Chapter 1 — Chapter 1

“Thanks be, I’m done with geometry, learning or teaching it,” said Anne
Shirley, a trifle vindictively, as she thumped a somewhat battered
volume of Euclid into a big chest of books, banged the lid in triumph,
and sat down upon it, looking at Diana Wright across the Green Gables
garret, with gray eyes that were like a morning sky.

The garret was a shadowy, suggestive, delightful place, as all garrets
should be. Through the open window, by which Anne sat, blew the sweet,
scented, sun-warm air of the August afternoon; outside, poplar boughs
rustled and tossed in the wind; beyond them were the woods, where
Lover’s Lane wound its enchanted path, and the old apple orchard which
still bore its rosy harvests munificently. And, over all, was a great
mountain range of snowy clouds in the blue southern sky. Through the
other window was glimpsed a distant, white-capped, blue sea—the
beautiful St. Lawrence Gulf, on which floats, like a jewel, Abegweit,
whose softer, sweeter Indian name has long been forsaken for the more
prosaic one of Prince Edward Island.

Diana Wright, three years older than when we last saw her, had grown
somewhat matronly in the intervening time. But her eyes were as black
and brilliant, her cheeks as rosy, and her dimples as enchanting, as in
the long-ago days when she and Anne Shirley had vowed eternal
friendship in the garden at Orchard Slope. In her arms she held a
small, sleeping, black-curled creature, who for two happy years had
been known to the world of Avonlea as “Small Anne Cordelia.” Avonlea
folks knew why Diana had called her Anne, of course, but Avonlea folks
were puzzled by the Cordelia. There had never been a Cordelia in the
Wright or Barry connections. Mrs. Harmon Andrews said she supposed
Diana had found the name in some trashy novel, and wondered that Fred
hadn’t more sense than to allow it. But Diana and Anne smiled at each
other. They knew how Small Anne Cordelia had come by her name.

“You always hated geometry,” said Diana with a retrospective smile. “I
should think you’d be real glad to be through with teaching, anyhow.”

“Oh, I’ve always liked teaching, apart from geometry. These past three
years in Summerside have been very pleasant ones. Mrs. Harmon Andrews
told me when I came home that I wouldn’t likely find married life as
much better than teaching as I expected. Evidently Mrs. Harmon is of
Hamlet’s opinion that it may be better to bear the ills that we have
than fly to others that we know not of.”

Anne’s laugh, as blithe and irresistible as of yore, with an added note
of sweetness and maturity, rang through the garret. Marilla in the
kitchen below, compounding blue plum preserve, heard it and smiled;
then sighed to think how seldom that dear laugh would echo through
Green Gables in the years to come. Nothing in her life had ever given
Marilla so much happiness as the knowledge that Anne was going to marry
Gilbert Blythe; but every joy must bring with it its little shadow of
sorrow. During the three Summerside years Anne had been home often for
vacations and weekends; but, after this, a bi-annual visit would be as
much as could be hoped for.

“You needn’t let what Mrs. Harmon says worry you,” said Diana, with the
calm assurance of the four-years matron. “Married life has its ups and
downs, of course. You mustn’t expect that everything will always go
smoothly. But I can assure you, Anne, that it’s a happy life, when
you’re married to the right man.”

Anne smothered a smile. Diana’s airs of vast experience always amused
her a little.

“I daresay I’ll be putting them on too, when I’ve been married four
years,” she thought. “Surely my sense of humor will preserve me from
it, though.”

“Is it settled yet where you are going to live?” asked Diana, cuddling
Small Anne Cordelia with the inimitable gesture of motherhood which
always sent through Anne’s heart, filled with sweet, unuttered dreams
and hopes, a thrill that was half pure pleasure and half a strange,
ethereal pain.

“Yes. That was what I wanted to tell you when I ’phoned to you to come
down today. By the way, I can’t realize that we really have telephones
in Avonlea now. It sounds so preposterously up-to-date and modernish
for this darling, leisurely old place.”

“We can thank the A. V. I. S. for them,” said Diana. “We should never
have got the line if they hadn’t taken the matter up and carried it
through. There was enough cold water thrown to discourage any society.
But they stuck to it, nevertheless. You did a splendid thing for
Avonlea when you founded that society, Anne. What fun we did have at
our meetings! Will you ever forget the blue hall and Judson Parker’s
scheme for painting medicine advertisements on his fence?”

“I don’t know that I’m wholly grateful to the A. V. I. S. in the
matter of the telephone,” said Anne. “Oh, I know it’s most
convenient—even more so than our old device of signalling to each
other by flashes of candlelight! And, as Mrs. Rachel says, 'Avonlea
must keep up with the procession, that’s what.’ But somehow I feel as
if I didn’t want Avonlea spoiled by what Mr. Harrison, when he wants to
be witty, calls 'modern inconveniences.’ I should like to have it kept
always just as it was in the dear old years. That’s foolish—and
sentimental—and impossible. So I shall immediately become wise and
practical and possible. The telephone, as Mr. Harrison concedes, is 'a
buster of a good thing’—even if you do know that probably half a dozen
interested people are listening along the line.”

