The Classic Children's Literature Collection: 39 Classic Novels

by Various Authors

  Anne, who was counting her days like silver beads on a rosary, could not now take the long walk to the lighthouse or up the Glen road. But Miss Cornelia and Captain Jim came very often to the little house. Miss Cornelia was the joy of Anne’s and Gilbert’s existence. They laughed side-splittingly over her speeches after every visit. When Captain Jim and she happened to visit the little house at the same time there was much sport for the listening. They waged wordy warfare, she attacking, he defending. Anne once reproached the Captain for his baiting of Miss Cornelia.

  “Oh, I do love to set her going, Mistress Blythe,” chuckled the unrepentant sinner. “It’s the greatest amusement I have in life. That tongue of hers would blister a stone. And you and that young dog of a doctor enj’y listening to her as much as I do.”

  Captain Jim came along another evening to bring Anne some mayflowers. The garden was full of the moist, scented air of a maritime spring evening. There was a milk-white mist on the edge of the sea, with a young moon kissing it, and a silver gladness of stars over the Glen. The bell of the church across the harbor was ringing dreamily sweet. The mellow chime drifted through the dusk to mingle with the soft spring-moan of the sea. Captain Jim’s mayflowers added the last completing touch to the charm of the night.

  “I haven’t seen any this spring, and I’ve missed them,” said Anne, burying her face in them.

  “They ain’t to be found around Four Winds, only in the barrens away behind the Glen up yander. I took a little trip today to the Land-of-nothing-to-do, and hunted these up for you. I reckon they’re the last you’ll see this spring, for they’re nearly done.”

  “How kind and thoughtful you are, Captain Jim. Nobody else—not even Gilbert"—with a shake of her head at him—"remembered that I always long for mayflowers in spring.”

  “Well, I had another errand, too—I wanted to take Mr. Howard back yander a mess of trout. He likes one occasional, and it’s all I can do for a kindness he did me once. I stayed all the afternoon and talked to him. He likes to talk to me, though he’s a highly eddicated man and I’m only an ignorant old sailor, because he’s one of the folks that’s GOT to talk or they’re miserable, and he finds listeners scarce around here. The Glen folks fight shy of him because they think he’s an infidel. He ain’t that far gone exactly—few men is, I reckon—but he’s what you might call a heretic. Heretics are wicked, but they’re mighty int’resting. It’s jest that they’ve got sorter lost looking for God, being under the impression that He’s hard to find—which He ain’t never. Most of ‘em blunder to Him after awhile, I guess. I don’t think listening to Mr. Howard’s arguments is likely to do me much harm. Mind you, I believe what I was brought up to believe. It saves a vast of bother—and back of it all, God is good. The trouble with Mr. Howard is that he’s a leetle TOO clever. He thinks that he’s bound to live up to his cleverness, and that it’s smarter to thrash out some new way of getting to heaven than to go by the old track the common, ignorant folks is travelling. But he’ll get there sometime all right, and then he’ll laugh at himself.”

  “Mr. Howard was a Methodist to begin with,” said Miss Cornelia, as if she thought he had not far to go from that to heresy.

  “Do you know, Cornelia,” said Captain Jim gravely, “I’ve often thought that if I wasn’t a Presbyterian I’d be a Methodist.”

  “Oh, well,” conceded Miss Cornelia, “if you weren’t a Presbyterian it wouldn’t matter much what you were. Speaking of heresy, reminds me, doctor—I’ve brought back that book you lent me—that Natural Law in the Spiritual World—I didn’t read more’n a third of it. I can read sense, and I can read nonsense, but that book is neither the one nor the other.”

  “It IS considered rather heretical in some quarters,” admitted Gilbert, “but I told you that before you took it, Miss Cornelia.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have minded its being heretical. I can stand wickedness, but I can’t stand foolishness,” said Miss Cornelia calmly, and with the air of having said the last thing there was to say about Natural Law.

  “Speaking of books, A Mad Love come to an end at last two weeks ago,” remarked Captain Jim musingly. “It run to one hundred and three chapters. When they got married the book stopped right off, so I reckon their troubles were all over. It’s real nice that that’s the way in books anyhow, isn’t it, even if ‘tistn’t so anywhere else?”

