fallen tree with a cushion of moss. Sit down, Anne --
it will serve for a woodland throne. I'll climb for some apples.
They all grow high -- the tree had to reach up to the sunlight."
The apples proved to be delicious. Under the tawny skin was a
white, white flesh, faintly veined with red; and, besides their
own proper apple taste, they had a certain wild, delightful tang
no orchard-grown apple ever possessed.
"The fatal apple of Eden couldn't have had a rarer flavor,"
commented Anne. "But it's time we were going home. See, it was
twilight three minutes ago and now it's moonlight. What a pity
we couldn't have caught the moment of transformation. But such
moments never are caught, I suppose."
"Let's go back around the marsh and home by way of Lover's Lane.
Do you feel as disgruntled now as when you started out, Anne?"
"Not I. Those apples have been as manna to a hungry soul. I feel
that I shall love Redmond and have a splendid four years there."
"And after those four years -- what?"
"Oh, there's another bend in the road at their end," answered
Anne lightly. "I've no idea what may be around it -- I don't
want to have. It's nicer not to know."
Lover's Lane was a dear place that night, still and mysteriously
dim in the pale radiance of the moonlight. They loitered through
it in a pleasant chummy silence, neither caring to talk.
"If Gilbert were always as he has been this evening how nice and
simple everything would be," reflected Anne.
Gilbert was looking at Anne, as she walked along. In her light dress,
with her slender delicacy, she made him think of a white iris.
"I wonder if I can ever make her care for me," he thought, with a
pang of self-destruct.
Greeting and Farewell
Charlie Sloane, Gilbert Blythe and Anne Shirley left Avonlea the
following Monday morning. Anne had hoped for a fine day. Diana
was to drive her to the station and they wanted this, their last
drive together for some time, to be a pleasant one. But when Anne
went to bed Sunday night the east wind was moaning around Green
Gables with an ominous prophecy which was fulfilled in the morning.
Anne awoke to find raindrops pattering against her window and
shadowing the pond's gray surface with widening rings; hills and
sea were hidden in mist, and the whole world seemed dim and dreary.
Anne dressed in the cheerless gray dawn, for an early start was
necessary to catch the boat train; she struggled against the tears
that WOULD well up in her eyes in spite of herself. She was leaving
the home that was so dear to her, and something told her that she was
leaving it forever, save as a holiday refuge. Things would never be
the same again; coming back for vacations would not be living there.
And oh, how dear and beloved everything was -- that little white porch room,
sacred to the dreams of girlhood, the old Snow Queen at the window,
the brook in the hollow, the Dryad's Bubble, the Haunted Woods,
and Lover's Lane -- all the thousand and one dear spots where memories
of the old years bided. Could she ever be really happy anywhere else?
Breakfast at Green Gables that morning was a rather doleful meal.
Davy, for the first time in his life probably, could not eat, but
blubbered shamelessly over his porridge. Nobody else seemed to
have much appetite, save Dora, who tucked away her rations comfortably.
Dora, like the immortal and most prudent Charlotte, who "went on
cutting bread and butter" when her frenzied lover's body had been
carried past on a shutter, was one of those fortunate creatures
who are seldom disturbed by anything. Even at eight it took a
great deal to ruffle Dora's placidity. She was sorry Anne was
going away, of course, but was that any reason why she should
fail to appreciate a poached egg on toast? Not at all. And,
seeing that Davy could not eat his, Dora ate it for him.
Promptly on time Diana appeared with horse and buggy, her rosy
face glowing above her raincoat. The good-byes had to be said
then somehow. Mrs. Lynde came in from her quarters to give Anne
a hearty embrace and warn her to be careful of her health,
whatever she did. Marilla, brusque and tearless, pecked Anne's
cheek and said she supposed they'd hear from her when she got
settled. A casual observer might have concluded that Anne's
going mattered very little to her -- unless said observer had
happened to get a good look in her eyes. Dora kissed Anne primly
and squeezed out two decorous little tears; but Davy, who had
been crying on the back porch step ever since they rose from the
table, refused to say good-bye at all. When he saw Anne coming
towards him he sprang to his feet, bolted up the back stairs, and
hid in a clothes closet, out of which he would not come. His muffled
howls were the last sounds Anne heard as she left Green Gables.
It rained heavily all the way to Bright River, to which station
they had to go, since the branch line train from Carmody did not
connect with the boat train. Charlie and Gilbert were on the
station platform when they reached it, and the train was whistling.
Anne had just time to get her ticket and trunk check, say a hurried
farewell to Diana, and hasten on board. She wished she were going back
with Diana to Avonlea; she knew she was going to die of homesickness.
And oh, if only that dismal rain would stop pouring down as if the
whole world were weeping over summer vanished and joys departed!
Even Gilbert's presence brought her no comfort, for Charlie Sloane
was there, too, and Sloanishness could be tolerated only in fine weather.
It was absolutely insufferable in rain.
But when the boat steamed out of Charlottetown harbor things took
a turn for the better. The rain ceased and the sun began to
burst out goldenly now and again between the rents in the clouds,
burnishing the gray seas with copper-hued radiance, and lighting
up the mists that curtained the Island's red shores with gleams
of gold foretokening a fine day after all. Besides, Charlie
Sloane promptly became so seasick that he had to go below, and
Anne and Gilbert were left alone on deck.
"I am very glad that all the Sloanes get seasick as soon as they
go on water," thought Anne mercilessly. "I am sure I couldn't
take my farewell look at the `ould sod' with Charlie standing
there pretending to look sentimentally at it, too."
"Well, we're off," remarked Gilbert unsentimentally.
"Yes, I feel like Byron's `Childe Harold' -- only it isn't really
my `native shore' that I'm watching," said Anne, winking her gray
eyes vigorously. "Nova Scotia is that, I suppose. But one's
native shore is the land one loves the best, and that's good old
P.E.I. for me. I can't believe I didn't always live here.
Those eleven years before I came seem like a bad dream.
It's seven years since I crossed on this boat -- the evening
Mrs. Spencer brought me over from Hopetown. I can see myself,
in that dreadful old wincey dress and faded sailor hat, exploring
decks and cabins with enraptured curiosity. It was a fine evening;
and how those red Island shores did gleam in the sunshine. Now I'm
crossing the strait again. Oh, Gilbert, I do hope I'll like Redmond
and Kingsport, but I'm sure I won't!"
"Where's all your philosophy gone, Anne?"
"It's all submerged under a great, swamping wave of loneliness
and homesickness. I've longed for three years to go to Redmond
-- and now I'm going -- and I wish I weren't! Never mind! I
shall be cheerful and philosophical again after I have just one
good cry. I MUST have that, `as a went' -- and I'll have to wait
until I get into my boardinghouse bed tonight, wherever it may
be, before I can have it. Then Anne will be herself again. I
wonder if Davy has come out of the closet yet."
It was nine that night when their train reached Kingsport, and
they found themselves in the blue-white glare of the crowded station.
Anne felt horribly bewildered, but a moment later she was seized by
Priscilla Grant, who had come to Kingsport on Saturday.
"Here you are, beloved! And I suppose you're as tired as I was
when I got here Saturday night."
"Tired! Priscilla, don't talk of it. I'm tired, and green,
and provincial, and only about ten years old. For pity's sake
take your poor, broken-down chum to some place where she can
hear herself think."
"I'll take you right up to our boardinghouse. I've a cab ready outside."
"It's such a blessing you're here, Prissy. If you weren't I
think I should just sit down on my suitcase, here and now, and
weep bitter tears. What a comfort one familiar face is in a
howling wilderness of strangers!"
