 Chapter 36 of Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery, read for LibriVox by Karen Savage. Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island. Chapter 36. The Gardner's Call Here is a letter with an Indian stamp for you, Anne, Jimzie, said Phil. Here are three for Stella, and two for Priss, and a glorious fat one for me from Joe. There's nothing for you, Anne, except a circular. Nobody noticed Anne's flush as she took the thin letter Phil tossed her carelessly, but a few minutes later Phil looked up to see a transfigured Anne. Honey, what good thing has happened? The youth's friend has accepted a little sketch I sent them a fortnight ago, said Anne, trying hard to speak as if she were accustomed to having sketches accepted every mail, but not quite succeeding. Anne, surely! How glorious! What was it? When is it to be published? Did they pay you for it? Yes, they've sent a check for ten dollars, and the editor writes that he would like to see more of my work. Dear man, he shall. It was an old sketch I found in my box. I rewrote it and sent it in, but I never really thought it could be accepted because it had no plot, said Anne, recalling the bitter experience of Avril's atonement. What are you going to do with that ten dollars, Anne? Let's all go up to town and get drunk, suggested Phil. I am going to squander it in a wild, soulless revel of some sort, declared Anne gaily. At all events it isn't tainted money like the check I got for that horrible, reliable baking-powder story. I spent it usefully for clothes, and hated them every time I put them on. Think of having a real, live author at Patty's place, said Priscilla. It's a great responsibility, said Aunt Jamesena solemnly. Indeed it is, agreed Prist with equal solemnity. Authors are kittle-cattle. You never know when or how they will break out. Anne may make copy of us. I meant that the ability to write for the press was a great responsibility, said Aunt Jamesena severely, and I hope Anne realizes it. My daughter used to write stories before she went to the foreign field, but now she has turned her attention to higher things. She used to say her motto was, Never write a line you would be ashamed to read at your own funeral. You'd better take that for yours, Anne, if you are going to embark in literature. Though to be sure, added Aunt Jamesena perplexedly, Elizabeth always used to laugh when she said it. She always laughed so much that I don't know how she ever came to decide on being a missionary. I'm thankful she did. I prayed that she might. But I wish she hadn't. Then Aunt Jamesena wondered why those giddy girls all laughed. Anne's eyes shone all that day. Literary ambitions sprouted and butted in her brain. Their exhilaration accompanied her to Jenny Cooper's walking-party, and not even the sight of Gilbert and Christine walking just ahead of her and Roy could quite subdue the sparkle of her starry hopes. Nevertheless she was not so rapt from things of earth as to be unable to notice that Christine's walk was decidedly ungraceful. But I suppose Gilbert looks only at her face. So like a man, thought Anne scornfully. Shall you be home Saturday afternoon? asked Roy. Yes. My mother and sisters are coming to call on you, said Roy quietly. Something went over Anne which might be described as a thrill, but it was hardly a pleasant one. She had never met any of Roy's family. She realized the significance of his statement. It had, somehow, an irrevocableness about it that chilled her. I shall be glad to see them, she said flatly, and then wondered if she really would be glad. She ought to be, of course. But would it not be something of an ordeal? Gossip had filtered to Anne regarding the light in which the gardeners viewed the infatuation of son and brother. Roy must have brought pressure to bear in the matter of this call. Anne knew she would be weighed in the balance. From the fact that they had consented to call she understood that, willingly or unwillingly, they regarded her as a possible member of their clan. I shall just be myself. I shall not try to make a good impression, thought Anne loftily. But she was wondering what dress she would better wear Saturday afternoon, and if the new style of high hairdressing would suit her better than the old, and the walking party was rather spoiled for her. By night she had decided that she would wear her brown chiffon on Saturday, but would do her hair low. Friday afternoon none of the girls had classes at Redmond. Stella took the opportunity to write a paper for the Philomathic Society, and was sitting at the table in the corner of the living-room with an untidy litter of notes and manuscript on the floor around her. Stella always vowed she never could write anything unless she threw each sheet down as she completed it. Anne, in her flannel blouse and surged skirt, with her hair rather blown from her windy walk home, was sitting squarely in the middle of the floor, teasing the Sarah cat with a wish-bone. Joseph and Rusty were both curled up in her lap. A warm, plummy odor filled the whole house, for Priscilla was cooking in the kitchen. Presently she came in, and shrouded in a huge work