“I’m only making fun,” Diana said quickly, wishing her face wasn’t quite as hot as it was.
“Anyway, there’s no point in liking Gilbert because he’s dead gone on Anne Shirley. Everybody says so.”
Diana’s heart sank like a rock in her chest. “Everybody?”
“Of course, no one ever wrote them up in a ‘take notice,’ because Anne would never stand for it. But it’s plain to see. Gilbert’s set on winning her heart. I think that’s just more proof that he lacks all common sense. Everybody knows Anne hates him. If I were Gilbert, I’d find a girl who actually liked me, and set my sights on her. That would be the sensible thing to do.”
“That’s right,” Diana said with more force than was necessary. “Anne hates him. And anyway, she doesn’t care about boys at all. He ought to be smarter, and stop wasting his time pining after Anne.”
“That’s what I said,” Jane replied comfortably, evidently glad that she and Diana were of the same opinion.
Diana clenched her fists in secret fury and glared at Gilbert as the ball game began to take shape. “It’s plain to see that it doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself to forget about that infuriating boy, and leave him to Anne,” Diana thought. “I will persist in liking him all the same. And it’s not fair that he likes Anne, but not me. It’s just not fair! Hasn’t he known me ever so much longer? And I am a fine-looking girl, if I am a little plump… everybody says so. And I’m nice, and good, and have so many qualities. Why won’t he just see them?”
Diana and Jane quickly abandoned their quest to find more girls, and decided instead to sit under the apple trees and watch the boys play ball. This sudden change in plans, it must be admitted, was most likely due to the presence of Gilbert on the ball field. As the boys ran and threw and rough-housed and shouted, Diana watched the object of her affection with a pensive gaze.
“I must overcome my shyness,” Diana thought as the game wore on, “and ask Gilbert straight out if he could ever like me. It’s terribly unladylike to do such a thing, and Mother would skin me alive if she found out about it. But I simply must know the truth.” Even if the answer was “no,” at least she would have an end to all this mooning and wishing and secret longing. Even if he was certain he could never love anyone but Anne, then Diana would know the truth, and could stop wondering, stop tormenting herself with too-heady dreams of “what if.”
The ball bounced “out of bounds” and rolled beneath the apple trees. Fred Wright came scrambling after it, ducking to avoid the lowest hanging boughs. The ball rolled to a stop right beside Diana and Jane. Diana picked it up and offered it to Fred with a smile that was far happier-looking than Diana felt just then.
“Thanks,” Fred said as he accepted the ball from her hands, with a bow as if the ball were a knight’s sword gifted by a queen. “By golly, Diana, isn’t it a great day?”
Fred was one of the school boys whom Diana had always liked. In fact, all the girls of Avonlea School thought him perfectly sweet and agreeable, even if no one made him the center of romantic daydreams. Fred was one of Gilbert’s closest chums, but somehow when the teasing and tormenting started, he never seemed to be a part of it. He was always ready with a laugh, and had a special knack for making others laugh, too, though never at anyone else’s expense. Round and rather red-faced, he made everybody happy just by the grace of his company. When Diana smiled at him again, she didn’t feel sad or defeated inside anymore. Just for a moment, as she regally accepted Fred’s absurd bow, she felt quite glad to be alive, and content for the world to be ordered exactly as it was.
A moment later, Fred was puffing away, dashing back to the game. Jane rounded on Diana with open mouth and wide, shining eyes. “Diana! Fred Wright likes you!”
The emphasis on that certain word left no doubt in Diana’s mind as to Jane’s precise meaning. She blushed. Diana had never been the object of any boy’s fancy before; she didn’t know what to do, what to say. She settled on a weak, “Do you think so?”
“I know it,” Jane insisted. “I’m awful good at telling when people like other people. They just look at each other a certain way.”
“Well, I didn’t look at him any certain way.”
“That’s true enough,” Jane said thoughtfully. “I guess you don’t like him back, though I can’t see why. Fred Wright is kind and sensible and real good at making a body laugh. I think that’s reason enough to like a boy, and it makes ever so much more sense than liking a rogue like Gilbert.”