"Is that Gilbert Blythe over there, Anne? How he has grown up
this past year! He was only a schoolboy when I taught in Carmody.
And of course that's Charlie Sloane. HE hasn't changed -- couldn't!
He looked just like that when he was born, and he'll look like that
when he's eighty. This way, dear. We'll be home in twenty minutes."
"Home!" groaned Anne. "You mean we'll be in some horrible boardinghouse,
in a still more horrible hall bedroom, looking out on a dingy back yard."
"It isn't a horrible boardinghouse, Anne-girl. Here's our cab.
Hop in -- the driver will get your trunk. Oh, yes, the boardinghouse
-- it's really a very nice place of its kind, as you'll admit tomorrow
morning when a good night's sleep has turned your blues rosy pink.
It's a big, old-fashioned, gray stone house on St. John Street,
just a nice little constitutional from Redmond. It used to be the
`residence' of great folk, but fashion has deserted St. John Street
and its houses only dream now of better days. They're so big that
people living in them have to take boarders just to fill up. At least,
that is the reason our landladies are very anxious to impress on us.
They're delicious, Anne -- our landladies, I mean."
"How many are there?"
"Two. Miss Hannah Harvey and Miss Ada Harvey. They were born twins
about fifty years ago."
"I can't get away from twins, it seems," smiled Anne. "Wherever I
go they confront me."
"Oh, they're not twins now, dear. After they reached the age of
thirty they never were twins again. Miss Hannah has grown old,
not too gracefully, and Miss Ada has stayed thirty, less
gracefully still. I don't know whether Miss Hannah can smile or
not; I've never caught her at it so far, but Miss Ada smiles all
the time and that's worse. However, they're nice, kind souls,
and they take two boarders every year because Miss Hannah's
economical soul cannot bear to `waste room space' -- not because
they need to or have to, as Miss Ada has told me seven times
since Saturday night. As for our rooms, I admit they are hall
bedrooms, and mine does look out on the back yard. Your room is
a front one and looks out on Old St. John's graveyard, which is
just across the street."
"That sounds gruesome," shivered Anne. "I think I'd rather have
the back yard view."
"Oh, no, you wouldn't. Wait and see. Old St. John's is a
darling place. It's been a graveyard so long that it's ceased to
be one and has become one of the sights of Kingsport. I was all
through it yesterday for a pleasure exertion. There's a big
stone wall and a row of enormous trees all around it, and rows of
trees all through it, and the queerest old tombstones, with the
queerest and quaintest inscriptions. You'll go there to study, Anne,
see if you don't. Of course, nobody is ever buried there now.
But a few years ago they put up a beautiful monument to the
memory of Nova Scotian soldiers who fell in the Crimean War.
It is just opposite the entrance gates and there's `scope for
imagination' in it, as you used to say. Here's your trunk at
last -- and the boys coming to say good night. Must I really
shake hands with Charlie Sloane, Anne? His hands are always so
cold and fishy-feeling. We must ask them to call occasionally.
Miss Hannah gravely told me we could have `young gentlemen
callers' two evenings in the week, if they went away at a
reasonable hour; and Miss Ada asked me, smiling, please to be
sure they didn't sit on her beautiful cushions. I promised to
see to it; but goodness knows where else they CAN sit, unless
they sit on the floor, for there are cushions on EVERYTHING.
Miss Ada even has an elaborate Battenburg one on top of the piano."
Anne was laughing by this time. Priscilla's gay chatter had the
intended effect of cheering her up; homesickness vanished for the
time being, and did not even return in full force when she
finally found herself alone in her little bedroom. She went to
her window and looked out. The street below was dim and quiet.
Across it the moon was shining above the trees in Old St. John's,
just behind the great dark head of the lion on the monument.
Anne wondered if it could have been only that morning that
she had left Green Gables. She had the sense of a long
passage of time which one day of change and travel gives.
"I suppose that very moon is looking down on Green Gables now,"
she mused. "But I won't think about it -- that way homesickness
lies. I'm not even going to have my good cry. I'll put that off
to a more convenient season, and just now I'll go calmly and
sensibly to bed and to sleep."
Kingsport is a quaint old town, hearking back to early Colonial
days, and wrapped in its ancient atmosphere, as some fine old dame
in garments fashioned like those of her youth. Here and there
it sprouts out into modernity, but at heart it is still unspoiled;
it is full of curious relics, and haloed by the romance of many
legends of the past. Once it was a mere frontier station on the
fringe of the wilderness, and those were the days when Indians
kept life from being monotonous to the settlers. Then it grew
to be a bone of contention between the British and the French,
being occupied now by the one and now by the other, emerging from
each occupation with some fresh scar of battling nations branded on it.
It has in its park a martello tower, autographed all over
by tourists, a dismantled old French fort on the hills beyond
the town, and several antiquated cannon in its public squares.
It has other historic spots also, which may be hunted out by the
curious, and none is more quaint and delightful than Old St. John's
Cemetery at the very core of the town, with streets of quiet,
old-time houses on two sides, and busy, bustling, modern
thoroughfares on the others. Every citizen of Kingsport feels a
thrill of possessive pride in Old St. John's, for, if he be of
any pretensions at all, he has an ancestor buried there, with a
queer, crooked slab at his head, or else sprawling protectively
over the grave, on which all the main facts of his history are
recorded. For the most part no great art or skill was lavished
on those old tombstones. The larger number are of roughly
chiselled brown or gray native stone, and only in a few cases is
there any attempt at ornamentation. Some are adorned with skull
and cross-bones, and this grizzly decoration is frequently
coupled with a cherub's head. Many are prostrate and in ruins.
Into almost all Time's tooth has been gnawing, until some
inscriptions have been completely effaced, and others can only be
deciphered with difficulty. The graveyard is very full and very
bowery, for it is surrounded and intersected by rows of elms and
willows, beneath whose shade the sleepers must lie very dreamlessly,
forever crooned to by the winds and leaves over them, and quite
undisturbed by the clamor of traffic just beyond.
Anne took the first of many rambles in Old St. John's the next afternoon.
She and Priscilla had gone to Redmond in the forenoon and registered as
students, after which there was nothing more to do that day. The girls
gladly made their escape, for it was not exhilarating to be surrounded
by crowds of strangers, most of whom had a rather alien appearance,
as if not quite sure where they belonged.
The "freshettes" stood about in detached groups of two or three,
looking askance at each other; the "freshies," wiser in their day
and generation, had banded themselves together on the big
staircase of the entrance hall, where they were shouting out
glees with all the vigor of youthful lungs, as a species of
defiance to their traditional enemies, the Sophomores, a few of
whom were prowling loftily about, looking properly disdainful of
the "unlicked cubs" on the stairs. Gilbert and Charlie were
nowhere to be seen.
"Little did I think the day would ever come when I'd be glad of
the sight of a Sloane," said Priscilla, as they crossed the
campus, "but I'd welcome Charlie's goggle eyes almost
ecstatically. At least, they'd be familiar eyes."
"Oh," sighed Anne. "I can't describe how I felt when I was
standing there, waiting my turn to be registered -- as
insignificant as the teeniest drop in a most enormous bucket.
It's bad enough to feel insignificant, but it's unbearable to
have it grained into your soul that you will never, can never,
be anything but insignificant, and that is how I did feel --
as if I were invisible to the naked eye and some of those Sophs
might step on me. I knew I would go down to my grave unwept,
unhonored and unsung."
"Wait till next year," comforted Priscilla. "Then we'll be able
to look as bored and sophisticated as any Sophomore of them all.
