THE first summer Mr. Irving and Miss Lavendar - Diana
and I could never call her anything else, even after
she was married - were at Echo Lodge after their
marriage, both Diana and I spent a great deal of time
with them. We became acquainted with many of the
Grafton people whom we had not known before, and among
others, the family of Mr. Mack Leith. We often went up
to the Leiths in the evening to play croquet. Millie
and Margaret Leith were very nice girls, and the boys
were nice, too. Indeed, we liked every one in the
family, except poor old Miss Emily Leith. We tried hard
enough to like her, because she seemed to like Diana
and me very much, and always wanted to sit with us and
talk to us, when we would much rather have been
somewhere else. We often felt a good deal of impatience
at these times, but I am very glad to think now that we
never showed it.
In a way, we felt sorry for Miss Emily. She was Mr.
Leith's old-maid sister and she was not of much
importance in the household. But, though we felt sorry
for her, we couldn't like her. She really was fussy and
meddlesome; she liked to poke a finger into every one's
pie, and she was not at all tactful. Then, too, she had
a sarcastic tongue, and seemed to feel bitter towards
all the young folks and their love affairs. Diana and I
thought this was because she had never had a lover of
her own.
Somehow, it seemed impossible to think of lovers in
connection with Miss Emily. She was short and stout and
pudgy, with a face so round and fat and red that it
seemed quite featureless; and her hair was scanty and
gray. She walked with a waddle, just like Mrs. Rachel
Lynde, and she was always rather short of breath. It
was hard to believe Miss Emily had ever been young; yet
old Mr. Murray, who lived next door to the Leiths, not
only expected us to believe it, but assured us that she
had been very pretty.
"That, at least, is impossible," said Diana to me.
And then, one day, Miss Emily died. I'm afraid no one
was very sorry. It seems to me a most dreadful thing to
go out of the world and leave not one person behind to
be sorry because you have gone. Miss Emily was dead and
buried before Diana and I heard of it at all. The first
I knew of it was when I came home from Orchard Slope
one day and found a queer, shabby little black
horsehair trunk, all studded with brass nails, on the
floor of my room at Green Gables. Marilla told me that
Jack Leith had brought it over, and said that it had
belonged to Miss Emily and that, when she was dying,
she asked them to send it to me.
"But what is in it? And what am I to do with it?" I
asked in bewilderment.
"There was nothing said about what you were to do with
it. Jack said they didn't know what was in it, and
hadn't looked into it, seeing that it was your
property. It seems a rather queer proceeding - but
you're always getting mixed up in queer proceedings,
Anne. As for what is in it, the easiest way to find
out, I reckon, is to open it and see. The key is tied
to it. Jack said Miss Emily said she wanted you to have
it because she loved you and saw her lost youth in you.
I guess she was a bit delirious at the last and
wandered a good deal. She said she wanted you 'to
understand her.' "
I ran over to Orchard Slope and asked Diana to come
over and examine the trunk with me. I hadn't received
any instructions about keeping its contents secret and
I knew Miss Emily wouldn't mind Diana knowing about
them, whatever they were.
It was a cool, gray afternoon and we got back to Green
Gables just as the rain was beginning to fall. When we
went up to my room the wind was rising and whistling
through the boughs of the big old Snow Queen outside of
my window. Diana was excited, and, I really believe, a
little bit frightened.
We opened the old trunk. It was very small, and there
was nothing in it but a big cardboard box. The box was
tied up and the knots sealed with wax. We lifted it out
and untied it. I touched Diana's fingers as we did it,
and both of us exclaimed at once, "How cold your hand
is!"
In the box was a quaint, pretty, old-fashioned gown,
not at all faded, made of blue muslin, with a little
darker blue flower in it. Under it we found a sash, a
yellowed feather fan, and an envelope full of withered
flowers. At the bottom of the box was a little brown
book.
with leaves that had once been blue and pink, but were
now quite faded, and stained in places. On the fly leaf
was written, in a very delicate hand, "Emily Margaret
Leith," and the same writing covered the first few
pages of the book. The rest were not written on at all.
We sat there on the floor, Diana and I, and read the
little book together, while the rain thudded against
the window panes.
June 19, 18 --
I came to-day to spend a while with Aunt Margaret in
Charlottetown. It is so pretty here, where she lives -
and ever so much nicer than on the farm at home. I have
no cows to milk here or pigs to feed. Aunt Margaret has
given me such a lovely blue muslin dress, and I am to
have it made to wear at a garden party out at Brighton
next week. I never had a muslin dress before - nothing
but ugly prints and dark woolens. I wish we were rich,
like Aunt Margaret. Aunt Margaret laughed when I said
this, and declared she would give all her wealth for my
youth and beauty and light-heartedness. I am only
eighteen and I know I am very merry but I wonder if I
am really pretty. It seems to me that I am when I look
in Aunt Margaret's beautiful mirrors. They make me look
very different from the old cracked one in my room at
home which always twisted my face and turned me green.
