Miss Cornelia sailed down to the little house one drowsy afternoon, when the gulf was the faint, bleached blue of the August seas, and the orange lilies at the gate of Anne’s garden held up their imperial cups to be filled with the molten gold of August sunshine. Not that Miss Cornelia concerned herself with painted oceans or sun-thirsty lilies. She sat in her favorite rocker in unusual idleness. She sewed not, neither did she spin. Nor did she say a single derogatory word concerning any portion of mankind. In short, Miss Cornelia’s conversation was singularly devoid of spice that day, and Gilbert, who had stayed home to listen to her, instead of going a-fishing, as he had intended, felt himself aggrieved. What had come over Miss Cornelia? She did not look cast down or worried. On the contrary, there was a certain air of nervous exultation about her.
“Where is Leslie?” she asked—not as if it mattered much either.
“Owen and she went raspberrying in the woods back of her farm,” answered Anne. “They won’t be back before supper time—if then.”
“They don’t seem to have any idea that there is such a thing as a clock,” said Gilbert. “I can’t get to the bottom of that affair. I’m certain you women pulled strings. But Anne, undutiful wife, won’t tell me. Will you, Miss Cornelia?”
“No, I shall not. But,” said Miss Cornelia, with the air of one determined to take the plunge and have it over, “I will tell you something else. I came today on purpose to tell it. I am going to be married.”
Anne and Gilbert were silent. If Miss Cornelia had announced her intention of going out to the channel and drowning herself the thing might have been believable. This was not. So they waited. Of course Miss Cornelia had made a mistake.
“Well, you both look sort of kerflummexed,” said Miss Cornelia, with a twinkle in her eyes. Now that the awkward moment of revelation was over, Miss Cornelia was her own woman again. “Do you think I’m too young and inexperienced for matrimony?”
“You know—it IS rather staggering,” said Gilbert, trying to gather his wits together. “I’ve heard you say a score of times that you wouldn’t marry the best man in the world.”
“I’m not going to marry the best man in the world,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “Marshall Elliott is a long way from being the best.”
“Are you going to marry Marshall Elliott?” exclaimed Anne, recovering her power of speech under this second shock.
“Yes. I could have had him any time these twenty years if I’d lifted my finger. But do you suppose I was going to walk into church beside a perambulating haystack like that?”
“I am sure we are very glad—and we wish you all possible happiness,” said Anne, very flatly and inadequately, as she felt. She was not prepared for such an occasion. She had never imagined herself offering betrothal felicitations to Miss Cornelia.
“Thanks, I knew you would,” said Miss Cornelia. “You are the first of my friends to know it.”
“We shall be so sorry to lose you, though, dear Miss Cornelia,” said Anne, beginning to be a little sad and sentimental.
“Oh, you won’t lose me,” said Miss Cornelia unsentimentally. “You don’t suppose I would live over harbor with all those MacAllisters and Elliotts and Crawfords, do you? 'From the conceit of the Elliotts, the pride of the MacAllisters and the vain-glory of the Crawfords, good Lord deliver us.’ Marshall is coming to live at my place. I’m sick and tired of hired men. That Jim Hastings I’ve got this summer is positively the worst of the species. He would drive anyone to getting married. What do you think? He upset the churn yesterday and spilled a big churning of cream over the yard. And not one whit concerned about it was he! Just gave a foolish laugh and said cream was good for the land. Wasn’t that like a man? I told him I wasn’t in the habit of fertilising my back yard with cream.”
“Well, I wish you all manner of happiness too, Miss Cornelia,” said Gilbert, solemnly; “but,” he added, unable to resist the temptation to tease Miss Cornelia, despite Anne’s imploring eyes, “I fear your day of independence is done. As you know, Marshall Elliott is a very determined man.”
“I like a man who can stick to a thing,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “Amos Grant, who used to be after me long ago, couldn’t. You never saw such a weather-vane. He jumped into the pond to drown himself once and then changed his mind and swum out again. Wasn’t that like a man? Marshall would have stuck to it and drowned.”
“And he has a bit of a temper, they tell me,” persisted Gilbert.
“He wouldn’t be an Elliott if he hadn’t. I’m thankful he has. It will be real fun to make him mad. And you can generally do something with a tempery man when it comes to repenting time. But you can’t do anything with a man who just keeps placid and aggravating.”
“You know he’s a Grit, Miss Cornelia.”
“Yes, he IS,” admitted Miss Cornelia rather sadly. “And of course there is no hope of making a Conservative of him. But at least he is a Presbyterian. So I suppose I shall have to be satisfied with that.”
“Would you marry him if he were a Methodist, Miss Cornelia?”
“No, I would not. Politics is for this world, but religion is for both.”
“And you may be a 'relict’ after all, Miss Cornelia.”
“Not I. Marshall will live me out. The Elliotts are long-lived, and the Bryants are not.”
“When are you to be married?” asked Anne.
“In about a month’s time. My wedding dress is to be navy blue silk. And I want to ask you, Anne, dearie, if you think it would be all right to wear a veil with a navy blue dress. I’ve always thought I’d like to wear a veil if I ever got married. Marshall says to have it if I want to. Isn’t that like a man?”
“Why shouldn’t you wear it if you want to?” asked Anne.
“Well, one doesn’t want to be different from other people,” said Miss Cornelia, who was not noticeably like anyone else on the face of the earth. “As I say, I do fancy a veil. But maybe it shouldn’t be worn with any dress but a white one. Please tell me, Anne, dearie, what you really think. I’ll go by your advice.”
“I don’t think veils are usually worn with any but white dresses,” admitted Anne, “but that is merely a convention; and I am like Mr. Elliott, Miss Cornelia. I don’t see any good reason why you shouldn’t have a veil if you want one.”
But Miss Cornelia, who made her calls in calico wrappers, shook her head.
“If it isn’t the proper thing I won’t wear it,” she said, with a sigh of regret for a lost dream.
“Since you are determined to be married, Miss Cornelia,” said Gilbert solemnly, “I shall give you the excellent rules for the management of a husband which my grandmother gave my mother when she married my father.”
“Well, I reckon I can manage Marshall Elliott,” said Miss Cornelia placidly. “But let us hear your rules.”
“The first one is, catch him.”
“He’s caught. Go on.”
“The second one is, feed him well.”
“With enough pie. What next?”
“The third and fourth are—keep your eye on him.”
“I believe you,” said Miss Cornelia emphatically.
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