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Miss Lavendar's Romance
"I think I'll take a walk through to Echo Lodge this evening," said Anne,
one Friday afternoon in December.
"It looks like snow," said Marilla dubiously.
"I'll be there before the snow comes and I mean to stay all night. Diana
can't go because she has company, and I'm sure Miss Lavendar will be
looking for me tonight. It's a whole fortnight since I was there."
Anne had paid many a visit to Echo Lodge since that October day. Sometimes
she and Diana drove around by the road; sometimes they walked through the
woods. When Diana could not go Anne went alone. Between her and Miss
Lavendar had sprung up one of those fervent, helpful friendships possible
only between a woman who has kept the freshness of youth in her heart and
soul, and a girl whose imagination and intuition supplied the place of
experience. Anne had at last discovered a real "kindred spirit," while
into the little lady's lonely, sequestered life of dreams Anne and Diana
came with the wholesome joy and exhilaration of the outer existence, which
Miss Lavendar, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot," had long
ceased to share; they brought an atmosphere of youth and reality to the
little stone house. Charlotta the Fourth always greeted them with her very
widest smile . . . and Charlotta's smiles WERE fearfully wide . . . loving
them for the sake of her adored mistress as well as for their own. Never
had there been such "high jinks" held in the little stone house as were
held there that beautiful, late-lingering autumn, when November seemed
October over again, and even December aped the sunshine and hazes of
But on this particular day it seemed as if December had remembered that it
was time for winter and had turned suddenly dull and brooding, with a
windless hush predictive of coming snow. Nevertheless, Anne keenly enjoyed
her walk through the great gray maze of the beechlands; though alone she
never found it lonely; her imagination peopled her path with merry
companions, and with these she carried on a gay, pretended conversation
that was wittier and more fascinating than conversations are apt to be in
real life, where people sometimes fail most lamentably to talk up to the
requirements. In a "make believe" assembly of choice spirits everybody
says just the thing you want her to say and so gives you the chance to say
just what YOU want to say. Attended by this invisible company, Anne
traversed the woods and arrived at the fir lane just as broad, feathery
flakes began to flutter down softly.
At the first bend she came upon Miss Lavendar, standing under a big,
broad-branching fir. She wore a gown of warm, rich red, and her head and
shoulders were wrapped in a silvery gray silk shawl.
"You look like the queen of the fir wood fairies," called Anne merrily.
"I thought you would come tonight, Anne," said Miss Lavendar, running
forward. "And I'm doubly glad, for Charlotta the Fourth is away. Her
mother is sick and she had to go home for the night. I should have been
very lonely if you hadn't come . . . even the dreams and the echoes
wouldn't have been enough company. Oh, Anne, how pretty you are," she
added suddenly, looking up at the tall, slim girl with the soft rose-flush
of walking on her face. "How pretty and how young! It's so delightful to
be seventeen, isn't it? I do envy you," concluded Miss Lavendar candidly.
"But you are only seventeen at heart," smiled Anne.
"No, I'm old . . . or rather middle-aged, which is far worse," sighed Miss
Lavendar. "Sometimes I can pretend I'm not, but at other times I realize
it. And I can't reconcile myself to it as most women seem to. I'm just as
rebellious as I was when I discovered my first gray hair. Now, Anne, don't
look as if you were trying to understand. Seventeen CAN'T understand. I'm
going to pretend right away that I am seventeen too, and I can do it, now
that you're here. You always bring youth in your hand like a gift. We're
going to have a jolly evening. Tea first . . . what do you want for tea?
We'll have whatever you like. Do think of something nice and
There were sounds of riot and mirth in the little stone house that night.
What with cooking and feasting and making candy and laughing and
"pretending," it is quite true that Miss Lavendar and Anne comported
themselves in a fashion entirely unsuited to the dignity of a spinster of
forty-five and a sedate schoolma'am. Then, when they were tired, they sat
down on the rug before the grate in the parlor, lighted only by the soft
fireshine and perfumed deliciously by Miss Lavendar's open rose-jar on the
mantel. The wind had risen and was sighing and wailing around the eaves
and the snow was thudding softly against the windows, as if a hundred
storm sprites were tapping for entrance.
