Too many times, it seemed, Anne Blythe had sat out in the garden as she was now to think of days gone by and loved ones gone to the place where all men must go. But it comforted her to think that Susan was not gone, just as it comforted her to think that others as well-loved could not really be forgotten. Surely, now, Susan was a part of the lovely golden afternoon spread out over the harbour like a delight – part of the little yellow roses that had burst into bloom on the bush to-day quite out of season – and it must be her spirit that came up from the bay and rustled the tip-tops of the fir trees, gently – oh, how gently! Susan had always loved those trees in her way. And most prosaically, her legacy lived on in the calceolarias that staunchly blossomed in the shade of the porch.
There were times when "Mrs. Dr. Blythe" strongly suspected she hadn't grown up—like now, for instance. Looking out over the gorgeous PEI sunset made her wish she had wings to fly up and around in the splendid burst of sun-rays – made her want to soar over treetops and rooftops to the very edge of the sea. Anne sighed, and laughed, and sighed again. She was a mother— and grandmother—but at times she felt just like the small, redheaded orphan that she had been when she first came to Green Gables.
But here was Mrs. Rev. Meredith coming up the walk—Anne stood to welcome her, holding out her hands.
"Wasn't it a beautiful funeral service?" said Rosemary, clasping them. She was still golden and beautiful herself, and settled herself down on the veranda steps. "I feel sure that Susan would have liked it— dear Susan."
"She would have loved it," said Anne with conviction. "You know she always enjoyed hearing Reverend Meredith preach. There never was a minister like him in the Glen –"not in all her days," she always said. But oh, how lonesome I am with out Susan—and Miss Cornelia. When Miss Cornelia died last year, Susan said we would soon fall to fighting to break the monotony of it all. But we never had a fight—not one. We were always in perfect harmony. I cannot imagine what I shall do without Susan's company—what we all will do without her."
"How are the children taking it?" asked Rosemary concernedly. Anne gave an impish smile. Those "children" were grown up—some with children of their own.
"They are sad, of course," said Anne slowly. "But they are glad Susan is at peace—she had so many problems with her heart this last year—and they couldn't bear to think of her being in any pain. I know Susan would have wanted it this way – she couldn't bear to languish about the place. She was afraid of being a burden on us. When that was the last thing she would ever be to us!"
"Faith was devastated that she and Jem and the children could not come home for the funeral," remarked Rosemary.
"I wrote to Jem and Faith in Hawaii," said Anne with a sigh. "Hawaii! I shall never get used to 'my baby' being half a world away. But I am proud of the work he and Faith are doing at the missionary hospital. Jem saves so many people every day—he is a full-fledged doctor now—and of course he wanted to make his own diagnosis on Susan's condition, so his letter back was full of medical-ese. And Di and Jack were up today from Avonlea, but they had to go back down tonight. Although I would have loved to have them stay. Di was my last little girl to be at home, you know, and I miss her terribly now that she is gone."
"It was wonderful when she married Jack Wright," breathed Rosemary. "Like something out of a fairy-tale."
"It is wonderful," said Anne, eyes aglow. "Now there are two Diana Wrights in Avonlea. Diana and I always hoped there would be a match among our children—but most of mine seemed smitten with yours."
Rosemary laughed. "We're beginning to be like the Darks and Penhallows over in Rose River. Soon we won't be fit to marry anyone else. And oh – I've heard some news today! Is it true that Nan is expecting a baby in the spring?"
"It is true," said Anne. "And she and Jerry are beside themselves with joy. Nan says she wants a boy, so it can be just like Jerry, and Jerry wants a girl, to be just like Nan. They are wildly, madly in love with each other—but I think they're preferred way of showing it is by arguing."
"But it's friendly arguing, at least," Rosemary said. "Speaking of babies, your Rilla has the most delicious little boy. I saw him today at the funeral—it was so hard to be solemn when little Gilbert Ford was sending those big grins all over the church. I just had to smile back. I'm sure Kitty Alec thought it was quite irreverent, considering the occasion."
"Little Gilbert doesn't look anything like either Rilla or Ken," said Anne with a laugh. "Or his namesake! Though he hasn't escaped my red hair. But he is a handsome child—he will wear it well. I rather think he looks like his Aunt Persis."
"Persis is the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on," said Rosemary. "Carl is head over heels for her. I've never seen two happier people—they're excruciatingly happy. Even for newlyweds. But oh – with Carl away in Montreal – and little Bruce starting at Queens – our house will be so desolate! It is just me and Una and Rev. Meredith now. I thought Persis might consent to staying in the Glen but I think she needs a bit more excitement than our 'provincial' way of life. But they have promised to come back for every summer."
"Do you know, I always hoped that Shirley would take a fancy to Persis Ford," laughed Anne. "How I wanted one of my brood to marry one of Leslie's—I felt like that would really make us family, although we are already sisters of the heart. But I suppose my wish was granted with Rilla and Ken. Although I do worry about Shirley sometimes. He is the last of my brood at home—and I will be so sad to see him go—but he does not seem as happy as he should be. The war has changed him—it changed all of us, but Shirley seems to be more prone to bouts of brooding than ever."
"How did he react to Susan—?"
"Oh, he took it all in stride. Shirley is the quiet, deep sort who keeps all his feelings bottled up. He turned very white when we told him and said, 'Susan—not Mother Susan!' You know he was always her especial favorite—and he loved her very dearly. And Susan left him quite a legacy."
"Did she!" cried Rosemary in surprise.
"Yes," nodded Anne, turning up the corners of her mouth. "Susan Baker left Shirley Blythe a sum of one thousand dollars—she left something to all of the children, but Shirley got most of it—but he only gets it when he is married! Susan was so eager for him to be married—although she thought no one was good enough for her 'little brown boy.' If he decides not to take it, it will go to the church. I don't think he will take it. Gilbert says Shirley is going to be a confirmed old bachelor. Oh, but there's supposed to be one in every family. And I see Una's gotten her hair bobbed?"
This might seem like an abrupt turn in the conversation, but Una Meredith had just come sauntering through the trees on her way to Rainbow Valley. She stopped a moment to talk with Mrs. Blythe and her step-mother. The bob suited her – her neck looked long and swanlike, and it showed off her strong shoulders which were like alabaster above her dress. Una was wearing a dress of midnight blue crepe, and with her tousled black hair and pale skin, she looked just like a shaft of moonlight spilling through an open window. Her face was troubled, and she was quieter than usual. The older woman saw that she was quick to be on her way, and did not detain her for very long.
"Una's been quiet all week," said Rosemary pensively. "She always gets very blue around this time of year."
The mistress of Ingleside was quiet for a moment. There was always a certain pang in her own heart around the second week in September—when the maples began to turn, she could not help but think of her dear lost boy who had loved the blazing colors of autumnal glory—who would never see them again. She could not stop her mind from wandering back over the years—she suddenly saw before her that dear lad with his black hair and white face and eyes full of dreams and questions.
And now he, Walter, would sleep forever under foreign soil, so far away from the home he had loved best of any place on earth. Anne remembered how Una Meredith's face had always softened under his gray-eyed gaze—even in the shadow of her own grief she remembered how Una had trembled and had not cried out when she had heard the news. Anne had been sick with the loss of her child, but Una had had the stricken look of a woman stripped of a dream of love. And the wistful look on her face now when someone mentioned Walter – just the mention of his name could make her blue eyes widen as if she had been shaken – terribly shaken. Yes, Anne thought, she knew what might make Una so blue—especially at this time of year.