But Aunt Margaret spoiled her compliment by telling me
I look exactly as she did at my age. If I thought I'd
ever look as Aunt Margaret does now, I don't know what
I'd do. She is so fat and red.
June 29.
Last week I went to the garden party and I met a young
man called Paul Osborne. He is a young artist from
Montreal who is boarding over at Heppoch. He is the
handsomest man I have ever seen - very tall and
slender, with dreamy, dark eyes and a pale, clever
face. I have not been able to keep from thinking about
him ever since, and to-day he came over here and asked
if he could paint me. I felt very much flattered and so
pleased when Aunt Margaret gave him permission. He says
he wants to paint me as "Spring," standing under the
poplars where a fine rain of sunshine falls through. I
am to wear my blue muslin gown and a wreath of flowers
on my hair. He says I have such beautiful hair. He has
never seen any of such a real pale gold. Somehow it
seems even prettier than ever to me since he praised
it.
I had a letter from home to-day. Ma says the blue hen
stole her nest and came off with fourteen chickens, and
that pa has sold the little spotted calf. Somehow those
things don't interest me like they once did.
July 9.
The picture is coming on very well, Mr. Osborne says. I
know he is making me look far too pretty in it,
although her persists in saying he can't do me justice.
He is going to send it to some great exhibition when
finished, but he says he will make a little water-color
copy for me.
He comes every day to paint and we talk a great deal
and he reads me lovely things out of his books. I don't
understand them all, but I try to, and he explains them
so nicely and is so patient with my stupidity. And he
says any one with my eyes and hair and coloring does
not need to be clever. He says I have the sweetest,
merriest laugh in the world. But I will not write down
all the compliments he has paid me. I dare say he does
not mean them at all.
In the evening we stroll among the spruces or sit on
the bench under the acacia tree. Sometimes we don't
talk at all, but I never find the time long. Indeed,
the minutes just seem to fly - and then the moon will
come up, round and red, over the harbor and Mr. Osborne
will sigh and say he supposes it is time for him to go.
July 24.
I am so happy. I am frightened at my happiness. Oh, I
didn't think life could ever be so beautiful for me as
it is!
Paul loves me! He told me so to-night as we walked by
the harbor and watched the sunset, and he asked me to
be his wife. I have cared for him ever since I met him,
but I am afraid I am not clever and well-educated
enough for a wife for Paul. Because, of course, I'm
only an ignorant little country girl and have lived all
my life on a farm. Why, my hands are quite rough yet
from the work I've done. But Paul just laughed when I
said so, and took my hands and kissed them. Then he
couldn't hide from him how much I loved him.
We are to be married next spring and Paul says he will
take me to Europe. That will be very nice, but nothing
matters so long as I am with him.
Paul's people are very wealthy and his mother and
sisters are very fashionable. I am frightened of them,
but I did not tell Paul so because I think it would
hurt him and oh, I wouldn't do that for the world.
There is nothing I wouldn't suffer if it would do him
any good. I never thought any one could feel so. I used
to think if I loved anybody I would want him to do
everything for me and wait on me as if I were a
princess. But that is not the way at all. Love makes
you very humble and you want to do everything yourself
for the one you love.
August 10.
Paul went home to-day. Oh, it is so terrible! I don't
know how I can bear to live even for a little while
without him. But this is silly of me, because I know he
has to go and he will write often and come to me often.
But, still, it is so lonesome. I didn't cry when he
left me because I wanted him to remember me smiling in
the way he liked best, but I have been crying ever
since and I can't stop, no matter how hard I try. We
have had such a beautiful fortnight. Every day seemed
dearer and happier than the last, and now it is ended
and I feel as if it could never be the same again. Oh,
I am very foolish - but I love him so dearly and if I
were to lose his love I know I would die.
August 17.
I think my heart is dead. But no, it can't be, for it
aches too much.
Paul's mother came here to see me to-day. She was not
angry or disagreeable. I wouldn't have been so
frightened of her if she had been. As it was, I felt
that I couldn't say a word. She is very beautiful and
stately and wonderful, with a low, cold voice and
proud, dark eyes. Her face is like Paul's but without
the loveableness of his.
She talked to me for a long time and she said terrible
things - terrible, because I knew they were all true. I
seemed to see everything through her eyes. She said
that Paul was infatuated with my youth and beauty but
that it would not last and what else I to give him? She
said Paul must marry a woman of his own class, who
could do honor to his fame and position. She said that
he was very talented and had a great career before him,
but that if he married me it would ruin his life.
I saw it all, just as she explained it out, and I told
her at last that I would not marry Paul, and she might
tell him so. But she smiled and said I must tell him
myself, because he would not believe any one else. I
could have begged her to spare me that, but I knew it
would be of no use. I do not think she has any pity or
mercy for any one. Besides, what she said was quite
true.
When she thanked me for being so reasonable I told her
I was not doing it to please her, but for Paul's sake,
because I would not spoil his life, and that I would
always hate her. She smiled again and went away.
