The Complete Anne of Green (158 page)
Read The Complete Anne of Green Online
Authors: L. M. Montgomery
Tags: #Study Aids, #Book Notes, #Juvenile Fiction, #Biographical, #Canada, #Family, #Adoption, #General, #Schools, #Girls & Women, #Teachers, #Fiction, #Classics, #Social Issues, #Historical
"Anne, I have just had a letter from Owen," said Leslie, entering with a bright face. "And, oh! I have such good news. He writes me that he is going to buy this place from the church trustees and keep it to spend our summer vacations in. Anne, are you not glad?"
"Oh, Leslie, `glad' isn't the word for it! It seems almost too good to be true. I sha'n't feel half so badly now that I know this dear spot will never be desecrated by a vandal tribe, or left to tumble down in decay. Why, it's lovely! It's lovely!"
One October morning Anne wakened to the realisation that she had slept for the last time under the roof of her little house. The day was too busy to indulge regret and when evening came the house was stripped and bare. Anne and Gilbert were alone in it to say farewell. Leslie and Susan and Little Jem had gone to the Glen with the last load of furniture. The sunset light streamed in through the curtainless windows.
"It has all such a heart-broken, reproachful look, hasn't it?" said Anne. "Oh, I shall be so homesick at the Glen tonight!"
"We have been very happy here, haven't we, Anne-girl?" said Gilbert, his voice full of feeling.
Anne choked, unable to answer. Gilbert waited for her at the fir-tree gate, while she went over the house and said farewell to every room. She was going away; but the old house would still be there, looking seaward through its quaint windows. The autumn winds would blow around it mournfully, and the gray rain would beat upon it and the white mists would come in from the sea to enfold it; and the moonlight would fall over it and light up the old paths where the schoolmaster and his bride had walked. There on that old harbor shore the charm of story would linger; the wind would still whistle alluringly over the silver sand-dunes; the waves would still call from the red rock-coves.
"But we will be gone," said Anne through her tears.
She went out, closing and locking the door behind her. Gilbert was waiting for her with a smile. The lighthouse star was gleaming northward. The little garden, where only marigolds still bloomed, was already hooding itself in shadows.
Anne knelt down and kissed the worn old step which she had crossed as a bride.
"Good-bye, dear little house of dreams," she said.
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Anne's House of Dreams
Etext of Anne's House of Dreams
by Lucy Maud Montgomery
A free ebook from http://manybooks.net/
PUFFIN CLASSICS
A
NNE OF
I
NGLESIDE
L
UCY
M
AUDE
M
ONTGOMERY
(1874–1942) was born on Prince Edward Island, off the east coast of Canada. She lived there throughout her childhood with her grandparents (following her mother’s death in 1876). Readers of the
Anne of Green Gables
series of books will find plenty of scenes drawn from the author’s happy memories of the island and the farmhouse where she was brought up.
Like many a future writer, Lucy Maude Montgomery was not only an avid reader as a child, but also composed numerous short stories and poems. Her first published piece was a poem that appeared in the local paper when she was fifteen years old. Later, after she had finished school and university, she turned her love of books to good effect by becoming a teacher.
She continued to write, and was once asked to contribute a short story to a magazine. She dusted off an idea for a plot she had jotted down when she was much younger – and turned it into one of the most popular books ever written for children.
Anne of Green Gables
was first published in 1908.
Lucy herself said about
Anne of Green Gables
: ‘I thought girls in their teens might like it. But grandparents, school and college boys, old pioneers in the Australian bush, girls in India, missionaries in China, monks in remote monasteries, premiers of Great Britain, and red-headed people all over the world have written to me, telling me how they loved Anne and her successors.’
The ‘successors’ are nine further
Anne
books, all of which are now published in Puffin Classics. Lucy Maude Montgomery continued to write under her maiden name after marrying a Presbyterian minister, Ewan MacDonald, in 1911. And, despite moving with him to Toronto, she continued to set her stories on ‘the only island there is’, and where her heart always remained.
Some other Puffin Classics to enjoy
A
NNE OF
G
REEN
G
ABLES
A
NNE OF
A
VONLEA
A
NNE OF THE
I
SLAND
A
NNE OF
W
INDY
W
ILLOWS
A
NNE
’
S
H
OUSE OF
D
REAMS
L. M. Montgomery
L. M. M
ONTGOMERY
Anne of Ingleside
PUFFIN BOOKS
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
Penguin Books India (P) Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in Great Britan by George C. Harrap & Co. Ltd 1939
Published in Puffin Books 1983
Reissued in this edition 1994
22
Copyright 1939 by L. M. Montgomery
All rights reserved
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-14-194563-7
To W. G. P.
1
‘How white the moonlight is tonight,’ said Anne Blythe to herself, as she went up the walk of the Wright garden to Diana Wright’s front door, where little cherry blossom petals were coming down on the salty, breeze-stirred air.
