Anne Of The Island

L >> Lucy Maud Montgomery >> Anne Of The Island


"Isn't he perfectly beautiful?" said Diana proudly.

The little fat fellow was absurdly like Fred--just as round, just as
red. Anne really could not say conscientiously that she thought him
beautiful, but she vowed sincerely that he was sweet and kissable and
altogether delightful.

"Before he came I wanted a girl, so that I could call her ANNE," said
Diana. "But now that little Fred is here I wouldn't exchange him for a
million girls. He just COULDN'T have been anything but his own precious
self."

"'Every little baby is the sweetest and the best,'" quoted Mrs. Allan
gaily. "If little Anne HAD come you'd have felt just the same about
her."

Mrs. Allan was visiting in Avonlea, for the first time since leaving it.
She was as gay and sweet and sympathetic as ever. Her old girl friends
had welcomed her back rapturously. The reigning minister's wife was an
estimable lady, but she was not exactly a kindred spirit.

"I can hardly wait till he gets old enough to talk," sighed Diana. "I
just long to hear him say 'mother.' And oh, I'm determined that his
first memory of me shall be a nice one. The first memory I have of
my mother is of her slapping me for something I had done. I am sure I
deserved it, and mother was always a good mother and I love her dearly.
But I do wish my first memory of her was nicer."

"I have just one memory of my mother and it is the sweetest of all
my memories," said Mrs. Allan. "I was five years old, and I had been
allowed to go to school one day with my two older sisters. When school
came out my sisters went home in different groups, each supposing I was
with the other. Instead I had run off with a little girl I had played
with at recess. We went to her home, which was near the school, and
began making mud pies. We were having a glorious time when my older
sister arrived, breathless and angry.

"'You naughty girl" she cried, snatching my reluctant hand and dragging
me along with her. 'Come home this minute. Oh, you're going to catch it!
Mother is awful cross. She is going to give you a good whipping.'

"I had never been whipped. Dread and terror filled my poor little heart.
I have never been so miserable in my life as I was on that walk home. I
had not meant to be naughty. Phemy Cameron had asked me to go home with
her and I had not known it was wrong to go. And now I was to be whipped
for it. When we got home my sister dragged me into the kitchen where
mother was sitting by the fire in the twilight. My poor wee legs were
trembling so that I could hardly stand. And mother--mother just took me
up in her arms, without one word of rebuke or harshness, kissed me
and held me close to her heart. 'I was so frightened you were lost,
darling,' she said tenderly. I could see the love shining in her eyes as
she looked down on me. She never scolded or reproached me for what I had
done--only told me I must never go away again without asking permission.
She died very soon afterwards. That is the only memory I have of her.
Isn't it a beautiful one?"

Anne felt lonelier than ever as she walked home, going by way of the
Birch Path and Willowmere. She had not walked that way for many moons.
It was a darkly-purple bloomy night. The air was heavy with blossom
fragrance--almost too heavy. The cloyed senses recoiled from it as
from an overfull cup. The birches of the path had grown from the fairy
saplings of old to big trees. Everything had changed. Anne felt that she
would be glad when the summer was over and she was away at work again.
Perhaps life would not seem so empty then.

"'I've tried the world--it wears no more
The coloring of romance it wore,'"

sighed Anne--and was straightway much comforted by the romance in the
idea of the world being denuded of romance!




Chapter XL

A Book of Revelation


The Irvings came back to Echo Lodge for the summer, and Anne spent
a happy three weeks there in July. Miss Lavendar had not changed;
Charlotta the Fourth was a very grown-up young lady now, but still
adored Anne sincerely.

"When all's said and done, Miss Shirley, ma'am, I haven't seen any one
in Boston that's equal to you," she said frankly.

Paul was almost grown up, too. He was sixteen, his chestnut curls had
given place to close-cropped brown locks, and he was more interested
in football than fairies. But the bond between him and his old teacher
still held. Kindred spirits alone do not change with changing years.

It was a wet, bleak, cruel evening in July when Anne came back to Green
Gables. One of the fierce summer storms which sometimes sweep over the
gulf was ravaging the sea. As Anne came in the first raindrops dashed
against the panes.

"Was that Paul who brought you home?" asked Marilla. "Why didn't you
make him stay all night. It's going to be a wild evening."

"He'll reach Echo Lodge before the rain gets very heavy, I think.
Anyway, he wanted to go back tonight. Well, I've had a splendid visit,
but I'm glad to see you dear folks again. 'East, west, hame's best.'
Davy, have you been growing again lately?"