  “I never read novels,” said Miss Cornelia. “Did you hear how Geordie Russell was today, Captain Jim?”

  “Yes, I called in on my way home to see him. He’s getting round all right—but stewing in a broth of trouble, as usual, poor man.

  “‘Course he brews up most of it for himself, but I reckon that don’t make it any easier to bear.”

  “He’s an awful pessimist,” said Miss Cornelia.

  “Well, no, he ain’t a pessimist exactly, Cornelia. He only jest never finds anything that suits him.”

  “And isn’t that a pessimist?”

  “No, no. A pessimist is one who never expects to find anything to suit him. Geordie hain’t got THAT far yet.”

  “You’d find something good to say of the devil himself, Jim Boyd.”

  “Well, you’ve heard the story of the old lady who said he was persevering. But no, Cornelia, I’ve nothing good to say of the devil.”

  “Do you believe in him at all?” asked Miss Cornelia seriously.

  “How can you ask that when you know what a good Presbyterian I am, Cornelia? How could a Presbyterian get along without a devil?”

  “DO you?” persisted Miss Cornelia.

  Captain Jim suddenly became grave.

  “I believe in what I heard a minister once call ‘a mighty and malignant and INTELLIGENT power of evil working in the universe,’” he said solemnly. “I do THAT, Cornelia. You can call it the devil, or the ‘principle of evil,’ or the Old Scratch, or any name you like. It’s THERE, and all the infidels and heretics in the world can’t argue it away, any more’n they can argue God away. It’s there, and it’s working. But, mind you, Cornelia, I believe it’s going to get the worst of it in the long run.”

  “I am sure I hope so,” said Miss Cornelia, none too hopefully. “But speaking of the devil, I am positive that Billy Booth is possessed by him now. Have you heard of Billy’s latest performance?”

  “No, what was that?”

  “He’s gone and burned up his wife’s new, brown broadcloth suit, that she paid twenty-five dollars for in Charlottetown, because he declares the men looked too admiring at her when she wore it to church the first time. Wasn’t that like a man?”

  “Mistress Booth IS mighty pretty, and brown’s her color,” said Captain Jim reflectively.

  “Is that any good reason why he should poke her new suit into the kitchen stove? Billy Booth is a jealous fool, and he makes his wife’s life miserable. She’s cried all the week about her suit. Oh, Anne, I wish I could write like you, believe ME. Wouldn’t I score some of the men round here!”

  “Those Booths are all a mite queer,” said Captain Jim. “Billy seemed the sanest of the lot till he got married and then this queer jealous streak cropped out in him. His brother Daniel, now, was always odd.”

  “Took tantrums every few days or so and wouldn’t get out of bed,” said Miss Cornelia with a relish. “His wife would have to do all the barn work till he got over his spell. When he died people wrote her letters of condolence; if I’d written anything it would have been one of congratulation. Their father, old Abram Booth, was a disgusting old sot. He was drunk at his wife’s funeral, and kept reeling round and hiccuping ‘I didn’t dri—i—i—nk much but I feel a—a—awfully que—e—e—r.’ I gave him a good jab in the back with my umbrella when he came near me, and it sobered him up until they got the casket out of the house. Young Johnny Booth was to have been married yesterday, but he couldn’t be because he’s gone and got the mumps. Wasn’t that like a man?”

&n
bsp; “How could he help getting the mumps, poor fellow?”

  “I’d poor fellow him, believe ME, if I was Kate Sterns. I don’t know how he could help getting the mumps, but I DO know the wedding supper was all prepared and everything will be spoiled before he’s well again. Such a waste! He should have had the mumps when he was a boy.”

  “Come, come, Cornelia, don’t you think you’re a mite unreasonable?”

  Miss Cornelia disdained to reply and turned instead to Susan Baker, a grim-faced, kind-hearted elderly spinster of the Glen, who had been installed as maid-of-all-work at the little house for some weeks. Susan had been up to the Glen to make a sick call, and had just returned.

  “How is poor old Aunt Mandy tonight?” asked Miss Cornelia.

  Susan sighed.

  “Very poorly—very poorly, Cornelia. I am afraid she will soon be in heaven, poor thing!”

  “Oh, surely, it’s not so bad as that!” exclaimed Miss Cornelia, sympathetically.