apron, with a smudge of flour on her nose to show Aunt Jamesine of the chocolate cake she had just iced. At this auspicious moment the knocker sounded. Nobody paid any attention to it save Phil, who sprang up and opened it, expecting a boy with the hat she had bought that morning. On the doorstep stood Mrs. Gardner and her daughters. Anne, scramble to her feet somehow, emptying two indignant cats out of her lap as she did so, and mechanically shifting her wish-bone from her right hand to her left. Priscilla, who would have had to cross the room to reach the kitchen door, lost her head, wildly plunged the chocolate cake under a cushion on the ingle-knock sofa, and dashed upstairs. Stella began feverishly gathering up her manuscript. Only Aunt Jamesine and Phil remained normal. Thanks to them, everybody was soon sitting at ease, even Anne. Priscilla came down, apronless and smudgeless. Stella reduced her corner to decency, and Phil saved the situation by a stream of ready small talk. Mrs. Gardner was tall and thin and handsome, exquisitely gowned, cordial with a cordiality that seemed a trifle-forced. Aline Gardner was a younger edition of her mother, lacking the cordiality. She endeavored to be nice, but succeeded only in being haughty and patronizing. Dorothy Gardner was slim and jolly and rather tomboyish. Anne knew she was Roy's favourite sister and warm to her. She would have looked very much like Roy if she had had dreamy dark eyes instead of roguish, hazel ones. Thanks to her and Phil the call really went off very well, except for a slight sense of strain in the atmosphere, and two rather untoward incidents. Rusty and Joseph, left to themselves, began a game of chase, and sprang madly into Mrs. Gardner's silken lap and out of it in their wild career. Mrs. Gardner lifted her lawn yet and gazed after their flying forms as if she had never seen cats before, and Anne, choking back slightly nervous laughter, apologized as best she could. You are fond of cats? said Mrs. Gardner with a slight intonation of tolerant wonder. Anne, despite her affection for Rusty, was not especially fond of cats, but Mrs. Gardner's tone annoyed her. Inconsequently she remembered that Mrs. John Blythe was so fond of cats that she kept as many as her husband would allow. They are adorable animals, aren't they? she said wickedly. I have never liked cats, said Mrs. Gardner remotely. I love them, said Dorothy. They're so nice and selfish. Dogs are too good and unselfish. They make me feel uncomfortable. But cats are gloriously human. You have two delightful old China dogs there. May I look at them closely? said Aline, crossing the room towards the fireplace, and thereby becoming the unconscious cause of the other accident. Picking up Magog, she sat down on the cushion under which was secreted Priscilla's chocolate cake. Priscilla and Anne exchanged agonized glances, but could do nothing. The stately Aline continued to sit on the cushion and discuss China dogs until the time of departure. Dorothy lingered behind a moment to squeeze Anne's hand and whisper impulsively. I know you and I are going to be chums. Oh, Roy has told me all about you. I'm the only one of the family he tells things to, poor boy. Nobody could confine in Mama and Aline, you know. What glorious times you girls must have here. Won't you let me come often and have a share in them? Come as often as you like, Anne responded heartily, thankful that one of Roy's sisters was likable. She would never like Aline, so much was certain, and Aline would never like her, though Mrs. Gartner might be one. All together, Anne sighed with relief when the ordeal was over. Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are it might have been, quoted Priscilla tragically, lifting the cushion. This cake is now what you might call a flat failure, and the cushion is likewise ruined. Never tell me that Friday isn't unlucky. People who send word they are coming on Saturday shouldn't come on Friday, said Aunt Jamesena. I fancy it was Roy's mistake, said Phil. That boy isn't really responsible for what he says when he talks to Anne. Where is Anne? Anne had gone upstairs. She felt oddly like crying, but she made herself laugh instead. Rusty and Joseph had been too awful, and Dorothy was a dear. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 of Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery Read for LibriVox by Karen Savage Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island Chapter 37 Full-Fledged B.A.'s I wish I were dead, or that it were tomorrow night, grown Phil. If you live long enough, both wishes will come true, said Anne calmly. It's easy for you to be serene. You're at home in philosophy. I'm not, and when I think of that horrible paper tomorrow I quail. If I should fail in it, what would Joe say? You won't fail. How did you get on in Greek today? I don't know. Perhaps it was a good paper, and perhaps it was bad enough to make Homer turn over in his grave. I've studied and mulled over notebooks until I'm incapable of forming an opinion of anything. How thankful little Phil will be when all this examinating is over. Examinating? I never heard such a