"I've growed a whole inch since you left," said Davy proudly. "I'm as
tall as Milty Boulter now. Ain't I glad. He'll have to stop crowing
about being bigger. Say, Anne, did you know that Gilbert Blythe is
dying?" Anne stood quite silent and motionless, looking at Davy. Her
face had gone so white that Marilla thought she was going to faint.

"Davy, hold your tongue," said Mrs. Rachel angrily. "Anne, don't
look like that--DON'T LOOK LIKE THAT! We didn't mean to tell you so
suddenly."

"Is--it--true?" asked Anne in a voice that was not hers.

"Gilbert is very ill," said Mrs. Lynde gravely. "He took down with
typhoid fever just after you left for Echo Lodge. Did you never hear of
it?"

"No," said that unknown voice.

"It was a very bad case from the start. The doctor said he'd been
terribly run down. They've a trained nurse and everything's been done.
DON'T look like that, Anne. While there's life there's hope."

"Mr. Harrison was here this evening and he said they had no hope of
him," reiterated Davy.

Marilla, looking old and worn and tired, got up and marched Davy grimly
out of the kitchen.

"Oh, DON'T look so, dear," said Mrs. Rachel, putting her kind old arms
about the pallid girl. "I haven't given up hope, indeed I haven't. He's
got the Blythe constitution in his favor, that's what."

Anne gently put Mrs. Lynde's arms away from her, walked blindly across
the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs to her old room. At its
window she knelt down, staring out unseeingly. It was very dark. The
rain was beating down over the shivering fields. The Haunted Woods was
full of the groans of mighty trees wrung in the tempest, and the air
throbbed with the thunderous crash of billows on the distant shore. And
Gilbert was dying!

There is a book of Revelation in every one's life, as there is in the
Bible. Anne read hers that bitter night, as she kept her agonized vigil
through the hours of storm and darkness. She loved Gilbert--had always
loved him! She knew that now. She knew that she could no more cast him
out of her life without agony than she could have cut off her right hand
and cast it from her. And the knowledge had come too late--too late even
for the bitter solace of being with him at the last. If she had not been
so blind--so foolish--she would have had the right to go to him now. But
he would never know that she loved him--he would go away from this
life thinking that she did not care. Oh, the black years of emptiness
stretching before her! She could not live through them--she could not!
She cowered down by her window and wished, for the first time in her
gay young life, that she could die, too. If Gilbert went away from her,
without one word or sign or message, she could not live. Nothing was of
any value without him. She belonged to him and he to her. In her hour
of supreme agony she had no doubt of that. He did not love Christine
Stuart--never had loved Christine Stuart. Oh, what a fool she had been
not to realize what the bond was that had held her to Gilbert--to think
that the flattered fancy she had felt for Roy Gardner had been love. And
now she must pay for her folly as for a crime.

Mrs. Lynde and Marilla crept to her door before they went to bed, shook
their heads doubtfully at each other over the silence, and went away.
The storm raged all night, but when the dawn came it was spent. Anne
saw a fairy fringe of light on the skirts of darkness. Soon the eastern
hilltops had a fire-shot ruby rim. The clouds rolled themselves away
into great, soft, white masses on the horizon; the sky gleamed blue and
silvery. A hush fell over the world.

Anne rose from her knees and crept downstairs. The freshness of the
rain-wind blew against her white face as she went out into the yard, and
cooled her dry, burning eyes. A merry rollicking whistle was lilting up
the lane. A moment later Pacifique Buote came in sight.

Anne's physical strength suddenly failed her. If she had not clutched
at a low willow bough she would have fallen. Pacifique was George
Fletcher's hired man, and George Fletcher lived next door to the
Blythes. Mrs. Fletcher was Gilbert's aunt. Pacifique would know
if--if--Pacifique would know what there was to be known.

Pacifique strode sturdily on along the red lane, whistling. He did not
see Anne. She made three futile attempts to call him. He was almost past
before she succeeded in making her quivering lips call, "Pacifique!"

Pacifique turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning.

"Pacifique," said Anne faintly, "did you come from George Fletcher's
this morning?"

"Sure," said Pacifique amiably. "I got de word las' night dat my fader,
he was seeck. It was so stormy dat I couldn't go den, so I start vair
early dis mornin'. I'm goin' troo de woods for short cut."

"Did you hear how Gilbert Blythe was this morning?" Anne's desperation
drove her to the question. Even the worst would be more endurable than
this hideous suspense.

"He's better," said Pacifique. "He got de turn las' night. De doctor say
he'll be all right now dis soon while. Had close shave, dough! Dat boy,
he jus' keel himself at college. Well, I mus' hurry. De old man, he'll
be in hurry to see me."

