Diana of Orchard Slope Read online

  “I admit that she is very good-looking,” Mrs. Barry murmured.

  All of Avonlea said Diana was the very image of her mother, though she smiled a good deal more than Mrs. Barry ever did. For Mother to admit approval of Diana’s looks was tantamount to approving of her own looks. It was so uncharacteristic of Mrs. Barry that Diana nearly giggled with surprise. She controlled herself at the last moment, for she was dreadfully compelled to hear what else her parents might say about her. Spying was a sin… or if not a sin exactly, then something awfully close to it… but what else was Diana to do, now that she couldn’t enjoy her reading?

  Mrs. Barry drove home her point forcefully: “But looks aren’t enough to make a good match. We must start thinking now about how to provide for…”

  Mother trailed off, then blurted in agitation, “Would you look at that, George! I declare! It’s Marilla Cuthbert coming over the foot-bridge… coming from Green Gables.”

  “So it is,” Father said, in a voice that was considerably less agitated than Mother’s.

  “She’s got that child with her.”

  “Child?”

  “Didn’t you know? The Cuthberts have adopted an orphan.” Mrs. Barry made that word drip with impossible scandal.

  Diana dropped her book on the sofa and scrambled to the parlor window. Down at the foot of the long orchard slope, she could see the familiar figure of Marilla Cuthbert moving sedately up the path with her usual air of placid constraint. Marilla was tall for a woman, and could be called stately if not for her thinness and angularity. She was gray from top to bottom—gray of hair, which was pulled back severely in an unstylish bun, and gray of garb, in a dress like a storm cloud, devoid of the smallest ruffle, the least of modest pintucks.

  The old maid Marilla was not a shocking sight. She and her aging bachelor brother, with whom she ran a small farm called Green Gables, were the Barrys’ nearest neighbors. Despite her forbidding appearance and stolid personality, Marilla sometimes revealed to the world fleeting glimpses of humor, even warmth—both of which she seemed to work very hard at hiding. Diana quite liked the old lady, even if she was old-fashioned.

  But the person who accompanied Marilla Cuthbert was certainly a cause for curiosity. A little girl walked at Marilla’s side… though it would be more accurate to say that the little girl skipped, bobbed, and twirled, turning this way and that to take in the beauty of the flowering trees and the fairytale twists of their gnarled branches. The girl seemed to be about Diana’s own age. She wore a dress of a horrid yellowish-brown color that didn’t seem to fit her quite right, and below her straw hat, two long braids of copper-red hair hung down, one over each ear. The girl’s mouth was moving, as if she chattered as she walked, though Marilla Cuthbert looked straight ahead and seemed not to respond to the cascade of words.

  “Land’s sake,” Mrs. Barry said, “what can Marilla want?”

  “You’ve never objected to a visit from Miss Cuthbert before,” Father said, amused.

  “But she never lost her head and took in an orphan girl before.”

  “Lost her head? It seems like an act of charity to me, Rebecca.”

  “It’s no charity for a pair of old geese like the Cuthbert siblings to take in a little girl. They know nothing about raising children, George—nothing! Neither of them has ever been married, let alone dealt with the needs of children.”

  “Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert have both survived well into their fifties,” Father said drily. “I guess that’s testament enough to their good sense. What more is required to raise a child, other than good sense?”

  Diana could hear mother’s sharp sniff, even from the parlor. “A man would hold such an opinion. Fathers aren’t the same as mothers, George, mark my words. Your permissiveness with Diana proves that much.”

  “In any case,” Father said, “Miss Cuthbert probably wants to borrow something from you. Isn’t that usually what brings her here?”

  Mrs. Barry’s silence gave Diana the impression that she was searching for something—an argument against her husband’s own good sense, Diana supposed. Finally, Mother conceded, “Usually.”

  “You don’t sound pleased about it.”

  “It’s only that I’ve… I’ve heard things about the orphan child.” Mrs. Barry deplored gossip—or claimed to, at least—so this confession was dragged from her as if by savage hooks.

  Father laughed heartily. “Was Mrs. Rachel Lynde the source of these things you’ve heard, by any chance?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “None in the world, I suppose,” Father said, and Diana could still hear the humor in his words.

