‘Oh, she does look really dead,’ whispered Ruby Gillis nervously, watching the still, white little face under the flickering shadows of the birches. ‘It makes me feel frightened, girls. Do you suppose it’s really right to act like this? Mrs Lynde says that all play-acting is abominably wicked.’
‘Ruby, you shouldn’t talk about Mrs Lynde,’ said Anne severely. ‘It spoils the effect because this is hundreds of years before Mrs Lynde was born. Jane, you arrange this. It’s silly for Elaine to be talking when she’s dead.’
Jane rose to the occasion. Cloth of gold for coverlet there was none, but an old piano scarf of yellow Japanese crêpe was an excellent substitute. A white lily was not obtainable just then, but the effect of a tall blue iris placed in one of Anne’s folded hands was all that could be desired.
‘Now, she’s all ready,’ said Jane. ‘We must kiss her quiet brows and, Diana, you say, “Sister, farewell for ever”, and Ruby, you say, “Farewell, sweet sister”, both of you as sorrowfully as you possibly can. Anne, for goodness’ sake smile a little. You know Elaine “lay as though she smiled”. That’s better. Now push the flat off.’
The flat was accordingly pushed off, scraping roughly over an old embedded stake in the process. Diana and Jane and Ruby only waited long enough to see it caught in the current and headed for the bridge before scampering up through the woods, across the road, and down to the lower headland where, as Lancelot and Guinevere and the King, they were to be in readiness to receive the lily maid.
For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance of her situation to the full. Then something happened not at all romantic. The flat began to leak. In a very few moments it was necessary for Elaine to scramble to her feet, pick up her cloth of gold coverlet and pall of blackest samite and gaze blankly at a big crack in the bottom of her barge through which the water was literally pouring. That sharp stake at the landing had torn off the strip of batting nailed on the flat. Anne did not know this, but it did not take her long to realize that she was in a dangerous plight. At this rate the flat would fill and sink long before it could drift to the lower headland. Where were the oars? Left behind at the landing!
Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard; she was white to the lips, but she did not lose her self-possession. There was one chance — just one.
‘I was horribly frightened,’ she told Mrs Allan the next day, ‘and it seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the bridge and the water rising in it every moment. I prayed, Mrs Allan, most earnestly, but I didn’t shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could save me was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge piles for me to climb up on it. You know the piles are just old tree-trunks and there are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I just said, “Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and I’ll do the rest,” over and over again. Under such circumstances you don’t think much about making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was, Mrs Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn’t think about that at the time. You don’t think much about romance when you have just escaped from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once, and then I gave all my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to depend on human aid to get back to dry land.’
The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank in midstream. Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, saw it disappear before their very eyes and had not a doubt but that Anne had gone down with it. For a moment they stood still, white as sheets, frozen with horror at the tragedy; then, shrieking at the tops of their voices, they started on a frantic run up through the woods, never pausing as they crossed the main road to glance the way of the bridge. Anne, clinging desperately to her precarious foothold, saw their flying forms and heard their shrieks. Help would soon come, but meanwhile her position was a very uncomfortable one.
The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour to the unfortunate lily maid. Why didn’t somebody come? Where had the girls gone? Suppose they had fainted, one and all! Suppose nobody ever came! Suppose she grew so tired and cramped that she could hold on no longer! Anne looked at the wicked green depths below her, wavering with long, oily shadows, and shivered. Her imagination began to suggest all manner of gruesome possibilities to her.
Then, just as she thought she really could not endure the ache in her arms and wrists another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge in Harmon Andrews’s dory!
Gilbert glanced up and, much to his amazement, beheld a little white scornful face looking down upon him with big, frightened but also scornful grey eyes.
‘Anne Shirley! How on earth did you get there?’ he exclaimed.
Without waiting for an answer he pulled close to the pile and extended his hand. There was no help for it; Anne, clinging to Gilbert Blythe’s hand, scrambled down into the dory, where she sat, drabbled and furious, in the stern with her arms full of dripping shawl and wet crêpe. It was certainly extremely difficult to be dignified under the circumstances!
‘What has happened, Anne?’ asked Gilbert, taking up his oars.
‘We were playing Elaine,’ explained Anne frigidly, without even looking at her rescuer, ‘and I had to drift down to Camelot in the barge — I mean the flat. The flat began to leak and I climbed out on the pile. The girls went for help. Will you be kind enough to row me to the landing?’
