I was married at Green Gables at noon on a day in September, in the orchard, under trees that had been planted before I was born. Nobody had ever been married at Green Gables before; in all its years, the house had never had a bride. I came down its old stairs knowing that, and I was absurdly proud of it.
I was twenty-five. I had waited long enough to be sure, and not so long that I had stopped being happy about it. Diana was there with her little daughter, whom she had named after me — and after the grander name I had longed for at eleven, which only she and I understood. Mrs. Lynde had opinions about the cake, the dress and the weather, and all of them were favourable, which unsettled everyone.
I remember very little of the service. I remember one bird somewhere in the apple trees, singing out of season, and Gilbert’s face, which was paler than mine. I remember thinking, very distinctly, in the middle of it: Matthew would have liked this. And then: he would have hated the fuss. Both were true.
We left that afternoon for Four Winds, where Gilbert was taking over old Dr. Dave’s practice. Marilla stood at the gate. I looked back until the house was out of sight, and then I looked ahead.