word. Well, haven't I as go to write to make a word as anyone else? demanded Phil. Words aren't made. They grow, said Anne. Never mind. I begin faintly to discern clear water ahead where no examination breakers loom. Girls, do you—can you realize that our Redmond life is almost over? I can't, said Anne sorrowfully. It seems just yesterday that Priss and I were alone in that crowd of freshman at Redmond, and now we are seniors in our final examinations. Potent, wise, and reverent seniors, quoted Phil. Do you suppose we really are any wiser than when we came to Redmond? You don't act as if you were by times, said Aunt Jamesena severely. Oh, Aunt Jamesy, haven't we been pretty good girls, take as by and large these three winters you've mothered us? pleaded Phil. You've been four of the dearest, sweetest, goodest girls that ever went together through college, over at Aunt Jamesena, who never spoiled a compliment by misplaced economy. But I mistrust you haven't any too much sense yet. It's not to be expected, of course. Experience teaches sense. You can't learn it in a college course. You've been to college four years, and I never was. But I know heaps more than you do, young ladies. There are lots of things that never go by rule. There's a powerful pile of knowledge that you never get at college. There are heaps of things you never learn at school, quoted Stella. Have you learned anything at Redmond except dead languages and geometry in such trash, queried Aunt Jamesena? Oh yes, I think we have, Auntie, protested Anne. We've learned the truth of what Professor Woodley told us last philanthropic, said Phil. He said, humor is the spiciest condiment in the feast of existence. Laugh at your mistakes, but learn from them. Joke over your troubles, but gather strength from them. Make a jest of your difficulties, but overcome them. Isn't that worth learning at, Jimsy? Yes, it is, dearie. When you've learned to laugh at the things that should be laughed at, and not to laugh at those that shouldn't, you've got wisdom and understanding. What have you got out of your Redmond course, Anne? murmured Priscilla aside. I think, said Anne slowly, that I really have learned to look upon each little hindrance as a jest, and each great one as a foreshadowing of victory. Summing up, I think that is what Redmond has given me. I shall have to fall back on another Professor Woodley quotation to express what it has done for me, said Priscilla. You remember that he said in his address, there is so much in the world for us all if we only have the eyes to see it, and the heart to love it, and the hand to gather it to ourselves. So much in men and women, so much in art and literature, so much everywhere in which to delight, and for which to be thankful. I think Redmond has taught me that in some measure, Anne. Judging from what you all say, remarked Anne Jamesena, the sum and substance is that you can learn, if you've got natural gumption enough, in four years at college, what it would take about twenty years of living to teach you. Well, that justifies higher education, in my opinion. It's a matter I was always dubious about before. But what about people who haven't natural gumption, Anne Jamesy? People who haven't natural gumption never learn, retorted Anne Jamesena, neither in college nor life. If they live to be a hundred, they really don't know anything more than when they were born. It's their misfortune, not their fault, poor souls. But those of us who have some gumption should duly thank the Lord for it. Will you please define what gumption is, Anne Jamesy? asked Phil. No, I won't, young woman. Anyone who has gumption knows what it is, and anyone who hasn't can never know what it is, so there is no need of defining it. The busy days flew by and examinations were over. Anne took high honors in English, Priscilla took honors in classics, and Phil in mathematics. Stella obtained a good all-round showing. Then came convocation. This is what I would once have called an epoch in my life, said Anne, as she took Roy's violets out of their box and gazed at them thoughtfully. She meant to carry them, of course, but her eyes wandered to another box on her table. It was filled with lilies of the valley, as fresh and fragrant as those which bloomed in the green gable's yard when June came to Avonlea. Gilbert Blythe's card lay beside it. Anne wondered why Gilbert should have sent her flowers for convocation. She had seen very little of him during the past winter. He had come to Paddy's place only one Friday evening since the Christmas holidays, and they rarely met elsewhere. She knew he was studying very hard, aiming at high honors and the Cooper Prize, and he took little part in the social doings of Redmond. Anne's own winter had been quite gay socially. She had seen a good deal of the gardeners. She and Dorothy were very intimate. College circles expected the announcement of her engagement to Roy any day. Anne expected it herself, yet just before she left Paddy's place for convocation, she flung Roy's violets aside and put Gilbert's lilies of the valley in their place. She could not have told why she did it. Somehow, old Avonlea days and dreams