  “Mrs. Lynde told me all about this orphan girl… how she flew into a rage and shouted and said the most awful things to poor Mrs. Lynde!”

  “Yes, poor Mrs. Lynde.”

  “I tell you, that girl is trouble, and the Cuthberts will find out soon enough.”

  “Well, Miss Cuthbert has nearly reached the kitchen door with her troublesome orphan, so you had best put on a welcoming smile,” Father advised. Then Diana heard his boots on the back staircase. Evidently he had no desire to remain in the kitchen and watch the orphan’s sparks fly, if indeed any were to fly at all.

  Diana hurried back to the sofa and propped her book in her lap. As her mother poked her head into the parlor, Diana casually turned the page, giving every impression of having been absorbed in her reading all along.

  “What is it, Mother?” Diana asked.

  “Miss Cuthbert calling, from Green Gables. She has a girl with her. Remember to be on your best behavior for company.”

  Diana couldn’t keep the glimmer of interest from her eyes. She didn’t need a mirror to know how the intrigue and curiosity shone out from her face.

  “Don’t go looking so hopeful, Diana Barry. It remains to be seen whether this girl of the Cuthberts’ is fit company for you. I have my doubts… yes, very grave doubts indeed.”

  Diana nodded obediently, but when her mother turned away to answer Marilla’s knock at the kitchen door, she smiled and felt her cheeks color with a secretive longing.

  The Imported Orphan

  The kitchen door squeaked open on its ancient hinges.

  “How do you do, Marilla?” Mrs. Barry said in her most even and unflappable tone. “Come in. And this is the little girl you have adopted, I suppose?”

  “Yes, this is Anne Shirley.” Marilla’s voice was familiar to Diana, cracked and low-pitched with age.

  A third person spoke up, directly on Marilla’s heels. “Spelled with an E.” The red-haired girl’s words had a quiver to them, as if she were on the point of bursting wide open, thanks to some barely-contained, utterly momentous emotion.

  A tingle rushed all through Diana, from her toes to her black-curled crown, for what the other girl had said might be accounted pertness, and no one Diana knew—girl or grown-up—ever dared to risk pertness with Mrs. Barry. It was terribly exciting. She longed to be in the kitchen so she could get her own measure of this orphan.

  There was a brief pause, and then: “How are you?” Mrs. Barry inquired with measured politeness.

  Anne-Shirley-with-an-E answered back promptly, like an actress who had been waiting for a cue. “I am well in body, although considerable rumpled up in spirit, thank you, ma’am.”

  Diana’s mouth fell open. What splendid talk! Why, the orphan girl spoke just like a figure from one of Charlotte E. Morgan’s novels! Or from any other delightfully grand story-book. Awe surged in Diana like a cresting wave. It must be so romantic to be an orphan. Tragic, yes… but if novels had taught Diana anything, it was that one could never expect the grandness of romance without at least a little tragedy. The two went hand in hand.

  The sound of three pairs of feet, crossing the wide fir planks of the kitchen floor, came to Diana through the parlor door. She gasped in surprise, suddenly all a-fluster at the prospect of meeting the other girl face-to-face. How could she, Diana, ever hope to make a favorable impressio
n on one who had already lived a lifetime of grand adventures? She held her book up in front of her face to disguise her overwhelmed flush… and promptly dropped that same book on the sofa the moment the visitors stepped into the parlor.

  “This is my little girl Diana,” Mother said.

  Diana stared wide-eyed at the adopted girl. Anne Shirley was about as tall as Diana was herself, but skinny as a half-starved pup. Despite her thin limbs and the sharpness of her features… and despite the threadbare, unattractive wincey dress Anne wore… Diana could sense an innate, unconscious grace in the girl. One day, when she was a girl no longer, Anne would be slender instead of skinny, and willowy in manner and movement… just like the heroine of a book. She would be everything Diana herself dreamed of becoming.

  Anne’s skin was very fair. A scattering of freckles lay like flecks of gold dust across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, which was pointed in a remarkably pretty way. Her lashes were thick and dark for a red-head; they framed her gray eyes boldly, emphasizing the starry, awe-struck daze that had fallen over Anne when she caught sight of Diana on the sofa. The two girls gazed at each other silently, both with an air of having stumbled upon an impossible, unlooked-for treasure.

