Cecilia was very grateful that everybody should take the news of her and Blythe's broken engagement so easily. They might not have, but Cecilia herself was so happy that they could not help being happy for her. And Blythe did not seem so broken-hearted as he might have been. He had many different places to turn to for support, not the least of which was a pretty, blonde-headed girl with a face like a rose. His friendship with Manon grew and strengthened, and people grew almost as used to seeing them together as they had once grown used to seeing Blythe and Cecilia walking side-by-side. It was a little bittersweet to Cecilia, to know that someone else had superseded her in Blythe's affections—but if Blythe could bear that Marshall had superseded him, she could be gracious about it, too.
Through the summer, and the fall, when she was back in school, Cecilia wrote to Marshall every day. She was beginning to realize that their friendship had faded a little, from her actions and her lack of attention to it, and must be rebuilt slowly, and carefully, before they could be lovers. And so she was glad, a little for the distance between them. They could get to know each other again, as friends—and then, when he came home… But their letters were not always only friendly epistles, and Cecilia learned the art of writing love letters that sprang from the heart, at long last.
I'm happy you're in school, Cee, Marshall wrote to her, once, And much as I resent Blythe for having you when I couldn't, I'm glad he arranged it so you'd be firmly established there by the time I came home. Because I might be tempted to act a little like him, and not have you go, if it was up to me. Because when I get you in my arms, again, girl—well, I won't want to let you go. I have a minute here, and my pen nib isn't rusty—like in those letters your grandmother wrote your grandfather you wrote me about—and so I'm going to sit right down and list for you all the reasons why I'd want to keep you with me, and what I could find for us to do together if you weren't in school.
Cecilia grinned, when she read that, and wrote back:
But I won't be in school all the time, and so I'm sure we'll have a little time to try some of those things out. Number four on your list, Marshall—I'm looking forward to it already. I really don't have any time—I've pages and pages of anatomy to read for class tomorrow—but I found your list so inspiring I think I'll make up one of my own: Things About You I Adore. It's going to be a long one, you know, so settle back and get comfortable, won't you?
At mid-semester break Cecilia came home to find the place whipped into a frenzy over Joy's fast-approaching nuptials to Jacob Penhallow. They were having a Christmastime wedding, and Joy in her white finery looked like a Snow Queen. Since silk was scarce, her dress was made of a parachute that Gilbert had sent, since he couldn't be there, himself. Cecilia was to be bridesmaid, and she wore her own dress of crimson as she stood up beside Joy in front of the mantle at the Lowbridge manse. It was a quiet little wedding, and Joy had to bend nearly in half to kiss her groom in his chair as her father pronounced them husband and wife, but when she pulled away Jacob's face was shining with gladness, and Cecilia's own heart felt full to bursting, she was so happy for them both.
It was at Joy's wedding that Blythe and Manon were engaged. Some people said it happened too quickly—but Cecilia didn't think so, at all. Things had never really been right between her and Blythe, and so she didn't think his previous engagement should count against him. And Manon had been mourning Owen for a year and a half—three times as long as they had been married. Cecilia knew that a part of her would go on mourning him for ever; that what she had with Blythe could never replace that first, lost love. When Manon came to tell her the news, Cecilia congratulated her sincerely, and with earnest good wishes for her future.
"I never thought of it before, Manon, but now that I do, it seems that you and Blythe fit perfectly. You keep him from being selfish—he dotes on you. And you're dreamy enough for him. Oh, let's live close together, can't we? And our children can grow up being friends, and we can run over and see each other every day. Oh, Manon, Manon—I'm so happy you've found love again."
"I do love him," Manon admitted. "At first I thought I couldn't because it isn't anything like what I had with Owen. It's—softer, somehow. But it is love. I was talking to your grandmother, and she said there are as many different types of loving as there are people. Mine and Blythe's way is softer—but it is not any less sweet, for that."
"How wise we are," Cecilia smiled, fitting her arm around Manon's waist. "We've grown up a lot this last year, haven't we?"
"Not too much, though," said Manon, and reached down and scooped up a handful of snow, which she lobbed gently at her friend. Cecilia cried out, and, grinning, chased after her—and those two, wise old souls engaged in a snowball fight that would have put even the most rowdy child to shame.
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One by one, their boys who had gone away from the Glen started to return home. There were some who never would, and they were missed, but for the first time in over five years, the Glen had virtually no goodbyes—and enough reunions to satisfy them.
Gil and Walt came home together, in June. The moment they stepped off the train, the Ingleside crowd engulfed them, kissing them, embracing them. Aunt Faith threw her hat in the air and yelled, "Hurrah!" like a man. Uncle Jem had tears in his eyes—Aunt Nan waved a little flag wildly—Aunt Rilla touched her boy's face and looked into it, hard, to see if it had changed. She expected a change, and indeed, there were different lines on Gilly's sun-worn face—but he was still her little baby of the House of Dreams. And Walt was being nearly torn to pieces by his sisters.
Gilbert did two things then—one thing that made them laugh, and one that made them want to cry. First he took Catharine Douglas in his arms and bent her over backwards and kissed her. In front of the whole crowd, which whooped and hollered! But Cathy did not seem to mind—she even threw her arms about him shamelessly. When Gilly finally let her go he dropped to his knee and kissed the red soil under his feet—they all felt tears in their eyes—but Gil would not have it! He sprang up and caught his love in his arms again.