No doubt it is rather dreadful to feel insignificant; but I think
it's better than to feel as big and awkward as I did -- as if I were
sprawled all over Redmond. That's how I felt -- I suppose because
I was a good two inches taller than any one else in the crowd.
I wasn't afraid a Soph might walk over me; I was afraid they'd take
me for an elephant, or an overgrown sample of a potato-fed Islander."
"I suppose the trouble is we can't forgive big Redmond for not
being little Queen's," said Anne, gathering about her the shreds
of her old cheerful philosophy to cover her nakedness of spirit.
"When we left Queen's we knew everybody and had a place of our own.
I suppose we have been unconsciously expecting to take life
up at Redmond just where we left off at Queen's, and now we feel
as if the ground had slipped from under our feet. I'm thankful
that neither Mrs. Lynde nor Mrs. Elisha Wright know, or ever
will know, my state of mind at present. They would exult in
saying `I told you so,' and be convinced it was the beginning of
the end. Whereas it is just the end of the beginning."
"Exactly. That sounds more Anneish. In a little while we'll be
acclimated and acquainted, and all will be well. Anne, did you
notice the girl who stood alone just outside the door of the
coeds' dressing room all the morning -- the pretty one with the
brown eyes and crooked mouth?"
"Yes, I did. I noticed her particularly because she seemed the
only creature there who LOOKED as lonely and friendless as I FELT.
I had YOU, but she had no one."
"I think she felt pretty all-by-herselfish, too. Several times I
saw her make a motion as if to cross over to us, but she never
did it -- too shy, I suppose. I wished she would come. If I hadn't
felt so much like the aforesaid elephant I'd have gone to her.
But I couldn't lumber across that big hall with all those boys
howling on the stairs. She was the prettiest freshette I saw today,
but probably favor is deceitful and even beauty is vain on your
first day at Redmond," concluded Priscilla with a laugh.
"I'm going across to Old St. John's after lunch," said Anne.
"I don't know that a graveyard is a very good place to go to get
cheered up, but it seems the only get-at-able place where there
are trees, and trees I must have. I'll sit on one of those old
slabs and shut my eyes and imagine I'm in the Avonlea woods."
Anne did not do that, however, for she found enough of interest
in Old St. John's to keep her eyes wide open. They went in by
the entrance gates, past the simple, massive, stone arch
surmounted by the great lion of England.
"`And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory,
And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story,'"
quoted Anne, looking at it with a thrill. They found themselves
in a dim, cool, green place where winds were fond of purring.
Up and down the long grassy aisles they wandered, reading the
quaint, voluminous epitaphs, carved in an age that had more
leisure than our own.
"`Here lieth the body of Albert Crawford, Esq.,'" read Anne
from a worn, gray slab, "`for many years Keeper of His Majesty's
Ordnance at Kingsport. He served in the army till the peace of
1763, when he retired from bad health. He was a brave officer,
the best of husbands, the best of fathers, the best of friends.
He died October 29th, 1792, aged 84 years.' There's an epitaph
for you, Prissy. There is certainly some `scope for imagination'
in it. How full such a life must have been of adventure! And as
for his personal qualities, I'm sure human eulogy couldn't go
further. I wonder if they told him he was all those best things
while he was alive."
"Here's another," said Priscilla. "Listen --
`To the memory of Alexander Ross, who died on the 22nd of September,
1840, aged 43 years. This is raised as a tribute of affection by one
whom he served so faithfully for 27 years that he was regarded as a friend,
deserving the fullest confidence and attachment.' "
"A very good epitaph," commented Anne thoughtfully. "I wouldn't
wish a better. We are all servants of some sort, and if the fact
that we are faithful can be truthfully inscribed on our tombstones
nothing more need be added. Here's a sorrowful little gray stone,
Prissy -- `to the memory of a favorite child.' And here is another
`erected to the memory of one who is buried elsewhere.' I wonder
where that unknown grave is. Really, Pris, the graveyards of today
will never be as interesting as this. You were right -- I shall
come here often. I love it already. I see we're not alone here
-- there's a girl down at the end of this avenue."
"Yes, and I believe it's the very girl we saw at Redmond this morning.
I've been watching her for five minutes. She has started to come up
the avenue exactly half a dozen times, and half a dozen times has she
turned and gone back. Either she's dreadfully shy or she has got
something on her conscience. Let's go and meet her. It's easier
to get acquainted in a graveyard than at Redmond, I believe."
They walked down the long grassy arcade towards the stranger, who
was sitting on a gray slab under an enormous willow. She was
certainly very pretty, with a vivid, irregular, bewitching type
of prettiness. There was a gloss as of brown nuts on her
satin-smooth hair and a soft, ripe glow on her round cheeks.
Her eyes were big and brown and velvety, under oddly-pointed
black brows, and her crooked mouth was rose-red. She wore a
smart brown suit, with two very modish little shoes peeping
from beneath it; and her hat of dull pink straw, wreathed with
golden-brown poppies, had the indefinable, unmistakable air
which pertains to the "creation" of an artist in millinery.
Priscilla had a sudden stinging consciousness that her own hat
had been trimmed by her village store milliner, and Anne wondered
uncomfortably if the blouse she had made herself, and which Mrs.
Lynde had fitted, looked VERY countrified and home-made besides
the stranger's smart attire. For a moment both girls felt like
But they had already stopped and turned towards the gray slab.
It was too late to retreat, for the brown-eyed girl had evidently
concluded that they were coming to speak to her. Instantly she
sprang up and came forward with outstretched hand and a gay,
friendly smile in which there seemed not a shadow of either
shyness or burdened conscience.
"Oh, I want to know who you two girls are," she exclaimed eagerly.
"I've been DYING to know. I saw you at Redmond this morning.
Say, wasn't it AWFUL there? For the time I wished I had stayed
home and got married."
Anne and Priscilla both broke into unconstrained laughter at this
unexpected conclusion. The brown-eyed girl laughed, too.
"I really did. I COULD have, you know. Come, let's all sit down
on this gravestone and get acquainted. It won't be hard. I know
we're going to adore each other -- I knew it as soon as I saw you
at Redmond this morning. I wanted so much to go right over and
hug you both."
"Why didn't you?" asked Priscilla.
"Because I simply couldn't make up my mind to do it. I never can
make up my mind about anything myself -- I'm always afflicted
with indecision. Just as soon as I decide to do something I feel
in my bones that another course would be the correct one. It's a
dreadful misfortune, but I was born that way, and there is no use
in blaming me for it, as some people do. So I couldn't make up
my mind to go and speak to you, much as I wanted to."
"We thought you were too shy," said Anne.
"No, no, dear. Shyness isn't among the many failings -- or
virtues -- of Philippa Gordon -- Phil for short. Do call me Phil
right off. Now, what are your handles?"
"She's Priscilla Grant," said Anne, pointing.
"And SHE'S Anne Shirley," said Priscilla, pointing in turn.
"And we're from the Island," said both together.
"I hail from Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia," said Philippa.
"Bolingbroke!" exclaimed Anne. "Why, that is where I was born."
"Do you really mean it? Why, that makes you a Bluenose after all."
"No, it doesn't," retorted Anne. "Wasn't it Dan O'Connell who
said that if a man was born in a stable it didn't make him a horse?
I'm Island to the core."
"Well, I'm glad you were born in Bolingbroke anyway. It makes us
kind of neighbors, doesn't it? And I like that, because when I tell
you secrets it won't be as if I were telling them to a stranger.
I have to tell them. I can't keep secrets -- it's no use to try.