and friendship seemed very close to her in this attainment of her long cherished ambitions. She and Gilbert had once pictured out merrily the day on which they should be captain-gowned graduates in arts. The wonderful day had come, and Roy's violets had no place in it. Only her old friend's flowers seemed to belong to this fruition of old blossoming hopes which he had once shared. For years this day had beckoned and allured to her. But when it came the one single, keen, abiding memory it left with her was not that of the breathless moment when the stately president of Redmond gave her cap and diploma and hailed her BA. It was not of the flash in Gilbert's eyes when he saw her lilies, nor the puzzled, pained glance Roy gave her as he passed her on the platform. It was not of a lean gardener's condescending congratulations or Dorothy's ardent, impulsive good wishes. It was of one strange, unaccountable pang that spoiled this long-expected day for her and left in it a certain faint but enduring flavor of bitterness. The arts graduates gave a graduation dance that night. When Anne dressed for it, she tossed aside the pearl beads she usually wore and took from her trunk the small box that had come to Green Gables on Christmas Day. In it was a thread-like gold chain with a tiny pink enamel heart as a pendant. On the accompanying card was written, with all good wishes from your old chum, Gilbert. Anne, laughing over the memory the enamel heart conjured up of the fatal day when Gilbert had called her carrots and vainly tried to make his peace with a pink candy heart, had written him a nice little note of thanks. But she had never worn the trinket. Tonight she fastened it about her white throat with a dreamy smile. She and Phil walked to Redmond together. Anne walked in silence. Phil chattered of many things. Suddenly she said, I heard to David Gilbert Blythe's engagement to Christine Stewart was to be announced as soon as convocation was over. Did you hear anything of it? No, said Anne. I think it's true, said Phil lightly. Anne did not speak. In the darkness she felt her face burning. She slipped her hand inside her collar and caught at the gold chain. One energetic twist and it gave way. Anne thrust the broken trinket into her pocket. Her hands were trembling and her eyes were smarting. But she was the gayest of all the gay revelers that night and told Gilbert unregretfully that her card was full when he came to ask her for a dance. Afterwards, when she sat with the girls before the dying embers at Patty's place, removing the spring chilliness from their satin skins, none chatted more blithely than she of the day's events. Moody Spurgeon McPherson called here to-night after you left, said Aunt Jamesena, who had sat up to keep the fire on. He didn't know about the graduation dance. That boy ought to sleep with a rubber band around his head to train his ears not to stick out. I had a beau once who did that and it improved him immensely. It was I who suggested it to him and he took my advice, but he never forgave me for it. Moody Spurgeon is a very serious young man, beyond Priscilla. He is concerned with graver matters than his ears. He is going to be a minister, you know. Well, I suppose the Lord doesn't regard the ears of a man, said Aunt Jamesena gravely, dropping all further criticism of Moody Spurgeon. Aunt Jamesena had a proper respect for the cloth, even in the case of an unfledged parson. End of Chapter 37 All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Chapter 38 of Anne of the Island by Lucy Mod Montgomery, read for LibriVox by Karen Savage. Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island Chapter 38 False Dawn Just imagine, this night-week I'll be an avanly, delightful thought, said Anne, bending over the box in which she was packing Mrs. Rachel Lynn's quilts. But just imagine, this night-week I'll be gone forever from Patty's place. Horrible thought! I wonder if the ghost of all our laughter will echo through the maiden dreams of Miss Patty and Miss Maria, speculated Phil. And Miss Maria were coming home after having trotted over most of the habitable globe. We'll be back the second week in May, wrote Miss Patty. I expect Patty's place will seem rather small after the Hall of the Kings at Carnac, but I never did like big places to live in, and I'll be glad enough to be home again. When you start travelling late in life, you're apt to do too much of it because you know you haven't much time left, and it's a thing that grows on you. I'm afraid Maria will never be contented again. I shall leave here my fancies and dreams to bless the next-comer, said Anne, looking around the blue room wistfully, her pretty blue room where she had spent three such happy years. She had knelt at its window to pray, and had bent from it to watch the sunset behind the pines. She had heard the autumn raindrops beating against it, and had welcomed the spring robins at its sill. She wondered if old dreams could haunt rooms, if, when one left forever the room where she had joyed and suffered and laughed and wept, something of her, intangible and invisible, yet nonetheless real, did not remain behind like