The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “Like it! Oh, Matthew!” Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped her hands. “Matthew, it’s perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream.”

  “Well, well, let us have breakfast,” interrupted Marilla. “I must say, Anne, I don’t think you needed the dress; but since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it. There’s a hair ribbon Mrs. Lynde left for you. It’s brown, to match the dress. Come now, sit in.”

  “I don’t see how I’m going to eat breakfast,” said Anne rapturously. “Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting moment. I’d rather feast my eyes on that dress. I’m so glad that puffed sleeves are still fashionable. It did seem to me that I’d never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I’d never have felt quite satisfied, you see. It was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give me the ribbon, too. I feel that I ought to be a very good girl indeed. It’s at times like this I’m sorry I’m not a model little girl; and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it’s hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort after this.”

  When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her.

  “Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it’s a wonderful Christmas. I’ve something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress, with such sleeves. I couldn’t even imagine any nicer.”

  “I’ve got something more for you,” said Diana breathlessly. “Here — this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it — and this is for you. I’d have brought it over last night, but it didn’t come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now.”

  Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with “For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas,” written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles.

  “Oh,” said Anne, “Diana, this is too much, I must be dreaming.”

  “I call it providential,” said Diana. “You won’t have to borrow Ruby’s slippers now, and that’s a blessing, for they’re two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that?”

  All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held.

  The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded; all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny.

  “Oh, hasn’t it been a brilliant evening?” sighed Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky.

  “Everything went off very well,” said Diana practically. “I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers.”

  “Oh, Diana, will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrill to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did when it was encored. I just said to myself, ‘It is my dear bosom friend who is so honoured.’”

  “Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne. That sad one was simply splendid.”

  “Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allan called out my name I really cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and through me, and for one dreadful moment I was sure I couldn’t begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It’s providential that I practised those recitations so often up in the garret, or I’d never have been able to get through. Did I groan all right?”

  “Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely,” assured Diana.

  “I saw old Mrs. Sloane wiping away tears when I sat down. It was splendid to think I had touched somebody’s heart. It’s so romantic to take part in a concert isn’t it? Oh, it’s been a very memorable occasion indeed.”

  “Wasn’t the boys’ dialogue fine?” said Diana. “Gilbert Blythe was just splendid. Anne, I do think it’s awful mean the way you treat Gil. Wait till I tell you. When you ran off the platform after the fairy dialogue one of your roses fell out of your hair. I saw Gil pick it up and put it in his breast pocket. There now. You’re so romantic that I’m sure you ought to be pleased at that.”

  “It’s nothing to me what that person does,” said Anne loftily. “I simply never waste a thought on him, Diana.”

  That night Marilla and Matthew, who had been out to a concert for the first time in twenty years, sat for awhile by the kitchen fire after Anne had gone to bed.

  “Well now, I guess our Anne did as well as any of them,” said Matthew proudly.

  “Yes, she did,” admitted Marilla. “She’s a bright child, Matthew. And she looked real nice, too. I’ve been kind of opposed to this concert scheme, but I suppose there’s no real harm in it after all. Anyhow, I was proud of Anne tonight, although I’m not going to tell her so.”

  “Well now, I was proud of her and I did tell her so ‘fore she went upstairs,” said Matthew. “We must see what we can do for her some of these days, Marilla. I guess she’ll need something more than Avonlea school by and by.”

  “There’s time enough to think of that,” said Marilla. “She’s only thirteen in March. Though tonight it struck me she was growing quite a big girl. Mrs. Lynde made that dress a mite too long, and it makes Anne look so tall. She’s quick to learn and I guess the best thing we can do for her will be to send her to Queen’s after a spell. But nothing need be said about that for a year or two yet.”

  “Well now, it’ll do no harm to be thinking it over off and on,” said Matthew. “Things like that are all the better for lots of thinking over.”

  Missy’s Room

  Mrs. Falconer and Miss Bailey walked home together through the fine blue summer afternoon from the Ladies’ Aid meeting at Mrs. Robinson’s. They were talking earnestly; that is to say, Miss Bailey was talking earnestly and volubly, and Mrs. Falconer was listening. Mrs. Falconer had reduced the practice of listening to a fine art. She was a thin, wistful-faced mite of a woman, with sad brown eyes, and with snow-white hair that was a libel on her fifty-five years and girlish step. Nobody in Lindsay ever felt very well acquainted with Mrs. Falconer, in spite of the fact that she had lived among them forty years. She kept between her and her world a fine, baffling reserve which no one had ever been able to penetrate. It was known that she had had a bitter sorrow in her life, but she never made any reference to it, and most people in Lindsay had forgotten it. Some foolish ones even supposed that Mrs. Falconer had forgotten it.

  “Well, I do not know what on earth is to be done with Camilla Clark,” said Miss Bailey, with a prodigious sigh. “I suppose that we will simply have to trust the whole matter to Providence.”

