XXIII
Miss Lavendar's Romance
"I think I'll take a walk through to Echo Lodge this evening," saidAnne, one Friday afternoon in December.
"It looks like snow," said Marilla dubiously.
"I'll be there before the snow comes and I mean to stay all night. Dianacan't go because she has company, and I'm sure Miss Lavendar will belooking for me tonight. It's a whole fortnight since I was there."
Anne had paid many a visit to Echo Lodge since that October day.Sometimes she and Diana drove around by the road; sometimes they walkedthrough the woods. When Diana could not go Anne went alone. Betweenher and Miss Lavendar had sprung up one of those fervent, helpfulfriendships possible only between a woman who has kept the freshness ofyouth in her heart and soul, and a girl whose imagination and intuitionsupplied the place of experience. Anne had at last discovered a real"kindred spirit," while into the little lady's lonely, sequestered lifeof dreams Anne and Diana came with the wholesome joy and exhilaration ofthe outer existence, which Miss Lavendar, "the world forgetting, by theworld forgot," had long ceased to share; they brought an atmosphere ofyouth and reality to the little stone house. Charlotta the Fourth alwaysgreeted them with her very widest smile . . . and Charlotta's smiles WEREfearfully wide . . . loving them for the sake of her adored mistress aswell as for their own. Never had there been such "high jinks" held inthe little stone house as were held there that beautiful, late-lingeringautumn, when November seemed October over again, and even December apedthe sunshine and hazes of summer.
But on this particular day it seemed as if December had remembered thatit was time for winter and had turned suddenly dull and brooding, witha windless hush predictive of coming snow. Nevertheless, Anne keenlyenjoyed her walk through the great gray maze of the beechlands; thoughalone she never found it lonely; her imagination peopled her pathwith merry companions, and with these she carried on a gay, pretendedconversation that was wittier and more fascinating than conversationsare apt to be in real life, where people sometimes fail most lamentablyto talk up to the requirements. In a "make believe" assembly of choicespirits everybody says just the thing you want her to say and so givesyou the chance to say just what YOU want to say. Attended by thisinvisible company, Anne traversed the woods and arrived at the fir lanejust as broad, feathery flakes began to flutter down softly.
At the first bend she came upon Miss Lavendar, standing under a big,broad-branching fir. She wore a gown of warm, rich red, and her head andshoulders were wrapped in a silvery gray silk shawl.
"You look like the queen of the fir wood fairies," called Anne merrily.
"I thought you would come tonight, Anne," said Miss Lavendar, runningforward. "And I'm doubly glad, for Charlotta the Fourth is away. Hermother is sick and she had to go home for the night. I should havebeen very lonely if you hadn't come . . . even the dreams and the echoeswouldn't have been enough company. Oh, Anne, how pretty you are,"she added suddenly, looking up at the tall, slim girl with the softrose-flush of walking on her face. "How pretty and how young! It's sodelightful to be seventeen, isn't it? I do envy you," concluded MissLavendar candidly.
"But you are only seventeen at heart," smiled Anne.
"No, I'm old . . . or rather middle-aged, which is far worse," sighed MissLavendar. "Sometimes I can pretend I'm not, but at other times I realizeit. And I can't reconcile myself to it as most women seem to. I'm justas rebellious as I was when I discovered my first gray hair. Now,Anne, don't look as if you were trying to understand. Seventeen CAN'Tunderstand. I'm going to pretend right away that I am seventeen too, andI can do it, now that you're here. You always bring youth in your handlike a gift. We're going to have a jolly evening. Tea first . . . what doyou want for tea? We'll have whatever you like. Do think of somethingnice and indigestible."
