Chapter XL

A Book of Revelation

The Irvings came back to Echo Lodge for the summer, and Anne spent a

happy three weeks there in July. Miss Lavendar had not changed;

Charlotta the Fourth was a very grown-up young lady now, but still

adored Anne sincerely.

“When all’s said and done, Miss Shirley, ma’am, I haven’t seen any one

in Boston that’s equal to you,” she said frankly.

Paul was almost grown up, too. He was sixteen, his chestnut curls had

given place to close-cropped brown locks, and he was more interested in

football than fairies. But the bond between him and his old teacher

still held. Kindred spirits alone do not change with changing years.

It was a wet, bleak, cruel evening in July when Anne came back to Green

Gables. One of the fierce summer storms which sometimes sweep over the

gulf was ravaging the sea. As Anne came in the first raindrops dashed

against the panes.

“Was that Paul who brought you home?” asked Marilla. “Why didn’t you

make him stay all night. It’s going to be a wild evening.”

“He’ll reach Echo Lodge before the rain gets very heavy, I think.

Anyway, he wanted to go back tonight. Well, I’ve had a splendid visit,

but I’m glad to see you dear folks again. ‘East, west, hame’s best.’

Davy, have you been growing again lately?”

“I’ve growed a whole inch since you left,” said Davy proudly. “I’m as

tall as Milty Boulter now. Ain’t I glad. He’ll have to stop crowing

about being bigger. Say, Anne, did you know that Gilbert Blythe is

dying?” Anne stood quite silent and motionless, looking at Davy. Her

face had gone so white that Marilla thought she was going to faint.

“Davy, hold your tongue,” said Mrs. Rachel angrily. “Anne, don’t look

like that—_don’t look like that!_ We didn’t mean to tell you so

suddenly.”

“Is—it—true?” asked Anne in a voice that was not hers.

“Gilbert is very ill,” said Mrs. Lynde gravely. “He took down with

typhoid fever just after you left for Echo Lodge. Did you never hear of

it?”

“No,” said that unknown voice.

“It was a very bad case from the start. The doctor said he’d been

terribly run down. They’ve a trained nurse and everything’s been done.

_don’t_ look like that, Anne. While there’s life there’s hope.”

“Mr. Harrison was here this evening and he said they had no hope of

him,” reiterated Davy.

Marilla, looking old and worn and tired, got up and marched Davy grimly

out of the kitchen.

“Oh, _don’t_ look so, dear,” said Mrs. Rachel, putting her kind old

arms about the pallid girl. “I haven’t given up hope, indeed I haven’t.

He’s got the Blythe constitution in his favor, that’s what.”

Anne gently put Mrs. Lynde’s arms away from her, walked blindly across

the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs to her old room. At its

window she knelt down, staring out unseeingly. It was very dark. The

rain was beating down over the shivering fields. The Haunted Woods was

full of the groans of mighty trees wrung in the tempest, and the air

throbbed with the thunderous crash of billows on the distant shore. And

Gilbert was dying!

There is a book of Revelation in every one’s life, as there is in the

Bible. Anne read hers that bitter night, as she kept her agonized vigil

through the hours of storm and darkness. She loved Gilbert—had always

loved him! She knew that now. She knew that she could no more cast him

out of her life without agony than she could have cut off her right

hand and cast it from her. And the knowledge had come too late—too late

even for the bitter solace of being with him at the last. If she had

not been so blind—so foolish—she would have had the right to go to him

now. But he would never know that she loved him—he would go away from

this life thinking that she did not care. Oh, the black years of

emptiness stretching before her! She could not live through them—she

could not! She cowered down by her window and wished, for the first

time in her gay young life, that she could die, too. If Gilbert went

away from her, without one word or sign or message, she could not live.

Nothing was of any value without him. She belonged to him and he to

her. In her hour of supreme agony she had no doubt of that. He did not

love Christine Stuart—never had loved Christine Stuart. Oh, what a fool

she had been not to realize what the bond was that had held her to

Gilbert—to think that the flattered fancy she had felt for Roy Gardner

had been love. And now she must pay for her folly as for a crime.

Mrs. Lynde and Marilla crept to her door before they went to bed, shook

their heads doubtfully at each other over the silence, and went away.

The storm raged all night, but when the dawn came it was spent. Anne

saw a fairy fringe of light on the skirts of darkness. Soon the eastern

hilltops had a fire-shot ruby rim. The clouds rolled themselves away

into great, soft, white masses on the horizon; the sky gleamed blue and

silvery. A hush fell over the world.

Anne rose from her knees and crept downstairs. The freshness of the

rain-wind blew against her white face as she went out into the yard,

and cooled her dry, burning eyes. A merry rollicking whistle was

lilting up the lane. A moment later Pacifique Buote came in sight.

Anne’s physical strength suddenly failed her. If she had not clutched

at a low willow bough she would have fallen. Pacifique was George

Fletcher’s hired man, and George Fletcher lived next door to the

Blythes. Mrs. Fletcher was Gilbert’s aunt. Pacifique would know

if—if—Pacifique would know what there was to be known.

Pacifique strode sturdily 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,

“Pacifique!”

Pacifique turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning.

“Pacifique,” said Anne faintly, “did you come from George Fletcher’s

this morning?”

“Sure,” said Pacifique amiably. “I got de word las’ night dat my fader,

he was seeck. It was so stormy dat I couldn’t go den, so I start vair

early dis mornin’. I’m goin’ troo de woods for short cut.”

“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 Pacifique. “He got de turn las’ night. De doctor

say he’ll be all right now dis soon while. Had close shave, dough! Dat

boy, he jus’ keel himself at college. Well, I mus’ hurry. De old man,

he’ll be in hurry to see me.”

Pacifique resumed his walk and his whistle. Anne 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 Pacifique’s brown, round,

black-eyed face without a warm remembrance of the moment when he had

given to her the oil of joy for mourning.

Long after Pacifique’s gay whistle had faded into the phantom of music

and then into silence far up under the maples of Lover’s 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 glamor. 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.”