  “Diana, you might take Anne out into the garden and show her your flowers. It will be better for you than straining your eyes over that book.”

  Diana rose swiftly from the sofa, hoping she didn’t leap up with too much eagerness (her mother would surely remonstrate with her later, if she had). She smiled, tremulous with excitement, as she approached the freckled little girl. Without a word, Anne turned and followed Diana back through the kitchen.

  Mrs. Barry was complaining genteelly to Marilla of Diana’s reading habit; Diana glanced back at her mother, and did not fail to note the swift, sharp warning in Mrs. Barry’s eye. Diana could all but hear her mother’s unspoken words: “Don’t you dare get attached to this waif. You must be polite to guests, but you mustn’t think that an orphan girl is fit company for you, Diana Barry.”

  Diana turned hastily away from her mother and impulsively hooked her arm through Anne’s, leading her through the kitchen door and out into the garden. Anne gazed at her in disbelieving wonder, then looked down at Diana’s hand resting on her elbow, then back to Diana’s face again.

  “Here are my tiger lilies,” Diana said, gesturing to the showy, shoulder-high blooms of sunset orange. “I planted them here myself. I guess they grew pretty well this year. Last year I couldn’t get tiger lilies to take at all.”

  The lilies smelled deliciously sweet in the warm, early-evening air. A few last, lazy bees hummed around the flowers.

  “Oh, aren’t they lovely,” Anne said breathlessly. But she hardly glanced at the lilies at all. A ruddy flush tinted her pale cheeks, and Diana thought it had nothing to do with the reddish glow of sunset, which had begun to creep past the western wall of firs to lay in still, calm pools all around the garden. Anne seemed to be blushing with the effort of holding in some hectic, boiling emotion.

  “I love flowers,” Diana confided. “I think perhaps I’d like to have a floristry shop someday, and make big bouquets for ladies who live in spectacular mansions. Of course, I would have to do it in Carmody or all the way out in Charlottetown, for there are no ladies with mansions in Avonlea. But Mother says shop-keeping isn’t a fit occupation for a lady, anyhow… at least, not past the age of twenty-five, or marriage, whichever comes first.”

  Anne stared at Diana over the tiger lilies. Her slightly cracked, rosy-pink lips were half open, as if she felt herself on the verge of saying something but couldn’t quite make up her mind what she ought to say. And those eyes! Their gray depths were as stormy as a winter sea. For a moment Diana recalled that Mrs. Rachel Lynde had condemned this girl’s temper and behavior, and she wondered, rather dizzily, if Anne Shirley were about to burst out with some shocking reaction. But the girl only shook her head slowly, side to side, as if unable to credit what she saw before her.

  But all she could possibly see was Diana herself… Diana and her lilies.

  “I know you’ve only just come to Avonlea,” Diana said, “but do you think you might get to have a garden of your own someday, over at Green Gables?”

  At last the orphan girl found her tongue. “I have always longed for a garden of my own.” She sounded quite out of breath with rapture. “It has been my lifelong ambition. Gardens are so romantic; they just pierce my soul through with their beauty. I used to imagine, whenever I had a chance to think about it, how grand it must feel to be a lady with her own mansion. I would have a red brick one, with a mansard roof and a widow’s walk that looked out to the sapphire expanse of the sea. Oh, but I couldn’t come to own my mansion simply by purchasing it. That’s not romantic enough, even for a lady who could afford extravagances. I would inherit it through a great tragedy… a heart-rending twist of cruel fate, which would hang sorrows all about the place like black draperies, so that I almost couldn’t enjoy the splendidness of living in a mansion at all… almost, but not quite. I think… let me see… yes, this is suitably heart-rending: I would be married for one day only to a dashing, heroic man, Lord Bartholomew Fitzgerald. But before we could leave on our honeymoon, he would be summoned to sea by duty. He would bid me a regretful farewell with a kiss on my smooth white hand, and would promise to make it up to me with the grandest honeymoon tour of Europe, and we would part with trembling and tears and oaths that we would hold each other again. But then his ship would be sunk in a storm and he’d never return. Isn’t that grand? And I would pace the widow’s walk every night as the storm winds rose, gazing forever out to sea… but doomed never to see my beloved’s face again in this world.”