There were sounds of riot and mirth in the little stone house thatnight. What with cooking and feasting and making candy and laughing and"pretending," it is quite true that Miss Lavendar and Anne comportedthemselves in a fashion entirely unsuited to the dignity of a spinsterof forty-five and a sedate schoolma'am. Then, when they were tired, theysat down on the rug before the grate in the parlor, lighted only by thesoft fireshine and perfumed deliciously by Miss Lavendar's open rose-jaron the mantel. The wind had risen and was sighing and wailing aroundthe eaves and the snow was thudding softly against the windows, as if ahundred storm sprites were tapping for entrance.
"I'm so glad you're here, Anne," said Miss Lavendar, nibbling at hercandy. "If you weren't I should be blue . . . very blue . . . almost navyblue. Dreams and make-believes are all very well in the daytime and thesunshine, but when dark and storm come they fail to satisfy. One wantsreal things then. But you don't know this . . . seventeen never knowsit. At seventeen dreams DO satisfy because you think the realities arewaiting for you further on. When I was seventeen, Anne, I didn't thinkforty-five would find me a white-haired little old maid with nothing butdreams to fill my life."
"But you aren't an old maid," said Anne, smiling into Miss Lavendar'swistful woodbrown eyes. "Old maids are BORN . . . they don't BECOME."
"Some are born old maids, some achieve old maidenhood, and some have oldmaidenhood thrust upon them," parodied Miss Lavendar whimsically.
"You are one of those who have achieved it then," laughed Anne, "andyou've done it so beautifully that if every old maid were like you theywould come into the fashion, I think."
"I always like to do things as well as possible," said Miss Lavendarmeditatively, "and since an old maid I had to be I was determined to bea very nice one. People say I'm odd; but it's just because I follow myown way of being an old maid and refuse to copy the traditional pattern.Anne, did anyone ever tell you anything about Stephen Irving and me?"
"Yes," said Anne candidly, "I've heard that you and he were engagedonce."
"So we were . . . twenty-five years ago . . . a lifetime ago. And wewere to have been married the next spring. I had my wedding dress made,although nobody but mother and Stephen ever knew THAT. We'd been engagedin a way almost all our lives, you might say. When Stephen was a littleboy his mother would bring him here when she came to see my mother; andthe second time he ever came . . . he was nine and I was six . . . hetold me out in the garden that he had pretty well made up his mind tomarry me when he grew up. I remember that I said 'Thank you'; and whenhe was gone I told mother very gravely that there was a great weight offmy mind, because I wasn't frightened any more about having to be an oldmaid. How poor mother laughed!"
"And what went wrong?" asked Anne breathlessly.
"We had just a stupid, silly, commonplace quarrel. So commonplace that,if you'll believe me, I don't even remember just how it began. I hardlyknow who was the more to blame for it. Stephen did really begin it, butI suppose I provoked him by some foolishness of mine. He had a rival ortwo, you see. I was vain and coquettish and liked to tease him a little.He was a very high-strung, sensitive fellow. Well, we parted in a temperon both sides. But I thought it would all come right; and it would haveif Stephen hadn't come back too soon. Anne, my dear, I'm sorry to say". . . Miss Lavendar dropped her voice as if she were about to confess apredilection for murdering people, "that I am a dreadfully sulky person.Oh, you needn't smile, . . . it's only too true. I DO sulk; and Stephencame back before I had finished sulking. I wouldn't listen to him and Iwouldn't forgive him; and so he went away for good. He was too proud tocome again. And then I sulked because he didn't come. I might have sentfor him perhaps, but I couldn't humble myself to do that. I was justas proud as he was . . . pride and sulkiness make a very bad combination,Anne. But I could never care for anybody else and I didn't want to.I knew I would rather be an old maid for a thousand years than marryanybody who wasn't Stephen Irving. Well, it all seems like a dream now,of course. How sympathetic you look, Anne . . . as sympathetic as onlyseventeen can look. But don't overdo it. I'm really a very happy,contented little person in spite of my broken heart. My heart did break,if ever a heart did, when I realized that Stephen Irving
was not comingback. But, Anne, a broken heart in real life isn't half as dreadful asit is in books. It's a good deal like a bad tooth . . . though you won'tthink THAT a very romantic simile. It takes spells of aching and givesyou a sleepless night now and then, but between times it lets you enjoylife and dreams and echoes and peanut candy as if there were nothing thematter with it. And now you're looking disappointed. You don't thinkI'm half as interesting a person as you did five minutes ago when youbelieved I was always the prey of a tragic memory bravely hidden beneathexternal smiles. That's the worst . . . or the best . . . of real life,Anne. It WON'T let you be miserable. It keeps on trying to make youcomfortable . . . and succeeding...even when you're determined to beunhappy and romantic. Isn't this candy scrumptious? I've eaten far morethan is good for me already but I'm going to keep recklessly on."
