“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 grownup 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