Anne went through the hall, opened the big front door, and peered out. The world was lost in a white passion of snowstorm. The window-panes were grey with drifted snow. The Scotch pine was an enormous sheeted ghost.
"It doesn't look very promising," Anne admitted ruefully.
"God manages the weather yet, Mrs. Dr. dear, and not Miss Mary Maria Blythe," said Susan over her shoulder.
"I hope there won't be a sick call tonight at least," said Anne as she turned away. Susan took one parting look into the gloom before she locked out the stormy night.
"Don't YOU go and have a baby tonight," she warned darkly in the direction of the Upper Glen where Mrs. George Drew was expecting her fourth.
In spite of Aunt Mary Maria's back the storm spent itself in the night and morning filled the secret hollow of snow among the hills with the red wine of winter sunrise. All the small fry were up early, looking starry and expectant.
"DID Santa get through the storm, Mummy?”
"No. He was sick and didn't dare try," said Aunt Mary Maria, who was in a good humour ... for her ... and felt joky.
"Santa Claus got here all right," said Susan before their eyes had time to blur, "and after you've had your breakfast you'll see what he did to your tree.”
After breakfast Dad mysteriously disappeared, but nobody missed him because they were so taken up with the tree ... the lively tree, all gold and silver bubbles and lighted candles in the still dark room, with parcels in all colours and tied with the loveliest ribbons piled about it. Then Santa appeared, a gorgeous Santa, all crimson and white fur, with a long white beard and SUCH a jolly big stomach ... Susan had stuffed three cushions into the red velveteen cassock Anne had made for Gilbert. Shirley screamed with terror at first, but refused to be taken out, for all that. Santa distributed all the gifts with a funny little speech for everyone in a voice that sounded oddly familiar even through the mask; and then just at the end his beard caught fire from a candle and Aunt Mary Maria had some slight satisfaction out of the incident though not enough to prevent her from sighing mournfully.
"Ah me, Christmas isn't what it was when I was a child." She looked with disapproval at the present Little Elizabeth had sent Anne from Paris ... a beautiful little bronze reproduction of Artemis of the Silver Bow.
"What shameless hussy is that?" she inquired sternly.
"The goddess Diana," said Anne, exchanging a grin with Gilbert.
"Oh, a heathen! Well, that's different, I suppose. But if I were you, Annie, I wouldn't leave it where the children can see it.
Sometimes I am beginning to think there is no such thing as modesty left in the world. My grandmother," concluded Aunt Mary Maria, with the delightful inconsequence that characterized so many of her remarks, "never wore less than three petticoats, winter and summer.”
Aunt Mary Maria had knitted "wristers" for all the children out of a dreadful shade of magenta yarn, also a sweater for Anne; Gilbert received a bilious necktie and Susan got a red flannel petticoat.
Even Susan considered red flannel petticoats out of date, but she thanked Aunt Mary Maria gallantly.
"Some poor home missionary may be the better of it," she thought.
"Three petticoats, indeed! I flatter myself I am a decent woman and I like that Silver Bow person. She may not have much in the way of clothes on, but if I had a figure like that I do not know that I would want to hide it. But now to see about the turkey stuffing ... not that it will amount to much with no onion in it.”
Ingleside was full of happiness that day, just plain, old-fashioned happiness, in spite of Aunt Mary Maria, who certainly did not like to see people too happy.
"White meat only, please. (James, eat your soup quietly.) Ah, you are not the carver your father was, Gilbert. HE could give everyone the bit she liked best. (Twins, older people would like a chance now and then to get a word in edgewise. I was brought up by the rule that children should be seen and not heard.) No, thank you, Gilbert, no salad for me. I don't eat raw food. Yes, Annie, I'll take a LITTLE pudding. Mince pies are entirely too indigestible.”
"Susan's mince pies are poems, just as her apple pies are lyrics,” said the doctor. "Give ME a piece of both, Anne-girl.”
"Do you really like to be called 'girl' at your age, Annie?
Walter, you haven't eaten all your bread and butter. Plenty of poor children would be glad to have it. James dear, blow your nose and have it over with, I CANNOT endure sniffling.”
But it was a gay and lovely Christmas. Even Aunt Mary Maria thawed out a little after dinner, said almost graciously that the presents given her had been quite nice, and even endured the Shrimp with an air of patient martyrdom that made them all feel a little ashamed of loving him.
"I think our little folks have had a nice time," said Anne happily that night, as she looked at the pattern of trees woven against the white hills and sunset sky, and the children out on the lawn busily scattering crumbs for birds over the snow. The wind was sighing softly in the boughs, sending flurries over the lawn and promising more storm for the morrow, but Ingleside had had its day.
"I suppose they had," agreed Aunt Mary Maria. "I'm sure they did enough squealing, anyhow. As for what they have eaten ... ah well, you're only young once and I suppose you have plenty of castor-oil in the house.”
Chapter 14
It was what Susan called a streaky winter ... all thaws and freezes that kept Ingleside decorated with fantastic fringes of icicles. The children fed seven blue-jays who came regularly to the orchard for their rations and let Jem pick them up, though they flew from everybody else. Anne sat up o' nights to pore over seed catalogues in January and February. Then the winds of March swirled over the dunes and up the harbors and over the hills.
Rabbits, said Susan, were laying Easter eggs.
"Isn't March an INciting month, Mummy?" cried Jem, who was a little brother to all the winds that blew.
They could have spared the "incitement" of Jem scratching his hand on a rusty nail and having a nasty time of it for some days, while Aunt Mary Maria told all the stories of blood-poisoning she had ever heard. But that, Anne reflected when the danger was over, was what you must expect with a small son who was always trying experiments.
And lo, it was April! With the laughter of April rain ... the whisper of April rain ... the trickle, the sweep, the drive, the lash, the dance, the splash of April rain. "Oh, Mummy, hasn't the world got its face washed nice and clean?" cried Di, on the morning sunshine returned.
There were pale spring stars shining over fields of mist, there were pussywillows in the marsh. Even the little twigs on the trees seemed all at once to have lost their clear cold quality and to have become soft and languorous. The first robin was an event; the Hollow was once more a place full of wild free delight; Jem brought his mother the first mayflowers ... rather to Aunt Mary Maria's offence, since she thought they should have been offered to HER; Susan began sorting over the attic shelves, and Anne, who had hardly had a minute to herself all winter, put on spring gladness as a garment and literally lived in her garden, while the Shrimp showed his spring raptures by writhing all over the paths.
"You care more for that garden than you do for your husband, Annie," said Aunt Mary Maria.
"My garden is so kind to me," answered Anne dreamily ... then, realizing the implications that might be taken out of her remark, began to laugh.
"You do say the most extraordinary things, Annie. Of course I know you don't mean that Gilbert isn't kind ... but what if a stranger heard you say such a thing?”
"Dear Aunt Mary Maria," said Anne gaily, "I'm really not responsible for the things I say this time of the year. Everybody around here knows that. I'm always a little mad in spring. But it's such a divine madness. Do you notice those mists over the dunes like dancing witches? And the daffodils? We've never had such a show of daffodils at Ingleside before.”