Orchard Slope was silent, save for the soft chiming of the mantel clock downstairs. It struck midnight. The light in Anne’s window went out. Diana assumed the family had gone to bed long before, and, yawning, she thought perhaps it was time for her to sleep, too. She had read more than enough for one night. But as she stood to blow out her lamp, there was a soft tap at her door.
Diana opened it to reveal Mrs. Barry, dressed as Diana was in a nightgown, holding a candle with a timidly flickering flame.
“Mother,” Diana said in surprise. “Why are you still up?”
Mrs. Barry pressed her lips together for a moment, then said in a rather contrite voice, “May I come in, Diana?”
Diana stepped back to let her mother inside. Mrs. Barry set the candle aside and sat on Diana’s bed. After a moment, Diana joined her, folding up her legs beneath her night dress.
“I… I couldn’t sleep,” Mrs. Barry began shakily, “because of our quarrel, Diana.”
With her newfound patience and wisdom, Diana waited silently for her mother to go on.
“I wronged you, by accusing you. And I apologize.”
The words sounded as if Mr. Bell’s team of draft horses had dragged them from her mother’s throat, but Diana could forgive the reluctance. She knew how rare it was to hear Mrs. Barry apologize for anything.
“Thank you, Mother,” she said, rather startled. “But… you know I have always been truthful with you, and have done my best to be good and mind my reputation. Except for my one mistake with Marilla’s currant wine… and that wasn’t really my fault. Why were you so suspicious of me, Mother? Why did you get so angry over such a little thing? I don’t understand.”
“Oh…” Mrs. Barry said in a choked voice. “Oh…” And then, to Diana’s astonishment, she turned her face away and swiped quickly at her eyes, then clasped her hands in her lap.
Mrs. Barry was crying? It seemed impossible. Diana had never known her mother to be emotional at all, unless the emotion was anger. But there the proof was, glittering discreetly on her mother’s half-hidden fingertips.
“Oh,” Mrs. Barry said again, “it was wrong of me to fly at you that way, Diana, but I… I couldn’t help myself. It pains me so to see you—my little girl—growing up. When first I became a mother, and held you in my arms, I felt many things for you… tenderness, joy, even fear for your safety, for you were such a little thing, so helpless and new. And love, Diana… love most of all. But I never imagined I could feel this. I don’t even know what to call it, this strange, beautiful pain. I am so proud of you, Diana—my little girl, growing up to such an admirable young woman. And yet I am so… so afraid to let you go.”
At that, Mrs. Barry pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wept freely into it, with several hiccupping sobs. Diana stared at her mother, dumbstruck. Once she’d had an inkling that Mrs. Barry’s strictness came from a place of love. But never in her life had she imagined that her mother felt such terrible, tormenting passions over her—plain, ordinary, commonplace Diana. She patted her mother’s shoulder awkwardly.
“Someday you will find a young man you like,” Mrs. Barry went on wretchedly, “and then I shall have to let you go. And I hate to think of the house without you in it… my life without you in it!” She blew her nose noisily into the kerchief.
Diana, who still clung to her secret ambition of a mansion in Charlottetown and grand independence, said, “It may be a very long time yet before I want any man to court me.” To herself, she added, “I may never want a man to court me.”
But Mrs. Barry, in the calm after her private storm, shook her head. “Your time is coming soon. A mother knows these things—a mother can see these things. Even a mother such as I.”
Diana smiled fondly. “What do you mean, ‘a mother such as I?’”
“I… I haven’t always been as good to you as I might,” Mrs. Barry said, letting her head hang low. “Your father has always chided me for it, but I always told him, ‘Keep to your own business, George, for I was a girl once. You were not. I know more about raising girls than you ever could.’ I think now that I was wrong, Diana. I should have listened to your father more, and let you have more enjoyment out of life. I have been so hard on you, because I feared this day… the day when you would grow up. I suppose I thought that if I was strict enough with you, somehow you would always depend on me, and would remain my little girl forever. But tonight I saw the error of my ways. And tonight I also learned…” She dabbed at her eyes again. “… how proud I am of you, Diana. You are such a good girl, confident and sensible and yes, even strong, in a womanly way. I know it’s useless to tie you too close with my apron strings.”
Diana leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. “Dear Mother. You can’t imagine how you’ve warmed my heart tonight. I feel as if I understand you so much better than I ever did before.”
Mrs. Barry kissed the top of Diana’s head—something she hadn’t done since Diana was a very little girl. It brought a tear of gladness to Diana’s eye.
“Let’s never let ourselves quarrel again,” Diana said. “Let’s just be good to each other, and enjoy each other’s company, from here on out… and for always.”
Anne Earns an Encore
Diana held up the white organdy dress and examined it in the lamplight. “Put this on, by all means, Anne.”