  Miss Bailey’s tone and sigh really seemed to intimate to the world at large that Providence was a last resort and a very dubious one. Not that Miss Bailey meant anything of the sort; her faith was as substantial as her works, which were many and praiseworthy and seasonable.

  The case of Camilla Clark was agitating the Ladies’ Aid of one of the Lindsay churches. They had talked about it through the whole of that afternoon session while they sewed for their missionary box — talked about it, and come to no conclusion.

  In the preceding spring James Clark, one of the hands in the lumber mill at Lindsay, had been killed in an accident. The shock had proved nearly fatal to his young wife. The next day
Camilla Clark’s baby was born dead, and the poor mother hovered for weeks between life and death. Slowly, very slowly, life won the battle, and Camilla came back from the valley of the shadow. But she was still an invalid, and would be so for a long time.

  The Clarks had come to Lindsay only a short time before the accident. They were boarding at Mrs. Barry’s when it happened, and Mrs. Barry had shown every kindness and consideration to the unhappy young widow. But now the Barrys were very soon to leave Lindsay for the West, and the question was, what was to be done with Camilla Clark? She could not go west; she could not even do work of any sort yet in Lindsay; she had no relatives or friends in the world; and she was absolutely penniless. As she and her husband had joined the church to which the aforesaid Ladies’ Aid belonged, the members thereof felt themselves bound to take up her case and see what could be done for her.

  The obvious solution was for some of them to offer her a home until such time as she would be able to go to work. But there did not seem to be anyone who could offer to do this — unless it was Mrs. Falconer. The church was small, and the Ladies’ Aid smaller. There were only twelve members in it; four of these were unmarried ladies who boarded, and so were helpless in the matter; of the remaining eight seven had large families, or sick husbands, or something else that prevented them from offering Camilla Clark an asylum. Their excuses were all valid; they were good, sincere women who would have taken her in if they could, but they could not see their way clear to do so. However, it was probable they would eventually manage it in some way if Mrs. Falconer did not rise to the occasion.

  Nobody liked to ask Mrs. Falconer outright to take Camilla Clark in, yet everyone thought she might offer. She was comfortably off, and though her house was small, there was nobody to live in it except herself and her husband. But Mrs. Falconer sat silent through all the discussion of the Ladies’ Aid, and never opened her lips on the subject of Camilla Clark despite the numerous hints which she received.

  Miss Bailey made one more effort as aforesaid. When her despairing reference to Providence brought forth no results, she wished she dared ask Mrs. Falconer openly to take Camilla Clark, but somehow she did not dare. There were not many things that could daunt Miss Bailey, but Mrs. Falconer’s reserve and gentle aloofness always could.

  When Miss Bailey had gone on down the village street, Mrs. Falconer paused for a few moments at her gate, apparently lost in deep thought. She was perfectly well aware of all the hints that had been thrown out for her benefit that afternoon. She knew that the Aids, one and all, thought that she ought to take Camilla Clark. But she had no room to give her — for it was out of the question to think of putting her in Missy’s room.

  “I couldn’t do such a thing,” she said to herself piteously. “They don’t understand — they can’t understand — but I couldn’t give her Missy’s room. I’m sorry for poor Camilla, and I wish I could help her. But I can’t give her Missy’s room, and I have no other.”

  The little Falconer cottage, set back from the road in the green seclusion of an apple orchard and thick, leafy maples, was a very tiny one. There were just two rooms downstairs and two upstairs. When Mrs. Falconer entered the kitchen an old-looking man with long white hair and mild blue eyes looked up with a smile from the bright-coloured blocks before him.

  “Have you been lonely, Father?” said Mrs. Falconer tenderly.

  He shook his head, still smiling.

  “No, not lonely. These” — pointing to the blocks—”are so pretty. See my house, Mother.”

  This man was Mrs. Falconer’s husband. Once he had been one of the smartest, most intelligent men in Lindsay, and one of the most trusted employees of the railroad company. Then there had been a train collision. Malcolm Falconer was taken out of the wreck fearfully injured. He eventually recovered physical health, but he was from that time forth merely a child in intellect — a harmless, kindly creature, docile and easily amused.

  Mrs. Falconer tried to dismiss the thought of Camilla Clark from her mind, but it would not be dismissed. Her conscience reproached her continually. She tried to compromise with it by saying that she would go down and see Camilla that evening and take her some nice fresh Irish moss jelly. It was so good for delicate people.

  She found Camilla alone in the Barry sitting-room, and noticed with a feeling that was almost like self-reproach how thin and frail and white the poor young creature looked. Why, she seemed little more than a child! Her great dark eyes were far too big for her wasted face, and her hands were almost transparent.

  “I’m not much better yet,” said Camilla tremulously, in response to Mrs. Falconer’s inquiries. “Oh, I’m so slow getting well! And I know — I feel that I’m a burden to everybody.”

