Put on your
white organdy, by all means,
Anne," advised Diana
decidedly.
They were together in the east
gable chamber; outside it was
only twilight--a lovely yellowish-green
twilight with a clear-blue cloudless
sky. A big round moon, slowly
deepening from her pallid luster
into burnished silver, hung over
the Haunted Wood; the air was
full of sweet summer sounds--sleepy
birds twittering, freakish breezes,
faraway voices and laughter.
But in Anne's room the blind
was drawn and the lamp lighted,
for an important toilet was being
made.
The east gable was a very different
place from what it had been on
that night four years before,
when Anne had felt its bareness
penetrate to the marrow of her
spirit with its inhospitable
chill. Changes had crept in,
Marilla conniving at them resignedly,
until it was as sweet and dainty
a nest as a young girl could
desire.
The velvet
carpet with the pink roses
and the pink silk
curtains of Anne's early visions
had certainly never materialized;
but her dreams had kept pace
with her growth, and it is not
probable she lamented them. The
floor was covered with a pretty
matting, and the curtains that
softened the high window and
fluttered in the vagrant breezes
were of pale-green art muslin.
The walls, hung not with gold
and silver brocade tapestry,
but with a dainty apple-blossom
paper, were adorned with a few
good pictures given Anne by Mrs.
Allan. Miss Stacy's photograph
occupied the place of honor,
and Anne made a sentimental point
of keeping fresh flowers on the
bracket under it. Tonight a spike
of white lilies faintly perfumed
the room like the dream of a
fragrance. There was no "mahogany
furniture," but there was a white-painted
bookcase filled with books, a
cushioned wicker rocker, a toilet
table befrilled with white muslin,
a quaint, gilt-framed mirror
with chubby pink Cupids and purple
grapes painted over its arched
top, that used to hang in the
spare room, and a low white bed.
Anne was dressing for a concert
at the White Sands Hotel. The
guests had got it up in aid of
the Charlottetown hospital, and
had hunted out all the available
amateur talent in the surrounding
districts to help it along. Bertha
Sampson and Pearl Clay of the
White Sands Baptist choir had
been asked to sing a duet; Milton
Clark of Newbridge was to give
a violin solo; Winnie Adella
Blair of Carmody was to sing
a Scotch ballad; and Laura Spencer
of Spencervale and Anne Shirley
of Avonlea were to recite.
As Anne would
have said at one time, it was "an epoch in
her life," and she was deliciously
athrill with the excitement of
it. Matthew was in the seventh
heaven of gratified pride over
the honor conferred on his Anne
and Marilla was not far behind,
although she would have died
rather than admit it, and said
she didn't think it was very
proper for a lot of young folks
to be gadding over to the hotel
without any responsible person
with them.
Anne and Diana were to drive
over with Jane Andrews and her
brother Billy in their double-seated
buggy; and several other Avonlea
girls and boys were going too.
There was a party of visitors
expected out from town, and after
the concert a supper was to be
given to the performers.
"Do you really think the organdy
will be best?" queried Anne anxiously. "I
don't think it's as pretty as
my blue-flowered muslin--and
it certainly isn't so fashionable."
"But it suits you ever so much
better," said Diana. "It's so
soft and frilly and clinging.
The muslin is stiff, and makes
you look too dressed up. But
the organdy seems as if it grew
on you."
Anne sighed and yielded. Diana
was beginning to have a reputation
for notable taste in dressing,
and her advice on such subjects
was much sought after. She was
looking very pretty herself on
this particular night in a dress
of the lovely wild-rose pink,
from which Anne was forever debarred;
but she was not to take any part
in the concert, so her appearance
was of minor importance. All
her pains were bestowed upon
Anne, who, she vowed, must, for
the credit of Avonlea, be dressed
and combed and adorned to the
Queen's taste.
"Pull out that
frill a little more--so; here,
let me tie your
sash; now for your slippers.
I'm going to braid your hair
in two thick braids, and tie
them halfway up with big white
bows--no, don't pull out a single
curl over your forehead--just
have the soft part. There is
no way you do your hair suits
you so well, Anne, and Mrs. Allan
says you look like a Madonna
when you part it so. I shall
fasten this little white house
rose just behind your ear. There
was just one on my bush, and
I saved it for you."