That's my worst failing -- that, and indecision, as aforesaid.
Would you believe it? -- it took me half an hour to decide which
hat to wear when I was coming here -- HERE, to a graveyard!
At first I inclined to my brown one with the feather;
but as soon as I put it on I thought this pink one with the
floppy brim would be more becoming. When I got IT pinned in
place I liked the brown one better. At last I put them close
together on the bed, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hat pin.
The pin speared the pink one, so I put it on. It is becoming,
isn't it? Tell me, what do you think of my looks?"
At this naive demand, made in a perfectly serious tone, Priscilla
laughed again. But Anne said, impulsively squeezing Philippa's
"We thought this morning that you were the prettiest girl we saw
Philippa's crooked mouth flashed into a bewitching, crooked smile
over very white little teeth.
"I thought that myself," was her next astounding statement,
"but I wanted some one else's opinion to bolster mine up.
I can't decide even on my own appearance. Just as soon as I've
decided that I'm pretty I begin to feel miserably that I'm not.
Besides, have a horrible old great-aunt who is always saying to me,
with a mournful sigh, `You were such a pretty baby. It's strange how
children change when they grow up.' I adore aunts, but I detest great-
aunts. Please tell me quite often that I am pretty, if you don't mind.
I feel so much more comfortable when I can believe I'm pretty. And
I'll be just as obliging to you if you want me to -- I CAN be, with
a clear conscience."
"Thanks," laughed Anne, "but Priscilla and I are so firmly convinced
of our own good looks that we don't need any assurance about them,
so you needn't trouble."
"Oh, you're laughing at me. I know you think I'm abominably vain,
but I'm not. There really isn't one spark of vanity in me.
And I'm never a bit grudging about paying compliments to other
girls when they deserve them. I'm so glad I know you folks.
I came up on Saturday and I've nearly died of homesickness
ever since. It's a horrible feeling, isn't it? In Bolingbroke
I'm an important personage, and in Kingsport I'm just nobody!
There were times when I could feel my soul turning a delicate blue.
Where do you hang out?"
"Thirty-eight St. John's Street."
"Better and better. Why, I'm just around the corner on Wallace Street.
I don't like my boardinghouse, though. It's bleak and lonesome, and
my room looks out on such an unholy back yard. It's the ugliest place
in the world. As for cats -- well, surely ALL the Kingsport cats can't
congregate there at night, but half of them must. I adore cats on
hearth rugs, snoozing before nice, friendly fires, but cats in back
yards at midnight are totally different animals. The first night
I was here I cried all night, and so did the cats. You should have
seen my nose in the morning. How I wished I had never left home!"
"I don't know how you managed to make up your mind to come to
Redmond at all, if you are really such an undecided person," said
"Bless your heart, honey, I didn't. It was father who wanted me
to come here. His heart was set on it -- why, I don't know. It
seems perfectly ridiculous to think of me studying for a B.A.
degree, doesn't it? Not but what I can do it, all right.
I have heaps of brains."
"Oh!" said Priscilla vaguely.
"Yes. But it's such hard work to use them. And B.A.'s are such
learned, dignified, wise, solemn creatures -- they must be. No,
_I_ didn't want to come to Redmond. I did it just to oblige father.
He IS such a duck. Besides, I knew if I stayed home I'd have to
get married. Mother wanted that -- wanted it decidedly. Mother
has plenty of decision. But I really hated the thought of
being married for a few years yet. I want to have heaps of fun
before I settle down. And, ridiculous as the idea of my being a
B.A. is, the idea of my being an old married woman is still more
absurd, isn't it? I'm only eighteen. No, I concluded I would
rather come to Redmond than be married. Besides, how could I
ever have made up my mind which man to marry?"
"Were there so many?" laughed Anne.
"Heaps. The boys like me awfully -- they really do. But there
were only two that mattered. The rest were all too young and too
poor. I must marry a rich man, you know."
"Why must you?"
"Honey, you couldn't imagine ME being a poor man's wife, could you?
I can't do a single useful thing, and I am VERY extravagant. Oh, no,
my husband must have heaps of money. So that narrowed them down to two.
But I couldn't decide between two any easier than between two hundred.
I knew perfectly well that whichever one I chose I'd regret all my life
that I hadn't married the other."
"Didn't you -- love -- either of them?" asked Anne, a little hesitatingly.
It was not easy for her to speak to a stranger of the great mystery and
transformation of life.
"Goodness, no. _I_ couldn't love anybody. It isn't in me.
Besides I wouldn't want to. Being in love makes you a perfect
slave, _I_ think. And it would give a man such power to hurt you.
I'd be afraid. No, no, Alec and Alonzo are two dear boys, and I like
them both so much that I really don't know which I like the better.
That is the trouble. Alec is the best looking, of course, and I
simply couldn't marry a man who wasn't handsome. He is good-tempered
too, and has lovely, curly, black hair. He's rather too perfect --
I don't believe I'd like a perfect husband -- somebody I could never
find fault with."
"Then why not marry Alonzo?" asked Priscilla gravely.
"Think of marrying a name like Alonzo!" said Phil dolefully.
"I don't believe I could endure it. But he has a classic nose,
and it WOULD be a comfort to have a nose in the family that could
be depended on. I can't depend on mine. So far, it takes after the
Gordon pattern, but I'm so afraid it will develop Byrne tendencies
as I grow older. I examine it every day anxiously to make sure it's
still Gordon. Mother was a Byrne and has the Byrne nose in the
Byrnest degree. Wait till you see it. I adore nice noses.
Your nose is awfully nice, Anne Shirley. Alonzo's nose nearly
turned the balance in his favor. But ALONZO! No, I couldn't decide.
If I could have done as I did with the hats -- stood them both up
together, shut my eyes, and jabbed with a hatpin -- it would have
been quite easy."
"What did Alec and Alonzo feel like when you came away?" queried Priscilla.
"Oh, they still have hope. I told them they'd have to wait
till I could make up my mind. They're quite willing to wait.
They both worship me, you know. Meanwhile, I intend to have
a good time. I expect I shall have heaps of beaux at Redmond.
I can't be happy unless I have, you know. But don't you think
the freshmen are fearfully homely?
I saw only one really handsome fellow among them. He went away
before you came. I heard his chum call him Gilbert. His chum
had eyes that stuck out THAT FAR. But you're not going yet, girls?
Don't go yet."
"I think we must," said Anne, rather coldly. "It's getting late,
and I've some work to do."
"But you'll both come to see me, won't you?" asked Philippa,
getting up and putting an arm around each. "And let me come to
see you. I want to be chummy with you. I've taken such a fancy
to you both. And I haven't quite disgusted you with my frivolity,
"Not quite," laughed Anne, responding to Phil's squeeze, with a
return of cordiality.
"Because I'm not half so silly as I seem on the surface, you
know. You just accept Philippa Gordon, as the Lord made her,
with all her faults, and I believe you'll come to like her.
Isn't this graveyard a sweet place? I'd love to be buried here.
Here's a grave I didn't see before -- this one in the iron
railing -- oh, girls, look, see -- the stone says it's the grave
of a middy who was killed in the fight between the Shannon and
the Chesapeake. Just fancy!"
Anne paused by the railing and looked at the worn stone, her pulses
thrilling with sudden excitement. The old graveyard, with its
over-arching trees and long aisles of shadows, faded from her sight.
Instead, she saw the Kingsport Harbor of nearly a century agone.