"I'm so glad you're here, Anne," said Miss Lavendar, nibbling at her
candy. "If you weren't I should be blue . . . very blue . . . almost navy
blue. Dreams and make-believes are all very well in the daytime and the
sunshine, but when dark and storm come they fail to satisfy. One wants
real things then. But you don't know this . . . seventeen never knows it.
At seventeen dreams DO satisfy because you think the realities are waiting
for you further on. When I was seventeen, Anne, I didn't think forty-five
would find me a white-haired little old maid with nothing but dreams to
fill my life."
"But you aren't an old maid," said Anne, smiling into Miss Lavendar's
wistful woodbrown eyes. "Old maids are BORN . . . they don't BECOME."
"Some are born old maids, some achieve old maidenhood, and some have old
maidenhood thrust upon them," parodied Miss Lavendar whimsically.
"You are one of those who have achieved it then," laughed Anne, "and
you've done it so beautifully that if every old maid were like you they
would come into the fashion, I think."
"I always like to do things as well as possible," said Miss Lavendar
meditatively, "and since an old maid I had to be I was determined to be a
very nice one. People say I'm odd; but it's just because I follow my own
way of being an old maid and refuse to copy the traditional pattern. Anne,
did anyone ever tell you anything about Stephen Irving and me?"
"Yes," said Anne candidly, "I've heard that you and he were engaged once."
"So we were . . . twenty-five years ago . . . a lifetime ago. And we were
to have been married the next spring. I had my wedding dress made,
although nobody but mother and Stephen ever knew THAT. We'd been engaged
in a way almost all our lives, you might say. When Stephen was a little
boy his mother would bring him here when she came to see my mother; and
the second time he ever came . . . he was nine and I was six . . . he told
me out in the garden that he had pretty well made up his mind to marry me
when he grew up. I remember that I said 'Thank you'; and when he was gone
I told mother very gravely that there was a great weight off my mind,
because I wasn't frightened any more about having to be an old maid. How
poor mother laughed!"
"And what went wrong?" asked Anne breathlessly.
"We had just a stupid, silly, commonplace quarrel. So commonplace that, if
you'll believe me, I don't even remember just how it began. I hardly know
who was the more to blame for it. Stephen did really begin it, but I
suppose I provoked him by some foolishness of mine. He had a rival or two,
you see. I was vain and coquettish and liked to tease him a little. He was
a very high-strung, sensitive fellow. Well, we parted in a temper on both
sides. But I thought it would all come right; and it would have if Stephen
hadn't come back too soon. Anne, my dear, I'm sorry to say" . . . Miss
Lavendar dropped her voice as if she were about to confess a predilection
for murdering people, "that I am a dreadfully sulky person. Oh, you
needn't smile, . . . it's only too true. I DO sulk; and Stephen came back
before I had finished sulking. I wouldn't listen to him and I wouldn't
forgive him; and so he went away for good. He was too proud to come again.
And then I sulked because he didn't come. I might have sent for him
perhaps, but I couldn't humble myself to do that. I was just as proud as
he was . . . pride and sulkiness make a very bad combination, Anne. But I
could never care for anybody else and I didn't want to. I knew I would
rather be an old maid for a thousand years than marry anybody who wasn't
Stephen Irving. Well, it all seems like a dream now, of course. How
sympathetic you look, Anne . . . as sympathetic as only seventeen can
look. But don't overdo it. I'm really a very happy, contented little
person in spite of my broken heart. My heart did break, if ever a heart
did, when I realized that Stephen Irving was not coming back. But, Anne, a
broken heart in real life isn't half as dreadful as it is in books. It's a
good deal like a bad tooth . . . though you won't think THAT a very
romantic simile. It takes spells of aching and gives you a sleepless night
now and then, but between times it lets you enjoy life and dreams and
echoes and peanut candy as if there were nothing the matter with it. And
now you're looking disappointed. You don't think I'm half as interesting a
person as you did five minutes ago when you believed I was always the prey
of a tragic memory bravely hidden beneath external smiles. That's the
worst . . . or the best . . . of real life, Anne. It WON'T let you be
miserable. It keeps on trying to make you comfortable . . . and
succeeding...even when you're determined to be unhappy and romantic. Isn't
this candy scrumptious? I've eaten far more than is good for me already
but I'm going to keep recklessly on."
