[conversations with dead people]
It's the fault of the letters.
Those letters from Avonlea, full of gossip and warmth from Diana, full of advice and kind words from Marilla and Mrs. Rachel, full of spotty ink and misspelled words from Davey. That must be why Anne is feeling so very homesick, as she readies for bed and braids her long red hair.
She feels ever so slightly azure around the edges--a combination of the stinging postscript of Ruby Gillis' last letter ("Gilbert seems to be enjoying Redmond, judging from his letters," which--well, really, Gilbert has the perfect right to write to Ruby Gillis if he pleases) and the sinking feeling that she'd failed the practice maths exam of this afternoon, and when she slipped into bed, Davy's letter was beneath her pillow.
Homesickness, she thinks, miserably, isn't really something that ever goes away, is it? Something tickles her nose, and she sneezes and rubs at it, wondering, rather pathetically, if she isn't going to catch a cold now, too--
But it isn't cold. Not really. And the scratchy stuff by her nose--it isn't her pillow, it's dried flowers that have fallen from their vase by her bed.
And--
And--
She sits up, her heart thumping wildly and the wide grey-green eyes wider and more shining than ever, because over by the windowseat of her small white room, holding a large flat box carefully in his arms as though he thinks he might break it, somehow, is the most familiar face in all the world. And, "Oh--oh Matthew," she cries, and her hair in its two long braids bounces against her back as she goes flying towards him, regardless of the rumpled bedsheets she leaves behind.
Tears sting her eyes, and she isn't entirely sure why, but she knows that she has never been so happy.
Matthew Cuthbert stands up with his shy smile and blue eyes sparkle with pleasure as he carefully lifts the top off the box and hold out for her the world's most beautiful dress: rich brown shirring falls to the floor, and oh--the sleeves. Daintily cuffed at the elbows, and the most perfect puffs above.
"Thought you might want this," he says, shyly, his face turning rather pink at the look on her face. "Seeing as how my girl's been getting so big, and all. Why--why, Anne, don't you like it?"
For Anne's great eyes have filled with tears, and disregarding the beautiful dress (and she'd worn that dress until it could be let down no further, and still she refused to let Marilla turn it into rags) she throws herself into his arms, breathing deep the hay and tobacco scent of him, while he pats her back awkwardly and says, "Well now--well now."
"It's beautiful," Anne says, her voice shaky, and she squeezes her eyes tight until his hands on her shoulders push her gently back. He looks at her so long and so searchingly that she bites her lip.
"Don't--don't you like how I look?" she asks, a little wistfully, her hands twisting in front of her. Soft white organdy drifts about her feets and tucks around her small waist, and she raises one hand to touch the pearls at her throat, as if seeking them for comfort.
Matthew only smiles, beneath his mustache, and nods briskly (as if that might detract attention away from the suspicious moisture in his eyes). "Why, sure," he tells her, and the mustache twitches with his shy smile. "I've got the prettiest, smartest girl in Avonlea, don't I? You'll do just fine, Anne."
His blue eyes shine with pride, and she smiles up at him, comforted and aching and wishing just to throw herself once more into his arms.
"Do you really think so?" she asks, blinking away the tears that threaten to blur the dear face before her, and he nods, and clears his throat, awkward.
"Well, sure. Guess everyone else is gonna figure it out." He sits on the windowseat, resting his hands on his knees, and looks pleased with himself. There's room enough for Anne to next to him, and she does, folding her hands in her lap and resting her head against his shoulder.
"Good," she sighs, content. "I don't want to disappoint you."
He only shakes his head, and concentrates on his hands, before putting one arm around her back and letting her tuck up against his shoulder, her cheek resting against the worn flannel jacket he wears.
"You're going to do real well," he reiterates, gruffly, after organizing his thoughts mutely for rather a long few moments.
She runs her hands over the soft brown cloth on her lap--that dress which had once been so pretty and was now so determinedly out of fashion. Anne nods, but her eyes are cast down.
"I wish things never had to change," she says, softly. "And that I could stay at Green Gables with you and Marilla and be your Anne forever. And, oh, Matthew, it's unfair, isn't it? I used to think such things were romantic, but I'm afraid I've learned better." His arms tightens about her shoulders, comfortingly.
"Well now," he says, hesitatingly. "Well now, Anne--I don't know about that." He looks down into the great grey-green eyes and the small face turned up to his, and touches her chin with one work-thicked finger.
"I guess maybe it's all right. Reckon Marilla and I've done worse things than taking you in, but I guess I can't think of anything much better. And it seems Marilla's sure brought you up right.
"And I guess you're still my girl, and I'm proud of you." Blue eyes crinkle in a shy smile. "You just do your best, and that's all anyone can do."
"Always," says Anne, and opens her eyes, startled, to find them wet and her room dark and an ache beginning in her stomach. Tears don't hurt like the ache does, though, and after a long while she sleeps again, exhausted, and when she wakes again it's with a smile that's only a little wistful.