Anne, dressed only in her shift, peeked out past her blind to the blue twilight beyond. Diana could see a sliver of the early moon’s light edge Anne’s face with its silvery luster. The soft glow only seemed to heighten the nervous pallor of Anne’s face. She had sworn several times that night that she was thrilled to her marrow about the concert—to be held an hour hence at the White Sands Hotel, in aid of the hospital—but Diana knew her friend well enough to read the fear and uncertainty in her tension and quick gestures, too.
“Do you really think the organdy will be best?” Anne asked, coming away from the window and toying anxiously with the white dress’s lace-trimmed sleeve. “I don’t think it’s as pretty as my blue-flowered muslin, and it certainly isn’t so fashionable.”
Diana rolled her eyes with a fond chuckle. “But it suits you ever so much better. It’s so soft and frilly and clinging. The muslin makes you look too dressed up. This organdy looks as if it grew on you.”
Anne relented and held out her hands for the dress. “I know I shouldn’t question your opinion such things; you have the best reputation for dressing in all of Avonlea now. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you have the best taste on the whole island.”
“You flatter me,” Diana said, thoroughly pleased to be flattered.
“I just wish I could get away with your dress tonight,” Anne said as she pulled the white organdy on and wriggled into the sleeves. “Or any night. That rosy pink is glorious on you, Diana.”
“It does look nice, doesn’t it?” Diana said, admiring her color and the cut of her dress in Anne’s mirror. “It’s almost a shame I won’t be performing at the concert tonight.”
“They might ask you to perform, when they see how nice you look.”
“Nonsense,” Diana laughed. “Besides, I don’t have anything prepared. I will be quite content to watch you recite tonight.” And it was true; Diana looked forward to Anne’s moment of glory with all the happy anticipation she would have shown for her own moment on the stage.
Anne stood passively, if anxiously, while Diana fussed with her ruffles and laces and slippers, then braided and pinned up her hair, making her as lovely as if she were to wait on the queen. “This is a very grown-up hairstyle,” Diana confessed. “You probably shouldn’t really wear it for another year. But this is such a special occasion, I think our vanity will be forgiven.”
Diana tied Anne’s pearl beads around her neck, then stepped back to admire her. Anne, radiant in the lamp light, was a vision of unique beauty. The pure white of slippers, dress, pearls—even the little rose pinned in her hair—made, together with Anne’s alabaster-pale skin, an ethereal, haunting image
. The coppery flash of her upswept hair was like an exclamation point at the end of a sentence. She gave an impression of intoxicating contradictions: a bright flame burning at the tip of a candle made of luminous ice. Diana was thoroughly satisfied with her night’s work.
“There’s something so stylish about you, Anne,” Diana said suddenly, expressing her most spontaneous admiration. “You hold your head with such an air.” There was no envy in Diana now. She felt nothing but happiness for Anne, and pleasure at the prospect of watching her take the stage.
With Anne dressed, Diana pulled up the window shade to let in the inspiration of moonlight. But Anne didn’t seem to see the moon at all. She wrapped one arm around Diana’s shoulders and said quietly, sentimentally, “I’m so glad my window looks east, into the sunrise. It’s so splendid to see the morning coming up over those long hills and glowing through those sharp fir tops. 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,” Diana said. A threat of tears burned in her eyes. The summer was half over, and soon Anne would be off to Queen’s Academy, while Diana remained here in Avonlea. “I don’t want to think of it. It makes me so miserable, and I want to have a good time this evening. What are you going to recite, Anne? I know you wanted to keep it a secret from our school chums, but will you tell me? Are you nervous?”
“Not a bit,” Anne said. Diana saw the lie, but left Anne with her comforting fantasy of perfect bravery. “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; I feel sure everyone will love it. I would much rather make everyone cry than laugh.”
“What will you recite if they encore you?”
“They won’t dream of it.”
But Diana suspected they would. Anne had become a great favorite at Avonlea concerts; she nearly always earned an encore.
Marilla pronounced a rather grudging approval of Anne’s looks, and the girls headed out to the front porch of Green Gables, where Jane and Billy Andrews met them with their buggy. They drove along to the White Sands Hotel beneath a starry sky, with the soft echo of a golden sunset still lingering low in the western sky. Many other parties were on their way to White Sands, too, for the concert was to be a real affair, not to be missed. The girls called greetings to their friends as they passed, and talked merrily among themselves with the sounds of laughter and distant conversation floating about them in the warm night air.
The White Sands Hotel perched proudly on a hill overlooking the Gulf. It blazed with lamp light, nearly as bright as the full moon that hung above it, high in the velvet sky. As the girls climbed down from the buggy, Diana could hear the pounding of distant surf under the excited murmur of many voices—and could hear Anne’s ragged breathing, too.
“Oh, my dress, Diana! I’m afraid it’s not nearly nice enough. Look at all the laces and silks and bright colors. Oh, and that woman there! Did you see her diamonds? I must look like a poor little country mouse. Everyone will think me too quaint for words.”
“Stop it, you,” Diana laughed, pulling Anne toward the hotel. “Trust in the good taste of your old friend Diana. Didn’t you say I have the best eye for style on all of P.E.I.?”