“That’s the worst of it,” sighed Diana. “It’s so annoying to hear the
receivers going down whenever you ring anyone up. They say Mrs. Harmon
Andrews insisted that their ’phone should be put in their kitchen just
so that she could listen whenever it rang and keep an eye on the dinner
at the same time. Today, when you called me, I distinctly heard that
queer clock of the Pyes’ striking. So no doubt Josie or Gertie was
listening.”

“Oh, so that is why you said, 'You’ve got a new clock at Green Gables,
haven’t you?’ I couldn’t imagine what you meant. I heard a vicious
click as soon as you had spoken. I suppose it was the Pye receiver
being hung up with profane energy. Well, never mind the Pyes. As Mrs.
Rachel says, 'Pyes they always were and Pyes they always will be, world
without end, amen.’ I want to talk of pleasanter things. It’s all
settled as to where my new home shall be.”

“Oh, Anne, where? I do hope it’s near here.”

“No-o-o, that’s the drawback. Gilbert is going to settle at Four Winds
Harbor—sixty miles from here.”

“Sixty! It might as well be six hundred,” sighed Diana. “I never can
get further from home now than Charlottetown.”

“You’ll have to come to Four Winds. It’s the most beautiful harbor on
the Island. There’s a little village called Glen St. Mary at its head,
and Dr. David Blythe has been practicing there for fifty years. He is
Gilbert’s great-uncle, you know. He is going to retire, and Gilbert is
to take over his practice. Dr. Blythe is going to keep his house,
though, so we shall have to find a habitation for ourselves. I don’t
know yet what it is, or where it will be in reality, but I have a
little house o’dreams all furnished in my imagination—a tiny,
delightful castle in Spain.”

“Where are you going for your wedding tour?” asked Diana.

“Nowhere. Don’t look horrified, Diana dearest. You suggest Mrs.
Harmon Andrews. She, no doubt, will remark condescendingly that people
who can’t afford wedding 'towers’ are real sensible not to take them;
and then she’ll remind me that Jane went to Europe for hers. I want to
spend MY honeymoon at Four Winds in my own dear house of dreams.”

“And you’ve decided not to have any bridesmaid?”

“There isn’t any one to have. You and Phil and Priscilla and Jane all
stole a march on me in the matter of marriage; and Stella is teaching
in Vancouver. I have no other 'kindred soul’ and I won’t have a
bridesmaid who isn’t.”

“But you are going to wear a veil, aren’t you?” asked Diana, anxiously.

“Yes, indeedy. I shouldn’t feel like a bride without one. I remember
telling Matthew, that evening when he brought me to Green Gables, that
I never expected to be a bride because I was so homely no one would
ever want to marry me—unless some foreign missionary did. I had an
idea then that foreign missionaries couldn’t afford to be finicky in
the matter of looks if they wanted a girl to risk her life among
cannibals. You should have seen the foreign missionary Priscilla
married. He was as handsome and inscrutable as those daydreams we once
planned to marry ourselves, Diana; he was the best dressed man I ever
met, and he raved over Priscilla’s 'ethereal, golden beauty.’ But of
course there are no cannibals in Japan.”

“Your wedding dress is a dream, anyhow,” sighed Diana rapturously.
“You’ll look like a perfect queen in it—you’re so tall and slender.
How DO you keep so slim, Anne? I’m fatter than ever—I’ll soon have no
waist at all.”

“Stoutness and slimness seem to be matters of predestination,” said
Anne. “At all events, Mrs. Harmon Andrews can’t say to you what she
said to me when I came home from Summerside, 'Well, Anne, you’re just
about as skinny as ever.’ It sounds quite romantic to be 'slender,’
but 'skinny’ has a very different tang.”

“Mrs. Harmon has been talking about your trousseau. She admits it’s as
nice as Jane’s, although she says Jane married a millionaire and you
are only marrying a 'poor young doctor without a cent to his name.’”

Anne laughed.

“My dresses ARE nice. I love pretty things. I remember the first
pretty dress I ever had—the brown gloria Matthew gave me for our
school concert. Before that everything I had was so ugly. It seemed
to me that I stepped into a new world that night.”

“That was the night Gilbert recited 'Bingen on the Rhine,’ and looked
at you when he said, 'There’s another, NOT a sister.’ And you were so
furious because he put your pink tissue rose in his breast pocket! You
didn’t much imagine then that you would ever marry him.”

“Oh, well, that’s another instance of predestination,” laughed Anne, as
they went down the garret stairs.

There was more excitement in the air of Green Gables than there had
ever been before in all its history. Even Marilla was so excited that
she couldn’t help showing it—which was little short of being
phenomenal.