Walter did not meet Nellie in the same way—he merely went to her, and took off his hat—and stared. Had she been so beautiful before, and he had never noticed? He felt silly and ashamed then—had he been too blinded by a bright, marigold beauty to notice the slender, pale lily before him? But Nellie held out her fine, alabaster arms to him in greeting and smiled—all the years of bitterness and unrequited love were forgotten—because her love was here now. Walter took her small hands in his own and asked, in a low voice, a question that would have made Mary Vance whoop and holler herself.
"There's to be a double wedding in August," Cecilia wrote happily in her journal. "We are all so glad—Gil and Cathy, whom we knew would end up together, and Nellie and Walt, whom we could only hope for—why, it all seems too perfect! Nellie has come into herself in a way that she never could before, and she just glows with pleasure. And Mary Vance is already stockpiling the slim ration of sugar we are allowed now—just so we'll have enough then. 'This is a wedding that's going to be a wedding,' she keeps saying. 'If only Cornelia was here—and—and Kitty Alec wasn't.'
"Mrs. Douglas does seem to be the sort that won't die—she is nearly a hundred and still giving everyone who crosses her path a tongue-lashing. The other day she deprecatingly called me a 'mod'—and I couldn't help laughing, which made her ever so mad. But oh, me fine Kitty, I'm over the moon now that our boys are home—and safe—and sound of body and mind.
"All of these weddings are sure to ruin me, even if Mrs. Douglas can't! It puts me in mind of the old adage, "three times a bridesmaid, never a bride." Even if Cathy and Gil and Nellie and Walt's nuptials count only as one wedding, I'm still doomed. I was Joy's bridesmaid, and I will be Nellie's in August, and then Manon's in October. But I am not too worried—although I haven't had a letter from Marshall in a long time—over a week. But that is a long time to us, since we right each other so frequently. Can he have forgotten me? Can his feelings have changed?
"Even little cousin Hannah Ford has a beau! Blair King is dashingly handsome and we girls are all pea green with envy—even those of us who are happily engaged. It is so—strange—to me. Hannah is only a year older than Susan would have been. It is strange to think of Susan as a girl old enough to have beaus. What would she have looked like, I wonder? Would she hate her red hair, like grandmother did as a girl, or love it, like Merry does hers? Would she be taller than me? Thinner? Would she prefer going to the cinema or rambling 'long the shore? What would make her laugh? Or cry?
"I know one thing for sure: we would love each other as much as we ever did. I've been telling Romy all about Susan, lately, and it does my heart good to see her talking so familiarly of the sister she never knew. Or did she?
"There are two other little occurrences that I should set down here, for posterity. The first is that I had on good authority from Mary Vance that Marshall was promoted to Captain before he was decommissioned, and also that he has applied to Redmond Business College for the fall. So he should be coming home any day, now, and I'll be so glad to see him—but why hasn't he written me this news himself? Nevermind—I know better than to put too much stock in the mail, and I shall move on to the second thing, to distract me, and I have a nice segue, for here comes Blythe up the lane—I can hear him whistling—he is bringing his book of poems to show me. Only a little paper volume—but put out by a press in Boston!—I am so proud of him and I told him so, and our old friendship flared up again when I did. So all is—almost—perfectly well in my world. There would be just one other thing to make it better."
Cecilia laid down her pen and peered dreamily out of her window at the early summer day—the apple trees were all a-blossom—at the clean, bright pastures she had mowed a bit earlier—at the figure coming up the lane—at the two figures coming up the lane. One was most decidedly Blythe—he walked with a limp—but one was—one was—one was! She must fly!
Marshall caught her as she met him in the orchard.
"You pretty thing!" he said triumphantly. "You ran to meet me—it was just how I imagined it would be. But I saw Blythe pass me a way back—are you running to him, instead, and I'm second again?"
"Blythe can wait!" Cecilia said, trembling with joy. She felt as if she would dissolve into molecules.
"Say that again!" Marshall's green eyes snapped. "For I've waited long enough to hear it."
"Blythe can wait—he can wait forever. Blythe isn't—has never been—what you are to me, Marshall. I was just too silly to know it."
They kissed then—that old promise made good. And it was right—so right. They kissed again—really, this old, ghostly orchard with its tangy scent was a glorious trysting spot!
"It feels like no time at all has passed since I last saw you," said Cecilia, touching his face. "You look just the same—only handsomer—and perhaps a bit careworn—there is a line between your eyes that wasn't there before and something in your eyes themselves—but you're my Marshall all the same. I suppose you wanted to surprise me by not writing you were coming home. And you have—though I did worry you—you—"
"That I'd forgotten about you?" asked Marshall, twining his fingers in Cecilia's. "I couldn't darling. The waves on the boat sounded, 'Cecilia,' the train wheels turned, 'Cecilia—Cecilia'—my heart beats 'Cecilia.' I only didn't write because I was too busy planning out what I'd say when I saw you—this question I would ask you, and how I'd ask it…"
Marshall bent his head close, and what he said was not for us to hear. The only thing one could have heard, standing, in the bright, breezy orchard of Red Apple Farm, was the toss of the bold apple-tree branches and the sound of a girl's low, loving, happy laughter.
It carried on the wind—the folks up at the farm heard it. Una heard it and knew what it meant—and tears sprang to her eyes even while a smile came to her lips. Shirley heard it and felt relieved—Marshall was the man for his girl, in the end, and he was glad. Little Romy heard it and laughed herself—what a silvery, pealing laugh she had!
Blythe, who was waiting by the spruce grove, heard it, too—and decided he'd better leave his book with Aunt Una and come back some other time. And he would—for they had all the time in the world.
THE END