Pacifique resumed his walk and his whistle. Anne gazed after him with
eyes where joy was driving out the strained anguish of the night. He was
a very lank, very ragged, very homely youth. But in her sight he was as
beautiful as those who bring good tidings on the mountains. Never, as
long as she lived, would Anne see Pacifique's brown, round, black-eyed
face without a warm remembrance of the moment when he had given to her
the oil of joy for mourning.

Long after Pacifique's gay whistle had faded into the phantom of music
and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover's Lane Anne stood
under the willows, tasting the poignant sweetness of life when some
great dread has been removed from it. The morning was a cup filled
with mist and glamor. In the corner near her was a rich surprise of
new-blown, crystal-dewed roses. The trills and trickles of song from the
birds in the big tree above her seemed in perfect accord with her mood.
A sentence from a very old, very true, very wonderful Book came to her
lips,

"Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning."




XLI

Love Takes Up the Glass of Time


"I've come up to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles through
September woods and 'over hills where spices grow,' this afternoon,"
said Gilbert, coming suddenly around the porch corner. "Suppose we visit
Hester Gray's garden."

Anne, sitting on the stone step with her lap full of a pale, filmy,
green stuff, looked up rather blankly.

"Oh, I wish I could," she said slowly, "but I really can't, Gilbert. I'm
going to Alice Penhallow's wedding this evening, you know. I've got to
do something to this dress, and by the time it's finished I'll have to
get ready. I'm so sorry. I'd love to go."

"Well, can you go tomorrow afternoon, then?" asked Gilbert, apparently
not much disappointed.

"Yes, I think so."

"In that case I shall hie me home at once to do something I should
otherwise have to do tomorrow. So Alice Penhallow is to be married
tonight. Three weddings for you in one summer, Anne--Phil's, Alice's,
and Jane's. I'll never forgive Jane for not inviting me to her wedding."

"You really can't blame her when you think of the tremendous Andrews
connection who had to be invited. The house could hardly hold them all.
I was only bidden by grace of being Jane's old chum--at least on Jane's
part. I think Mrs. Harmon's motive for inviting me was to let me see
Jane's surpassing gorgeousness."

"Is it true that she wore so many diamonds that you couldn't tell where
the diamonds left off and Jane began?"

Anne laughed.

"She certainly wore a good many. What with all the diamonds and white
satin and tulle and lace and roses and orange blossoms, prim little
Jane was almost lost to sight. But she was VERY happy, and so was Mr.
Inglis--and so was Mrs. Harmon."

"Is that the dress you're going to wear tonight?" asked Gilbert, looking
down at the fluffs and frills.

"Yes. Isn't it pretty? And I shall wear starflowers in my hair. The
Haunted Wood is full of them this summer."

Gilbert had a sudden vision of Anne, arrayed in a frilly green gown,
with the virginal curves of arms and throat slipping out of it, and
white stars shining against the coils of her ruddy hair. The vision made
him catch his breath. But he turned lightly away.

"Well, I'll be up tomorrow. Hope you'll have a nice time tonight."

Anne looked after him as he strode away, and sighed. Gilbert was
friendly--very friendly--far too friendly. He had come quite often to
Green Gables after his recovery, and something of their old comradeship
had returned. But Anne no longer found it satisfying. The rose of love
made the blossom of friendship pale and scentless by contrast. And
Anne had again begun to doubt if Gilbert now felt anything for her but
friendship. In the common light of common day her radiant certainty of
that rapt morning had faded. She was haunted by a miserable fear that
her mistake could never be rectified. It was quite likely that it was
Christine whom Gilbert loved after all. Perhaps he was even engaged
to her. Anne tried to put all unsettling hopes out of her heart, and
reconcile herself to a future where work and ambition must take the
place of love. She could do good, if not noble, work as a teacher; and
the success her little sketches were beginning to meet with in certain
editorial sanctums augured well for her budding literary dreams.
But--but--Anne picked up her green dress and sighed again.

When Gilbert came the next afternoon he found Anne waiting for him,
fresh as the dawn and fair as a star, after all the gaiety of the
preceding night. She wore a green dress--not the one she had worn to
the wedding, but an old one which Gilbert had told her at a Redmond
reception he liked especially. It was just the shade of green that
brought out the rich tints of her hair, and the starry gray of her
eyes and the iris-like delicacy of her skin. Gilbert, glancing at her
sideways as they walked along a shadowy woodpath, thought she had never
looked so lovely. Anne, glancing sideways at Gilbert, now and then,
thought how much older he looked since his illness. It was as if he had
put boyhood behind him forever.