After a little silence Miss Lavendar said abruptly,
"It gave me a shock to hear about Stephen's son that first day you were
here, Anne. I've never been able to mention him to you since, but I've
wanted to know all about him. What sort of a boy is he?"
"He is the dearest, sweetest child I ever knew, Miss Lavendar . . . and he
pretends things too, just as you and I do."
"I'd like to see him," said Miss Lavendar softly, as if talking to
herself. "I wonder if he looks anything like the little dream-boy who
lives here with me . . . MY little dream-boy."
"If you would like to see Paul I'll bring him through with me sometime,"
"I would like it . . . but not too soon. I want to get used to the
thought. There might be more pain than pleasure in it . . . if he looked
too much like Stephen . . . or if he didn't look enough like him. In a
month's time you may bring him."
Accordingly, a month later Anne and Paul walked through the woods to the
stone house, and met Miss Lavendar in the lane. She had not been expecting
them just then and she turned very pale.
"So this is Stephen's boy," she said in a low tone, taking Paul's hand and
looking at him as he stood, beautiful and boyish, in his smart little fur
coat and cap. "He . . . he is very like his father."
"Everybody says I'm a chip off the old block," remarked Paul, quite at his
Anne, who had been watching the little scene, drew a relieved breath. She
saw that Miss Lavendar and Paul had "taken" to each other, and that there
would be no constraint or stiffness. Miss Lavendar was a very sensible
person, in spite of her dreams and romance, and after that first little
betrayal she tucked her feelings out of sight and entertained Paul as
brightly and naturally as if he were anybody's son who had come to see
her. They all had a jolly afternoon together and such a feast of fat
things by way of supper as would have made old Mrs. Irving hold up her
hands in horror, believing that Paul's digestion would be ruined for ever.
"Come again, laddie," said Miss Lavendar, shaking hands with him at
"You may kiss me if you like," said Paul gravely.
Miss Lavendar stooped and kissed him.
"How did you know I wanted to?" she whispered.
"Because you looked at me just as my little mother used to do when she
wanted to kiss me. As a rule, I don't like to be kissed. Boys don't. You
know, Miss Lewis. But I think I rather like to have you kiss me. And of
course I'll come to see you again. I think I'd like to have you for a
particular friend of mine, if you don't object."
"I . . . I don't think I shall object," said Miss Lavendar. She turned and
went in very quickly; but a moment later she was waving a gay and smiling
good-bye to them from the window.
"I like Miss Lavendar," announced Paul, as they walked through the beech
woods. "I like the way she looked at me, and I like her stone house, and I
like Charlotta the Fourth. I wish Grandma Irving had a Charlotta the
Fourth instead of a Mary Joe. I feel sure Charlotta the Fourth wouldn't
think I was wrong in my upper story when I told her what I think about
things. Wasn't that a splendid tea we had, teacher? Grandma says a boy
shouldn't be thinking about what he gets to eat, but he can't help it
sometimes when he is real hungry. YOU know, teacher. I don't think Miss
Lavendar would make a boy eat porridge for breakfast if he didn't like it.
She'd get things for him he did like. But of course" . . . Paul was
nothing if not fair-minded . . . "that mightn't be very good for him. It's
very nice for a change though, teacher. YOU know."