“There’s never been a wedding in this house,” she said, half
apologetically, to Mrs. Rachel Lynde. “When I was a child I heard an
old minister say that a house was not a real home until it had been
consecrated by a birth, a wedding and a death. We’ve had deaths
here—my father and mother died here as well as Matthew; and we’ve even
had a birth here. Long ago, just after we moved into this house, we
had a married hired man for a little while, and his wife had a baby
here. But there’s never been a wedding before. It does seem so
strange to think of Anne being married. In a way she just seems to me
the little girl Matthew brought home here fourteen years ago. I can’t
realize that she’s grown up. I shall never forget what I felt when I
saw Matthew bringing in a GIRL. I wonder what became of the boy we
would have got if there hadn’t been a mistake. I wonder what HIS fate
was.”

“Well, it was a fortunate mistake,” said Mrs. Rachel Lynde, “though,
mind you, there was a time I didn’t think so—that evening I came up to
see Anne and she treated us to such a scene. Many things have changed
since then, that’s what.”

Mrs. Rachel sighed, and then brisked up again. When weddings were in
order Mrs. Rachel was ready to let the dead past bury its dead.

“I’m going to give Anne two of my cotton warp spreads,” she resumed.
“A tobacco-stripe one and an apple-leaf one. She tells me they’re
getting to be real fashionable again. Well, fashion or no fashion, I
don’t believe there’s anything prettier for a spare-room bed than a
nice apple-leaf spread, that’s what. I must see about getting them
bleached. I’ve had them sewed up in cotton bags ever since Thomas
died, and no doubt they’re an awful color. But there’s a month yet,
and dew-bleaching will work wonders.”

Only a month! Marilla sighed and then said proudly:

“I’m giving Anne that half dozen braided rugs I have in the garret. I
never supposed she’d want them—they’re so old-fashioned, and nobody
seems to want anything but hooked mats now. But she asked me for
them—said she’d rather have them than anything else for her floors.
They ARE pretty. I made them of the nicest rags, and braided them in
stripes. It was such company these last few winters. And I’ll make
her enough blue plum preserve to stock her jam closet for a year. It
seems real strange. Those blue plum trees hadn’t even a blossom for
three years, and I thought they might as well be cut down. And this
last spring they were white, and such a crop of plums I never remember
at Green Gables.”

“Well, thank goodness that Anne and Gilbert really are going to be
married after all. It’s what I’ve always prayed for,” said Mrs.
Rachel, in the tone of one who is comfortably sure that her prayers
have availed much. “It was a great relief to find out that she really
didn’t mean to take the Kingsport man. He was rich, to be sure, and
Gilbert is poor—at least, to begin with; but then he’s an Island boy.”

“He’s Gilbert Blythe,” said Marilla contentedly. Marilla would have
died the death before she would have put into words the thought that
was always in the background of her mind whenever she had looked at
Gilbert from his childhood up—the thought that, had it not been for
her own wilful pride long, long ago, he might have been HER son.
Marilla felt that, in some strange way, his marriage with Anne would
put right that old mistake. Good had come out of the evil of the
ancient bitterness.

As for Anne herself, she was so happy that she almost felt frightened.
The gods, so says the old superstition, do not like to behold too happy
mortals. It is certain, at least, that some human beings do not. Two
of that ilk descended upon Anne one violet dusk and proceeded to do
what in them lay to prick the rainbow bubble of her satisfaction. If
she thought she was getting any particular prize in young Dr. Blythe,
or if she imagined that he was still as infatuated with her as he might
have been in his salad days, it was surely their duty to put the matter
before her in another light. Yet these two worthy ladies were not
enemies of Anne; on the contrary, they were really quite fond of her,
and would have defended her as their own young had anyone else attacked
her. Human nature is not obliged to be consistent.

Mrs. Inglis—nee Jane Andrews, to quote from the Daily Enterprise—came
with her mother and Mrs. Jasper Bell. But in Jane the milk of human
kindness had not been curdled by years of matrimonial bickerings. Her
lines had fallen in pleasant places. In spite of the fact—as Mrs.
Rachel Lynde would say—that she had married a millionaire, her
marriage had been happy. Wealth had not spoiled her. She was still
the placid, amiable, pink-cheeked Jane of the old quartette,
sympathising with her old chum’s happiness and as keenly interested in
all the dainty details of Anne’s trousseau as if it could rival her own
silken and bejewelled splendors. Jane was not brilliant, and had
probably never made a remark worth listening to in her life; but she
never said anything that would hurt anyone’s feelings—which may be a
negative talent but is likewise a rare and enviable one.

“So Gilbert didn’t go back on you after all,” said Mrs. Harmon Andrews,
contriving to convey an expression of surprise in her tone. “Well, the
Blythes generally keep their word when they’ve once passed it, no
matter what happens. Let me see—you’re twenty-five, aren’t you, Anne?
When I was a girl twenty-five was the first corner. But you look quite
young. Red-headed people always do.”

“Red hair is very fashionable now,” said Anne, trying to smile, but
speaking rather coldly. Life had developed in her a sense of humor
which helped her over many difficulties; but as yet nothing had availed
to steel her against a reference to her hair.