“Liking doesn’t happen along such planned-out lines,” Diana pointed out with an air of authority. “One’s heart reacts however it wants. Besides, you admitted yourself that you like Gilbert, too.”
“Yes,” Jane said glumly. “But if I could talk myself out of it, I would. It’s plain silly, Diana!”
Diana sighed. “Plain silly,” she thought, feeling bleak and confused. She watched the ball game resume, frowning as Fred and Gilbert ran together. Fred was perfectly nice; that much was true. And if he did in fact like her, as Jane insisted, then Diana couldn’t help but feel flattered.
But oh, if only Gilbert would feel the same way!
A Select Party and a Singular Disaster
Toward the end of July, when salt-laden breezes blew in from the Gulf to cool the merciless heat of mid-day, Diana began to feel restless and dull. Summers are fascinating and delightful times, with their long, warm days and their ample opportunities for strolling down green paths or along laughing brooks with no work to be done and only pleasant things to think of. But after weeks of idylls, the days can begin to impart a certain sameness that wears on the nerves. It was in this state that Diana proposed a select party to her parents: Only the girls of her age from Avonlea School. It was Diana’s hope that in gathering together they might wring more essence of excitement from summertime before the leaves began to turn and the days to shorten.
Mrs. Barry heartily agreed to the plan. She was glad that Diana had social tendencies. She knew it was not uncommon for girls of that age to cling to one friend only, to the exclusion of all others, and Mrs. Barry was acutely aware of the value of a broad range of friends. She no longer bore any ill will toward Anne Shirley, but as often as Anne and Diana were together—playing by the brook in the middle of the day, roaming the fields at sunset, only parting company when twilight slipped away into full dark—Mrs. Barry worried privately over the health of her daughter’s connections. She thought a party for girls was a splendid idea, and volunteered to set out a real “high tea” to make the occasion especially elegant and memorable.
When word spread about Avonlea that Diana Barry was to host a real tea, not a girl in the village could think or talk about anything else for the week before the event. It was to be the affair of the summer, if the fevered talk could be believed. The result of all this was that Diana found herself rather nervous on the morning of the big event. What if her party didn’t live up to expectations? Perhaps then the Pyes and the Sloanes would laugh about it behind Diana’s back, and she didn’t think it possible to survive such depths of utter degradation.
But Diana needn’t have worried. Mr. Barry made a big table out of a long plank and a pair of sawhorses, and set it out beneath the apple trees, and Anne helped Diana cover it with a nice, embroidered linen so no one could tell it was only a plank and sawhorses just by looking. The girls gathered bouquets of June lilies and early Queen Anne’s lace and the last, faded stalks of May-flowers, and set them out in vases all along the table so that table and orchard alike looked as pretty and fine as the banquet hall at the White Sands hotel.
And then the guests arrived. One by one, carts came up the hill toward Orchard Slope; soon the yard was full of giggling, chattering girls dressed in their party-best. Ruby Gillis had perfectly spotless white gloves, which she had borrowed from her older sister, and which all the guests examined enviously before they made their most civil and dignified compliments to lucky Ruby. Jane Andrews wore a real silk sash of vibrant green, which her m
other had allowed her because it had a small stain on it, though it could only be seen if you looked closely. Minnie Andrews and Carrie Sloane had spent considerable time over the preceding week speculating on exactly how special Diana’s party was to be. Consequently, they had worked themselves into quite a state of anticipation, so that when they saw each other at last, bedecked in their ruffle-edged dresses and flower-trimmed hats, both girls burst into tears of pure emotion, vented after too long a period of fermentation.
When all her guests had arrived, Diana invited them to the “outdoor parlor,” which was what she and Anne had agreed to call the orchard for today only, thanks to how pretty it looked with the table bedizened all in white. Mr. Barry had provided old chairs from the barn (well dusted so as not to soil any girl’s best dress), and, murmuring together like a flock of poults, the guests eagerly went to their places.
