Chapter III

Greeting and Farewell

Charlie Sloane, Gilbert Blythe and Anne Shirley left Avonlea the

following Monday morning. Anne had hoped for a fine day. Diana was to

drive her to the station and they wanted this, their last drive

together for some time, to be a pleasant one. But when Anne went to bed

Sunday night the east wind was moaning around Green Gables with an

ominous prophecy which was fulfilled in the morning. Anne awoke to find

raindrops pattering against her window and shadowing the pond’s gray

surface with widening rings; hills and sea were hidden in mist, and the

whole world seemed dim and dreary. Anne dressed in the cheerless gray

dawn, for an early start was necessary to catch the boat train; she

struggled against the tears that _would_ well up in her eyes in spite

of herself. She was leaving the home that was so dear to her, and

something told her that she was leaving it forever, save as a holiday

refuge. Things would never be the same again; coming back for vacations

would not be living there. And oh, how dear and beloved everything

was—that little white porch room, sacred to the dreams of girlhood, the

old Snow Queen at the window, the brook in the hollow, the Dryad’s

Bubble, the Haunted Woods, and Lover’s Lane—all the thousand and one

dear spots where memories of the old years bided. Could she ever be

really happy anywhere else?

Breakfast at Green Gables that morning was a rather doleful meal. Davy,

for the first time in his life probably, could not eat, but blubbered

shamelessly over his porridge. Nobody else seemed to have much

appetite, save Dora, who tucked away her rations comfortably. Dora,

like the immortal and most prudent Charlotte, who “went on cutting

bread and butter” when her frenzied lover’s body had been carried past

on a shutter, was one of those fortunate creatures who are seldom

disturbed by anything. Even at eight it took a great deal to ruffle

Dora’s placidity. She was sorry Anne was going away, of course, but was

that any reason why she should fail to appreciate a poached egg on

toast? Not at all. And, seeing that Davy could not eat his, Dora ate it

for him.

Promptly on time Diana appeared with horse and buggy, her rosy face

glowing above her raincoat. The good-byes had to be said then somehow.

Mrs. Lynde came in from her quarters to give Anne a hearty embrace and

warn her to be careful of her health, whatever she did. Marilla,

brusque and tearless, pecked Anne’s cheek and said she supposed they’d

hear from her when she got settled. A casual observer might have

concluded that Anne’s going mattered very little to her—unless said

observer had happened to get a good look in her eyes. Dora kissed Anne

primly and squeezed out two decorous little tears; but Davy, who had

been crying on the back porch step ever since they rose from the table,

refused to say good-bye at all. When he saw Anne coming towards him he

sprang to his feet, bolted up the back stairs, and hid in a clothes

closet, out of which he would not come. His muffled howls were the last

sounds Anne heard as she left Green Gables.

It rained heavily all the way to Bright River, to which station they

had to go, since the branch line train from Carmody did not connect

with the boat train. Charlie and Gilbert were on the station platform

when they reached it, and the train was whistling. Anne had just time

to get her ticket and trunk check, say a hurried farewell to Diana, and

hasten on board. She wished she were going back with Diana to Avonlea;

she knew she was going to die of homesickness. And oh, if only that

dismal rain would stop pouring down as if the whole world were weeping

over summer vanished and joys departed! Even Gilbert’s presence brought

her no comfort, for Charlie Sloane was there, too, and Sloanishness

could be tolerated only in fine weather. It was absolutely insufferable

in rain.

But when the boat steamed out of Charlottetown harbor things took a

turn for the better. The rain ceased and the sun began to burst out

goldenly now and again between the rents in the clouds, burnishing the

gray seas with copper-hued radiance, and lighting up the mists that

curtained the Island’s red shores with gleams of gold foretokening a

fine day after all. Besides, Charlie Sloane promptly became so seasick

that he had to go below, and Anne and Gilbert were left alone on deck.

“I am very glad that all the Sloanes get seasick as soon as they go on

water,” thought Anne mercilessly. “I am sure I couldn’t take my

farewell look at the ‘ould sod’ with Charlie standing there pretending

to look sentimentally at it, too.”

“Well, we’re off,” remarked Gilbert unsentimentally.

“Yes, I feel like Byron’s ‘Childe Harold’—only it isn’t really my

‘native shore’ that I’m watching,” said Anne, winking her gray eyes

vigorously. “Nova Scotia is that, I suppose. But one’s native shore is

the land one loves the best, and that’s good old P.E.I. for me. I can’t

believe I didn’t always live here. Those eleven years before I came

seem like a bad dream. It’s seven years since I crossed on this

boat—the evening Mrs. Spencer brought me over from Hopetown. I can see

myself, in that dreadful old wincey dress and faded sailor hat,

exploring decks and cabins with enraptured curiosity. It was a fine

evening; and how those red Island shores did gleam in the sunshine. Now

I’m crossing the strait again. Oh, Gilbert, I do hope I’ll like Redmond

and Kingsport, but I’m sure I won’t!”

“Where’s all your philosophy gone, Anne?”