“So it is—so it is,” conceded Mrs. Harmon. “There’s no telling what
queer freaks fashion will take. Well, Anne, your things are very
pretty, and very suitable to your position in life, aren’t they, Jane?
I hope you’ll be very happy. You have my best wishes, I’m sure. A
long engagement doesn’t often turn out well. But, of course, in your
case it couldn’t be helped.”

“Gilbert looks very young for a doctor. I’m afraid people won’t have
much confidence in him,” said Mrs. Jasper Bell gloomily. Then she shut
her mouth tightly, as if she had said what she considered it her duty
to say and held her conscience clear. She belonged to the type which
always has a stringy black feather in its hat and straggling locks of
hair on its neck.

Anne’s surface pleasure in her pretty bridal things was temporarily
shadowed; but the deeps of happiness below could not thus be disturbed;
and the little stings of Mesdames Bell and Andrews were forgotten when
Gilbert came later, and they wandered down to the birches of the brook,
which had been saplings when Anne had come to Green Gables, but were
now tall, ivory columns in a fairy palace of twilight and stars. In
their shadows Anne and Gilbert talked in lover-fashion of their new
home and their new life together.

“I’ve found a nest for us, Anne.”

“Oh, where? Not right in the village, I hope. I wouldn’t like that
altogether.”

“No. There was no house to be had in the village. This is a little
white house on the harbor shore, half way between Glen St. Mary and
Four Winds Point. It’s a little out of the way, but when we get a
’phone in that won’t matter so much. The situation is beautiful. It
looks to the sunset and has the great blue harbor before it. The
sand-dunes aren’t very far away—the sea winds blow over them and the
sea spray drenches them.”

“But the house itself, Gilbert,—OUR first home? What is it like?”

“Not very large, but large enough for us. There’s a splendid living
room with a fireplace in it downstairs, and a dining room that looks
out on the harbor, and a little room that will do for my office. It is
about sixty years old—the oldest house in Four Winds. But it has been
kept in pretty good repair, and was all done over about fifteen years
ago—shingled, plastered and re-floored. It was well built to begin
with. I understand that there was some romantic story connected with
its building, but the man I rented it from didn’t know it.”

“He said Captain Jim was the only one who could spin that old yarn now.”

“Who is Captain Jim?”

“The keeper of the lighthouse on Four Winds Point. You’ll love that
Four Winds light, Anne. It’s a revolving one, and it flashes like a
magnificent star through the twilights. We can see it from our living
room windows and our front door.”

“Who owns the house?”

“Well, it’s the property of the Glen St. Mary Presbyterian Church now,
and I rented it from the trustees. But it belonged until lately to a
very old lady, Miss Elizabeth Russell. She died last spring, and as
she had no near relatives she left her property to the Glen St. Mary
Church. Her furniture is still in the house, and I bought most of
it—for a mere song you might say, because it was all so old-fashioned
that the trustees despaired of selling it. Glen St. Mary folks prefer
plush brocade and sideboards with mirrors and ornamentations, I fancy.
But Miss Russell’s furniture is very good and I feel sure you’ll like
it, Anne.”

“So far, good,” said Anne, nodding cautious approval. “But, Gilbert,
people cannot live by furniture alone. You haven’t yet mentioned one
very important thing. Are there TREES about this house?”

“Heaps of them, oh, dryad! There is a big grove of fir trees behind
it, two rows of Lombardy poplars down the lane, and a ring of white
birches around a very delightful garden. Our front door opens right
into the garden, but there is another entrance—a little gate hung
between two firs. The hinges are on one trunk and the catch on the
other. Their boughs form an arch overhead.”

“Oh, I’m so glad! I couldn’t live where there were no trees—something
vital in me would starve. Well, after that, there’s no use asking you
if there’s a brook anywhere near. THAT would be expecting too much.”

“But there IS a brook—and it actually cuts across one corner of the
garden.”

“Then,” said Anne, with a long sigh of supreme satisfaction, “this
house you have found IS my house of dreams and none other.”

“Have you made up your mind who you’re going to have to the wedding,
Anne?” asked Mrs. Rachel Lynde, as she hemstitched table napkins
industriously. “It’s time your invitations were sent, even if they are
to be only informal ones.”

“I don’t mean to have very many,” said Anne. “We just want those we
love best to see us married. Gilbert’s people, and Mr. and Mrs. Allan,
and Mr. and Mrs. Harrison.”

“There was a time when you’d hardly have numbered Mr. Harrison among
your dearest friends,” said Marilla drily.

“Well, I wasn’t VERY strongly attracted to him at our first meeting,”
acknowledged Anne, with a laugh over the recollection. “But Mr.
Harrison has improved on acquaintance, and Mrs. Harrison is really a
dear. Then, of course, there are Miss Lavendar and Paul.”

“Have they decided to come to the Island this summer? I thought they
were going to Europe.”

“They changed their minds when I wrote them I was going to be married.
I had a letter from Paul today. He says he MUST come to my wedding, no
matter what happens to Europe.”