Out of the mist came slowly a great frigate, brilliant with
"the meteor flag of England." Behind her was another, with
a still, heroic form, wrapped in his own starry flag, lying on
the quarter deck -- the gallant Lawrence. Time's finger had
turned back his pages, and that was the Shannon sailing
triumphant up the bay with the Chesapeake as her prize.
"Come back, Anne Shirley -- come back," laughed Philippa, pulling
her arm. "You're a hundred years away from us. Come back."
Anne came back with a sigh; her eyes were shining softly.
"I've always loved that old story," she said, "and although the
English won that victory, I think it was because of the brave,
defeated commander I love it. This grave seems to bring it so
near and make it so real. This poor little middy was only
eighteen. He `died of desperate wounds received in gallant
action' -- so reads his epitaph. It is such as a soldier might
Before she turned away, Anne unpinned the little cluster of
purple pansies she wore and dropped it softly on the grave of the
boy who had perished in the great sea-duel.
"Well, what do you think of our new friend?" asked Priscilla,
when Phil had left them.
"I like her. There is something very lovable about her, in spite
of all her nonsense. I believe, as she says herself, that she
isn't half as silly as she sounds. She's a dear, kissable baby
-- and I don't know that she'll ever really grow up."
"I like her, too," said Priscilla, decidedly. "She talks as much
about boys as Ruby Gillis does. But it always enrages or sickens
me to hear Ruby, whereas I just wanted to laugh good-naturedly at
Phil. Now, what is the why of that?"
"There is a difference," said Anne meditatively. "I think it's
because Ruby is really so CONSCIOUS of boys. She plays at love
and love-making. Besides, you feel, when she is boasting of her
beaux that she is doing it to rub it well into you that you
haven't half so many. Now, when Phil talks of her beaux it
sounds as if she was just speaking of chums. She really looks
upon boys as good comrades, and she is pleased when she has
dozens of them tagging round, simply because she likes to be
popular and to be thought popular. Even Alex and Alonzo -- I'll
never be able to think of those two names separately after this
-- are to her just two playfellows who want her to play with them
all their lives. I'm glad we met her, and I'm glad we went to
Old St. John's. I believe I've put forth a tiny soul-root into
Kingsport soil this afternoon. I hope so. I hate to feel transplanted."
Letters from Home
For the next three weeks Anne and Priscilla continued to feel as
strangers in a strange land. Then, suddenly, everything seemed
to fall into focus -- Redmond, professors, classes, students,
studies, social doings. Life became homogeneous again, instead
of being made up of detached fragments. The Freshmen, instead of
being a collection of unrelated individuals, found themselves a
class, with a class spirit, a class yell, class interests, class
antipathies and class ambitions. They won the day in the annual
"Arts Rush" against the Sophomores, and thereby gained the
respect of all the classes, and an enormous, confidence-giving
opinion of themselves. For three years the Sophomores had won in
the "rush"; that the victory of this year perched upon the
Freshmen's banner was attributed to the strategic generalship of
Gilbert Blythe, who marshalled the campaign and originated
certain new tactics, which demoralized the Sophs and swept the
Freshmen to triumph. As a reward of merit he was elected
president of the Freshman Class, a position of honor and
responsibility -- from a Fresh point of view, at least -- coveted
by many. He was also invited to join the "Lambs" -- Redmondese
for Lamba Theta -- a compliment rarely paid to a Freshman. As a
preparatory initiation ordeal he had to parade the principal
business streets of Kingsport for a whole day wearing a sunbonnet
and a voluminous kitchen apron of gaudily flowered calico. This
he did cheerfully, doffing his sunbonnet with courtly grace when
he met ladies of his acquaintance. Charlie Sloane, who had not
been asked to join the Lambs, told Anne he did not see how Blythe
could do it, and HE, for his part, could never humiliate himself so.
"Fancy Charlie Sloane in a `caliker' apron and a `sunbunnit,' "
giggled Priscilla. "He'd look exactly like his old Grandmother
Sloane. Gilbert, now, looked as much like a man in them as in
his own proper habiliments."
Anne and Priscilla found themselves in the thick of the social
life of Redmond. That this came about so speedily was due in
great measure to Philippa Gordon. Philippa was the daughter of a
rich and well-known man, and belonged to an old and exclusive
"Bluenose" family. This, combined with her beauty and charm -- a
charm acknowledged by all who met her -- promptly opened the
gates of all cliques, clubs and classes in Redmond to her; and
where she went Anne and Priscilla went, too. Phil "adored" Anne
and Priscilla, especially Anne. She was a loyal little soul,
crystal-free from any form of snobbishness. "Love me, love my
friends" seemed to be her unconscious motto. Without effort,
she took them with her into her ever widening circle of
acquaintanceship, and the two Avonlea girls found their social
pathway at Redmond made very easy and pleasant for them, to the
envy and wonderment of the other freshettes, who, lacking
Philippa's sponsorship, were doomed to remain rather on the
fringe of things during their first college year.
To Anne and Priscilla, with their more serious views of life,
Phil remained the amusing, lovable baby she had seemed on their
first meeting. Yet, as she said herself, she had "heaps" of
brains. When or where she found time to study was a mystery, for
she seemed always in demand for some kind of "fun," and her home
evenings were crowded with callers. She had all the "beaux" that
heart could desire, for nine-tenths of the Freshmen and a big
fraction of all the other classes were rivals for her smiles.
She was naively delighted over this, and gleefully recounted each
new conquest to Anne and Priscilla, with comments that might have
made the unlucky lover's ears burn fiercely.
"Alec and Alonzo don't seem to have any serious rival yet,"
remarked Anne, teasingly.
"Not one," agreed Philippa. "I write them both every week and
tell them all about my young men here. I'm sure it must amuse them.
But, of course, the one I like best I can't get. Gilbert Blythe
won't take any notice of me, except to look at me as if I were a
nice little kitten he'd like to pat. Too well I know the reason.
I owe you a grudge, Queen Anne. I really ought to hate you and
instead I love you madly, and I'm miserable if I don't see you
every day. You're different from any girl I ever knew before.
When you look at me in a certain way I feel what an
insignificant, frivolous little beast I am, and I long to
be better and wiser and stronger. And then I make good
resolutions; but the first nice-looking mannie who comes my way
knocks them all out of my head. Isn't college life magnificent?
It's so funny to think I hated it that first day. But if I hadn't
I might never got really acquainted with you. Anne, please tell me
over again that you like me a little bit. I yearn to hear it."
"I like you a big bit -- and I think you're a dear, sweet,
adorable, velvety, clawless, little -- kitten," laughed Anne,
"but I don't see when you ever get time to learn your lessons."
Phil must have found time for she held her own in every class of
her year. Even the grumpy old professor of Mathematics, who
detested coeds, and had bitterly opposed their admission to
Redmond, couldn't floor her. She led the freshettes everywhere,
except in English, where Anne Shirley left her far behind. Anne
herself found the studies of her Freshman year very easy, thanks
in great part to the steady work she and Gilbert had put in
during those two past years in Avonlea. This left her more time
for a social life which she thoroughly enjoyed. But never for a
moment did she forget Avonlea and the friends there. To her, the
happiest moments in each week were those in which letters came
from home. It was not until she had got her first letters that
she began to think she could ever like Kingsport or feel at home
there. Before they came, Avonlea had seemed thousands of miles
away; those letters brought it near and linked the old life to
the new so closely that they began to seem one and the same,
instead of two hopelessly segregated existences. The first batch
contained six letters, from Jane Andrews, Ruby Gillis, Diana
Barry, Marilla, Mrs. Lynde and Davy. Jane's was a copperplate
production, with every "t" nicely crossed and every "i" precisely
dotted, and not an interesting sentence in it. She never
mentioned the school, concerning which Anne was avid to hear; she
never answered one of the questions Anne had asked in her letter.