After a little silence Miss Lavendar said abruptly,
"It gave me a shock to hear about Stephen's son that first day you werehere, Anne. I've never been able to mention him to you since, but I'vewanted to know all about him. What sort of a boy is he?"
"He is the dearest, sweetest child I ever knew, Miss Lavendar . . . andhe pretends things too, just as you and I do."
"I'd like to see him," said Miss Lavendar softly, as if talking toherself. "I wonder if he looks anything like the little dream-boy wholives here with me . . . MY little dream-boy."
"If you would like to see Paul I'll bring him through with me sometime,"said Anne.
"I would like it . . . but not too soon. I want to get used to thethought. There might be more pain than pleasure in it . . . if he lookedtoo much like Stephen . . . or if he didn't look enough like him. In amonth's time you may bring him."
Accordingly, a month later Anne and Paul walked through the woods tothe stone house, and met Miss Lavendar in the lane. She had not beenexpecting them just then and she turned very pale.
"So this is Stephen's boy," she said in a low tone, taking Paul's handand looking at him as he stood, beautiful and boyish, in his smartlittle fur coat and cap. "He . . . he is very like his father."
"Everybody says I'm a chip off the old block," remarked Paul, quite athis ease.
Anne, who had been watching the little scene, drew a relieved breath.She saw that Miss Lavendar and Paul had "taken" to each other, and thatthere would be no constraint or stiffness. Miss Lavendar was a verysensible person, in spite of her dreams and romance, and afterthat first little betrayal she tucked her feelings out of sight andentertained Paul as brightly and naturally as if he were anybody's sonwho had come to see her. They all had a jolly afternoon together andsuch a feast of fat things by way of supper as would have made old Mrs.Irving hold up her hands in horror, believing that Paul's digestionwould be ruined for ever.
"Come again, laddie," said Miss Lavendar, shaking hands with him atparting.
"You may kiss me if you like," said Paul gravely.
Miss Lavendar stooped and kissed him.
"How did you know I wanted to?" she whispered.
"Because you looked at me just as my little mother used to do when shewanted to kiss me. As a rule, I don't like to be kissed. Boys don't. Youknow, Miss Lewis. But I think I rather like to have you kiss me. And ofcourse I'll come to see you again. I think I'd like to have you for aparticular friend of mine, if you don't object."
"I . . . I don't think I shall object," said Miss Lavendar. She turnedand went in very quickly; but a moment later she was waving a gay andsmiling good-bye to them from the window.
"I like Miss Lavendar," announced Paul, as they walked through the beechwoods. "I like the way she looked at me, and I like her stone house, andI like Charlotta the Fourth. I wish Grandma Irving had a Charlotta theFourth instead of a Mary Joe. I feel sure Charlotta the Fourth wouldn'tthink I was wrong in my upper story when I told her what I think aboutthings. Wasn't that a splendid tea we had, teacher? Grandma says a boyshouldn't be thinking about what he gets to eat, but he can't help itsometimes when he is real hungry. YOU know, teacher. I don't think MissLavendar would make a boy eat porridge for breakfast if he didn't likeit. She'd get things for him he did like. But of course" . . . Paul wasnothing if not fair-minded . . . "that mightn't be very good for him. It'svery nice for a change though, teacher. YOU know."