She paused for a moment to look about her on hills and woods she had loved in olden days and still loved. Dear Avonlea! Glen St Mary was home to her now and had been home for many years, but Avonlea had something that Glen St Mary could never have. Ghosts of herself met her at every turn… the fields she had roamed in welcomed her… unfading echoes of the old sweet life were all about her; every spot she looked upon had some lovely memory. There were haunted gardens here and there where bloomed all the roses of yesteryear. Anne always loved to come home to Avonlea even when, as now, the reason for her visit had been a sad one. She and Gilbert had stayed for a week. Marilla and Mrs Lynde could not bear to have her go away too soon. Her old porch gable room was always kept for her, and when Anne had gone to it the night of her arrival she found that Mrs Lynde had put a big, homely bouquet of spring flowers in it for her, a bouquet that, when Anne buried her face in it, seemed to hold all the fragrance of unforgotten years. The Anne-who-used-to-be was waiting there for her. Deep, dear old gladnesses stirred in her heart. The gable room was putting its arms around her, enclosing her, enveloping her. She looked lovingly at her old bed with the apple-leaf spread Mrs Lynde had knitted and the spotless pillows trimmed with deep lace Mrs Lynde had crocheted… at Marilla’s braided rugs on the floor… at the mirror that had reflected the face of the little orphan, with her unwritten child’s forehead, who had cried herself to sleep there that first night so long ago. Anne forgot that she was the joyful mother of five children… with Susan Baker again knitting mysterious bootees at Ingleside… and was Anne of Green Gables once more. Mrs Lynde found her still staring dreamily in the mirror when she came in, bringing clean towels.
‘It’s real good to have you home again, Anne, that’s what. It’s nine years since you went away, but Marilla and I can’t seem to get over missing you. It’s not so lonesome since Davy got married. Millie is a real nice little thing… such pies!… though she’s curious as a chipmunk about everything. But I’ve always said and always will say that there’s nobody like you.’
‘Ah, but this mirror can’t be tricked, Mrs Lynde. It’s telling me plainly, “You’re not as young as you once were,” ’ said Anne whimsically.
‘You’ve kept your complexion very well,’ said Mrs Lynde consolingly. ‘Of course you never had much colour to lose.’
‘At any rate I’ve never a hint of a second chin yet,’ said Anne gaily, ‘and my old room remembers me, Mrs Lynde. I’m glad. It would hurt me so if I ever came back and found it had forgotten me. And it’s wonderful to see the moon rising over the Haunted Wood again.’
‘It looks like a great big piece of gold in the sky, doesn’t it?’ said Mrs Lynde, feeling that she was taking a wild, poetical flight and thankful that Marilla wasn’t there to hear.
‘Look at those pointed firs coming out against it… and the birches in the hollow still holding their arms up to the silver sky. They’re big trees now… they were just baby things when I came here; that
does
make me feel a bit old.’
‘Trees are like children,’ said Mrs Lynde. ‘It’s dreadful the way they grow up the minute you turn your back on them. Look at Fred Wright. He’s only thirteen, but he’s nearly as tall as his father. There’s a hot chicken-pie for supper and I made some of my lemon biscuits for you. You needn’t be a mite afraid to sleep in that bed. I aired the sheets today, and Marilla didn’t know I did it and gave them another airing… and Millie didn’t know either of us did and gave them a third. I hope Mary Maria Blythe will get out tomorrow, she always enjoys a funeral so.’
‘Aunt Mary Maria – Gilbert always calls her that although she was only his father’s cousin – always calls me “Annie”,’ shuddered Anne. ‘And the first time she saw me after I was married she said, “It’s so strange Gilbert picked you. He could have had so many nice girls.” Perhaps that’s why I’ve never liked her, and I know Gilbert doesn’t either, though he’s too clannish to admit it.’
‘Will Gilbert be staying up long?’
‘No. He has to go back tomorrow night. He left a patient in a very critical condition.’
‘Oh, well, I suppose there isn’t much to keep him in Avonlea now, since his mother went last year. Old Mr Blythe never held up his head after her death… just hadn’t anything left to live for. The Blythes were always like that… always set their affections too much on earthly things. It’s real sad to think there are none of them left in Avonlea. They were a fine old stock. But then, there’s any amount of Sloanes. The Sloanes are still Sloanes, Anne, and will be for ever and ever, world without end. Amen.’
‘Let there be as many Sloanes as there will, I’m going out after supper to walk all over the old orchard by moonlight. I suppose I’ll have to go to bed finally, though I’ve always thought sleeping on moonlight nights a waste of time… but I’m going to wake early to see the first faint morning light over the Haunted Wood. The sky will turn to coral and the robins will be strutting around… perhaps a little grey sparrow will alight on the window-sill, and there’ll be gold and purple pansies to look at…’
‘But the rabbits has et up all the June lily bed,’ said Mrs Lynde sadly, as she waddled downstairs, feeling secretly relieved that there need be no more talk about the moon. Anne had always been a bit queer that way. And there did not any longer seem to be much use in hoping she would outgrow it.
Diana came down the walk to meet Anne. Even in the moonlight you saw that her hair was still black and her cheeks rosy and her eyes bright. But the moonlight could not hide that she was something stouter than in years agone… and Diana had never been what Avonlea folks called ‘skinny’.