  Diana sighed and pressed a hand to her fluttering heart.

  “Of course,” Anne went on quickly, “I couldn’t do all this as plain old Anne Shirley. Glorious, tragic romances never happen to girls named Anne. I could only be the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald. And whenever I wasn’t up weeping on my widow’s walk, I would be down in my garden, clad in subdued silks… for, you know, I would still be in mourning… but even in my anguish, I would glide swan-like through the rows of lilies and peonies and roses. And with time, new suitors would come to try to win my heart—and my mansion—but I would never pay them the least mind. My flowers would be my only comfort… until I met my grave, and found my beloved husband again.

  “So, yes, I have often imagined what it would be like to have a garden on my own. I think I should like it very much.”

  “My,” Diana said. “You talk just like a story-book.”

  “Oh, I know I shouldn’t.” Anne’s pale face flushed quite red. “I know I talk too much, and I’m awfully afraid that Marilla and Matthew will grow tired of it, or think I’m too silly to be put up with, and will send me back to the asylum. Well… Matthew never would, but Marilla might. She does seem like a very good woman, and charitable, to take me in… but one can never be too sure of one’s place when one is an orphan. Anyway, I ought to talk less and listen more. Marilla and Mrs. Rachel Lynde have both told me so, and I know they’re right. But it seems impossible sometimes. I have so many beautiful thoughts and fancies inside me, and if I don’t let them out, Diana, then I’m afraid I might actually burst from them!”

  “I like the way you talk,” Diana said honestly. “And I think your story about Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald is perfectly tragic.”

  Anne’s eyes glittered yet more. For one startled moment, Diana thought the red-haired girl was about to weep, but it was only the glow of passion that shone out from her… not tears. “Do you really? Oh, Diana, you have given me an immeasurable gift.”

  Diana laughed, uncertain whether Anne was being serious or not. The skinny, freckled imp darted around the bed of tiger lilies, her red braids flying, and hooked her arm through Diana’s. Together they walked the paths of the garden, chattering as they surveyed the rows and arcs of flowers, all neatly corralled by the white “cow-hock” clam shells that were so popular in cou
ntryside gardens. Or, it is more accurate to say, Anne chattered while Diana listened in contented, fascinated silence. The sunset spilled its warm hues into the garden, setting all the petals and leaves to glowing. Bees, and the first moths of evening, moved in slow motion around nodding blooms; their tiny bodies and delicate wings were bright as candle flames, illuminated by the lowering sun.

  “I always pictured Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald with hair just like yours,” Anne said as the girls stopped to admire the spray of Scotch roses, which trailed in great, fragrant cascades over the paling fence.

  “Did you, really?”

  “Oh, yes… black as the raven’s wing. Nothing could be prettier.”

  Diana’s cheeks heated with pleasure. She did like her hair, though she had sense enough not to be vain about it.

  “And your complexion is so rosy, Diana. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to look just like you!”

  “I think red hair is awfully pretty.”

  “No it’s not.” Anne toyed with the end of one braid, her narrow face falling despondently. “It’s far too rustic to be pretty. With red hair, I can never aspire to any greater fate than… than a goose-girl or a milk-maid.”

  Diana laughed. “But that’s not true, Anne! Once I read a book about a girl who had two lovers, and they warred with each other fearfully in order to win her heart, and accidentally killed each other in the fight, at exactly the same time, so that neither one of them got to marry her. And her hair was ‘as red as garnets’ and ‘glittered like copper.’”

  “But my hair isn’t red like garnets. It’s red like a Jersey cow. Or like a carrot. There is nothing romantic about cows or carrots, and copper is vastly inferior to gold, or even to silver. Yes, I’d much rather have silver hair like an old lady than pain old red.”

  “Anyway,” Diana said resolutely, “I’m sure two lovers wouldn’t kill each other at exactly the same time over a girl who wasn’t worth the bother. So they must have liked red hair, at least. And now I suppose you’ll say it was just a story,” she added, laughing merrily, “but the author thought it up and wrote it all down, so she must have supposed the people who read the story would find it believable.”