She took herself up to her bedroom and threw open the curtains to let the weak, sideways light of late October spill in. Then she stood before her mirror and shook down her hair from its ribbon. The shortened lock hung awkwardly beside her cheek. Diana plucked at it with trembling fingers, pensive and wondering.
“Nothing has ever hurt me as much as this,” she thought. “Losing Anne. She was my truest friend, the very best friend I ever had. She is still my friend, no matter what Mother says, even if I may not play with her. She will forever be in my heart.”
But there was something else in Diana’s heart, too—something quietly warm and softly glowing. It was the first blush of a hope renewed… a hope Diana hadn’t even dared to confront or acknowledge until that moment.
“Is it…” she wondered haltingly, “may I… is it all right now if I like Gilbert?”
It had been plain to Diana that Gilbert only had eyes for Anne, from his first day back at school. But Anne had quit school forever, and after more than three weeks of staying home, Diana supposed Anne was as serious as could be about her vow never to return to Mr. Phillips’s class again. Gilbert had little opportunity to see Anne now, and maybe, just maybe, sitting across the aisle from him, as she did… perhaps he would finally turn his attention to Diana. Of course, she couldn’t chase him—wouldn’t chase him, even if she were a girl of seventeen, when chasing boys was understandable and occasionally acceptable. Even if she were as much as hoyden as her mother now thought her to be, the very idea of chasing a boy made Diana blush to the roots of her velvet-black hair.
No, she would never chase after Gilbert Blythe. But she could do her best to make him notice her. And now that Anne was to be forever parted from her side, Diana felt for the first time that she might actually have some hope of catching Gilbert’s eye. It was a very thin and tarnished silver lining to the cloud that hung over her heart, but even the smallest glint of silver gives reason for hope.
Diana combed out her curls before her mirror, then lifted and twisted her long, thick tresses up into a grown-up hairstyle, as she had done before. She tied and pinned it all in place, and this time she didn’t shy away from the sight of her exposed neck and ear lobes. She liked the way she looked, and she thought that in a few years, when she was truly a grown-up girl ready for courting, she could see her way clear to ensnaring Gilbert’s heart. But she would have to start now, while the opportunity to stand out was still there.
“A ray of light which will forever shine on the darkness of a path severed from thee,” Diana muttered, repeating Anne’s pretty words. And she was just beginning to feel that it was a ray of light indeed—that the future held a few bits and bobs toward which she could look with pleasant anticipation—when she caught sight of the shortened lock, swinging beside her cheek. Diana tried to pin it up into her fancy, grown-up hairstyle, but it refused to obey. It swung down again no matter how she twisted and arranged it.
Finally, she sighed, and let all her hair fall back to her shoulders. It was no use looking forward to the future just yet. The present was still too near, and far too painful. She pulled the curtains closed with a peeved flick of her wrist, unable to look upon Green Gables standing solemnly beyond the treetops.
The following week began with a cold, subdued Monday. Diana’s breath hung in the air in soft, white clouds as she walked alone to school. In the weeks since Anne’s departure from school, Diana had mostly grown used to the lonesome way. But no matter how routine the unaccompanied walk became, she never quite shed the small ache of remembrance, the memory of warmer days on those paths and roads with Anne talking dreamily beside her.
Now her boots crunched on the frozen surface of the Birch Path. No snows had yet fallen on Avonlea, but the world was whitened and hardened by frost. Everywhere Diana looked, she saw the cold kiss of winter and felt the promise of deeper chills to come. Every twig that arched above the path, every fern in vale and hollow, every lone leaf that clung to the black forest boughs, was rimed in a delicate white lace. The air smelled brisk and damp, when it did not smell of slow-drifting wood smoke from the farms Diana passed. And her cheeks and eyelids and snubbed little nose tingled with the touch of winter.
The whole island, indeed the whole world, seemed bedded down and resigned to the bleak onset of the season. And so it gave Diana the warmest, thawing thrill, and an uncurling of hope like a springtime seed sprouting, to see Anne, of all people, sitting at one of the desks inside the schoolhouse.