“That child always idolised you,” remarked Mrs. Rachel.

“That 'child’ is a young man of nineteen now, Mrs. Lynde.”

“How time does fly!” was Mrs. Lynde’s brilliant and original response.

“Charlotta the Fourth may come with them. She sent word by Paul that
she would come if her husband would let her. I wonder if she still
wears those enormous blue bows, and whether her husband calls her
Charlotta or Leonora. I should love to have Charlotta at my wedding.
Charlotta and I were at a wedding long syne. They expect to be at Echo
Lodge next week. Then there are Phil and the Reverend Jo——”

“It sounds awful to hear you speaking of a minister like that, Anne,”
said Mrs. Rachel severely.

“His wife calls him that.”

“She should have more respect for his holy office, then,” retorted Mrs.
Rachel.

“I’ve heard you criticise ministers pretty sharply yourself,” teased
Anne.

“Yes, but I do it reverently,” protested Mrs. Lynde. “You never heard
me NICKNAME a minister.”

Anne smothered a smile.

“Well, there are Diana and Fred and little Fred and Small Anne
Cordelia—and Jane Andrews. I wish I could have Miss Stacey and Aunt
Jamesina and Priscilla and Stella. But Stella is in Vancouver, and
Pris is in Japan, and Miss Stacey is married in California, and Aunt
Jamesina has gone to India to explore her daughter’s mission field, in
spite of her horror of snakes. It’s really dreadful—the way people
get scattered over the globe.”

“The Lord never intended it, that’s what,” said Mrs. Rachel
authoritatively. “In my young days people grew up and married and
settled down where they were born, or pretty near it. Thank goodness
you’ve stuck to the Island, Anne. I was afraid Gilbert would insist on
rushing off to the ends of the earth when he got through college, and
dragging you with him.”

“If everybody stayed where he was born places would soon be filled up,
Mrs. Lynde.”

“Oh, I’m not going to argue with you, Anne. I am not a B.A. What
time of the day is the ceremony to be?”

I

“We have decided on noon—high noon, as the society reporters say.
That will give us time to catch the evening train to Glen St. Mary.”

“And you’ll be married in the parlor?”

“No—not unless it rains. We mean to be married in the orchard—with
the blue sky over us and the sunshine around us. Do you know when and
where I’d like to be married, if I could? It would be at dawn—a June
dawn, with a glorious sunrise, and roses blooming in the gardens; and I
would slip down and meet Gilbert and we would go together to the heart
of the beech woods,—and there, under the green arches that would be
like a splendid cathedral, we would be married.”

Marilla sniffed scornfully and Mrs. Lynde looked shocked.

“But that would be terrible queer, Anne. Why, it wouldn’t really seem
legal. And what would Mrs. Harmon Andrews say?”

“Ah, there’s the rub,” sighed Anne. “There are so many things in life
we cannot do because of the fear of what Mrs. Harmon Andrews would say.
'’Tis true, ’tis pity, and pity ’tis, ’tis true.’ What delightful
things we might do were it not for Mrs. Harmon Andrews!”

“By times, Anne, I don’t feel quite sure that I understand you
altogether,” complained Mrs. Lynde.

“Anne was always romantic, you know,” said Marilla apologetically.

“Well, married life will most likely cure her of that,” Mrs. Rachel
responded comfortingly.

Anne laughed and slipped away to Lover’s Lane, where Gilbert found her;
and neither of them seemed to entertain much fear, or hope, that their
married life would cure them of romance.

The Echo Lodge people came over the next week, and Green Gables buzzed
with the delight of them. Miss Lavendar had changed so little that the
three years since her last Island visit might have been a watch in the
night; but Anne gasped with amazement over Paul. Could this splendid
six feet of manhood be the little Paul of Avonlea schooldays?

“You really make me feel old, Paul,” said Anne. “Why, I have to look
up to you!”

“You’ll never grow old, Teacher,” said Paul. “You are one of the
fortunate mortals who have found and drunk from the Fountain of
Youth,—you and Mother Lavendar. See here! When you’re married I
WON’T call you Mrs. Blythe. To me you’ll always be 'Teacher’—the
teacher of the best lessons I ever learned. I want to show you
something.”

The “something” was a pocketbook full of poems. Paul had put some of
his beautiful fancies into verse, and magazine editors had not been as
unappreciative as they are sometimes supposed to be. Anne read Paul’s
poems with real delight. They were full of charm and promise.

“You’ll be famous yet, Paul. I always dreamed of having one famous
pupil. He was to be a college president—but a great poet would be
even better. Some day I’ll be able to boast that I whipped the
distinguished Paul Irving. But then I never did whip you, did I, Paul?
What an opportunity lost! I think I kept you in at recess, however.”

“You may be famous yourself, Teacher. I’ve seen a good deal of your
work these last three years.”

“No. I know what I can do. I can write pretty, fanciful little
sketches that children love and editors send welcome cheques for. But
I can do nothing big. My only chance for earthly immortality is a
corner in your Memoirs.”