“How can I ever measure up to all these grand performers? They’ve come from all around, Diana! This is no country concert. It’s real.”
“And you belong here, right up on that stage, with the rest of them.”
“I don’t think I can go on,” Anne admitted in a tiny whisper as Diana checked their jackets at the door.
“Of course you can,” Diana whispered back. “I’ll be here watching you. Just like at our first concert—remember? I’ll always be here for you, Anne.”
Then Diana thought miserably, “Until Queen’s Academy parts us…”
Anne’s misery only deepened when she heard that a professional elocutionist would perform that night. The woman was a surprise addition to the concert. She was, in fact, a guest at the hotel, and had nothing to do with Charlottetown or its hospital. But when she heard that the concert was in service to such a worthy cause, she volunteered her services.
“A professional,” Anne said, sounding very much like she might faint. “I can never do it, Diana.”
“You can, and you will,” Diana said firmly, dragging the reluctant Anne to her seat at the rear of the stage.
The show began, and Diana, seated down in the audience with Jane Andrews, enjoyed it immensely. Prince Edward Island might be a countryish place, but it had no lack of grand performers. One familiar figure after another came forward to stand in the bright pool of light at the front of the stage. Humorous dialogues were delivered, and thoughtful monologues taken from Shakespeare and other timeless sources. Beautiful poems were recited, with flowing, confident rhythms that surely would have suited the finest concert halls in Toronto or Ottawa. Throughout it all, while Diana smiled and applauded, Anne sat stiffly in her place at the back of the stage, looking quite small and lost among the other performers.
The professional elocutionist took the stage. She was as glorious to behold as she was to hear; her astonishingly expressive voice was in perfect harmony with her enchanting appearance—dark-haired, elegant, with a silver-gray gown made of flowing silk and glinting diamonds in her hair. Her piece transported the audience to a bliss far beyond anything they had imagined possible. Diana felt breathless when her performance ended, so shaken by the beauty of the woman’s voice that she could only applaud weakly.
Then, on the heels of that transcendent elocutionist, Anne’s name was called.
Anne stood slowly, her eyes fixed somewhere on the back of the hall, and walked as if in a trance to the spotlight. There she stood for a long moment, swaying slightly, so pale that Diana and Jane squeezed each other’s hands in silent fear. The silence seemed to stretch into an eternity.
“Come on, Anne,” Diana murmured. “I’m right here… right here.”
Anne did not look at Diana, but she did seem to find a sudden rush of courage. She pulled herself up to an elegant posture, as grand as any pose the professional in silver had struck, and lifted her head proudly. She gave the first lines of “The Maiden’s Vow” in a strong, clear voice so confident that her show of terror, moments before, seemed a mirage to the rapt audience.
Anne carried the concert hall along with her on waves of hope, love, and crushing despair that broke and crashed with all the drama and inevitable power of the waves on the beach beyond the hotel’s shining white walls. Her final word hung suspended in the air, and for a moment the hall was silent. Then uproarious applause erupted all at once—and no one clapped or cheered louder than Diana. Anne, standing in the hot light, blinked and gazed bashfully around, as if only now realizing that she stood on a stage before the adoring eyes of an enthralled audience. Watching her, glowing with pride and love, Diana was glad to call Anne Shirley her dearest friend. Her happiness was pure and clean, without a speck of envy to mar it. And although Diana’s cry of “Encore!” was not the first to ring out, she shouted loudest of all.
-THE END-
Also by Libbie Hawker
Historical Fiction
Mercer Girls (Available in print, audiobook, and for the Kindle only.)
Madam
Calamity
Tidewater (Available in print, audiobook, and for the Kindle only.)
The Sekhmet Bed
The Crook and Flail
Sovereign of Stars
The Bull of Min
House of Rejoicing
Storm in the Sky
Eater of Hearts
White Lotus
Persian Rose
Blood Hemlock
Hekate’s Daughter: A Novella
Daughter of Sand and Stone (Available in print, audiobook, and for the Kindle only.)
* * *
Contemporary Fiction
Baptism for the Dead
* * *
Writing as Olivia Hawker
The Ragged Edge of Night (Available in print, audiobook, and for the Kindle only.)
One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow October, 2019 (Available in print, audiobook, and for the Kindle only.)
About the Author
Libbie Hawker grew up reading L. M. Montgomery’s books, dreaming of writing her own novels someday. She now writes historical and literary fiction for a living, and Montgomery’s distinct influence can be seen in Hawker’s work.
She lives on a small island—just like Anne and Diana, albeit on the other side of North America. When she’s not writing, she enjoys painting landscapes, homesteading on her one-acre microfarm, and spending time with her husband and naughty cats.
DIANA OF ORCHARD SLOPE
Copyright © 2016 by Libbie Hawker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Anne of Green Gables, by L. M. Montgomery, is in the public domain. Certain lines and scenes from Anne of Green Gables were used in this book; their use is protected by fair use laws.
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