"Shall I put my pearl beads
on?" asked Anne. "Matthew brought
me a string from town last week,
and I know he'd like to see them
on me."
Diana pursed up her lips, put
her black head on one side critically,
and finally pronounced in favor
of the beads, which were thereupon
tied around Anne's slim milk-white
throat.
"There's something so stylish
about you, Anne," said Diana,
with unenvious admiration. "You
hold your head with such an air.
I suppose it's your figure. I
am just a dumpling. I've always
been afraid of it, and now I
know it is so. Well, I suppose
I shall just have to resign myself
to it."
"But you have such dimples," said
Anne, smiling affectionately
into the pretty, vivacious face
so near her own. "Lovely dimples,
like little dents in cream. I
have given up all hope of dimples.
My dimple-dream will never come
true; but so many of my dreams
have that I mustn't complain.
Am I all ready now?"
"All ready," assured Diana,
as Marilla appeared in the doorway,
a gaunt figure with grayer hair
than of yore and no fewer angles,
but with a much softer face. "Come
right in and look at our elocutionist,
Marilla. Doesn't she look lovely?"
Marilla emitted a sound between
a sniff and a grunt.
"She looks
neat and proper. I like that
way of fixing her
hair. But I expect she'll ruin
that dress driving over there
in the dust and dew with it,
and it looks most too thin for
these damp nights. Organdy's
the most unserviceable stuff
in the world anyhow, and I told
Matthew so when he got it. But
there is no use in saying anything
to Matthew nowadays. Time was
when he would take my advice,
but now he just buys things for
Anne regardless, and the clerks
at Carmody know they can palm
anything off on him. Just let
them tell him a thing is pretty
and fashionable, and Matthew
plunks his money down for it.
Mind you keep your skirt clear
of the wheel, Anne, and put your
warm jacket on."
Then Marilla stalked downstairs,
thinking proudly how sweet Anne
looked, with that
"One moonbeam
from the forehead to the crown"
and regretting that she could
not go to the concert herself
to hear her girl recite.
"I wonder if it IS too damp
for my dress," said Anne anxiously.
"Not a bit of it," said Diana,
pulling up the window blind. "It's
a perfect night, and there won't
be any dew. Look at the moonlight."
"I'm so glad my window looks
east into the sunrising," said
Anne, going over to Diana. "It's
so splendid to see the morning
coming up over those long hills
and glowing through those sharp
fir tops. It's new every morning,
and I feel as if I washed my
very soul in that bath of earliest
sunshine. Oh, Diana, I love this
little room so dearly. I don't
know how I'll get along without
it when I go to town next month."
"Don't speak of your going
away tonight," begged Diana. "I
don't want to think of it, it
makes me so miserable, and I
do want to have a good time this
evening. What are you going to
recite, Anne? And are you nervous?"
"Not a bit.
I've recited so often in public
I don't mind
at all now. I've decided to give
`The Maiden's Vow.' It's so pathetic.
Laura Spencer is going to give
a comic recitation, but I'd rather
make people cry than laugh."
"What will
you recite if they encore you?"
"They won't dream of encoring
me," scoffed Anne, who was not
without her own secret hopes
that they would, and already
visioned herself telling Matthew
all about it at the next morning's
breakfast table. "There are Billy
and Jane now-- I hear the wheels.
Come on."
Billy Andrews insisted that
Anne should ride on the front
seat with him, so she unwillingly
climbed up. She would have much
preferred to sit back with the
girls, where she could have laughed
and chattered to her heart's
content. There was not much of
either laughter or chatter in
Billy. He was a big, fat, stolid
youth of twenty, with a round,
expressionless face, and a painful
lack of conversational gifts.
But he admired Anne immensely,
and was puffed up with pride
over the prospect of driving
to White Sands with that slim,
upright figure beside him.
Anne, by dint of talking over
her shoulder to the girls and
occasionally passing a sop of
civility to Billy--who grinned
and chuckled and never could
think of any reply until it was
too late--contrived to enjoy
the drive in spite of all. It
was a night for enjoyment. The
road was full of buggies, all
bound for the hotel, and laughter,
silver clear, echoed and reechoed
along it. When they reached the
hotel it was a blaze of light
from top to bottom. They were
met by the ladies of the concert
committee, one of whom took Anne
off to the performers' dressing
room which was filled with the
members of a Charlottetown Symphony
Club, among whom Anne felt suddenly
shy and frightened and countrified.