  Captain Jim and Gilbert looked at each other. Then they suddenly rose and went out.

  “There are times,” said Captain Jim, between spasms, “when it would be a sin NOT to laugh. Them two excellent women!”

  CHAPTER 19.DAWN AND DUSK

  In early June, when the sand hills were a great glory of pink wild roses, and the Glen was smothered in apple blossoms, Marilla arrived at the little house, accompanied by a black horsehair trunk, patterned with brass nails, which had reposed undisturbed in the Green Gables garret for half a century. Susan Baker, who, during her few weeks’ sojourn in the little house, had come to worship “young Mrs. Doctor,” as she called Anne, with blind fervor, looked rather jealously askance at Marilla at first. But as Marilla did not try to interfere in kitchen matters, and showed no desire to interrupt Susan’s ministrations to young Mrs. Doctor, the good handmaiden became reconciled to her presence, and told her cronies at the Glen that Miss Cuthbert was a fine old lady and knew her place.

  One evening, when the sky’s limpid bowl was filled with a red glory, and the robins were thrilling the golden twilight with jubilant hymns to the stars of evening, there was a sudden commotion in the little house of dreams. Telephone messages were sent up to the Glen, Doctor Dave and a white-capped nurse came hastily down, Marilla paced the garden walks between the quahog shells, murmuring prayers between her set lips, and Susan sat in the kitchen with cotton wool in her ears and her apron over her head.

  Leslie, looking out from the house up the brook, saw that every window of the little house was alight, and did not sleep that night.

  The June night was short; but it seemed an eternity to those who waited and watched.

  “Oh, will it NEVER end?” said Marilla; then she saw how grave the nurse and Doctor Dave looked, and she dared ask no more questions. Suppose Anne—but Marilla could not suppose it.

  “Do not tell me,” said Susan fiercely, answering the anguish in Marilla’s eyes, “that God could be so cruel as to take that darling lamb from us when we all love her so much.”

  “He has taken others as well beloved,” said Marilla hoarsely.

  But at dawn, when the rising sun rent apart the mists hanging over the sandbar, and made rainbows of them, joy came to the little house. Anne was safe, and a wee, white lady, with her mother’s big eyes, was lying beside her. Gilbert, his face gray and haggard from his night’s agony, came down to tell Marilla and Susan.

  “Thank God,” shuddered Marilla.

  Susan got up and took the cotton wool out of her ears.

  “Now for breakfast,” she said briskly. “I am of the opinion that we will all be glad of a bite and sup. You tell young Mrs. Doctor not to worry about a single thing—Susan is at the helm. You tell her just to think of her baby.”

  Gilbert smiled rather sadly as he went away. Anne, her pale face blanched with its baptism of pain, her eyes aglow with the holy passion of motherhood, did not need to be told to think of her baby. She thought of nothing else. For a few hours she tasted of happiness so rare and exquisite that she wondered if the angels in heaven did not envy her.

  “Little Joyce,” she murmured, when Marilla came in to see the baby. “We planned to call her that if she were a girlie. There were so many we would have liked to name her for; we couldn’t choose between them, so we decided on Joyce—we can call her Joy for short—Joy—it suits so well. Oh, Marilla, I thought I was happy before. Now I know that I just dreamed a pleasant dream of happiness. THIS is the reality.”

  “You mustn’t talk, Anne—wait till you’re stronger,” said Marilla warningly.

  “You know how hard it is for me NOT to talk,” smiled Anne.

  At first she was too weak and too happy to notice that Gilbert and the nurse looked grave and Marilla sorrowful. Then, as subtly, and coldly, and remorselessly as a sea-fog stealing landward, fear crept into her heart. Why was not Gilbert gladder? Why would he not talk about the baby? Why would they not let her have it with her after that first heavenly—happy hour? Was—was there anything wrong?

  “Gilbert,” whispered Anne imploringly, “the baby—is all right—isn’t she? Tell me—tell me.”

  Gilbert was a long while in turning round; then he bent over Anne and looked in her eyes. Marilla, listening fearfully outside the door, heard a pitiful, heartbroken moan, and fled to the kitchen where Susan was weeping.

  “Oh, the poor lamb—the poor lamb! How can she bear it, Miss Cuthbert? I am afraid it will kill her. She has been that built up and happy, longing for that baby, and planning for it. Cannot anything be done nohow, Miss Cuthbert?”