a voiceful memory. I think, said Phil, that a room where one dreams and grieves and rejoices and lives becomes inseparably connected with those processes and acquires a personality of its own. I am sure if I came into this room fifty years from now it would say Anne, Anne to me. What nice times we've had here, honey! What chats and jokes and good, chummy jamborees! Oh, dear me! I'm to marry Joe in June, and I know I will be rapturously happy, but just now I feel as if I wanted this lovely Redmond life to go on forever. I'm unreasonable enough just now to wish that too, admitted Anne. No matter what deeper joys may come to us later on we'll never again have just the same delightful, irresponsible existence we've had here. It's over forever, Phil. What are you going to do with Rusty, asked Phil, as that privileged pussy patted into the room? I am going to take him home with me and Joseph and the Sara-cat, announced on Jamesena following Rusty. It would be a shame to separate those cats now that they have learned to live together. It's a hard lesson for cats and humans to learn. I'm sorry to part with Rusty, said Anne regretfully, but it would be no use to take him to Green Gables. Marilla detests cats and Davy would tease his life out. Besides, I don't suppose I'll be home very long. I've been offered the Principalship of the Summerside High School. Are you going to accept it? asked Phil. I—I haven't decided yet, answered Anne with a confused flush. Phil nodded understandingly. Naturally Anne's plans could not be settled until Roy had spoken. He would soon. There was no doubt of that. And there was no doubt that Anne would say yes when he said, Will you please. Anne herself regarded the state of affairs with a seldom ruffled complacency. She was deeply in love with Roy. True, it was not just what she had imagined love to be, but was anything in life, Anne asked herself eerily, like one's imagination of it. It was the old diamond disillusion of childhood repeated, the same disappointment she had felt when she had first seen the chill sparkle instead of the purple splendor she had anticipated. That's not my idea of a diamond, she had said. But Roy was a dear fellow, and they would be very happy together, even if some indefinable zest was missing out of life. When Roy came down that evening and asked Anne to walk in the park, every one at Patty's place knew what he had come to say, and every one knew, or thought they knew, what Anne's answer would be. Anne is a very fortunate girl, said Aunt Jamesena. I suppose so, said Stella, shrugging her shoulders. Roy is a nice fellow in all that, but there's really nothing in him. That sounds very like a jealous remark, Stella Maynard, said Aunt Jamesena rebukingly. It does, but I'm not jealous, said Stella calmly. I love Anne, and I like Roy. Everybody says she is making a brilliant match, and even Mrs. Gardner thinks her charming now. It all sounds as if it were made in heaven, but I have my doubts. Make the most of that, Aunt Jamesena. Roy asked Anne to marry him in the little pavilion on the harbour shore where they had talked on the rainy day of their first meeting. Anne thought it very romantic that he should have chosen that spot, and his proposal was as beautifully worded as if he had copied it, as one of Ruby Gillis's lovers had done, out of a department of courtship and marriage. The whole effect was quite flawless, and it was also sincere. There was no doubt that Roy meant what he said. There was no false note to jar the symphony. Anne felt that she ought to be thrilling from head to foot, but she wasn't. She was horribly cool. When Roy paused for his answer she opened her lips to say her fateful yes, and then she found herself trembling as if she were reeling back from her precipice. To her came one of those moments when we realised as by a blinding flash of illumination more than all our previous years have taught us. She pulled her hand from Roy's. Oh, I can't marry you! I can't! I can't! she cried wildly. Roy turned pale, and also looked rather foolish. He had, small blame to him, felt very sure. What do you mean? he stammered. I mean that I can't marry you! repeated Anne desperately. I thought I could, but I can't. Why can't you? Roy asked more calmly. Because I don't care enough for you. A crimson streak came into Roy's face. So you've just been amusing yourself these two years, he said slowly. No, no, I haven't, gasped for Anne. Oh, how could she explain? She couldn't explain. There are some things that cannot be explained. I did think I cared. Truly I did. But I know now I don't. You have ruined my life, said Roy bitterly. Forgive me, pleaded Anne miserably, with hot cheeks and stinging eyes. Roy turned away and stood for a few minutes, looking out seaward. When he came back to Anne, he was very pale again. You can give me no hope, he said. Anne shook her head mutely. Then, good-bye, said Roy. I can't understand it. I can't believe you're not the woman I've believed you to be. But reproaches are idle between us. You are the only woman I can ever love. I thank you for your friendship, at least. Good-bye, Anne. Good-bye, faltered Anne. When Roy had