Gilbert obligingly rowed to the landing and Anne, disdaining assistance, sprang nimbly on shore.
‘I’m very much obliged to you,’ she said haughtily as she turned away. But Gilbert had also sprung from the boat and now laid a detaining hand on her arm.
‘Anne,’ he said hurriedly, ‘look here. Can’t we be good friends? I’m awfully sorry I made fun of your hair that time. I didn’t mean to vex you and I only meant it for a joke. Besides, it’s so long ago. I think you hair is awfully pretty now — honest I do. Let’s be friends.’
For a moment Anne hesitated. She had an odd, newly awakened consciousness under all her outraged dignity that the half-shy, half-eager expression in Gilbert’s hazel eyes was something that was very good to see. Her heart gave a quick, queer little beat. But the bitterness of her old grievance promptly stiffened up her wavering determination. That scene of two years before flashed back into her recollection as vividly as if it had taken place yesterday. Gilbert had called her ‘carrots’ and had brought about her disgrace before the whole school. Her resentment, which to other and older people might be as laughable as its cause, was in no whit allayed and softened by time seemingly. She hated Gilbert Blythe! She would never forgive him!
‘No,’ she said coldly, ‘I shall never be friends with you, Gilbert Blythe; and I don’t want to be!’
‘All right!’ Gilbert sprang into his skiff with an angry colour in his cheeks. ‘I’ll never ask you to be friends again, Anne Shirley. And I don’t care either!’
He pulled away with swift, defiant strokes, and Anne went up the steep, ferny little path under the maples. She held her head very high, but she was conscious of an odd feeling of regret. She almost wished she had answered Gilbert differently. Of course, he had insulted her terribly, but still! Altogether, Anne rather thought it would be a relief to sit down and have a good cry. She was really quite unstrung, for the reaction from her fright and cramped clinging was making itself felt.
Half-way up the path she met Jane and Diana rushing back to the pond in a state narrowly removed from positive frenzy. They had found nobody at Orchard Slope, both Mr and Mrs Barry being away. Here Ruby Gillis had succumbed to hysterics, and was left to recover from them as best she might, while Jane and Diana flew through the Haunted Wood and across the brook
to Green Gables. There they had found nobody either, for Marilla had gone to Carmody and Matthew was making hay in the back field.
‘Oh, Anne,’ gasped Diana, fairly falling on the former’s neck and weeping with relief and delight. ‘Oh, Anne –we thought — you were — drowned — and we felt like murderers — because we had made — you be — Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics — oh, Anne, how did you escape?’
‘I climbed up on one of the piles,’ exclaimed Anne wearily, ‘and Gilbert Blythe came along in Mr Andrews’s dory and brought me to land.’
‘Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it’s so romantic!’ said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last. ‘Of course you’ll speak to him after this.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ flashed Anne with a momentary return of her old spirit. ‘And I don’t want ever to hear the word romantic again, Jane Andrews. I’m awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything I do gets me or my dearest friends into a scrape. We’ve gone and lost your father’s flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that we’ll not be allowed to row on the pond any more.’
Anne’s presentiment proved more trustworthy than presentiments are apt to do. Great was the consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert households when the events of the afternoon became known.
‘Will you ever have any sense, Anne?’ groaned Marilla.
‘Oh, yes, I think I will, Marilla,’ returned Anne optimistically. A good cry, indulged in the grateful solitude of the east gable, had soothed her nerves and restored her to her wonted cheerfulness. ‘I think my prospects of becoming sensible are brighter now than ever.’
‘I don’t see how,’ said Marilla.
‘Well,’ explained Anne. ‘I’ve learned a new and valuable lesson today. Ever since I came to Green Gables I’ve been making mistakes, and each mistake has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. The affair of the amethyst brooch cured me of meddling with things that didn’t belong to me. The Haunted Wood mistake cured me of letting my imagination run away with me. The liniment cake mistake cured me of carelessness in cooking. Dyeing my hair cured me of vanity. I never think about my hair and nose now — at least, very seldom. And today’s mistake is going to cure me of being too romantic. I have come to the conclusion that it is no use trying to be romantic in Avonlea. It was probably easy enough in towered Camelot hundreds of years ago, but romance is not appreciated now. I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me in this respect, Marilla.’
‘I’m sure I hope so,’ said Marilla sceptically.
But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on Anne’s shoulder when Marilla had gone out.
‘Don’t give up all your romance, Anne,’ he whispered shyly, ‘a little of it is a good thing — not too much, of course — but keep a little of it, Anne, keep a little of it.’