Her dress, which, in the east
gable, had seemed so dainty and
pretty, now seemed simple and
plain--too simple and plain,
she thought, among all the silks
and laces that glistened and
rustled around her. What were
her pearl beads compared to the
diamonds of the big, handsome
lady near her? And how poor her
one wee white rose must look
beside all the hothouse flowers
the others wore! Anne laid her
hat and jacket away, and shrank
miserably into a corner. She
wished herself back in the white
room at Green Gables.
It was still
worse on the platform of the
big concert hall of the
hotel, where she presently found
herself. The electric lights
dazzled her eyes, the perfume
and hum bewildered her. She wished
she were sitting down in the
audience with Diana and Jane,
who seemed to be having a splendid
time away at the back. She was
wedged in between a stout lady
in pink silk and a tall, scornful-looking
girl in a white-lace dress. The
stout lady occasionally turned
her head squarely around and
surveyed Anne through her eyeglasses
until Anne, acutely sensitive
of being so scrutinized, felt
that she must scream aloud; and
the white-lace girl kept talking
audibly to her next neighbor
about the "country bumpkins" and "rustic
belles" in the audience, languidly
anticipating "such fun" from
the displays of local talent
on the program. Anne believed
that she would hate that white-lace
girl to the end of life.
Unfortunately for Anne, a professional
elocutionist was staying at the
hotel and had consented to recite.
She was a lithe, dark-eyed woman
in a wonderful gown of shimmering
gray stuff like woven moonbeams,
with gems on her neck and in
her dark hair. She had a marvelously
flexible voice and wonderful
power of expression; the audience
went wild over her selection.
Anne, forgetting all about herself
and her troubles for the time,
listened with rapt and shining
eyes; but when the recitation
ended she suddenly put her hands
over her face. She could never
get up and recite after that--never.
Had she ever thought she could
recite? Oh, if she were only
back at Green Gables!
At this unpropitious moment
her name was called. Somehow
Anne--who did not notice the
rather guilty little start of
surprise the white-lace girl
gave, and would not have understood
the subtle compliment implied
therein if she had--got on her
feet, and moved dizzily out to
the front. She was so pale that
Diana and Jane, down in the audience,
clasped each other's hands in
nervous sympathy.
Anne was the
victim of an overwhelming attack
of stage fright. Often
as she had recited in public,
she had never before faced such
an audience as this, and the
sight of it paralyzed her energies
completely. Everything was so
strange, so brilliant, so bewildering--the
rows of ladies in evening dress,
the critical faces, the whole
atmosphere of wealth and culture
about her. Very different this
from the plain benches at the
Debating Club, filled with the
homely, sympathetic faces of
friends and neighbors. These
people, she thought, would be
merciless critics. Perhaps, like
the white-lace girl, they anticipated
amusement from her "rustic" efforts.
She felt hopelessly, helplessly
ashamed and miserable. Her knees
trembled, her heart fluttered,
a horrible faintness came over
her; not a word could she utter,
and the next moment she would
have fled from the platform despite
the humiliation which, she felt,
must ever after be her portion
if she did so.
But suddenly, as her dilated,
frightened eyes gazed out over
the audience, she saw Gilbert
Blythe away at the back of the
room, bending forward with a
smile on his face--a smile which
seemed to Anne at once triumphant
and taunting. In reality it was
nothing of the kind. Gilbert
was merely smiling with appreciation
of the whole affair in general
and of the effect produced by
Anne's slender white form and
spiritual face against a background
of palms in particular. Josie
Pye, whom he had driven over,
sat beside him, and her face
certainly was both triumphant
and taunting. But Anne did not
see Josie, and would not have
cared if she had. She drew a
long breath and flung her head
up proudly, courage and determination
tingling over her like an electric
shock. She WOULD NOT fail before
Gilbert Blythe--he should never
be able to laugh at her, never,
never! Her fright and nervousness
vanished; and she began her recitation,
her clear, sweet voice reaching
to the farthest corner of the
room without a tremor or a break.
Self-possession was fully restored
to her, and in the reaction from
that horrible moment of powerlessness
she recited as she had never
done before. When she finished
there were bursts of honest applause.