Charlotta the Fourth had discarded the blue bows but her freckles were
not noticeably less.

“I never did think I’d come down to marrying a Yankee, Miss Shirley,
ma’am,” she said. “But you never know what’s before you, and it isn’t
his fault. He was born that way.”

“You’re a Yankee yourself, Charlotta, since you’ve married one.”

“Miss Shirley, ma’am, I’m NOT! And I wouldn’t be if I was to marry a
dozen Yankees! Tom’s kind of nice. And besides, I thought I’d better
not be too hard to please, for I mightn’t get another chance. Tom
don’t drink and he don’t growl because he has to work between meals,
and when all’s said and done I’m satisfied, Miss Shirley, ma’am.”

“Does he call you Leonora?” asked Anne.

“Goodness, no, Miss Shirley, ma’am. I wouldn’t know who he meant if he
did. Of course, when we got married he had to say, 'I take thee,
Leonora,’ and I declare to you, Miss Shirley, ma’am, I’ve had the most
dreadful feeling ever since that it wasn’t me he was talking to and I
haven’t been rightly married at all. And so you’re going to be married
yourself, Miss Shirley, ma’am? I always thought I’d like to marry a
doctor. It would be so handy when the children had measles and croup.
Tom is only a bricklayer, but he’s real good-tempered. When I said to
him, says I, 'Tom, can I go to Miss Shirley’s wedding? I mean to go
anyhow, but I’d like to have your consent,’ he just says, 'Suit
yourself, Charlotta, and you’ll suit me.’ That’s a real pleasant kind
of husband to have, Miss Shirley, ma’am.”

Philippa and her Reverend Jo arrived at Green Gables the day before the
wedding. Anne and Phil had a rapturous meeting which presently
simmered down to a cosy, confidential chat over all that had been and
was about to be.

“Queen Anne, you’re as queenly as ever. I’ve got fearfully thin since
the babies came. I’m not half so good-looking; but I think Jo likes
it. There’s not such a contrast between us, you see. And oh, it’s
perfectly magnificent that you’re going to marry Gilbert. Roy Gardner
wouldn’t have done at all, at all. I can see that now, though I was
horribly disappointed at the time. You know, Anne, you did treat Roy
very badly.”

“He has recovered, I understand,” smiled Anne.

“Oh, yes. He is married and his wife is a sweet little thing and
they’re perfectly happy. Everything works together for good. Jo and
the Bible say that, and they are pretty good authorities.”

“Are Alec and Alonzo married yet?”

“Alec is, but Alonzo isn’t. How those dear old days at Patty’s Place
come back when I’m talking to you, Anne! What fun we had!”

“Have you been to Patty’s Place lately?”

“Oh, yes, I go often. Miss Patty and Miss Maria still sit by the
fireplace and knit. And that reminds me—we’ve brought you a wedding
gift from them, Anne. Guess what it is.”

“I never could. How did they know I was going to be married?”

“Oh, I told them. I was there last week. And they were so interested.
Two days ago Miss Patty wrote me a note asking me to call; and then she
asked if I would take her gift to you. What would you wish most from
Patty’s Place, Anne?”

“You can’t mean that Miss Patty has sent me her china dogs?”

“Go up head. They’re in my trunk this very moment. And I’ve a letter
for you. Wait a moment and I’ll get it.”

“Dear Miss Shirley,” Miss Patty had written, “Maria and I were very
much interested in hearing of your approaching nuptials. We send you
our best wishes. Maria and I have never married, but we have no
objection to other people doing so. We are sending you the china dogs.
I intended to leave them to you in my will, because you seemed to have
sincere affection for them. But Maria and I expect to live a good
while yet (D.V.), so I have decided to give you the dogs while you are
young. You will not have forgotten that Gog looks to the right and
Magog to the left.”

“Just fancy those lovely old dogs sitting by the fireplace in my house
of dreams,” said Anne rapturously. “I never expected anything so
delightful.”

That evening Green Gables hummed with preparations for the following
day; but in the twilight Anne slipped away. She had a little
pilgrimage to make on this last day of her girlhood and she must make
it alone. She went to Matthew’s grave, in the little poplar-shaded
Avonlea graveyard, and there kept a silent tryst with old memories and
immortal loves.

“How glad Matthew would be tomorrow if he were here,” she whispered.
“But I believe he does know and is glad of it—somewhere else. I’ve
read somewhere that 'our dead are never dead until we have forgotten
them.’ Matthew will never be dead to me, for I can never forget him.”

She left on his grave the flowers she had brought and walked slowly
down the long hill. It was a gracious evening, full of delectable
lights and shadows. In the west was a sky of mackerel clouds—crimson
and amber-tinted, with long strips of apple-green sky between. Beyond
was the glimmering radiance of a sunset sea, and the ceaseless voice of
many waters came up from the tawny shore. All around her, lying in the
fine, beautiful country silence, were the hills and fields and woods
she had known and loved so long.

“History repeats itself,” said Gilbert, joining her as she passed the
Blythe gate. “Do you remember our first walk down this hill, Anne—our
first walk together anywhere, for that matter?”