“This is ever so nice,” said Julia Bell, looking at the vases of white flowers and the china place-settings in admiration. (To be sure, the pieces were not Mrs. Barry’s best china. In fact, if one looked closely enough, one might note chips on the rims of cups and plates, and mismatched patterns of flowers. But to the girls, the spread could hardly be finer if each piece were gilded and polished.)
“Wait till you see what Mother has made for our tea,” Diana said excitedly. “It’s all so elegant, you could just die.”
Mrs. Barry appeared with two steaming tea pots and an indulgent smile. She greeted each girl by name as she poured, and asked after their mothers’ health, as if she were playing hostess at the most elite women’s group in Avonlea. The girls found it thrilling. Even more delightful were the elegant little egg-salad and cucumber sandwiches that followed, and then darling, tiny scones with clotted cream and strawberry preserves. Last of all came a white cake decorated with walnuts and candied violets. Each girl’s slice was of equal size, with an equal number of violet petals on top.
The girls munched and sipped in perfect contentment. The trees overhead, with their glossy leaves and the bright, hard, still-small jewels of apples, cast dapples of sunlight and shade over the linen and over the glowing faces of Diana’s guests.
“How perfectly lovely,” Ruby said with a sigh as she and the rest of the girls gleaned the last of the cake crumbs from their plates. “I don’t think even the queen herself has ever had a tea so nice.”
Satisfied that her party was a great success, Diana, in her most grown-up and sophisticated manner, invited the girls to stroll and play among the trees. They dispersed in small groups of three and four, strolling happily around the grounds of Orchard Slope.
Diana and Anne found themselves walking with Jane. Good, steady, reliable Jane; Diana was glad of her company. She felt they were becoming really good chums, and it was nice to know that she had other girls to call true friends, even if she still loved Anne best of all. Anne understood Diana as no one else did—as no one else could, and besides, Diana so admired Anne’s free spirit, her undaunted sense of imagination and whimsy. But it was comforting to have a friend like Jane, too, who never allowed herself to be carried off by too robust a fancy.
“Oh, Diana,” Anne said, “your mother was so kind to give us such a beautiful party. Do you know, at one time I thought your mother entirely too stiff and maybe even a little mean, but now I see that she has a most delightful and luminous spirit. Isn’t that a pretty turn of phrase? I read it in a book about a frail young heroine who was a beacon of good morals to all who met her, even though she could hardly get out of bed due to being so ill all the time. Your mother isn’t frail, but I do think she’s delightful and luminous, now that I’ve had her violet-and-walnut cake. Do you think she could be a kindred spirit?”
“No,” Diana said, laughing, “I don’t. She’s not like you at all, Anne. She never imagines anything or has any romantic dreams. But she was awful nice to make tea. You know, the older I get, the more I like my mother. Last year was just terrible with her. She and I were at odds all the time. But now I try to be good, because I know all her strict rules are only because she loves me, and the more I try, the easier she is to live with. I think someday when I’m all grown up and have a husband of my own, Mother and I will be real good friends.”
“There’s someone who will never be a good friend, I fear,” Anne said quietly, narrowing her eyes toward a big apple tree with down-curved branches. Josie Pye was seated beneath it, playing a clapping game with Carrie and Minnie. Minnie missed a beat and Josie struck the back of her hand rather harder than was necessary, then threw back her head with nasty laughter. “I’ve tried and tried to like Josie, and Gertie, too, but I find it impossible. I suppose this is a failing in my own self, because Marilla says that everybody can be liked if you look hard enough for reasons to do so. But I’ve lain awake at nights searching for reasons to like the Pye girls, but none ever come to me. I fear I’ve lost too much sleep in the trying.”
“Everybody can be liked except for Josie and Gertie,” Diana said. “I wouldn’t have invited Josie at all, but Mother said it would be rude not to, since I invited every other girl in Avonlea who is our age, or close to it. I suppose she’s right. But I wish Josie had caught a cold and couldn’t come after all. She’s always dreadfully mean to me.”