Anne, stepping back to her seat,
blushing with shyness and delight,
found her hand vigorously clasped
and shaken by the stout lady
in pink silk.
"My dear, you did splendidly," she
puffed. "I've been crying like
a baby, actually I have. There,
they're encoring you-- they're
bound to have you back!"
"Oh, I can't go," said Anne
confusedly. "But yet--I must,
or Matthew will be disappointed.
He said they would encore me."
"Then don't disappoint Matthew," said
the pink lady, laughing.
Smiling, blushing, limpid eyed,
Anne tripped back and gave a
quaint, funny little selection
that captivated her audience
still further. The rest of the
evening was quite a little triumph
for her.
When the concert
was over, the stout, pink lady--who
was
the wife of an American millionaire--took
her under her wing, and introduced
her to everybody; and everybody
was very nice to her. The professional
elocutionist, Mrs. Evans, came
and chatted with her, telling
her that she had a charming voice
and "interpreted" her selections
beautifully. Even the white-lace
girl paid her a languid little
compliment. They had supper in
the big, beautifully decorated
dining room; Diana and Jane were
invited to partake of this, also,
since they had come with Anne,
but Billy was nowhere to be found,
having decamped in mortal fear
of some such invitation. He was
in waiting for them, with the
team, however, when it was all
over, and the three girls came
merrily out into the calm, white
moonshine radiance. Anne breathed
deeply, and looked into the clear
sky beyond the dark boughs of
the firs.
Oh, it was good to be out again
in the purity and silence of
the night! How great and still
and wonderful everything was,
with the murmur of the sea sounding
through it and the darkling cliffs
beyond like grim giants guarding
enchanted coasts.
"Hasn't it been a perfectly
splendid time?" sighed Jane,
as they drove away. "I just wish
I was a rich American and could
spend my summer at a hotel and
wear jewels and low-necked dresses
and have ice cream and chicken
salad every blessed day. I'm
sure it would be ever so much
more fun than teaching school.
Anne, your recitation was simply
great, although I thought at
first you were never going to
begin. I think it was better
than Mrs. Evans's."
"Oh, no, don't say things like
that, Jane," said Anne quickly, "because
it sounds silly. It couldn't
be better than Mrs. Evans's,
you know, for she is a professional,
and I'm only a schoolgirl, with
a little knack of reciting. I'm
quite satisfied if the people
just liked mine pretty well."
"I've a compliment for you,
Anne," said Diana. "At least
I think it must be a compliment
because of the tone he said it
in. Part of it was anyhow. There
was an American sitting behind
Jane and me--such a romantic-looking
man, with coal-black hair and
eyes. Josie Pye says he is a
distinguished artist, and that
her mother's cousin in Boston
is married to a man that used
to go to school with him. Well,
we heard him say--didn't we,
Jane?--`Who is that girl on the
platform with the splendid Titian
hair? She has a face I should
like to paint.' There now, Anne.
But what does Titian hair mean?"
"Being interpreted it means
plain red, I guess," laughed
Anne. "Titian was a very famous
artist who liked to paint red-haired
women."
"DID you see all the diamonds
those ladies wore?" sighed Jane. "They
were simply dazzling. Wouldn't
you just love to be rich, girls?"
"We ARE rich," said Anne staunchly. "Why,
we have sixteen years to our
credit, and we're happy as queens,
and we've all got imaginations,
more or less. Look at that sea,
girls--all silver and shadow
and vision of things not seen.
We couldn't enjoy its loveliness
any more if we had millions of
dollars and ropes of diamonds.
You wouldn't change into any
of those women if you could.
Would you want to be that white-lace
girl and wear a sour look all
your life, as if you'd been born
turning up your nose at the world?
Or the pink lady, kind and nice
as she is, so stout and short
that you'd really no figure at
all? Or even Mrs. Evans, with
that sad, sad look in her eyes?
She must have been dreadfully
unhappy sometime to have such
a look. You KNOW you wouldn't,
Jane Andrews!"
"I DON'T know--exactly," said
Jane unconvinced. "I think diamonds
would comfort a person for a
good deal."
"Well, I don't want to be anyone
but myself, even if I go uncomforted
by diamonds all my life," declared
Anne. "I'm quite content to be
Anne of Green Gables, with my
string of pearl beads. I know
Matthew gave me as much love
with them as ever went with Madame
the Pink Lady's jewels."
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