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Poetry and Prose
For the next month Anne lived in what, for Avonlea, might be called a
whirl of excitement. The preparation of her own modest outfit for Redmond
was of secondary importance. Miss Lavendar was getting ready to be married
and the stone house was the scene of endless consultations and plannings
and discussions, with Charlotta the Fourth hovering on the outskirts of
things in agitated delight and wonder. Then the dressmaker came, and there
was the rapture and wretchedness of choosing fashions and being fitted.
Anne and Diana spent half their time at Echo Lodge and there were nights
when Anne could not sleep for wondering whether she had done right in
advising Miss Lavendar to select brown rather than navy blue for her
traveling dress, and to have her gray silk made princess.
Everybody concerned in Miss Lavendar's story was very happy. Paul Irving
rushed to Green Gables to talk the news over with Anne as soon as his
father had told him.
"I knew I could trust father to pick me out a nice little second mother,"
he said proudly. "It's a fine thing to have a father you can depend on,
teacher. I just love Miss Lavendar. Grandma is pleased, too. She says
she's real glad father didn't pick out an American for his second wife,
because, although it turned out all right the first time, such a thing
wouldn't be likely to happen twice. Mrs. Lynde says she thoroughly
approves of the match and thinks its likely Miss Lavendar will give up her
queer notions and be like other people, now that she's going to be
married. But I hope she won't give her queer notions up, teacher, because
I like them. And I don't want her to be like other people. There are too
many other people around as it is. YOU know, teacher."
Charlotta the Fourth was another radiant person.
"Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, it has all turned out so beautiful. When Mr.
Irving and Miss Lavendar come back from their tower I'm to go up to Boston
and live with them . . . and me only fifteen, and the other girls never
went till they were sixteen. Ain't Mr. Irving splendid? He just worships
the ground she treads on and it makes me feel so queer sometimes to see
the look in his eyes when he's watching her. It beggars description, Miss
Shirley, ma'am. I'm awful thankful they're so fond of each other. It's the
best way, when all's said and done, though some folks can get along
without it. I've got an aunt who has been married three times and says she
married the first time for love and the last two times for strictly
business, and was happy with all three except at the times of the
funerals. But I think she took a resk, Miss Shirley, ma'am."
"Oh, it's all so romantic," breathed Anne to Marilla that night. "If I
hadn't taken the wrong path that day we went to Mr. Kimball's I'd never
have known Miss Lavendar; and if I hadn't met her I'd never have taken
Paul there . . . and he'd never have written to his father about visiting
Miss Lavendar just as Mr. Irving was starting for San Francisco. Mr.
Irving says whenever he got that letter he made up his mind to send his
partner to San Francisco and come here instead. He hadn't heard anything
of Miss Lavendar for fifteen years. Somebody had told him then that she
was to be married and he thought she was and never asked anybody anything
about her. And now everything has come right. And I had a hand in bringing
it about. Perhaps, as Mrs. Lynde says, everything is foreordained and it
was bound to happen anyway. But even so, it's nice to think one was an
instrument used by predestination. Yes indeed, it's very romantic."
"I can't see that it's so terribly romantic at all," said Marilla rather
crisply. Marilla thought Anne was too worked up about it and had plenty to
do with getting ready for college without "traipsing" to Echo Lodge two
days out of three helping Miss Lavendar. "In the first place two young
fools quarrel and turn sulky; then Steve Irving goes to the States and
after a spell gets married up there and is perfectly happy from all
accounts. Then his wife dies and after a decent interval he thinks he'll
come home and see if his first fancy'll have him. Meanwhile, she's been
living single, probably because nobody nice enough came along to want her,
and they meet and agree to be married after all. Now, where is the romance
in all that?"
"Oh, there isn't any, when you put it that way," gasped Anne, rather as if
somebody had thrown cold water over her. "I suppose that's how it looks in
prose. But it's very different if you look at it through poetry . . . and
<i>I</i> think it's nicer . . ." Anne recovered herself and her eyes shone
and her cheeks flushed . . . "to look at it through poetry."
Marilla glanced at the radiant young face and refrained from further
sarcastic comments. Perhaps some realization came to her that after all it
was better to have, like Anne, "the vision and the faculty divine" . . .
that gift which the world cannot bestow or take away, of looking at life
through some transfiguring . . . or revealing? . . . medium, whereby
everything seemed apparelled in celestial light, wearing a glory and a
freshness not visible to those who, like herself and Charlotta the Fourth,
looked at things only through prose.
"When's the wedding to be?" she asked after a pause.
"The last Wednesday in August. They are to be married in the garden under
the honeysuckle trellis . . . the very spot where Mr. Irving proposed to
her twenty-five years ago. Marilla, that IS romantic, even in prose.
There's to be nobody there except Mrs. Irving and Paul and Gilbert and
Diana and I, and Miss Lavendar's cousins. And they will leave on the six
o'clock train for a trip to the Pacific coast. When they come back in the
fall Paul and Charlotta the Fourth are to go up to Boston to live with
them. But Echo Lodge is to be left just as it is. . . only of course
they'll sell the hens and cow, and board up the windows . . . and every
summer they're coming down to live in it. I'm so glad. It would have hurt
me dreadfully next winter at Redmond to think of that dear stone house all
stripped and deserted, with empty rooms . . . or far worse still, with
other people living in it. But I can think of it now, just as I've always
seen it, waiting happily for the summer to bring life and laughter back to
There was more romance in the world than that which had fallen to the
share of the middle-aged lovers of the stone house. Anne stumbled suddenly
on it one evening when she went over to Orchard Slope by the wood cut and
came out into the Barry garden. Diana Barry and Fred Wright were standing
together under the big willow. Diana was leaning against the gray trunk,
her lashes cast down on very crimson cheeks. One hand was held by Fred,
who stood with his face bent toward her, stammering something in low
earnest tones. There were no other people in the world except their two
selves at that magic moment; so neither of them saw Anne, who, after one
dazed glance of comprehension, turned and sped noiselessly back through
the spruce wood, never stopping till she gained her own gable room, where
she sat breathlessly down by her window and tried to collect her scattered
"Diana and Fred are in love with each other," she gasped. "Oh, it does
seem so . . . so . . . so HOPELESSLY grown up."