The day was beautiful and the way was beautiful. Anne was almost sorry
when they reached Hester Gray's garden, and sat down on the old bench.
But it was beautiful there, too--as beautiful as it had been on the
faraway day of the Golden Picnic, when Diana and Jane and Priscilla and
she had found it. Then it had been lovely with narcissus and violets;
now golden rod had kindled its fairy torches in the corners and asters
dotted it bluely. The call of the brook came up through the woods from
the valley of birches with all its old allurement; the mellow air
was full of the purr of the sea; beyond were fields rimmed by fences
bleached silvery gray in the suns of many summers, and long hills
scarfed with the shadows of autumnal clouds; with the blowing of the
west wind old dreams returned.

"I think," said Anne softly, "that 'the land where dreams come true' is
in the blue haze yonder, over that little valley."

"Have you any unfulfilled dreams, Anne?" asked Gilbert.

Something in his tone--something she had not heard since that miserable
evening in the orchard at Patty's Place--made Anne's heart beat wildly.
But she made answer lightly.

"Of course. Everybody has. It wouldn't do for us to have all our dreams
fulfilled. We would be as good as dead if we had nothing left to dream
about. What a delicious aroma that low-descending sun is extracting
from the asters and ferns. I wish we could see perfumes as well as smell
them. I'm sure they would be very beautiful."

Gilbert was not to be thus sidetracked.

"I have a dream," he said slowly. "I persist in dreaming it, although it
has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a home
with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the footsteps of friends--and
YOU!"

Anne wanted to speak but she could find no words. Happiness was breaking
over her like a wave. It almost frightened her.

"I asked you a question over two years ago, Anne. If I ask it again
today will you give me a different answer?"

Still Anne could not speak. But she lifted her eyes, shining with all
the love-rapture of countless generations, and looked into his for a
moment. He wanted no other answer.

They lingered in the old garden until twilight, sweet as dusk in Eden
must have been, crept over it. There was so much to talk over and
recall--things said and done and heard and thought and felt and
misunderstood.

"I thought you loved Christine Stuart," Anne told him, as reproachfully
as if she had not given him every reason to suppose that she loved Roy
Gardner.

Gilbert laughed boyishly.

"Christine was engaged to somebody in her home town. I knew it and she
knew I knew it. When her brother graduated he told me his sister was
coming to Kingsport the next winter to take music, and asked me if I
would look after her a bit, as she knew no one and would be very lonely.
So I did. And then I liked Christine for her own sake. She is one of
the nicest girls I've ever known. I knew college gossip credited us with
being in love with each other. I didn't care. Nothing mattered much to
me for a time there, after you told me you could never love me, Anne.
There was nobody else--there never could be anybody else for me but you.
I've loved you ever since that day you broke your slate over my head in
school."

"I don't see how you could keep on loving me when I was such a little
fool," said Anne.

"Well, I tried to stop," said Gilbert frankly, "not because I thought
you what you call yourself, but because I felt sure there was no chance
for me after Gardner came on the scene. But I couldn't--and I can't tell
you, either, what it's meant to me these two years to believe you were
going to marry him, and be told every week by some busybody that your
engagement was on the point of being announced. I believed it until one
blessed day when I was sitting up after the fever. I got a letter from
Phil Gordon--Phil Blake, rather--in which she told me there was really
nothing between you and Roy, and advised me to 'try again.' Well, the
doctor was amazed at my rapid recovery after that."

Anne laughed--then shivered.

"I can never forget the night I thought you were dying, Gilbert. Oh, I
knew--I KNEW then--and I thought it was too late."

"But it wasn't, sweetheart. Oh, Anne, this makes up for everything,
doesn't it? Let's resolve to keep this day sacred to perfect beauty all
our lives for the gift it has given us."

"It's the birthday of our happiness," said Anne softly. "I've always
loved this old garden of Hester Gray's, and now it will be dearer than
ever."

"But I'll have to ask you to wait a long time, Anne," said Gilbert
sadly. "It will be three years before I'll finish my medical course. And
even then there will be no diamond sunbursts and marble halls."

Anne laughed.

"I don't want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want YOU. You see I'm
quite as shameless as Phil about it. Sunbursts and marble halls may be
all very well, but there is more 'scope for imagination' without them.
And as for the waiting, that doesn't matter. We'll just be happy,
waiting and working for each other--and dreaming. Oh, dreams will be
very sweet now."

Gilbert drew her close to him and kissed her. Then they walked home
together in the dusk, crowned king and queen in the bridal realm of
love, along winding paths fringed with the sweetest flowers that ever
bloomed, and over haunted meadows where winds of hope and memory blew.