But she told Anne how many yards of lace she had recently
crocheted, and the kind of weather they were having in Avonlea,
and how she intended to have her new dress made, and the way she
felt when her head ached. Ruby Gillis wrote a gushing epistle
deploring Anne's absence, assuring her she was horribly missed in
everything, asking what the Redmond "fellows" were like, and
filling the rest with accounts of her own harrowing experiences
with her numerous admirers. It was a silly, harmless letter, and
Anne would have laughed over it had it not been for the postscript.
"Gilbert seems to be enjoying Redmond, judging from his letters,"
wrote Ruby. "I don't think Charlie is so stuck on it."
So Gilbert was writing to Ruby! Very well. He had a perfect
right to, of course. Only -- !! Anne did not know that Ruby had
written the first letter and that Gilbert had answered it from
mere courtesy. She tossed Ruby's letter aside contemptuously.
But it took all Diana's breezy, newsy, delightful epistle to
banish the sting of Ruby's postscript. Diana's letter contained
a little too much Fred, but was otherwise crowded and crossed
with items of interest, and Anne almost felt herself back in
Avonlea while reading it. Marilla's was a rather prim and
colorless epistle, severely innocent of gossip or emotion.
Yet somehow it conveyed to Anne a whiff of the wholesome, simple
life at Green Gables, with its savor of ancient peace, and the
steadfast abiding love that was there for her. Mrs. Lynde's
letter was full of church news. Having broken up housekeeping,
Mrs. Lynde had more time than ever to devote to church affairs
and had flung herself into them heart and soul. She was at
present much worked up over the poor "supplies" they were having
in the vacant Avonlea pulpit.
"I don't believe any but fools enter the ministry nowadays," she
wrote bitterly. "Such candidates as they have sent us, and such
stuff as they preach! Half of it ain't true, and, what's worse,
it ain't sound doctrine. The one we have now is the worst of the
lot. He mostly takes a text and preaches about something else.
And he says he doesn't believe all the heathen will be eternally
lost. The idea! If they won't all the money we've been giving
to Foreign Missions will be clean wasted, that's what! Last
Sunday night he announced that next Sunday he'd preach on the
axe-head that swam. I think he'd better confine himself to the
Bible and leave sensational subjects alone. Things have come to
a pretty pass if a minister can't find enough in Holy Writ to
preach about, that's what. What church do you attend, Anne? I
hope you go regularly. People are apt to get so careless about
church-going away from home, and I understand college students
are great sinners in this respect. I'm told many of them actually
study their lessons on Sunday. I hope you'll never sink that low,
Anne. Remember how you were brought up. And be very careful what
friends you make. You never know what sort of creatures are in
them colleges. Outwardly they may be as whited sepulchers and
inwardly as ravening wolves, that's what. You'd better not have
anything to say to any young man who isn't from the Island.
"I forgot to tell you what happened the day the minister called
here. It was the funniest thing I ever saw. I said to Marilla,
`If Anne had been here wouldn't she have had a laugh?' Even
Marilla laughed. You know he's a very short, fat little man with
bow legs. Well, that old pig of Mr. Harrison's -- the big, tall
one -- had wandered over here that day again and broke into the
yard, and it got into the back porch, unbeknowns to us, and it
was there when the minister appeared in the doorway. It made one
wild bolt to get out, but there was nowhere to bolt to except
between them bow legs. So there it went, and, being as it was so
big and the minister so little, it took him clean off his feet
and carried him away. His hat went one way and his cane another,
just as Marilla and I got to the door. I'll never forget the
look of him. And that poor pig was near scared to death. I'll
never be able to read that account in the Bible of the swine that
rushed madly down the steep place into the sea without seeing
Mr. Harrison's pig careering down the hill with that minister.
I guess the pig thought he had the Old Boy on his back instead
of inside of him. I was thankful the twins weren't about.
It wouldn't have been the right thing for them to have seen
a minister in such an undignified predicament. Just before
they got to the brook the minister jumped off or fell off.
The pig rushed through the brook like mad and up through the woods.
Marilla and I run down and helped the minister get up and brush
his coat. He wasn't hurt, but he was mad. He seemed to hold
Marilla and me responsible for it all, though we told him the pig
didn't belong to us, and had been pestering us all summer.
Besides, what did he come to the back door for? You'd never have
caught Mr. Allan doing that. It'll be a long time before we get
a man like Mr. Allan. But it's an ill wind that blows no good.
We've never seen hoof or hair of that pig since, and it's my
belief we never will.
"Things is pretty quiet in Avonlea. I don't find Green Gables
as lonesome as I expected. I think I'll start another cotton
warp quilt this winter. Mrs. Silas Sloane has a handsome new
"When I feel that I must have some excitement I read the murder
trials in that Boston paper my niece sends me. I never used to
do it, but they're real interesting. The States must be an awful
place. I hope you'll never go there, Anne. But the way girls
roam over the earth now is something terrible. It always makes
me think of Satan in the Book of Job, going to and fro and walking
up and down. I don't believe the Lord ever intended it, that's what.
"Davy has been pretty good since you went away. One day he was
bad and Marilla punished him by making him wear Dora's apron all
day, and then he went and cut all Dora's aprons up. I spanked
him for that and then he went and chased my rooster to death.
"The MacPhersons have moved down to my place. She's a great
housekeeper and very particular. She's rooted all my June lilies
up because she says they make a garden look so untidy. Thomas
set them lilies out when we were married. Her husband seems a
nice sort of a man, but she can't get over being an old maid,
"Don't study too hard, and be sure and put your winter
underclothes on as soon as the weather gets cool.
Marilla worries a lot about you, but I tell her you've
got a lot more sense than I ever thought you would have
at one time, and that you'll be all right."
Davy's letter plunged into a grievance at the start.
"Dear anne, please write and tell marilla not to tie me to the
rale of the bridge when I go fishing the boys make fun of me when
she does. Its awful lonesome here without you but grate fun in
school. Jane andrews is crosser than you. I scared mrs. lynde
with a jacky lantern last nite. She was offel mad and she was
mad cause I chased her old rooster round the yard till he fell
down ded. I didn't mean to make him fall down ded. What made
him die, anne, I want to know. mrs. lynde threw him into the
pig pen she mite of sold him to mr. blair. mr. blair is giving
50 sense apeace for good ded roosters now. I herd mrs. lynde
asking the minister to pray for her. What did she do that was so
bad, anne, I want to know. I've got a kite with a magnificent
tail, anne. Milty bolter told me a grate story in school
yesterday. it is troo. old Joe Mosey and Leon were playing
cards one nite last week in the woods. The cards were on a stump
and a big black man bigger than the trees come along and grabbed
the cards and the stump and disapered with a noys like thunder.
Ill bet they were skared. Milty says the black man was the old
harry. was he, anne, I want to know. Mr. kimball over at
spenservale is very sick and will have to go to the hospitable.
please excuse me while I ask marilla if thats spelled rite.
Marilla says its the silem he has to go to not the other place.
He thinks he has a snake inside of him. whats it like to have a
snake inside of you, anne. I want to know. mrs. lawrence bell
is sick to. mrs. lynde says that all that is the matter with
her is that she thinks too much about her insides."
"I wonder," said Anne, as she folded up her letters, "what Mrs.
Lynde would think of Philippa."
In the Park
"What are you going to do with yourselves today, girls?"
asked Philippa, popping into Anne's room one Saturday afternoon.