Anne’s return to the Avonlea School caused a real sensation, the likes of which the children had not seen since Charlie Sloane hid a big, hairy-legged spider in Ruby Gillis’s desk two weeks before. Anne sat very straight and sober at her desk, with her hands folded neatly before her, the picture of a model student, while girls and boys alike flocked around her, welcoming her back with all enthusiasm. Anne was such a charming and spirited girl that her presence had been sorely missed. After all, she had provided such great entertainment, the day she broke her slate over Gilbert’s head. Everyone hoped more such demonstrations might be forthcoming; Mr. Phillips was so very dull and the school routine already felt old and worn out, with weeks still to go until Christmas vacation. Anne received each greeting politely, turning to every school friend in turn with a show of warmth and interest, but she did not lapse into any of her wide-eyed raptures, nor did she stir from her desk. She seemed determined to be the pattern of perfection, to take school as seriously as Mr. Phillips himself took it.
Diana wanted desperately to go to Anne, too, and throw her arms around her and weep relief against her shoulder. But she knew if she did, word would get back to her mother. She had no choice but to hold herself apart from Anne, to pretend the brilliant little red-head didn’t exist at all. It was terribly unfair. She watched with envy as Jane Andrews sat beside Anne, and the two girls whispered together while pulling their slates from their shared desk for the arithmetic lesson, which was always first thing in the morning on Mondays. Gertie Pye was already squeaking her pencil atrociously beside Diana. She edged a little farther down the bench, wishing against all hope that Anne could sit beside her once more.
Gilbert Blythe sauntered into the school room just as the bell was ringing. He dropped into his seat across the aisle from Diana, gave her a rakish but not especially meaningful smile, and then, as one of the girls called out Anne’s name so that she could toss her a plum as a welcome-back present, he sat up as if stung by a bee and looked around eagerly. Anne was two rows in front of him and across the aisle. Gilbert’s eyes fastened on the back of her red head, with its neat part and two hanging braids, tied with green dotted ribbons. And by the persistence of his gaze, Diana saw that it would be a very long time before Gilbert looked away from Anne again.
Sighing, she sank down miserably in her seat, only to be elbowed by Gertie as the latter rummaged in the desk for her slate.
The lessons unfolded, with Mr. Phillips making no great fanfare over Anne’s return. But the students kept up their simmer of excitement. As the day progressed, girls passed Anne notes with verses or drawings on them, and Ella May MacPherson gave her a yellow pansy she’d cut from the cover of a seed catalogue. More little presents followed, the kind of treasures school children prized: a pretty glass bottle to hold Anne’s slate water, the instructions for knitting a new kind of lace, and more sweet fruits pulled from farm cellars all across Avonlea. Diana felt terribly conflicted over the show. She loved Anne dearly, and just to be near her again was a treat she had never expected to enjoy. But she was more than a little jealous of all the attention the other girls showered on her Anne, her own bosom friend… and she envied the girls, too, for they were free to talk to Anne and play with her at break times, while Diana was forever barred from her company.
And, of course, there was the matter of Gilbert Blythe. After the lunch hour (during which Mr. Phillips took Anne aside and re-assigned her a seat beside Minnie Andrews, who was too prim for words, but whose staunch presence would discourage all the e
xcitement that now hung around Anne) Diana went inside the school house early. She had eaten her lunch alone, hiding out on the back side of the school, seated at a rickety old picnic table under the bare branches of a huge oak. None of the other girls were yet ready to part company with the prodigal scholar, so Diana was doomed to a solitary state. (Though at least she was obliged to share her apple tarts with no one.) She returned to her desk and would have dropped her head on her arms, to stew in her misery until the classroom filled up again, but she heard a cheerful “Hullo, Diana” from the doorway.
She turned quickly to see Gilbert, tossing a big, red apple and catching it again in his palm. He winked at her, and Diana’s heart skipped several beats… but just when she thought he might say something more to her… just when she thought perhaps she had managed to catch his eye after all, and despite the electrifying presence of Anne in the classroom, he sauntered to Minnie Andrews’s desk and set the apple carefully atop it.