gone, she sat for a long time in the pavilion, watching a white mist creeping subtly and remorselessly landward up the harbour. It was her hour of humiliation and self-contempt and shame. Their waves went over her. And yet, underneath it all, was a queer sense of recovered freedom. She slipped into Patty's place in the dusk and escaped to her room. But Phil was there on the window-seat. Wait, said Anne, flushing to anticipate the scene. Wait till you hear what I have to say. Phil, Roy asked me to marry him. And I refused. You—you refused him? said Phil, blankly. Yes. Anne, surely, are you in your senses? I think so, said Anne, weirdly. Oh, Phil, don't scold me. You don't understand. I certainly don't understand. You've encouraged Roy Gardner in every way for two years, and now you tell me you refused him. Then you've just been flirting scandulously with him. Anne, I couldn't have believed it of you. I wasn't flirting with him. I honestly thought I'd carried up to the last minute, and then— well, I just knew I never could marry him. I suppose, said Phil cruelly, that you intended to marry him for his money, and then your better self rose up and prevented you. I didn't. I never thought about his money. Oh, I can't explain it to you any more than I could to him. Well, I certainly think you have treated Roy shamefully, said Phil in exasperation. He's handsome and clever and rich and good. What more do you want? I want someone who belongs in my life. He doesn't. I was swept off my feet at first by his good looks and a knack of paying romantic compliments, and later on I thought I must be in love because he was my dark-eyed ideal. I am bad enough for not knowing my own mind, but you are worse, said Phil. I do know my own mind, protested Anne. The trouble is my mind changes, and then I have to get acquainted with it all over again. Well, I suppose there is no use in saying anything to you. There is no need, Phil. I'm in the dust. This has spoiled everything backwards. I can never think of Redmond days without recalling the humiliation of this evening. It despises me, and you despise me, and I despise myself. You poor darling, said Phil, melting. Just come here and let me comfort you. I've no right to scold you. I'd have married Alec or Alonso if I hadn't met Joe. Oh, Anne, things are so mixed up in real life. They aren't clear cut and trimmed off as they are in novels. I hope that no one will ever again ask me to marry him as long as I live, sobbed poor Anne, devoutly believing that she meant it. End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 of Anne of the Island by Lucy Mod Montgomery Read for LibriVox by Karen Savage Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island, Chapter 39 Deals with Weddings Anne felt that life partook of the nature of an anti-climax during the first few weeks after her return to Green Gables. She missed the merry comradeship of Patti's place. She had dreamed some brilliant dreams during the past winter, and now they lay in the dust around her. In her present mood of self-disgust she could not immediately begin dreaming again, and she discovered that while solitude with dreams is glorious, solitude without them has few charms. She had not seen Roy again after their painful parting in the Park Pavilion, but Dorothy came to see her before she left Kingsport. I'm awfully sorry you won't marry Roy, she said. I did want you for a sister, but you were quite right. He would bore you to death. I love him, and he is a dear, sweet boy, but really he isn't a bit interesting. He looks as if he ought to be, but he isn't. This won't spoil our friendship, will it, Dorothy? Anne had asked wistfully. No, indeed. You're too good to lose. If I can't have you for a sister, I mean to keep you as a chum, anyway. And don't fret over Roy. He is feeling terribly just now. I have to listen to his outpourings every day, but he'll get over it. He always does. Oh, always! said Anne with a slight change of voice. So he has got over it before. Dear me, yes, said Dorothy, frankly, twice before, and he raved to me just the same both times. Not that the others actually refused him, they simply announced their engagements to someone else. Of course, when he met you, he vowed to me that he had never really loved before, that the previous affairs had been merely boyish fancies. But I don't think you need worry. Anne decided not to worry. Her feelings were a mixture of relief and resentment. Roy had certainly told her she was the only one he had ever loved. No doubt he believed it. But it was a comfort to feel that she had not, in all likelihood, ruined his life. There were other goddesses, and Roy, according to Dorothy, must needs be worshiping at some shrine. Nevertheless, life was stripped of several more illusions, and Anne began to think drearily that it seemed rather bare. She came down from the porch gable on the evening of her return with a sorrowful face. What has happened to the old Snow Queen, Marilla? Oh, I knew you'd feel bad over that, said Marilla. I felt bad myself. That tree was there ever since I was a young girl. It blew down in the big gale we had in March. It was rotten at the core. I'll