“To me as well,” Anne said. “Sometimes I think she’s far snider to us, Diana, than she is to any other girls. But I suppose that, too, is a failing in me… too much imagination. I’m only seeing faults in Josie because she annoys me so. She is probably just as pig-headed to everyone else.”
“Josie is only mean to you two because she envies you,” Jane said.
Diana and Anne both turned to their friend in silent startlement.
“It’s true,” Jane said, smiling ruefully at them. “She’s not the only girl who envies the pair of you, but she’s the only one who’s mean enough to show it.”
“Envies?” Diana said incredulously. “But how? Why?”
Jane laughed fondly. “Why, Diana, surely you know that you and Anne are the most popular girls in all Avonlea.”
“Surely we are not,” Anne sputtered. “The very idea, Jane Andrews!”
“It’s true. All the girls like you both because you’re such good company, and some of the girls like you extra, just because they know how much other girls like you.” Jane shrugged. “And Diana, you’re so good at dressing well and fixing your hair, and you always look so very pretty. And all the boys like you and Anne best of all. It’s enough for anybody to be jealous over.”
Diana and Anne exchanged a puzzled, rather embarrassed look.
“But I don’t want to make anyone jealous,” Diana said. “That sounds dreadful… the kind of thing a Pye would do.”
“You don’t do it on purpose, you goose,” Jane said, linking her arm with Diana’s. “You don’t put on airs, neither one of you. That’s why everyone still likes you so much, instead of despising you. If you ever did put on airs, it would be enough to turn all the girls against you.”
(Feminine society has ever been disastrously fickle, even among little country girls.)
“I don’t believe it,” Anne said flatly. “It strains credulity. The only boy who has ever shown me a bit of attention is Gil…” She trailed off, face flaming red, then resumed, “… is one boy in particular, and he was only teasing me to be cruel.”
“That’s what you think,” Jane said mysteriously. “But I don’t get jealous, because I like everyone just the same, and I know there are enough boys for every one of us to have a beau when we get older. It’s not as if there was a shortage of them in Avonlea. I think envy about such things is just plain silly.”
Diana, too flustered by the subject to continue with it, brought up another, and the conversation soon tacked in another direction. But she continued to think about what Jane had said. Diana was popular? She had never noticed, but perhaps this very party was proof that what Jane said was true. And… boys liked her? That couldn’t be true at all. Gilbert only had eyes for Anne; if Diana was the darli
ng of every boy in the school, then Gilbert wouldn’t be so oblivious to her very existence!
Once again, an unwelcome wave of envy for Anne, her own dearest and most valued friend, rose up as if to drown Diana in bitter sorrow. She hugged Jane a little closer as they walked, moving subtly away from Anne. It was simply too painful to be close to Anne now, when she recalled all the complexities of their friendship. How could she love a friend so much—to the point that Diana honestly felt she might die of heartache if she were deprived of Anne’s friendship—yet also feel so embittered toward her? It wasn’t Anne’s fault that she was loved by so many… that she was pretty and delicate and enchanting. Anne didn’t try to be so fascinating. Yet Anne’s natural charms hurt Diana secretly, all the same.
“Oh, look over there,” Anne said suddenly, drawing Diana’s and Jane’s attention over to the barn. “What are they doing? Let’s go see.”
Two of the smaller groups of girls had merged into one ragged circle, and some kind of commotion was going on within it. Diana could see somebody’s flowered hat bouncing up and down as if the wearer were hopping in place. Now and then a pair of hands flew up and twirled in the air as the jumper tried to catch her balance. When they reached the circle, Diana saw that a game of dares had sprung up.
Dares were the most popular form of entertainment that year among the Avonlea scholars. Although the boys had begun the tradition, the girls had taken to it with real appetite, for contrary to what most people think, girls enjoy thrills just as much as boys do. Dares were, by that time, so important that to refuse one was to forever smirch one’s honor. Consequently, Julia Bell was engaged in hopping on one foot to a count of fifty, without ever putting the other foot down. The girls counted each hop with intense focus, and Julia’s face was grim with the same intensity as she busily hopped away. Nothing less than Julia’s reputation for bravery and gumption were at stake.
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