"We are going for a walk in the park," answered Anne. "I ought to
stay in and finish my blouse. But I couldn't sew on a day like this.
There's something in the air that gets into my blood and makes a sort
of glory in my soul. My fingers would twitch and I'd sew a crooked seam.
So it's ho for the park and the pines."
"Does `we' include any one but yourself and Priscilla?"
"Yes, it includes Gilbert and Charlie, and we'll be very glad if
it will include you, also."
"But," said Philippa dolefully, "if I go I'll have to be gooseberry,
and that will be a new experience for Philippa Gordon."
"Well, new experiences are broadening. Come along, and you'll be
able to sympathize with all poor souls who have to play
gooseberry often. But where are all the victims?"
"Oh, I was tired of them all and simply couldn't be bothered with
any of them today. Besides, I've been feeling a little blue --
just a pale, elusive azure. It isn't serious enough for anything
darker. I wrote Alec and Alonzo last week. I put the letters
into envelopes and addressed them, but I didn't seal them up.
That evening something funny happened. That is, Alec would think
it funny, but Alonzo wouldn't be likely to. I was in a hurry, so
I snatched Alec's letter -- as I thought -- out of the envelope
and scribbled down a postscript. Then I mailed both letters. I
got Alonzo's reply this morning. Girls, I had put that postscript
to his letter and he was furious. Of course he'll get over it --
and I don't care if he doesn't -- but it spoiled my day.
So I thought I'd come to you darlings to get cheered up.
After the football season opens I won't have any spare Saturday
afternoons. I adore football. I've got the most gorgeous
cap and sweater striped in Redmond colors to wear to the games.
To be sure, a little way off I'll look like a walking barber's pole.
Do you know that that Gilbert of yours has been elected Captain of
the Freshman football team?"
"Yes, he told us so last evening," said Priscilla, seeing that
outraged Anne would not answer. "He and Charlie were down.
We knew they were coming, so we painstakingly put out of sight
or out of reach all Miss Ada's cushions. That very elaborate one
with the raised embroidery I dropped on the floor in the corner
behind the chair it was on. I thought it would be safe there.
But would you believe it? Charlie Sloane made for that chair,
noticed the cushion behind it, solemnly fished it up, and sat on
it the whole evening. Such a wreck of a cushion as it was! Poor
Miss Ada asked me today, still smiling, but oh, so reproachfully,
why I had allowed it to be sat upon. I told her I hadn't -- that
it was a matter of predestination coupled with inveterate
Sloanishness and I wasn't a match for both combined."
"Miss Ada's cushions are really getting on my nerves," said Anne.
"She finished two new ones last week, stuffed and embroidered
within an inch of their lives. There being absolutely no other
cushionless place to put them she stood them up against the wall
on the stair landing. They topple over half the time and if we
come up or down the stairs in the dark we fall over them. Last
Sunday, when Dr. Davis prayed for all those exposed to the
perils of the sea, I added in thought `and for all those who live
in houses where cushions are loved not wisely but too well!'
There! we're ready, and I see the boys coming through Old St. John's.
Do you cast in your lot with us, Phil?"
"I'll go, if I can walk with Priscilla and Charlie. That will be
a bearable degree of gooseberry. That Gilbert of yours is a
darling, Anne, but why does he go around so much with Goggle-eyes?"
Anne stiffened. She had no great liking for Charlie Sloane; but
he was of Avonlea, so no outsider had any business to laugh at him.
"Charlie and Gilbert have always been friends," she said coldly.
"Charlie is a nice boy. He's not to blame for his eyes."
"Don't tell me that! He is! He must have done something
dreadful in a previous existence to be punished with such eyes.
Pris and I are going to have such sport with him this afternoon.
We'll make fun of him to his face and he'll never know it."
Doubtless, "the abandoned P's," as Anne called them, did carry
out their amiable intentions. But Sloane was blissfully
ignorant; he thought he was quite a fine fellow to be walking
with two such coeds, especially Philippa Gordon, the class beauty
and belle. It must surely impress Anne. She would see that some
people appreciated him at his real value.
Gilbert and Anne loitered a little behind the others, enjoying
the calm, still beauty of the autumn afternoon under the pines of
the park, on the road that climbed and twisted round the harbor shore.
"The silence here is like a prayer, isn't it?" said Anne,
her face upturned to the shining sky. "How I love the pines!
They seem to strike their roots deep into the romance of all the ages.
It is so comforting to creep away now and then for a good talk with them.
I always feel so happy out here."
"`And so in mountain solitudes o'ertaken
As by some spell divine,
Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine,'"
"They make our little ambitions seem rather petty, don't they, Anne?"
"I think, if ever any great sorrow came to me, I would come to the
pines for comfort," said Anne dreamily.
"I hope no great sorrow ever will come to you, Anne," said Gilbert,
who could not connect the idea of sorrow with the vivid, joyous
creature beside him, unwitting that those who can soar to the
highest heights can also plunge to the deepest depths, and that
the natures which enjoy most keenly are those which also suffer
"But there must -- sometime," mused Anne. "Life seems like a cup
of glory held to my lips just now. But there must be some
bitterness in it -- there is in every cup. I shall taste mine
some day. Well, I hope I shall be strong and brave to meet it.
And I hope it won't be through my own fault that it will come.
Do you remember what Dr. Davis said last Sunday evening -- that
the sorrows God sent us brought comfort and strength with them,
while the sorrows we brought on ourselves, through folly or
wickedness, were by far the hardest to bear? But we mustn't talk
of sorrow on an afternoon like this. It's meant for the sheer
joy of living, isn't it?"
"If I had my way I'd shut everything out of your life but
happiness and pleasure, Anne," said Gilbert in the tone that
meant "danger ahead."
"Then you would be very unwise," rejoined Anne hastily. "I'm sure
no life can be properly developed and rounded out without some
trial and sorrow -- though I suppose it is only when we are pretty
comfortable that we admit it. Come -- the others have got to the
pavilion and are beckoning to us."
They all sat down in the little pavilion to watch an autumn
sunset of deep red fire and pallid gold. To their left lay
Kingsport, its roofs and spires dim in their shroud of violet smoke.
To their right lay the harbor, taking on tints of rose and copper as
it stretched out into the sunset. Before them the water shimmered,
satin smooth and silver gray, and beyond, clean shaven William's
Island loomed out of the mist, guarding the town like a sturdy bulldog.
Its lighthouse beacon flared through the mist like a baleful star,
and was answered by another in the far horizon.
"Did you ever see such a strong-looking place?" asked Philippa.
"I don't want William's Island especially, but I'm sure I couldn't
get it if I did. Look at that sentry on the summit of the fort,
right beside the flag. Doesn't he look as if he had stepped out
of a romance?"
"Speaking of romance," said Priscilla, "we've been looking for
heather -- but, of course, we couldn't find any. It's too late
in the season, I suppose."
"Heather!" exclaimed Anne. "Heather doesn't grow in America,
"There are just two patches of it in the whole continent," said Phil,
"one right here in the park, and one somewhere else in Nova Scotia,
I forget where. The famous Highland Regiment, the Black Watch,
camped here one year, and, when the men shook out the straw of
their beds in the spring, some seeds of heather took root."
"Oh, how delightful!" said enchanted Anne.
"Let's go home around by Spofford Avenue," suggested Gilbert.
"We can see all `the handsome houses where the wealthy nobles
dwell.' Spofford Avenue is the finest residential street in
Kingsport. Nobody can build on it unless he's a millionaire."
