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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.
"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.
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