“I have no intention of mentioning it in any case,” said Anne icily, for she would have seen every fence in Avonlea painted with advertisements before she would have stooped to bargain with a man who would sell his vote.
“Just so . . . just so,” agreed Judson, imagining that they understood each other beautifully. “I didn’t suppose you would. Of course, I was only stringing Jerry . . . he thinks he’s so all-fired cute and smart. I’ve no intention of voting for Amesbury. I’m going to vote for Grant as I’ve always done . . . you’ll see that when the election comes off. I just led Jerry on to see if he would commit himself. And it’s all right about the fence . . . you can tell the Improvers that.”
“It takes all sorts of people to make a world, as I’ve often heard, but I think there are some who could be spared,” Anne told her reflection in the east gable mirror that night. “I wouldn’t have mentioned the disgraceful thing to a soul anyhow, so my conscience is clear on that score. I really don’t know who or what is to be thanked for this. I did nothing to bring it about, and it’s hard to believe that Providence ever works by means of the kind of politics men like Judson Parker and Jerry Corcoran have.”
XV
The Beginning of Vacation
Anne locked the schoolhouse door on a still, yellow evening, when the winds were purring in the spruces around the playground, and the shadows were long and lazy by the edge of the woods. She dropped the key into her pocket with a sigh of satisfaction. The school year was ended, she had been reengaged for the next, with many expressions of satisfaction. . . . only Mr. Harmon Andrews told her she ought to use the strap oftener . . . and two delightful months of a well-earned vacation beckoned her invitingly. Anne felt at peace with the world and herself as she walked down the hill with her basket of flowers in her hand. Since the earliest mayflowers Anne had never missed her weekly pilgrimage to Matthew’s grave. Everyone else in Avonlea, except Marilla, had already forgotten quiet, shy, unimportant Matthew Cuthbert; but his memory was still green in Anne’s heart and always would be. She could never forget the kind old man who had been the first to give her the love and sympathy her starved childhood had craved.
At the foot of the hill a boy was sitting on the fence in the shadow of the spruces . . . a boy with big, dreamy eyes and a beautiful, sensitive face. He swung down and joined Anne, smiling; but there were traces of tears on his cheeks.
“I thought I’d wait for you, teacher, because I knew you were going to the graveyard,” he said, slipping his hand into hers. “I’m going there, too . . . I’m taking this bouquet of geraniums to put on Grandpa Irving’s grave for grandma. And look, teacher, I’m going to put this bunch of white roses beside Grandpa’s grave in memory of my little mother. . . because I can’t go to her grave to put it there. But don’t you think she’ll know all about it, just the same?”
“Yes, I am sure she will, Paul.”
“You see, teacher, it’s just three years today since my little mother died. It’s such a long, long time but it hurts just as much as ever . . . and I miss her just as much as ever. Sometimes it seems to me that I just can’t bear it, it hurts so.”
Paul’s voice quivered and his lip trembled. He looked down at his roses, hoping that his teacher would not notice the tears in his eyes.