29
An Epoch in Anne’s Life
Anne was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of Lovers’ Lane. It was a September evening and all the gaps and clearings in the wood were brimmed up with ruby sunset light. Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but for the most part it was already quite shadowy beneath the maples, and the spaces under the firs were filled with a clear violet dusk like airy wine. The winds were out in their tops, and there is no sweeter music on earth than that which the wind makes in the fir-trees at evening.
The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from Marmion — which had also been part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart — and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines:
The stubborn spearsmen still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,
she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not.
‘Isn’t this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it’s lovelier still.’
‘It’s a very fine evening,’ said Diana, ‘but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses.’
‘Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs Allan wants us to decorate it,’ cried Anne.
‘No. Charlotte’s beau won’t agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It’s too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again.’
‘Jane’s mother is going to let her have a birthday party?’
Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment.
‘I can’t think what it can be,’ said Anne in despair, ‘unless it’s that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer-meeting last night. Did he?’
‘I should think not,’ exclaimed Diana indignantly. ‘I wouldn’t be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn’t guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!’
‘Oh, Diana,’ whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple-tree for support, ‘do you really mean it? But I’m afraid Marilla won’t let me go. She will say that she can’t encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I’d be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn’t say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them.’
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Diana, ‘we’ll get Mother to ask Marilla. She’ll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we’ll have the time of our lives, Anne. I’ve never been to an Exhibition, and it’s so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they’re going this year again.’
‘I’m not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not,’ said Anne resolutely. ‘If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I’m very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn’t think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana — navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn’t intend to have Matthew going to Mrs Lynde to make them. I’m so glad. It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable. At least, it is easier for me. I suppose it doesn’t make such a difference to naturally good people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought a lovely piece of blue broad-cloth, and it’s being made by a real dressmaker over at Carmody. It’s to be done Saturday night, and I’m trying not to imagine myself walking up the church aisle on Sunday in my new suit and cap, because I’m afraid it isn’t right to imagine such things. But it just slips into my mind in spite of me. My cap is so pretty. Matthew bought it for me the day we were over at Carmody. It is one of those little blue velvet ones that are all the rage, with gold cord and tassels. Your new hat is elegant, Diana, and so becoming. When I saw you come into church last Sunday my heart swelled with pride to think you were my dearest friend. Do you suppose it’s wrong for us to think so much about our clothes? Marilla says it is very sinful. But it is such an interesting subject, isn’t it?’
Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was arranged that Mr Barry should
take the girls in on the following Tuesday. As Charlottetown was thirty miles away and Mr Barry wished to go and return the same day, it was necessary to make a very early start. But Anne counted it all joy, and was up before sunrise on Tuesday morning. A glance from her window assured her that the day would be fine, for the eastern sky behind the firs of the Haunted Wood was all silvery and cloudless. Through the gap in the trees a light was shining in the western gable of Orchard Slope, a token that Diana was also up.
Anne was dressed by the time Matthew had the fire on, and had the breakfast ready when Marilla came down, but for her own part was much too excited to eat. After breakfast the jaunty new cap and jacket were donned, and Anne hastened over the brook and up through the firs to Orchard Slope. Mr Barry and Diana were waiting for her, and they were soon on the road.
It was a long drive, but Anne and Diana enjoyed every minute of it. It was delightful to rattle along over the moist roads in the early red sunlight that was creeping across the shorn harvest fields. The air was fresh and crisp, and little smoke-blue mists curled through the valleys and floated off from the hills. Sometimes the road went through woods where maples were beginning to hang out scarlet banners; sometimes it crossed rivers on bridges that made Anne’s flesh cringe with the old, half-delightful fear; sometimes it wound along a harbour shore and passed by a little cluster of weather-grey fishing huts; again it mounted to hills whence a far sweep of curving upland or misty blue sky could be seen; but wherever it went there was much of interest to discuss. It was almost noon when they reached town and found their way to Beechwood. It was quite a fine old mansion, set back from the street in a seclusion of green elms and branching beeches. Miss Barry met them at the door with a twinkle in her sharp black eyes.
‘So, you’ve come to see me at last, you Anne-girl,’ she said. ‘Mercy, child, how you have grown! You’re taller than I am, I declare. And you’re ever so much better-looking than you used to be, too. But I dare say you know that without being told.’
Anne of Green Gables (Penguin) Page 23