Diana sighed and looked away, all her glad hope withering. So Gilbert had overheard Mr. Phillips changing Anne’s seat, too. The world really was a dull, dark place after all, and the cold of the season had truly set in. Set beside the popular and worthy Anne, Diana felt she had as much hope of shining as the weak winter sun behind a shroud of storm clouds.
The Secret Letters
Winter tightened its grip on the island, drifting snow over the little hollow of Violet Vale, collaring the Dryad’s Bubble in ice, and gowning field and forest alike in a glitter of diamond-white purity. Avonlea was quiet and still, by day and by night. The weight of snow and heavy, dark cloud muted the life that still stirred beneath the ground in dark burrows and secret caves, and all who dwelled in the pretty farm houses, too—those quaint, charming homes whose roofs were capped by snow and whose windows glowed golden-orange with warm, welcoming light.
The silence of winter made Diana feel like an island herself, separated from everyone and everything by a gulf of introspection. And the waters that isolated her were white-capped and wind-tossed, agitated by the feelings that howled about inside her soul like the most unpredictable of storm winds. Diana honestly wanted to be good and obey her mother, for she sensed instinctively that she would never know any peace within her heart if she and Mrs. Barry were forever at odds. But it is so difficult to go along when a parent’s command is unfairly given. Even the best, most dutiful child finds it grating to acquiesce to an oppressive rule.
And so, knowing herself to be an island—a girl apart—Diana braved her mother’s wrath one Tuesday and passed Anne a note in class. She did it when Mr. Phillips was in the back of the room, sitting beside Prissy Andrews and too absorbed in her essay to pay any heed to the goings-on at the front of the class. Diana had written her note that morning in her bedroom, and folded it intricately into a star shape so that no one could tamper with it while it passed from hand to hand to reach Anne’s new desk. The message was far too important for Diana to risk alteration or sabotage. She also sent along a little present for Anne, since she hadn’t yet had her chance to offer up a “welcome-home” gift.
She watched eagerly as Anne unfolded the star and read the contents of Diana’s note.
Dear Anne,
Mother says I’m not to play with you or talk to you even in school. It isn’t my fault and don’t be cross at me, because I love you as much as ever. I miss you awfully to tell all my secrets to and I don’t like Gertie Pye one bit. I made you one of the new bookmarkers out of red tissue paper. They are awfully fashionable now and only three girls in school know how to make them. When you look at it remember
Your true friend
Diana Barry
Anne planted a rapturous kiss on the pretty, folded-paper bookmarker which Diana had given her. Then she whisked a sheet of paper from her desk and bent over it with her pencil—a new, beautifully striped one, which one of the boys had given her on her return to the school. It certainly was an enviable pencil.
Forthwith, Anne’s reply was passed from one desk to another until it reached Diana’s hand. Anne hadn’t folded it into a star—not many girls knew that trick, either—but it was creased into a neat little square, which Diana unfolded as quickly as her fingers could manage it. She was trembling with hope and happiness by the time she read Anne’s letter. Anne promised she wasn’t cross because Diana had to obey her mother. And oh, she declared herself still Diana’s bosom friend (though “bosom” was misspelled.) She affirmed that even if they couldn’t talk face to face, their spirits could commune. That sounded so pretty and poetic that it gave Diana a proper thrill right up her spine.
And thus began the communing of those two kindred spirits, which sustained Diana throughout the long, dreary, dark weeks of winter. She was always careful to write her notes in the early mornings, when Mrs. Barry was occupied with Minnie May and unlikely to burst into Diana’s bedroom and catch her in the act. She did often worry that word might make it back to Mrs. Barry that Diana had become a habitual note-passer, and of course Mrs. Barry would know at once exactly who was receiving her daughter’s missives. But she was always as cautious as could be, leaving her notes safely in her pocket until Mr. Phillips was thoroughly engaged in the back of the classroom and the danger of her being discovered was minimal. In any case, note-passing was a popular vice in the Avonlea schoolhouse. Letters of all sorts circulated surreptitiously around the room, and Diana was no more guilty than any other scholar.