“I was coming home in the twilight from Matthew’s grave—and you came
out of the gate; and I swallowed the pride of years and spoke to you.”

“And all heaven opened before me,” supplemented Gilbert. “From that
moment I looked forward to tomorrow. When I left you at your gate that
night and walked home I was the happiest boy in the world. Anne had
forgiven me.”

“I think you had the most to forgive. I was an ungrateful little
wretch—and after you had really saved my life that day on the pond,
too. How I loathed that load of obligation at first! I don’t deserve
the happiness that has come to me.”

Gilbert laughed and clasped tighter the girlish hand that wore his
ring. Anne’s engagement ring was a circlet of pearls. She had refused
to wear a diamond.

“I’ve never really liked diamonds since I found out they weren’t the
lovely purple I had dreamed. They will always suggest my old
disappointment.”

“But pearls are for tears, the old legend says,” Gilbert had objected.

“I’m not afraid of that. And tears can be happy as well as sad. My
very happiest moments have been when I had tears in my eyes—when
Marilla told me I might stay at Green Gables—when Matthew gave me the
first pretty dress I ever had—when I heard that you were going to
recover from the fever. So give me pearls for our troth ring, Gilbert,
and I’ll willingly accept the sorrow of life with its joy.”

But tonight our lovers thought only of joy and never of sorrow. For
the morrow was their wedding day, and their house of dreams awaited
them on the misty, purple shore of Four Winds Harbor.

Anne wakened on the morning of her wedding day to find the sunshine
winking in at the window of the little porch gable and a September
breeze frolicking with her curtains.

“I’m so glad the sun will shine on me,” she thought happily.

She recalled the first morning she had wakened in that little porch
room, when the sunshine had crept in on her through the blossom-drift
of the old Snow Queen. That had not been a happy wakening, for it
brought with it the bitter disappointment of the preceding night. But
since then the little room had been endeared and consecrated by years
of happy childhood dreams and maiden visions. To it she had come back
joyfully after all her absences; at its window she had knelt through
that night of bitter agony when she believed Gilbert dying, and by it
she had sat in speechless happiness the night of her betrothal. Many
vigils of joy and some of sorrow had been kept there; and today she
must leave it forever. Henceforth it would be hers no more;
fifteen-year-old Dora was to inherit it when she had gone. Nor did
Anne wish it otherwise; the little room was sacred to youth and
girlhood—to the past that was to close today before the chapter of
wifehood opened.

Green Gables was a busy and joyous house that forenoon. Diana arrived
early, with little Fred and Small Anne Cordelia, to lend a hand. Davy
and Dora, the Green Gables twins, whisked the babies off to the garden.

“Don’t let Small Anne Cordelia spoil her clothes,” warned Diana
anxiously.

“You needn’t be afraid to trust her with Dora,” said Marilla. “That
child is more sensible and careful than most of the mothers I’ve known.
She’s really a wonder in some ways. Not much like that other
harum-scarum I brought up.”

Marilla smiled across her chicken salad at Anne. It might even be
suspected that she liked the harum-scarum best after all.

“Those twins are real nice children,” said Mrs. Rachel, when she was
sure they were out of earshot. “Dora is so womanly and helpful, and
Davy is developing into a very smart boy. He isn’t the holy terror for
mischief he used to be.”

“I never was so distracted in my life as I was the first six months he
was here,” acknowledged Marilla. “After that I suppose I got used to
him. He’s taken a great notion to farming lately, and wants me to let
him try running the farm next year. I may, for Mr. Barry doesn’t think
he’ll want to rent it much longer, and some new arrangement will have
to be made.”

“Well, you certainly have a lovely day for your wedding, Anne,” said
Diana, as she slipped a voluminous apron over her silken array. “You
couldn’t have had a finer one if you’d ordered it from Eaton’s.”

“Indeed, there’s too much money going out of this Island to that same
Eaton’s,” said Mrs. Lynde indignantly. She had strong views on the
subject of octopus-like department stores, and never lost an
opportunity of airing them. “And as for those catalogues of theirs,
they’re the Avonlea girls’ Bible now, that’s what. They pore over them
on Sundays instead of studying the Holy Scriptures.”

“Well, they’re splendid to amuse children with,” said Diana. “Fred and
Small Anne look at the pictures by the hour.”

“I amused ten children without the aid of Eaton’s catalogue,” said
Mrs. Rachel severely.

I

“Come, you two, don’t quarrel over Eaton’s catalogue,” said Anne gaily.
“This is my day of days, you know. I’m so happy I want every one else
to be happy, too.”

“I’m sure I hope your happiness will last, child,” sighed Mrs. Rachel.
She did hope it truly, and believed it, but she was afraid it was in
the nature of a challenge to Providence to flaunt your happiness too
openly. Anne, for her own good, must be toned down a trifle.