Anne, of late, had not been without her suspicions that Diana was proving
false to the melancholy Byronic hero of her early dreams. But as "things
seen are mightier than things heard," or suspected, the realization that
it was actually so came to her with almost the shock of perfect surprise.
This was succeeded by a queer, little lonely feeling . . . as if, somehow,
Diana had gone forward into a new world, shutting a gate behind her,
leaving Anne on the outside.
"Things are changing so fast it almost frightens me," Anne thought, a
little sadly. "And I'm afraid that this can't help making some difference
between Diana and me. I'm sure I can't tell her all my secrets after this
. . . she might tell Fred. And what CAN she see in Fred? He's very nice
and jolly . . . but he's just Fred Wright."
It is always a very puzzling question . . . what can somebody see in
somebody else? But how fortunate after all that it is so, for if everybody
saw alike . . . well, in that case, as the old Indian said, "Everybody
would want my squaw." It was plain that Diana DID see something in Fred
Wright, however Anne's eyes might be holden. Diana came to Green Gables
the next evening, a pensive, shy young lady, and told Anne the whole story
in the dusky seclusion of the east gable. Both girls cried and kissed and
"I'm so happy," said Diana, "but it does seem ridiculous to think of me
"What is it really like to be engaged?" asked Anne curiously.
"Well, that all depends on who you're engaged to," answered Diana, with
that maddening air of superior wisdom always assumed by those who are
engaged over those who are not. "It's perfectly lovely to be engaged to
Fred . . . but I think it would be simply horrid to be engaged to anyone
"There's not much comfort for the rest of us in that, seeing that there is
only one Fred," laughed Anne.
"Oh, Anne, you don't understand," said Diana in vexation. "I didn't mean
THAT . . . it's so hard to explain. Never mind, you'll understand
sometime, when your own turn comes."
"Bless you, dearest of Dianas, I understand now. What is an imagination
for if not to enable you to peep at life through other people's eyes?"
"You must be my bridesmaid, you know, Anne. Promise me that . . . wherever
you may be when I'm married."
"I'll come from the ends of the earth if necessary," promised Anne
"Of course, it won't be for ever so long yet," said Diana, blushing.
"Three years at the very least . . . for I'm only eighteen and mother says
no daughter of hers shall be married before she's twenty-one. Besides,
Fred's father is going to buy the Abraham Fletcher farm for him and he
says he's got to have it two thirds paid for before he'll give it to him
in his own name. But three years isn't any too much time to get ready for
housekeeping, for I haven't a speck of fancy work made yet. But I'm going
to begin crocheting doilies tomorrow. Myra Gillis had thirty-seven doilies
when she was married and I'm determined I shall have as many as she had."
"I suppose it would be perfectly impossible to keep house with only
thirty-six doilies," conceded Anne, with a solemn face but dancing eyes.
Diana looked hurt.
"I didn't think you'd make fun of me, Anne," she said reproachfully.
"Dearest, I wasn't making fun of you," cried Anne repentantly. "I was only
teasing you a bit. I think you'll make the sweetest little housekeeper in
the world. And I think it's perfectly lovely of you to be planning already
for your home o'dreams."
Anne had no sooner uttered the phrase, "home o'dreams," than it captivated
her fancy and she immediately began the erection of one of her own. It
was, of course, tenanted by an ideal master, dark, proud, and melancholy;
but oddly enough, Gilbert Blythe persisted in hanging about too, helping
her arrange pictures, lay out gardens, and accomplish sundry other tasks
which a proud and melancholy hero evidently considered beneath his
dignity. Anne tried to banish Gilbert's image from her castle in Spain
but, somehow, he went on being there, so Anne, being in a hurry, gave up
the attempt and pursued her aerial architecture with such success that her
"home o'dreams" was built and furnished before Diana spoke again.
"I suppose, Anne, you must think it's funny I should like Fred so well
when he's so different from the kind of man I've always said I would marry
. . . the tall, slender kind? But somehow I wouldn't want Fred to be tall
and slender . . . because, don't you see, he wouldn't be Fred then. Of
course," added Diana rather dolefully, "we will be a dreadfully pudgy
couple. But after all that's better than one of us being short and fat and
the other tall and lean, like Morgan Sloane and his wife. Mrs. Lynde says
it always makes her think of the long and short of it when she sees them
"Well," said Anne to herself that night, as she brushed her hair before
her gilt framed mirror, "I am glad Diana is so happy and satisfied. But
when my turn comes . . . if it ever does . . . I do hope there'll be
something a little more thrilling about it. But then Diana thought so too,
once. I've heard her say time and again she'd never get engaged any poky
commonplace way . . . he'd HAVE to do something splendid to win her. But
she has changed. Perhaps I'll change too. But I won't . . . and I'm
determined I won't. Oh, I think these engagements are dreadfully
unsettling things when they happen to your intimate friends."