Oh, how can I bear it? I did not know any one could
suffer like this!
August 18.
I have done it. I wrote to Paul to-day. I knew I must
tell him by letter, because I could never make him
believe it face to face. I was afraid I could not even
do it by letter. I suppose a clever woman easily could,
but I am so stupid. I wrote a great many letters and
tore them up, because I felt sure they wouldn't
convince Paul. At last I got one that I thought would
do. I knew I must make it seems as if I were very
frivolous and heartless, or he would never believe. I
spelled some words wrong and put in some mistakes of
grammar on purpose. I told him I had just been flirting
with him, and that I had another fellow at home I liked
better. I said fellow because I knew it would disgust
him. I said that it was only because he was rich that I
was tempted to marry him.
I thought would my heart would break while I was
writing those dreadful falsehoods. But it was for his
sake, because I must not spoil his life. His mother
told me I would be a millstone around his neck. I love
Paul so much that I would do anything rather than be
that. It would be easy to die for him, but I don't see
how I can go on living. I think my letter will convince
Paul.
I suppose it convinced
Paul, because there was no
further entry in the little brown book. When we had
finished it the tears were running down both our faces.
"Oh, poor, dear Miss Emily," sobbed Diana. "I'm so
sorry I ever thought her funny and meddlesome."
"She was good and strong and brave," I said. "I could
never have been as unselfish as she was."
I thought of Whittier's lines,
"The outward, wayward life we see The hidden springs we
may not know." At the back of the little brown book we
found a faded water-color sketch of a young girl - such
a slim, pretty little thing, with big blue eyes and
lovely, long, rippling golden hair. Paul Osborne's name
was written in faded ink across the corner.
We put everything back in the box. Then we sat for a
long time by my window in silence and thought of many
things, until the rainy twilight came down and blotted
out the world.
Chapter IX
Sara's Way
THE warm June sunshine was coming down through the
trees, white with the virginal bloom of apple-blossoms,
and through the shining panes, making a tremulous
mosaic upon Mrs. Eben Andrews' spotless kitchen floor.
Through the open door, a wind, fragrant from long
wanderings over orchards and clover meadows, drifted
in, and, from the window, Mrs. Eben and her guest could
look down over a long, misty valley sloping to a
sparkling sea.
Mrs. Jonas Andrews was spending the afternoon with her
sister-in-law. She was a big, sonsy woman, with full-
blown peony cheeks and large, dreamy, brown eyes. When
she had been a slim, pink-and-white girl those eyes had
been very romantic. Now they were so out of keeping
with the rest of her appearance as to be ludicrous.
Mrs. Eben, sitting at the other end of the small tea-
table that was drawn up against the window, was a thin
little woman, with a very sharp nose and light, faded
blue eyes. She looked like a woman whose opinions were
always very decided and warranted to wear.
"How does Sara like teaching at Newbridge?" asked Mrs.
Jonas, helping herself a second time to Mrs. Eben's
matchless black fruit cake, and thereby bestowing a
subtle compliment which Mrs. Eben did not fail to
appreciate.
"Well, I guess she likes it pretty well - better than
down at White Sands, anyway," answered Mrs. Eben. "Yes,
I may say it suits her. Of course it's a long walk
there and back. I think it would have been wiser for
her to keep on boarding at Morrison's, as she did all
winter, but Sara is bound to be home all she can. And I
must say the walk seems to agree with her."
"I was down to see Jonas' aunt at Newbridge last
night," said Mrs. Jonas, "and she said she'd heard that
Sara had made up her mind to take Lige Baxter at last,
and that they were to be married in the fall. She asked
me if it was true. I said I didn't know, but I hoped to
mercy it was. Now, is it, Louisa?"
"Not a word of it," said Mrs. Eben sorrowfully. "Sara
hasn't any more notion of taking Lige than ever she
had. I'm sure it's not my fault. I've talked and argued
till I'm tired. I declare to you, Amelia, I am terribly
disappointed. I'd set my heart on Sara's marrying Lige
- and now to think she won't!"
"She is a very foolish girl," said Mrs. Jonas,
judicially. "If Lige Baxter isn't good enough for her,
who is?"
"And he's so well off," said Mrs. Eben, "and does such
a good business, and is well spoken of by every one.
And that lovely new house of his at Newbridge, with bay
windows and hardwood floors! I've dreamed and dreamed
of seeing Sara there as mistress."
"Maybe you'll see her there yet," said Mrs. Jonas, who
always took a hopeful view of everything, even of
Sara's contrariness. But she felt discouraged, too.
Well, she had done her best.
If Lige Baxter's broth was spoiled it was not for lack
of cooks. Every Andrews in Avonlea had been trying for
two years to bring about a match between him and Sara,
and Mrs. Jonas had borne her part valiantly.
Mrs. Eben's despondent reply was cut short by the
appearance of Sara herself. The girl stood for a moment
in the doorway and looked with a faintly amused air at