  “I’m afraid not, Susan. Gilbert says there is no hope. He knew from the first the little thing couldn’t live.”

  “And it is such a sweet baby,” sobbed Susan. “I never saw one so white—they are mostly red or yallow. And it opened its big eyes as if it was months old. The little, little thing! Oh, the poor, young Mrs. Doctor!”

  At sunset the little soul that had come with the dawning went away, leaving heartbreak behind it. Miss Cornelia took the wee, white lady from the kindly but stranger hands of the nurse, and dressed the tiny waxen form in the beautiful dress Leslie had made for it. Leslie had asked her to do that. Then she took it back and laid it beside the poor, broken, tear-blinded little mother.

  “The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away, dearie,” she said through her own tears. “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  Then she went away, leaving Anne and Gilbert alone together with their dead.

  The next day, the small white Joy was laid in a velvet casket which Leslie had lined with apple-blossoms, and taken to the graveyard of the church across the harbor. Miss Cornelia and Marilla put all the little love-made garments away, together with the ruffled basket which had been befrilled and belaced for dimpled limbs and downy head. Little Joy was never to sleep there; she had found a colder, narrower bed.

  “This has been an awful disappointment to me,” sighed Miss Cornelia. “I’ve looked forward to this baby—and I did want it to be a girl, too.”

  “I can only be thankful that Anne’s life was spared,” said Marilla, with a shiver, recalling those hours of darkness when the girl she loved was passing through the valley of the shadow.

  “Poor, poor lamb! Her heart is broken,” said Susan.

  “I ENVY Anne,” said Leslie suddenly and fiercely, “and I’d envy her even if she had died! She was a mother for one beautiful day. I’d gladly give my life for THAT!”

  “I wouldn’t talk like that, Leslie, dearie,” said Miss Cornelia deprecatingly. She was afraid that the dignified Miss Cuthbert would think Leslie quite terrible.

  Anne’s convalescence was long, and made bitter for her by many things. The bloom and sunshine of the Four Winds world grated harshly on her; and yet, when the rain fell heavily, she pictured it beating so mercilessly down on that little grave across the harbor; and when the wind blew aroun
d the eaves she heard sad voices in it she had never heard before.

  Kindly callers hurt her, too, with the well-meant platitudes with which they strove to cover the nakedness of bereavement. A letter from Phil Blake was an added sting. Phil had heard of the baby’s birth, but not of its death, and she wrote Anne a congratulatory letter of sweet mirth which hurt her horribly.

  “I would have laughed over it so happily if I had my baby,” she sobbed to Marilla. “But when I haven’t it just seems like wanton cruelty—though I know Phil wouldn’t hurt me for the world. Oh, Marilla, I don’t see how I can EVER be happy again—EVERYTHING will hurt me all the rest of my life.”

  “Time will help you,” said Marilla, who was racked with sympathy but could never learn to express it in other than age-worn formulas.

  “It doesn’t seem FAIR,” said Anne rebelliously. “Babies are born and live where they are not wanted—where they will be neglected—where they will have no chance. I would have loved my baby so—and cared for it so tenderly—and tried to give her every chance for good. And yet I wasn’t allowed to keep her.”

  “It was God’s will, Anne,” said Marilla, helpless before the riddle of the universe—the WHY of undeserved pain. “And little Joy is better off.”

  “I can’t believe THAT,” cried Anne bitterly. Then, seeing that Marilla looked shocked, she added passionately, “Why should she be born at all—why should any one be born at all—if she’s better off dead? I DON’T believe it is better for a child to die at birth than to live its life out—and love and be loved—and enjoy and suffer—and do its work—and develop a character that would give it a personality in eternity. And how do you know it was God’s will? Perhaps it was just a thwarting of His purpose by the Power of Evil. We can’t be expected to be resigned to THAT.”

  “Oh, Anne, don’t talk so,” said Marilla, genuinely alarmed lest Anne were drifting into deep and dangerous waters. “We can’t understand—but we must have faith—we MUST believe that all is for the best. I know you find it hard to think so, just now. But try to be brave—for Gilbert’s sake. He’s so worried about you. You aren’t getting strong as fast as you should.”