Those notes to and from Anne were a balm to Diana’s soul. For no other girl offered her the kind of friendship Anne did—deep and loyal and devoted, without a hint of the childlike fickleness that marked Diana’s friendships with her other schoolmates. To Anne alone could she trust the dearest secrets of her heart. It made her feel better, less “harrowed up” inside, to write out all her dreams and frustrations, and even to describe the wonderful things she’d seen or the little joys she’d had, knowing that Anne would read every word with sympathy and fellow-feeling. It was good to have a friend who truly loved you, who really cared about what was in your heart and didn’t just pretend to care. It made the world a less wintry sort of place.
Anne never failed to write a response. Her notes were often long and rambling, as was her conversation, but they were also just as brightly colored, just as stirring. Diana could even look past Anne’s creative spelling—which was honestly improving, day by day. She kept and re-read every letter Anne sent.
My dearest Diana,
(one note read)
I was so happy to recieve your last letter, and I am gladened to know that relations are better between you and your mother. I hope they stay that way, for there is nothing in the world I want more than for you to be happy, my sweet busom friend! Many a night have I wept bitter tears for knowing that I was the cause of the strife in your household, tho’ of course I didn’t mean to be, and I still maintain that an orphan shouldn’t be expected to know the difference between wine and rasberry cordial. I think I would actually perish from grief if your mother never gave you a smile again. I know we must remain quite without any hope that she will relent and allow us to play together someday, but I did have a comforting thought last night while I was laying in bed thinking about you, and here is that thought: Someday we will be grown up and then your mother won’t be able to tell us what to do any longer. I suppose that goes for Marilla, too, tho’ she is not as strong-willed as your mother, and I am surprised to find myself writing this, but I believe Marilla is not as “prickly” as your mother either. Marilla is a very “prickly” woman, tho’. But her heart is good. I think your mother’s heart is probly good, too, but her mind gets in the way of her heart and then she “fouls her own traces,” as Matthew says. I am not sure what fouling one’s traces means, but I think it has something to do with plow horses or possibly with harvesting potatos. Do you know?
Tho’ our hearts sorrow in our seperation, dear Diana, we may look forward to the gloryous day when we are real ladies grown up, making our own way in the world and no longer un
der the thumb of older ladies who have the charge of caring for us and seeing that we are brought up proper. It is almost Febuary, which is your birthday month, and then March, which is mine, and then we will both be twelve, and that makes it five more years until we are grown up enough to be our own ladies. Five years does seem like a terrible long time to wait, but Matthew says five years goes by in a blink and Matthew is usually right about things. He is very observant, Diana, and knows so much about everything, even tho’ he doesn’t talk much. So we have only “a blink” until we are big and then your mother can’t infloo (crossed out) influence our lives any longer. I hope that she will repent of her hard cruelty, but I also pray that it will not take any great tragedy to make her repent. Just the passidge of time.
When we are seventeen and grown up I am going to wear my hair up like the lady on the catalog that Julie Andrews has in her desk today. You should ask her to see it at break time. That lady looks ever so fashionable, but I am going to dye my hair raven black, like yours, before I put it up, even though some people say it’s a sin for a woman to dye her hair, but I’ll do it anyway because really there is no point in putting up hair that is red. No point at all.
Until we may embrace again in friendship everlasting, I am
Yours eternally
Cordelia F. Shirley, also known as Anne
Anne’s suggestion that their grown-up futures were not so very far off inspired a flutter of hope in Diana’s breast. That night she read the note again by the light of her little brass oil lamp, then tucked it under her pillow and imagined the dazzling cosmopolitan life she and Anne would enjoy together when they turned seventeen. No more sleepy Avonlea for them! They would have fabulous dresses made, in the most current styles, and go together to Charlottetown or perhaps even to Halifax. There they would enter into glamorous careers—Diana a celebrated singer, Anne a poetess—and they would pool their earnings to buy a grand house like the one Aunt Josephine lived in. In that house, which Diana’s imagination and ambition furnished with the richest velvet drapes, the plushest Persian rugs, and the most fine and delicate settees, the two girls would entertain company from the heights of society, and hear the pleas of hopeful suitors, whose proposals they would turn down with words so charming and gracious that the men would never hold a grudge against them, and would go away still entirely besotted with the wonderful Anne Shirley and the scintillating songbird Diana Barry.
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