“Oh, it’s all so romantic,” breathed Anne to Marilla that night. “If I hadn’t taken the wrong path that day we went to Mr. Kimball’s I’d never have known Miss Lavendar; and if I hadn’t met her I’d never have taken Paul there … and he’d never have written to his father about visiting Miss Lavendar just as Mr. Irving was starting for San Francisco. Mr. Irving says whenever he got that letter he made up his mind to send his partner to San Francisco and come here instead. He hadn’t heard anything of Miss Lavendar for fifteen years. Somebody had told him then that she was to be married and he thought she was and never asked anybody anything about her. And now everything has come right. And I had a hand in bringing it about. Perhaps, as Mrs. Lynde says, everything is foreordained and it was bound to happen anyway. But even so, it’s nice to think one was an instrument used by predestination. Yes indeed, it’s very romantic.”
“I can’t see that it’s so terribly romantic at all,” said Marilla rather crisply. Marilla thought Anne was too worked up about it and had plenty to do with getting ready for college without “traipsing” to Echo Lodge two days out of three helping Miss Lavendar. “In the first place two young fools quarrel and turn sulky; then Steve Irving goes to the States and after a spell gets married up there and is perfectly happy from all accounts. Then his wife dies and after a decent interval he thinks he’ll come home and see if his first fancy’ll have him. Meanwhile, she’s been living single, probably because nobody nice enough came along to want her, and they meet and agree to be married after all. Now, where is the romance in all that?”
“Oh, there isn’t any, when you put it that way,” gasped Anne, rather as if somebody had thrown cold water over her. “I suppose that’s how it looks in prose. But it’s very different if you look at it through poetry … and I think it’s nicer …” Anne recovered herself and her eyes shone and her cheeks flushed … “to look at it through poetry.”
Marilla glanced at the radiant young face and refrained from further sarcastic comments. Perhaps some realization came to her that after all it was better to have, like Anne, “the vision and the faculty divine” … that gift which the world cannot bestow or take away, of looking at life through some transfiguring … or revealing? … medium, whereby everything seemed apparelled in celestial light, wearing a glory and a freshness not visible to those who, like herself and Charlotta the Fourth, looked at things only through prose.
“When’s the wedding to be?” she asked after a pause.
“The last Wednesday in August. They are to be married in the garden under the honeysuckle trellis … the very spot where Mr. Irving proposed to her twenty-five years ago. Marilla, that IS romantic, even in prose. There’s to be nobody there except Mrs. Irving and Paul and Gilbert and Diana and I, and Miss Lavendar’s cousins. And they will leave on the six o’clock train for a trip to the Pacific coast. When they come back in the fall Paul and Charlotta the Fourth are to go up to Boston to live with them. But Echo Lodge is to be left just as it is… only of course they’ll sell the hens and cow, and board up the windows … and every summer they’re coming down to live in it. I’m so glad. It would have hurt me dreadfully next winter at Redmond to think of that dear stone house all stripped and deserted, with empty rooms … or far worse still, with other people living in it. But I can think of it now, just as I’ve always seen it, waiting happily for the summer to bring life and laughter back to it again.”
There was more romance in the world than that which had fallen to the share of the middle-aged lovers of the stone house. Anne stumbled suddenly on it one evening when she went over to Orchard Slope by the wood cut and came out into the Barry garden. Diana Barry and Fred Wright were standing together under the big willow. Diana was leaning against the gray trunk, her lashes cast down on very crimson cheeks. One hand was held by Fred, who stood with his face bent toward her, stammering something in low earnest tones. There were no other people in the world except their two selves at that magic moment; so neither of them saw Anne, who, after one dazed glance of comprehension, turned and sped noiselessly back through the spruce wood, never stopping till she gained her own gable room, where she sat breathlessly down by her window and tried to collect her scattered wits.
“Diana and Fred are in love with each other,” she gasped. “Oh, it does seem so … so … so HOPELESSLY grown up.”
Anne, of late, had not been without her suspicions that Diana was proving false to the melancholy Byronic hero of her early dreams. But as “things seen are mightier than things heard,” or suspected, the realization that it was actually so came to her with almost the shock of perfect surprise. This was succeeded by a queer, little lonely feeling … as if, somehow, Diana had gone forward into a new world, shutting a gate behind her, leaving Anne on the outside.
“Things are changing so fast it almost frightens me,” Anne thought, a little sadly. “And I’m afraid that this can’t help making some difference between Diana and me. I’m sure I can’t tell her all my secrets after this … she might tell Fred. And what CAN she see in Fred? He’s very nice and jolly … but he’s just Fred Wright.”
It is always a very puzzling question … what can somebody see in somebody else? But how fortunate after all that it is so, for if everybody saw alike … well, in that case, as the old Indian said, “Everybody would want my squaw.” It was plain that Diana DID see something in Fred Wright, however Anne’s eyes might be holden. Diana came to Green Gables the next evening, a pensive, shy young lady, and told Anne the whole story in the dusky seclusion of the east gable. Both girls cried and kissed and laughed.
“I’m so happy,” said Diana, “but it does seem ridiculous to think of me being engaged.”
“What is it really like to be engaged?” asked Anne curiously.
“Well, that all depends on who you’re engaged to,” answered Diana, with that maddening air of superior wisdom always assumed by those who are engaged over those who are not. “It’s perfectly lovely to be engaged to Fred … but I think it would be simply horrid to be engaged to anyone else.”
“There’s not much comfort for the rest of us in that, seeing that there is only one Fred,” laughed Anne.
“Oh, Anne, you don’t understand,” said Diana in vexation. “I didn’t mean THAT … it’s so hard to explain. Never mind, you’ll understand sometime, when your own turn comes.”
“Bless you, dearest of Dianas, I understand now. What is an imagination for if not to enable you to peep at life through other people’s eyes?”
“You must be my bridesmaid, you know, Anne. Promise me that … wherever you may be when I’m married.”
“I’ll come from the ends of the earth if necessary,” promised Anne solemnly.
“Of course, it won’t be for ever so long yet,” said Diana, blushing. “Three years at the very least … for I’m only eighteen and mother says no daughter of hers shall be married before she’s twenty-one. Besides, Fred’s father is going to buy the Abraham Fletcher farm for him and he says he’s got to have it two thirds paid for before he’ll give it to him in his own name. But three years isn’t any too much time to get ready for housekeeping, for I haven’t a speck of fancy work made yet. But I’m going to begin crocheting doilies tomorrow. Myra Gillis had thirty-seven doilies when she was married and I’m determined I shall have as many as she had.”
“I suppose it would be perfectly impossible to keep house with only thirty-six doilies,” conceded Anne, with a solemn face but dancing eyes.
Diana looked hurt.
“I didn’t think you’d make fun