But it was a happy and beautiful bride who came down the old,
homespun-carpeted stairs that September noon—the first bride of Green
Gables, slender and shining-eyed, in the mist of her maiden veil, with
her arms full of roses. Gilbert, waiting for her in the hall below,
looked up at her with adoring eyes. She was his at last, this evasive,
long-sought Anne, won after years of patient waiting. It was to him
she was coming in the sweet surrender of the bride. Was he worthy of
her? Could he make her as happy as he hoped? If he failed her—if he
could not measure up to her standard of manhood—then, as she held out
her hand, their eyes met and all doubt was swept away in a glad
certainty. They belonged to each other; and, no matter what life might
hold for them, it could never alter that. Their happiness was in each
other’s keeping and both were unafraid.

They were married in the sunshine of the old orchard, circled by the
loving and kindly faces of long-familiar friends. Mr. Allan married
them, and the Reverend Jo made what Mrs. Rachel Lynde afterwards
pronounced to be the “most beautiful wedding prayer” she had ever
heard. Birds do not often sing in September, but one sang sweetly from
some hidden bough while Gilbert and Anne repeated their deathless vows.
Anne heard it and thrilled to it; Gilbert heard it, and wondered only
that all the birds in the world had not burst into jubilant song; Paul
heard it and later wrote a lyric about it which was one of the most
admired in his first volume of verse; Charlotta the Fourth heard it and
was blissfully sure it meant good luck for her adored Miss Shirley.
The bird sang until the ceremony was ended and then it wound up with
one mad little, glad little trill. Never had the old gray-green house
among its enfolding orchards known a blither, merrier afternoon. All
the old jests and quips that must have done duty at weddings since Eden
were served up, and seemed as new and brilliant and mirth-provoking as
if they had never been uttered before. Laughter and joy had their way;
and when Anne and Gilbert left to catch the Carmody train, with Paul as
driver, the twins were ready with rice and old shoes, in the throwing
of which Charlotta the Fourth and Mr. Harrison bore a valiant part.
Marilla stood at the gate and watched the carriage out of sight down
the long lane with its banks of goldenrod. Anne turned at its end to
wave her last good-bye. She was gone—Green Gables was her home no
more; Marilla’s face looked very gray and old as she turned to the
house which Anne had filled for fourteen years, and even in her
absence, with light and life.

But Diana and her small fry, the Echo Lodge people and the Allans, had
stayed to help the two old ladies over the loneliness of the first
evening; and they contrived to have a quietly pleasant little supper
time, sitting long around the table and chatting over all the details
of the day. While they were sitting there Anne and Gilbert were
alighting from the train at Glen St. Mary.

Dr. David Blythe had sent his horse and buggy to meet them, and the
urchin who had brought it slipped away with a sympathetic grin, leaving
them to the delight of driving alone to their new home through the
radiant evening.

Anne never forgot the loveliness of the view that broke upon them when
they had driven over the hill behind the village. Her new home could
not yet be seen; but before her lay Four Winds Harbor like a great,
shining mirror of rose and silver. Far down, she saw its entrance
between the bar of sand dunes on one side and a steep, high, grim, red
sandstone cliff on the other. Beyond the bar the sea, calm and
austere, dreamed in the afterlight. The little fishing village,
nestled in the cove where the sand-dunes met the harbor shore, looked
like a great opal in the haze. The sky over them was like a jewelled
cup from which the dusk was pouring; the air was crisp with the
compelling tang of the sea, and the whole landscape was infused with
the subtleties of a sea evening. A few dim sails drifted along the
darkening, fir-clad harbor shores. A bell was ringing from the tower
of a little white church on the far side; mellowly and dreamily sweet,
the chime floated across the water blent with the moan of the sea. The
great revolving light on the cliff at the channel flashed warm and
golden against the clear northern sky, a trembling, quivering star of
good hope. Far out along the horizon was the crinkled gray ribbon of a
passing steamer’s smoke.

“Oh, beautiful, beautiful,” murmured Anne. “I shall love Four Winds,
Gilbert. Where is our house?”

“We can’t see it yet—the belt of birch running up from that little
cove hides it. It’s about two miles from Glen St. Mary, and there’s
another mile between it and the light-house. We won’t have many
neighbors, Anne. There’s only one house near us and I don’t know who
lives in it. Shall you be lonely when I’m away?”

“Not with that light and that loveliness for company. Who lives in
that house, Gilbert?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t look—exactly—as if the occupants would be
kindred spirits, Anne, does it?”

The house was a large, substantial affair, painted such a vivid green
that the landscape seemed quite faded by contrast. There was an
orchard behind it, and a nicely kept lawn before it, but, somehow,
there was a certain bareness about it. Perhaps its neatness was
responsible for this; the whole establishment, house, barns, orchard,
garden, lawn and lane, was so starkly neat.

“It doesn’t seem probable that anyone with that taste in paint could be
VERY kindred,” acknowledged Anne, “unless it were an accident—like our
blue hall. I feel certain there are no children there, at least. It’s
even neater than the old Copp place on the Tory road, and I never
expected to see anything neater than that.”