Those letters from Avonlea, full of gossip and warmth from Diana, full of advice and kind words from Marilla and Mrs. Rachel, full of spotty ink and misspelled words from Davey. That must be why Anne is feeling so very homesick, as she readies for bed and braids her long red hair.
She feels ever so slightly azure around the edges--a combination of the stinging postscript of Ruby Gillis' last letter ("Gilbert seems to be enjoying Redmond, judging from his letters," which--well, really, Gilbert has the perfect right to write to Ruby Gillis if he pleases) and the sinking feeling that she'd failed the practice maths exam of this afternoon, and when she slipped into bed, Davy's letter was beneath her pillow.
Homesickness, she thinks, miserably, isn't really something that ever goes away, is it? Something tickles her nose, and she sneezes and rubs at it, wondering, rather pathetically, if she isn't going to catch a cold now, too--
But it isn't cold. Not really. And the scratchy stuff by her nose--it isn't her pillow, it's dried flowers that have fallen from their vase by her bed.
And--
And--
She sits up, her heart thumping wildly and the wide grey-green eyes wider and more shining than ever, because over by the windowseat of her small white room, holding a large flat box carefully in his arms as though he thinks he might break it, somehow, is the most familiar face in all the world. And, "Oh--oh Matthew," she cries, and her hair in its two long braids bounces against her back as she goes flying towards him, regardless of the rumpled bedsheets she leaves behind.
Tears sting her eyes, and she isn't entirely sure why, but she knows that she has never been so happy.
Matthew Cuthbert stands up with his shy smile and blue eyes sparkle with pleasure as he carefully lifts the top off the box and hold out for her the world's most beautiful dress: rich brown shirring falls to the floor, and oh--the sleeves. Daintily cuffed at the elbows, and the most perfect puffs above.
"Thought you might want this," he says, shyly, his face turning rather pink at the look on her face. "Seeing as how my girl's been getting so big, and all. Why--why, Anne, don't you like it?"
For Anne's great eyes have filled with tears, and disregarding the beautiful dress (and she'd worn that dress until it could be let down no further, and still she refused to let Marilla turn it into rags) she throws herself into his arms, breathing deep the hay and tobacco scent of him, while he pats her back awkwardly and says, "Well now--well now."
"It's beautiful," Anne says, her voice shaky, and she squeezes her eyes tight until his hands on her shoulders push her gently back. He looks at her so long and so searchingly that she bites her lip.
"Don't--don't you like how I look?" she asks, a little wistfully, her hands twisting in front of her. Soft white organdy drifts about her feets and tucks around her small waist, and she raises one hand to touch the pearls at her throat, as if seeking them for comfort.
Matthew only smiles, beneath his mustache, and nods briskly (as if that might detract attention away from the suspicious moisture in his eyes). "Why, sure," he tells her, and the mustache twitches with his shy smile. "I've got the prettiest, smartest girl in Avonlea, don't I? You'll do just fine, Anne."
His blue eyes shine with pride, and she smiles up at him, comforted and aching and wishing just to throw herself once more into his arms.
"Do you really think so?" she asks, blinking away the tears that threaten to blur the dear face before her, and he nods, and clears his throat, awkward.
"Well, sure. Guess everyone else is gonna figure it out." He sits on the windowseat, resting his hands on his knees, and looks pleased with himself. There's room enough for Anne to next to him, and she does, folding her hands in her lap and resting her head against his shoulder.
"Good," she sighs, content. "I don't want to disappoint you."
He only shakes his head, and concentrates on his hands, before putting one arm around her back and letting her tuck up against his shoulder, her cheek resting against the worn flannel jacket he wears.
"You're going to do real well," he reiterates, gruffly, after organizing his thoughts mutely for rather a long few moments.
She runs her hands over the soft brown cloth on her lap--that dress which had once been so pretty and was now so determinedly out of fashion. Anne nods, but her eyes are cast down.
"I wish things never had to change," she says, softly. "And that I could stay at Green Gables with you and Marilla and be your Anne forever. And, oh, Matthew, it's unfair, isn't it? I used to think such things were romantic, but I'm afraid I've learned better." His arms tightens about her shoulders, comfortingly.
"Well now," he says, hesitatingly. "Well now, Anne--I don't know about that." He looks down into the great grey-green eyes and the small face turned up to his, and touches her chin with one work-thicked finger.
"I guess maybe it's all right. Reckon Marilla and I've done worse things than taking you in, but I guess I can't think of anything much better. And it seems Marilla's sure brought you up right.
"And I guess you're still my girl, and I'm proud of you." Blue eyes crinkle in a shy smile. "You just do your best, and that's all anyone can do."
"Always," says Anne, and opens her eyes, startled, to find them wet and her room dark and an ache beginning in her stomach. Tears don't hurt like the ache does, though, and after a long while she sleeps again, exhausted, and when she wakes again it's with a smile that's only a little wistful.