“It’s all submerged under a great, swamping wave of loneliness and

homesickness. I’ve longed for three years to go to Redmond—and now I’m

going—and I wish I weren’t! Never mind! I shall be cheerful and

philosophical again after I have just one good cry. I _must_ have that,

‘as a went’—and I’ll have to wait until I get into my boardinghouse bed

tonight, wherever it may be, before I can have it. Then Anne will be

herself again. I wonder if Davy has come out of the closet yet.”

It was nine that night when their train reached Kingsport, and they

found themselves in the blue-white glare of the crowded station. Anne

felt horribly bewildered, but a moment later she was seized by

Priscilla Grant, who had come to Kingsport on Saturday.

“Here you are, beloved! And I suppose you’re as tired as I was when I

got here Saturday night.”

“Tired! Priscilla, don’t talk of it. I’m tired, and green, and

provincial, and only about ten years old. For pity’s sake take your

poor, broken-down chum to some place where she can hear herself think.”

“I’ll take you right up to our boardinghouse. I’ve a cab ready

outside.”

“It’s such a blessing you’re here, Prissy. If you weren’t I think I

should just sit down on my suitcase, here and now, and weep bitter

tears. What a comfort one familiar face is in a howling wilderness of

strangers!”

“Is that Gilbert Blythe over there, Anne? How he has grown up this past

year! He was only a schoolboy when I taught in Carmody. And of course

that’s Charlie Sloane. _He_ hasn’t changed—couldn’t! He looked just

like that when he was born, and he’ll look like that when he’s eighty.

This way, dear. We’ll be home in twenty minutes.”

“Home!” groaned Anne. “You mean we’ll be in some horrible

boardinghouse, in a still more horrible hall bedroom, looking out on a

dingy back yard.”

“It isn’t a horrible boardinghouse, Anne-girl. Here’s our cab. Hop

in—the driver will get your trunk. Oh, yes, the boardinghouse—it’s

really a very nice place of its kind, as you’ll admit tomorrow morning

when a good night’s sleep has turned your blues rosy pink. It’s a big,

old-fashioned, gray stone house on St. John Street, just a nice little

constitutional from Redmond. It used to be the ‘residence’ of great

folk, but fashion has deserted St. John Street and its houses only

dream now of better days. They’re so big that people living in them

have to take boarders just to fill up. At least, that is the reason our

landladies are very anxious to impress on us. They’re delicious,

Anne—our landladies, I mean.”

“How many are there?”

“Two. Miss Hannah Harvey and Miss Ada Harvey. They were born twins

about fifty years ago.”

“I can’t get away from twins, it seems,” smiled Anne. “Wherever I go

they confront me.”

“Oh, they’re not twins now, dear. After they reached the age of thirty

they never were twins again. Miss Hannah has grown old, not too

gracefully, and Miss Ada has stayed thirty, less gracefully still. I

don’t know whether Miss Hannah can smile or not; I’ve never caught her

at it so far, but Miss Ada smiles all the time and that’s worse.

However, they’re nice, kind souls, and they take two boarders every

year because Miss Hannah’s economical soul cannot bear to ‘waste room

space’—not because they need to or have to, as Miss Ada has told me

seven times since Saturday night. As for our rooms, I admit they are

hall bedrooms, and mine does look out on the back yard. Your room is a

front one and looks out on Old St. John’s graveyard, which is just

across the street.”

“That sounds gruesome,” shivered Anne. “I think I’d rather have the

back yard view.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. Wait and see. Old St. John’s is a darling place.

It’s been a graveyard so long that it’s ceased to be one and has become

one of the sights of Kingsport. I was all through it yesterday for a

pleasure exertion. There’s a big stone wall and a row of enormous trees

all around it, and rows of trees all through it, and the queerest old

tombstones, with the queerest and quaintest inscriptions. You’ll go

there to study, Anne, see if you don’t. Of course, nobody is ever

buried there now. But a few years ago they put up a beautiful monument

to the memory of Nova Scotian soldiers who fell in the Crimean War. It

is just opposite the entrance gates and there’s ‘scope for imagination’

in it, as you used to say. Here’s your trunk at last—and the boys

coming to say good night. Must I really shake hands with Charlie

Sloane, Anne? His hands are always so cold and fishy-feeling. We must

ask them to call occasionally. Miss Hannah gravely told me we could

have ‘young gentlemen callers’ two evenings in the week, if they went

away at a reasonable hour; and Miss Ada asked me, smiling, please to be

sure they didn’t sit on her beautiful cushions. I promised to see to

it; but goodness knows where else they _can_ sit, unless they sit on

the floor, for there are cushions on _everything_. Miss Ada even has an

elaborate Battenburg one on top of the piano.”

Anne was laughing by this time. Priscilla’s gay chatter had the

intended effect of cheering her up; homesickness vanished for the time

being, and did not even return in full force when she finally found

herself alone in her little bedroom. She went to her window and looked

out. The street below was dim and quiet. Across it the moon was shining

above the trees in Old St. John’s, just behind the great dark head of

the lion on the monument. Anne wondered if it could have been only that

morning that she had left Green Gables. She had the sense of a long

passage of time which one day of change and travel gives.

“I suppose that very moon is looking down on Green Gables now,” she

mused. “But I won’t think about it—that way homesickness lies. I’m not

even going to have my good cry. I’ll put that off to a more convenient

season, and just now I’ll go calmly and sensibly to bed and to sleep.”