  “But you mustn’t think that, dear,” said Mrs. Falconer, feeling more uncomfortable than ever. “We are all glad to do all we can for you.”

  Mrs. Falconer paused suddenly. She was a very truthful woman and she instantly realized that that last sentence was not true. She was not doing all she could for Camilla — she would not be glad, she feared, to do all she could.

  “If I were only well enough to go to work,” sighed Camilla. “Mr. Marks says I can have a place in the shoe factory whenever I’m able to. But it will be so long yet. Oh, I’m so tired and discouraged!”

  She put her hands over her face and sobbed. Mrs. Falconer caught her breath. What if Missy were somewhere alone in the world — ill, friendless, with never a soul to offer her a refuge or a shelter? It was so very, very probable. Before she could check herself Mrs. Falconer spoke. “My dear, don’t cry! I want you to come and stay with me until you get perfectly well. You won’t be a speck of trouble, and I’ll be glad to have you for company.”

  Mrs. Falconer’s Rubicon was crossed. She could not draw back now if she wanted to. But she was not at all sure that she did want to. By the time she reached home she was sure she didn’t want to. And yet — to give Missy’s room to Camilla! It seemed a great sacrifice to Mrs. Falconer.

  She went up to it the next morning with firmly set lips to air and dust it. It was just the same as when Missy had left it long ago. Nothing had ever been moved or changed, but everything had always been kept beautifully neat and clean. Snow-white muslin curtains hung before the small square window. In one corner was a little white bed. Missy’s pictures hung on the walls; Missy’s books and work-basket were lying on the square stand; there was a bit of half-finished fancy work, yellow from age, lying in the basket. On a small bureau before the gilt-framed mirror were several little girlish knick-knacks and boxes whose contents had never been disturbed since Missy went away. One of Missy’s gay pink ribbons — Missy had been so fond of pink ribbons — hung over the top of the mirror. On a chair lay Missy’s hat, bright with ribbons and roses, just as Missy had laid it there on the night before she left her home.

  Mrs. Falconer’s lips quivered as she looked about the room, and tears came to her eyes. Oh, how could she put these things away and bring a stranger here — here, where no one save herself had entered for fifteen years, here in this room, sacred to Missy’s memory, waiting for her return when she should be weary of wandering? It almost seemed to the mother’s vague fancy, distorted by long, silent brooding, that her daughter’s innocent girlhood had been kept here for her and would be lost forever if the room were given to another.

  “I suppose it’s dreadful foolishness,” said Mrs. Falconer, wiping her eyes. “I know it is, but I can’t help it. It just goes to my heart to think of putting these things away. But I must do it. Camilla is coming here today, and this room must be got ready for her. Oh, Missy, my poor lost child, it’s for your sake I’m doing this — because you may be suffering somewhere as Camilla is now, and I’d wish the same kindness to be shown to you.”

  She opened the window and put fresh linen on the bed. One by one Missy’s little belongings were removed and packed carefully away. On the gay, foolish little hat with its faded wreath of roses the mother’s tears fell as she put it in a
box. She remembered so plainly the first time Missy had worn it. She could see the pretty, delicately tinted face, the big shining brown eyes, and the riotous golden curls under the drooping, lace-edged brim. Oh, where was Missy now? What roof sheltered her? Did she ever think of her mother and the little white cottage under the maples, and the low-ceilinged, dim room where she had knelt to say her childhood’s prayer?

  Camilla Clark came that afternoon.

  “Oh, it is lovely here,” she said gratefully, looking out into the rustling shade of the maples. “I’m sure I shall soon get well here. Mrs. Barry was so kind to me — I shall never forget her kindness — but the house is so close to the factory, and there was such a whirring of wheels all the time, it seemed to get into my head and make me wild with nervousness. I’m so weak that sounds like that worry me. But it is so still and green and peaceful here. It just rests me.”

  When bedtime came, Mrs. Falconer took Camilla up to Missy’s room. It was not as hard as she had expected it to be after all. The wrench was over with the putting away of Missy’s things, and it did not hurt the mother to see the frail, girlish Camilla in her daughter’s place.

  “What a dear little room!” said Camilla, glancing around. “It is so white and sweet. Oh, I know I am going to sleep well here, and dream sweet dreams.”

  “It was my daughter’s room,” said Mrs. Falconer, sitting down on the chintz-covered seat by the open window.

  Camilla looked surprised.

  “I did not know you had a daughter,” she said.

  “Yes — I had just the one child,” said Mrs. Falconer dreamily.

  For fifteen years she had never spoken of Missy to a living soul except her husband. But now she felt a sudden impulse to tell Camilla about her, and about the room.

  “Her name was Isabella, after her father’s mother, but we never called her anything but Missy. That was the little name she gave herself when she began to talk. Oh, I’ve missed her so!”