Anne of the Island
and tell all her children’s shortcomings and ask prayers for them.
’Course it made them mad, and worse than ever.”
“You haven’t told Anne the news about Jane,” suggested Marilla.
“Oh, Jane,” sniffed Mrs. Lynde. “Well,” she conceded grudgingly, “Jane
Andrews is home from the West—came last week—and she’s going to be
married to a Winnipeg millionaire. You may be sure Mrs. Harmon lost no
time in telling it far and wide.”
“Dear old Jane—I’m so glad,” said Anne heartily. “She deserves the good
things of life.”
“Oh, I ain’t saying anything against Jane. She’s a nice enough girl.
But she isn’t in the millionaire class, and you’ll find there’s not
much to recommend that man but his money, that’s what. Mrs. Harmon says
he’s an Englishman who has made money in mines but _I_ believe he’ll
turn out to be a Yankee. He certainly must have money, for he has just
showered Jane with jewelry. Her engagement ring is a diamond cluster so
big that it looks like a plaster on Jane’s fat paw.”
Mrs. Lynde could not keep some bitterness out of her tone. Here was
Jane Andrews, that plain little plodder, engaged to a millionaire,
while Anne, it seemed, was not yet bespoken by any one, rich or poor.
And Mrs. Harmon Andrews did brag insufferably.
“What has Gilbert Blythe been doing to at college?” asked Marilla. “I
saw him when he came home last week, and he is so pale and thin I
hardly knew him.”
“He studied very hard last winter,” said Anne. “You know he took High
Honors in Classics and the Cooper Prize. It hasn’t been taken for five
years! So I think he’s rather run down. We’re all a little tired.”
“Anyhow, you’re a B.A. and Jane Andrews isn’t and never will be,” said
Mrs. Lynde, with gloomy satisfaction.
A few evenings later Anne went down to see Jane, but the latter was
away in Charlottetown—“getting sewing done,” Mrs. Harmon informed Anne
proudly. “Of course an Avonlea dressmaker wouldn’t do for Jane under
the circumstances.”
“I’ve heard something very nice about Jane,” said Anne.
“Yes, Jane has done pretty well, even if she isn’t a B.A.,” said Mrs.
Harmon, with a slight toss of her head. “Mr. Inglis is worth millions,
and they’re going to Europe on their wedding tour. When they come back
they’ll live in a perfect mansion of marble in Winnipeg. Jane has only
one trouble—she can cook so well and her husband won’t let her cook. He
is so rich he hires his cooking done. They’re going to keep a cook and
two other maids and a coachman and a man-of-all-work. But what about
_you_, Anne? I don’t hear anything of your being married, after all
your college-going.”
“Oh,” laughed Anne, “I am going to be an old maid. I really can’t find
any one to suit me.” It was rather wicked of her. She deliberately
meant to remind Mrs. Andrews that if she became an old maid it was not
because she had not had at least one chance of marriage. But Mrs.
Harmon took swift revenge.
“Well, the over-particular girls generally get left, I notice. And
what’s this I hear about Gilbert Blythe being engaged to a Miss Stuart?
Charlie Sloane tells me she is perfectly beautiful. Is it true?”
“I don’t know if it is true that he is engaged to Miss Stuart,” replied
Anne, with Spartan composure, “but it is certainly true that she is
very lovely.”
“I once thought you and Gilbert would have made a match of it,” said
Mrs. Harmon. “If you don’t take care, Anne, all of your beaux will slip
through your fingers.”
Anne decided not to continue her duel with Mrs. Harmon. You could not
fence with an antagonist who met rapier thrust with blow of battle axe.
“Since Jane is away,” she said, rising haughtily, “I don’t think I can
stay longer this morning. I’ll come down when she comes home.”
“Do,” said Mrs. Harmon effusively. “Jane isn’t a bit proud. She just
means to associate with her old friends the same as ever. She’ll be
real glad to see you.”
Jane’s millionaire arrived the last of May and carried her off in a
blaze of splendor. Mrs. Lynde was spitefully gratified to find that Mr.
Inglis was every day of forty, and short and thin and grayish. Mrs.
Lynde did not spare him in her enumeration of his shortcomings, you may
be sure.
“It will take all his gold to gild a pill like him, that’s what,” said
Mrs. Rachel solemnly.
“He looks kind and good-hearted,” said Anne loyally, “and I’m sure he
thinks the world of Jane.”
“Humph!” said Mrs. Rachel.
Phil Gordon was married the next week and Anne went over to Bolingbroke
to be her bridesmaid. Phil made a dainty fairy of a bride, and the Rev.
Jo was so radiant in his happiness that nobody thought him plain.
“We’re going for a lovers’ saunter through the land of Evangeline,”
said Phil, “and then we’ll settle down on Patterson Street. Mother
thinks it is terrible—she thinks Jo might at least take a church in a
decent place. But the wilderness of the Patterson slums will blossom
like the rose for me if Jo is there. Oh, Anne, I’m so happy my heart
aches with it.”
Anne was always glad in the happiness of her friends; but it is
sometimes a little lonely to be surrounded everywhere by a happiness
that is not your own. And it was just the same when she went back to
Avonlea. This time it was Diana who was bathed in the wonderful glory
that comes to a woman when her first-born is laid beside her. Anne
looked at the white young mother with a certain awe that had never
entered into her feelings for Diana before. Could this pale woman with
the rapture in her eyes be the little black-curled, rosy-cheeked Diana
she had played with in vanished schooldays? It gave her a queer
desolate feeling that she herself somehow belonged only in those past
years and had no business in the present at all.
“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.