‘Don’t worry, darling, I haven’t come to stay…’
‘As if I’d worry over
that,’
said Diana reproachfully. ‘You know I’d far rather spend the evening with you than go to the reception. I feel I haven’t seen half enough of you and now you’re going back the day after tomorrow. But Fred’s brother, you know… we’ve just got to go.’
‘Of course you have. And I just ran up for a moment. I came the old way, Di… past the Dryad’s Bubble… through the Haunted Wood… past your bowery old garden… and along by Willowmere. I even stopped to watch the willows upside down in the water as we always used to do. They’ve grown so.’
‘Everything has,’ said Diana with a sigh. ‘When I look at young Fred! We’ve all changed so, except you. You never change, Anne. How
do
you keep so slim? Look at me!’
‘A bit matronish, of course,’ laughed Anne. ‘But you’ve escaped the middle-aged spread so far, Di. As for my not changing… well, Mrs H. B. Donnell agrees with you. She told me at the funeral that I didn’t look a day older. But Mrs Harmon Andrews doesn’t.
She
said, “Dear me, Anne, how you’ve failed!” It’s all in the beholder’s eye – or conscience. The only time I feel I’m getting along a bit is when I look at the pictures in the magazines. The heroes and heroines in them are beginning to look
too young
to me. But never mind, Di, we’re going to be girls again tomorrow. That’s what I’ve come up to tell you. We’re going to take an afternoon and evening off and visit all our old haunts… every one of them. We’ll walk over the spring fields and through those ferny old woods. We’ll see all the old familiar things we loved and hills where we’ll see our youth again. Nothing ever seems impossible in spring, you know. We’ll stop feeling parental and responsible and be as giddy as Mrs Lynde really thinks me still in her heart of hearts. There’s really no fun in being sensible
all
the time, Diana.’
‘My, how like you that sounds! And I’d love to. But…’
‘There aren’t any buts. I know you’re thinking, “Who’ll get the men’s supper” – ’
‘Not exactly. Anne Cordelia can get the men’s supper as well as I can, if she is only eleven,’ said Diana proudly. ‘She was going to anyway. I was going to the Ladies’ Aid. But I won’t. I’ll go with you. It will be like having a dream come true. You know, Anne, lots of evenings I sit down and just pretend we’re little girls again. We’ll take our supper with us…’
‘And we’ll eat it back in Hester Gray’s garden… I suppose Hester Gray’s garden is still there?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Diana doubtfully. ‘I’ve never been there since I was married. Anne Cordelia explores a lot, but I always tell her she mustn’t go too far from home. She loves prowling about the woods, and one day when I scolded her for talking to herself in the garden she said she wasn’t talking to herself, she was talking to the spirit of the flowers. You know that dolls’ tea-set with the tiny pink rosebuds you sent her for her ninth birthday, there isn’t a piece broken… she’s been so careful. She only uses it when the Three Green People come to tea with her. I can’t get out of her who she thinks
they
are. I declare in some ways, Anne, she’s far more like you than she is like me.’
‘Perhaps there’s more in a name than Shakespeare allowed. Don’t grudge Anne Cordelia her fancies, Diana. I’m always sorry for children who don’t spend a few years in fairyland.’
‘Olivia Sloane is our teacher now,’ said Diana doubtfully. ‘She’s a B.A., you know, and just took the school for a year to be near her mother.
She
says children should be made to face realities.’
‘Have I lived to hear
you
taking up with Sloanishness, Diana Wright?’
‘No… no…
no
! I don’t like her a bit. She has such round, staring blue eyes, like all that clan. And I don’t mind Anne Cordelia’s fancies. They’re pretty, just like yours used to be. I guess she’ll get enough “reality” as life goes on.’
‘Well, it’s settled then. Come down to Green Gables about two and we’ll have a drink of Marilla’s redcurrant wine… she makes it now and then in spite of the minister and Mrs Lynde, just to make us feel real devilish.’
‘Do you remember the day you set me drunk on it?’ giggled Diana, who did not mind ‘devilish’ as she would if anybody but Anne used it. Everybody knew Anne didn’t really mean things like that. It was just her way.
‘We’ll have a real do-you-remember day tomorrow, Diana. I won’t keep you any longer… there’s Fred coming with the buggy. Your dress is lovely.’
‘Fred made me get a new one for the wedding. I didn’t feel we could afford it since we built the new barn, but he said he wasn’t going to have
his
wife looking like someone that was sent for and couldn’t go when everybody else would be dressed within an inch of her life. Wasn’t that like a man?’
‘Oh, you sound just like Mrs Elliott at the Glen,’ said Anne severely. ‘You want to watch that tendency. Would you like to live in a world where there were no men?’
‘It would be horrible,’ admitted Diana. ‘Yes, yes, Fred, I’m coming. Oh,
all
right! Till tomorrow then, Anne.’
Anne paused by the Dryad’s Bubble on her way back. She loved that old brook so. Every trill of her childhood’s laughter that it had ever caught it had held and now seemed to give out again to her listening ears. Her old dreams… she could see them reflected in the clear Bubble… old vows… old whispers… the brook kept them all and murmured of them; but there was no one to listen save the wise old spruces in the Haunted Wood that had been listening so long.