"Oh, do," said Phil. "There's a perfectly killing little place I
want to show you, Anne. IT wasn't built by a millionaire. It's
the first place after you leave the park, and must have grown
while Spofford Avenue was still a country road. It DID grow --
it wasn't built! I don't care for the houses on the Avenue.
They're too brand new and plateglassy. But this little spot is a
dream -- and its name -- but wait till you see it."
They saw it as they walked up the pine-fringed hill from the park.
Just on the crest, where Spofford Avenue petered out into a
plain road, was a little white frame house with groups of pines
on either side of it, stretching their arms protectingly over its
low roof. It was covered with red and gold vines, through which
its green-shuttered windows peeped. Before it was a tiny garden,
surrounded by a low stone wall. October though it was, the
garden was still very sweet with dear, old-fashioned, unworldly
flowers and shrubs -- sweet may, southern-wood, lemon verbena,
alyssum, petunias, marigolds and chrysanthemums. A tiny brick
wall, in herring-bone pattern, led from the gate to the front
porch. The whole place might have been transplanted from some
remote country village; yet there was something about it that
made its nearest neighbor, the big lawn-encircled palace of a
tobacco king, look exceedingly crude and showy and ill-bred by
contrast. As Phil said, it was the difference between being born
and being made.
"It's the dearest place I ever saw," said Anne delightedly. "It
gives me one of my old, delightful funny aches. It's dearer and
quainter than even Miss Lavendar's stone house."
"It's the name I want you to notice especially," said Phil.
"Look -- in white letters, around the archway over the gate.
`Patty's Place.' Isn't that killing? Especially on this Avenue
of Pinehursts and Elmwolds and Cedarcrofts? `Patty's Place,'
if you please! I adore it."
"Have you any idea who Patty is?" asked Priscilla.
"Patty Spofford is the name of the old lady who owns it, I've
discovered. She lives there with her niece, and they've lived
there for hundreds of years, more or less -- maybe a little less,
Anne. Exaggeration is merely a flight of poetic fancy. I understand
that wealthy folk have tried to buy the lot time and again -- it's
really worth a small fortune now, you know -- but `Patty' won't sell
upon any consideration. And there's an apple orchard behind the house
in place of a back yard -- you'll see it when we get a little past --
a real apple orchard on Spofford Avenue!"
"I'm going to dream about `Patty's Place' tonight," said Anne.
"Why, I feel as if I belonged to it. I wonder if, by any chance,
we'll ever see the inside of it."
"It isn't likely," said Priscilla.
Anne smiled mysteriously.
"No, it isn't likely. But I believe it will happen. I have a
queer, creepy, crawly feeling -- you can call it a presentiment,
if you like -- that `Patty's Place' and I are going to be better
Those first three weeks at Redmond had seemed long; but the rest
of the term flew by on wings of wind. Before they realized it
the Redmond students found themselves in the grind of Christmas
examinations, emerging therefrom more or less triumphantly. The
honor of leading in the Freshman classes fluctuated between Anne,
Gilbert and Philippa; Priscilla did very well; Charlie Sloane
scraped through respectably, and comported himself as complacently
as if he had led in everything.
"I can't really believe that this time tomorrow I'll be in Green Gables,"
said Anne on the night before departure. "But I shall be. And you, Phil,
will be in Bolingbroke with Alec and Alonzo."
"I'm longing to see them," admitted Phil, between the chocolate
she was nibbling. "They really are such dear boys, you know.
There's to be no end of dances and drives and general jamborees.
I shall never forgive you, Queen Anne, for not coming home with
me for the holidays."
"`Never' means three days with you, Phil. It was dear of you to
ask me -- and I'd love to go to Bolingbroke some day. But I
can't go this year -- I MUST go home. You don't know how my
heart longs for it."
"You won't have much of a time," said Phil scornfully. "There'll
be one or two quilting parties, I suppose; and all the old
gossips will talk you over to your face and behind your back.
You'll die of lonesomeness, child."
"In Avonlea?" said Anne, highly amused.
"Now, if you'd come with me you'd have a perfectly gorgeous time.
Bolingbroke would go wild over you, Queen Anne -- your hair and
your style and, oh, everything! You're so DIFFERENT. You'd be
such a success -- and I would bask in reflected glory -- `not the
rose but near the rose.' Do come, after all, Anne."
"Your picture of social triumphs is quite fascinating, Phil, but
I'll paint one to offset it. I'm going home to an old country
farmhouse, once green, rather faded now, set among leafless apple
orchards. There is a brook below and a December fir wood beyond,
where I've heard harps swept by the fingers of rain and wind.
There is a pond nearby that will be gray and brooding now. There
will be two oldish ladies in the house, one tall and thin, one
short and fat; and there will be two twins, one a perfect model,
the other what Mrs. Lynde calls a `holy terror.' There will be a
little room upstairs over the porch, where old dreams hang thick,
and a big, fat, glorious feather bed which will almost seem the
height of luxury after a boardinghouse mattress. How do you like
my picture, Phil?"
"It seems a very dull one," said Phil, with a grimace.
"Oh, but I've left out the transforming thing," said Anne softly.
"There'll be love there, Phil -- faithful, tender love, such as
I'll never find anywhere else in the world -- love that's waiting
for me. That makes my picture a masterpiece, doesn't it, even if
the colors are not very brilliant?"
Phil silently got up, tossed her box of chocolates away, went up
to Anne, and put her arms about her.
"Anne, I wish I was like you," she said soberly.
Diana met Anne at the Carmody station the next night, and they
drove home together under silent, star-sown depths of sky. Green
Gables had a very festal appearance as they drove up the lane.
There was a light in every window, the glow breaking out through
the darkness like flame-red blossoms swung against the dark
background of the Haunted Wood. And in the yard was a brave
bonfire with two gay little figures dancing around it, one of
which gave an unearthly yell as the buggy turned in under the poplars.
"Davy means that for an Indian war-whoop," said Diana. "Mr.
Harrison's hired boy taught it to him, and he's been practicing
it up to welcome you with. Mrs. Lynde says it has worn her
nerves to a frazzle. He creeps up behind her, you know, and then
lets go. He was determined to have a bonfire for you, too. He's
been piling up branches for a fortnight and pestering Marilla to
be let pour some kerosene oil over it before setting it on fire.
I guess she did, by the smell, though Mrs. Lynde said up to the last
that Davy would blow himself and everybody else up if he was let."
Anne was out of the buggy by this time, and Davy was rapturously
hugging her knees, while even Dora was clinging to her hand.
"Isn't that a bully bonfire, Anne? Just let me show you how to
poke it -- see the sparks? I did it for you, Anne, 'cause I was
so glad you were coming home."
The kitchen door opened and Marilla's spare form darkened against
the inner light. She preferred to meet Anne in the shadows, for
she was horribly afraid that she was going to cry with joy --
she, stern, repressed Marilla, who thought all display of deep
emotion unseemly. Mrs. Lynde was behind her, sonsy, kindly,
matronly, as of yore. The love that Anne had told Phil was
waiting for her surrounded her and enfolded her with its blessing
and its sweetness. Nothing, after all, could compare with old ties,
old friends, and old Green Gables! How starry Anne's eyes were
as they sat down to the loaded supper table, how pink her cheeks,
how silver-clear her laughter! And Diana was going to stay all
night, too. How like the dear old times it was! And the
rose-bud tea-set graced the table! With Marilla the force of
nature could no further go.
"I suppose you and Diana will now proceed to talk all night,"
said Marilla sarcastically, as the girls went upstairs.
Marilla was always sarcastic after any self-betrayal.