miss it so, grieved Anne. The porch gable doesn't seem the same room without it. I'll never look from its window again without a sense of loss. And, oh, I never came home to Green Gables before that Diana wasn't here to welcome me. Diana has something else to think of just now, said Mrs. Lynde, significantly. Well, tell me all the Avonlea news, said Anne, sitting down on the porch steps where the evening sunshine fell over her hair in a fine golden rain. There isn't much news except what we wrote you, said Mrs. Lynde. I suppose you haven't heard that Simon Fletcher broke his leg last week. It's a great thing for his family. They're getting a hundred things done that they've always wanted to do, but couldn't as long as he was about the old crank. He came of an aggravating family, remarked Marilla. Aggravating? Well, rather. His mother used to get up in prayer meetings and tell all her children's shortcomings and ask prayers for them. Of 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's 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 his 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 plotter engaged to a millionaire, while Anne, it seemed, was not yet bespoken by anyone 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 honours in classes 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 BA, 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 sowing done, Mrs. Harmon informed Anne proudly. Of course, an Avon Lee 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 BA, 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. Anne 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 mates, 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'm going to be an old maid. I really can't find anyone to suit me. It was rather wicked of her. She deliberately meant to remind Mrs. Andrews that if she became an old maid, she would not have 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 Stewart? Charlie Sloan tells me she is perfectly beautiful. Is it true? I don't know if it is true that he is engaged to Miss Stewart, replied Anne, with spark and 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 bows will slip through your fingers. Anne decided not to continue her duel with Mrs. Harmon. You could not fence with an antagonist who met rape your thrust with blow of battle-axe. Since Jane is away, she said, rising hotly, 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. 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 Reverend Joe was so radiant in his happiness that nobody thought him plain. We're going for a lover saunter through the land of Evangeline, said Phil, and then we'll settle down on Patterson Street. Mother thinks it is terrible. She thinks Joe 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 Joe is there. Oh, Anne, I'm so happy that 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 Evangeline. This time it was Diana who was bathed in the wonderful glory that comes to a woman when her firstborn 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 the little black-curled, rosy-cheeked Diana she had played with in vanished school days? 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 conscientiously say that she thought him beautiful, but she vowed sincerely that he was sweet and visible 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. Allen gaily, if little Anne had come you'd have felt just the same about her. Mrs. Allen was visiting in Avonlea for the first time since leaving it. She was as gay and sweet and sympathetic as ever. Her girlfriends had welcomed her back rapturously. The reigning minister's wife was an estimable lady, but she was not exactly a kindred spirit. I could hardly wait till he gets old enough to talk, sigh Diana. I just longed 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'm 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. Allen. 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 the 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 gonna catch it! Mother is awful cross. She's 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. Femmi 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. Had 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 in Willowmere. She had not walked that way for many moons. It was a darkly purple, gloomy 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 colouring of romance at war, sighed Anne, and was straight away much comforted by the romance and the idea of the world being denuded of romance. End of Chapter 39 All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Chapter 40 of Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery Read for LibriVox by Karen Savage. Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island, Chapter 40 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 Lavender had not changed. Carlotta IV was a very grown-up young lady now but still adored Anne sincerely. When all said and done miss Shirley, ma'am, I haven't seen anyone 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 in fairies. But the bond between him and his old teachers still held. Kindred spirits alone did 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 to-night. Well, I've had a splendid visit but I'm glad to see you dear folks again. East West Hames Best. Davey, have you been growing again lately? I've grown a whole inch since you left, said Davey proudly. I'm as tall as Milty Bolter now, ain't I glad. He'll have to stop Crohn about being bigger. Say, Anne, did you know that Gilbert Blythe is dying? Anne stood quite silent and motionless looking at Davey. Her face had gone so white that Marilla thought she was going to faint. Davey, 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 Davey. Marilla, looking old and worn and tired, got up and marched Davey 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 blithe 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 unseemly. It was very dark. The rain was beating down over the shivering fields. The haunted woods was full of the groans of mighty trees rung in the tempest and the air throbbed with a thunderous crash of billows on the distant shore. And Gilbert was dying. There is a book of Revelation in everyone'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. 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 Stewart. He never had loved Christine Stewart. 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. Lyndon 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 very 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 with her burning eyes. A merry, rollicking whistle was lilting up the lane. A moment later Pasifik Butte came inside. Anne's physical strength suddenly failed her. If she had not clutched at a low willow bow she would have fallen. Pasifik was George Fletcher's hired man and George Fletcher lived next door to the blacks. Mrs. Fletcher was Gilbert's aunt. Pasifik would know what there was to be known. She would be 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, Pasifik? Pasifik turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning. Pasifik, said Anne faintly, did you come from George Fletcher's this morning? Sure, said Pasifik amably. I got the word last night that my father he was sick. It was so stormy that I couldn't go then so I start very early this morning. I went to the woods for shortcut. 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 Pasifik. He got a turn last night. The doctor say he'll be all right now to soon while. Had close shave though, that boy he'd just kill himself at college. Well, I must hurry. The old man he'll be in hurry to see me. Pasifik resumed his walk and his whistle. He 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 Pasifik's brown, round, black-eyed face without a warm remembrance of the moment when he had given to her the oil of joy for morning. Long after Pasifik's gay whistle had faded into the phantom of music and into silence far up under the maples of Lovers 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 glamour. 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. End of Chapter 40 All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Chapter 41 of Anne of the Island by Lucy Mod Montgomery read for LibriVox by Karen Savage. Visit LibriVox.org for more information or to volunteer. Anne of the Island, Chapter 41 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 Grey'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 Penhalo'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 hide me home at once to do something I should otherwise have to do tomorrow. So Alice Penhalo is to be married to-night. Three weddings for you in one summer-an. Fills, 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 bitten 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 fluff and frills. Yes, isn't it pretty? I shall wear star flowers in my hair. The haunted wood is full of them this summer. Gilbert had a sudden vision of Anne, a raid 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 to-morrow. Hope you'll have a nice time tonight. Anne looked after him as he strode away inside. 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 rows 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 and 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 Anne picked up her green dress inside 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 with 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 wood path, 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 the tester-grays 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 narcissists and violets. Now Goldenrod 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 Anne's her 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 and 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 Stewart, 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 hometown. 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. 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. I had 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 he 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 could 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 Grace, 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 overhaunted meadows where winds of hope and memory blew. End of Chapter 41. End of Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.