Anne of Ingleside (39 page)

She went out and down the hall to the oriel window. All her suspicions and jealousies and resentments had gone where old moons go. She felt confident and gay and blithe.

‘Blythe! I feel Blythe,’ she said, laughing at the foolish little pun. ‘I feel exactly as I did that morning Pacifique told me Gilbert had “got de turn”.’

Below her was the mystery and loveliness of a garden at night. The far-away hills, dusted with moonlight, were a poem. Before many months she would be seeing moonlight on the far dim hills of Scotland… over Melrose… over ruined Kenilworth… over the church by the Avon where Shakespeare slept… perhaps even over the Colosseum… over the Acropolis… over sorrowful rivers flowing by dead empires.

The night was cool; soon the sharper, cooler nights of autumn would come; then the deep snow… the deep white snow… the deep cold snow of winter… nights wild with wind and storm. But who would care? There would be the magic of firelight in gracious rooms… hadn’t Gilbert spoken not long ago of apple logs he was getting to burn in the fireplace? They would glorify the grey days that were bound to come. What would matter drifted snow and biting wind, when love burned clear and bright, with spring beyond? And all the little sweetnesses of life sprinkling the road.

She turned away from the window. In her white gown, with her hair in its two long braids, she looked like the Anne of Green Gables days… of Redmond days… of the House of Dreams days. That inward glow was still shining through her. Through the open doorway came the soft sound of children breathing. Gilbert, who seldom snored, was indubitably snoring now. Anne grinned. She thought of something Christine had said. Poor childless Christine, shooting her little arrows of mockery.

‘What a family!’ Anne repeated exultantly.