Chapter XXIX

Diana’s Wedding

“After all, the only real roses are the pink ones,” said Anne, as she

tied white ribbon around Diana’s bouquet in the westward-looking gable

at Orchard Slope. “They are the flowers of love and faith.”

Diana was standing nervously in the middle of the room, arrayed in her

bridal white, her black curls frosted over with the film of her wedding

veil. Anne had draped that veil, in accordance with the sentimental

compact of years before.

“It’s all pretty much as I used to imagine it long ago, when I wept

over your inevitable marriage and our consequent parting,” she laughed.

“You are the bride of my dreams, Diana, with the ‘lovely misty veil’;

and I am _your_ bridesmaid. But, alas! I haven’t the puffed

sleeves—though these short lace ones are even prettier. Neither is my

heart wholly breaking nor do I exactly hate Fred.”

“We are not really parting, Anne,” protested Diana. “I’m not going far

away. We’ll love each other just as much as ever. We’ve always kept

that ‘oath’ of friendship we swore long ago, haven’t we?”

“Yes. We’ve kept it faithfully. We’ve had a beautiful friendship,

Diana. We’ve never marred it by one quarrel or coolness or unkind word;

and I hope it will always be so. But things can’t be quite the same

after this. You’ll have other interests. I’ll just be on the outside.

But ‘such is life’ as Mrs. Rachel says. Mrs. Rachel has given you one

of her beloved knitted quilts of the ‘tobacco stripe’ pattern, and she

says when I am married she’ll give me one, too.”

“The mean thing about your getting married is that I won’t be able to

be your bridesmaid,” lamented Diana.

“I’m to be Phil’s bridesmaid next June, when she marries Mr. Blake, and

then I must stop, for you know the proverb ‘three times a bridesmaid,

never a bride,’” said Anne, peeping through the window over the pink

and snow of the blossoming orchard beneath. “Here comes the minister,

Diana.”

“Oh, Anne,” gasped Diana, suddenly turning very pale and beginning to

tremble. “Oh, Anne—I’m so nervous—I can’t go through with it—Anne, I

know I’m going to faint.”

“If you do I’ll drag you down to the rainwater hogshed and drop you

in,” said Anne unsympathetically. “Cheer up, dearest. Getting married

can’t be so very terrible when so many people survive the ceremony. See

how cool and composed I am, and take courage.”

“Wait till your turn comes, Miss Anne. Oh, Anne, I hear father coming

upstairs. Give me my bouquet. Is my veil right? Am I very pale?”

“You look just lovely. Di, darling, kiss me good-bye for the last time.

Diana Barry will never kiss me again.”

“Diana Wright will, though. There, mother’s calling. Come.”

Following the simple, old-fashioned way in vogue then, Anne went down

to the parlor on Gilbert’s arm. They met at the top of the stairs for

the first time since they had left Kingsport, for Gilbert had arrived

only that day. Gilbert shook hands courteously. He was looking very

well, though, as Anne instantly noted, rather thin. He was not pale;

there was a flush on his cheek that had burned into it as Anne came

along the hall towards him, in her soft, white dress with

lilies-of-the-valley in the shining masses of her hair. As they entered

the crowded parlor together a little murmur of admiration ran around

the room. “What a fine-looking pair they are,” whispered the

impressible Mrs. Rachel to Marilla.

Fred ambled in alone, with a very red face, and then Diana swept in on

her father’s arm. She did not faint, and nothing untoward occurred to

interrupt the ceremony. Feasting and merry-making followed; then, as

the evening waned, Fred and Diana drove away through the moonlight to

their new home, and Gilbert walked with Anne to Green Gables.

Something of their old comradeship had returned during the informal

mirth of the evening. Oh, it was nice to be walking over that

well-known road with Gilbert again!

The night was so very still that one should have been able to hear the

whisper of roses in blossom—the laughter of daisies—the piping of

grasses—many sweet sounds, all tangled up together. The beauty of

moonlight on familiar fields irradiated the world.

“Can’t we take a ramble up Lovers’ Lane before you go in?” asked

Gilbert as they crossed the bridge over the Lake of Shining Waters, in

which the moon lay like a great, drowned blossom of gold.

Anne assented readily. Lovers’ Lane was a veritable path in a fairyland

that night—a shimmering, mysterious place, full of wizardry in the

white-woven enchantment of moonlight. There had been a time when such a

walk with Gilbert through Lovers’ Lane would have been far too

dangerous. But Roy and Christine had made it very safe now. Anne found

herself thinking a good deal about Christine as she chatted lightly to

Gilbert. She had met her several times before leaving Kingsport, and

had been charmingly sweet to her. Christine had also been charmingly

sweet. Indeed, they were a most cordial pair. But for all that, their

acquaintance had not ripened into friendship. Evidently Christine was

not a kindred spirit.

“Are you going to be in Avonlea all summer?” asked Gilbert.

“No. I’m going down east to Valley Road next week. Esther Haythorne

wants me to teach for her through July and August. They have a summer

term in that school, and Esther isn’t feeling well. So I’m going to

substitute for her. In one way I don’t mind. Do you know, I’m beginning

to feel a little bit like a stranger in Avonlea now? It makes me

sorry—but it’s true. It’s quite appalling to see the number of children

who have shot up into big boys and girls—really young men and

women—these past two years. Half of my pupils are grown up. It makes me

feel awfully old to see them in the places you and I and our mates used

to fill.”

Anne laughed and sighed. She felt very old and mature and wise—which

showed how young she was. She told herself that she longed greatly to

go back to those dear merry days when life was seen through a rosy mist

of hope and illusion, and possessed an indefinable something that had

passed away forever. Where was it now—the glory and the dream?

“‘So wags the world away,’” quoted Gilbert practically, and a trifle

absently. Anne wondered if he were thinking of Christine. Oh, Avonlea

was going to be so lonely now—with Diana gone!