OF course you
must be Elaine, Anne," said Diana. "I
could never have the courage
to float down
there."
"Nor I," said Ruby Gillis,
with a shiver. "I don't mind
floating down when there's two
or three of us in the flat and
we can sit up. It's fun then.
But to lie down and pretend I
was dead--I just couldn't. I'd
die really of fright."
"Of course it would be romantic," conceded
Jane Andrews, "but I know I couldn't
keep still. I'd be popping up
every minute or so to see where
I was and if I wasn't drifting
too far out. And you know, Anne,
that would spoil the effect."
"But it's so ridiculous to
have a redheaded Elaine," mourned
Anne. "I'm not afraid to float
down and I'd love to be Elaine.
But it's ridiculous just the
same. Ruby ought to be Elaine
because she is so fair and has
such lovely long golden hair--
Elaine had `all her bright hair
streaming down,' you know. And
Elaine was the lily maid. Now,
a red-haired person cannot be
a lily maid."
"Your complexion is just as
fair as Ruby's," said Diana earnestly, "and
your hair is ever so much darker
than it used to be before you
cut it."
"Oh, do you really think so?" exclaimed
Anne, flushing sensitively with
delight. "I've sometimes thought
it was myself--but I never dared
to ask anyone for fear she would
tell me it wasn't. Do you think
it could be called auburn now,
Diana?"
"Yes, and I think it is real
pretty," said Diana, looking
admiringly at the short, silky
curls that clustered over Anne's
head and were held in place by
a very jaunty black velvet ribbon
and bow.
They were standing on the bank
of the pond, below Orchard Slope,
where a little headland fringed
with birches ran out from the
bank; at its tip was a small
wooden platform built out into
the water for the convenience
of fishermen and duck hunters.
Ruby and Jane were spending the
midsummer afternoon with Diana,
and Anne had come over to play
with them.
Anne and Diana had spent most
of their playtime that summer
on and about the pond. Idlewild
was a thing of the past, Mr.
Bell having ruthlessly cut down
the little circle of trees in
his back pasture in the spring.
Anne had sat among the stumps
and wept, not without an eye
to the romance of it; but she
was speedily consoled, for, after
all, as she and Diana said, big
girls of thirteen, going on fourteen,
were too old for such childish
amusements as playhouses, and
there were more fascinating sports
to be found about the pond. It
was splendid to fish for trout
over the bridge and the two girls
learned to row themselves about
in the little flat-bottomed dory
Mr. Barry kept for duck shooting.
It was Anne's idea that they
dramatize Elaine. They had studied
Tennyson's poem in school the
preceding winter, the Superintendent
of Education having prescribed
it in the English course for
the Prince Edward Island schools.
They had analyzed and parsed
it and torn it to pieces in general
until it was a wonder there was
any meaning at all left in it
for them, but at least the fair
lily maid and Lancelot and Guinevere
and King Arthur had become very
real people to them, and Anne
was devoured by secret regret
that she had not been born in
Camelot. Those days, she said,
were so much more romantic than
the present.
Anne's plan was hailed with
enthusiasm. The girls had discovered
that if the flat were pushed
off from the landing place it
would drift down with the current
under the bridge and finally
strand itself on another headland
lower down which ran out at a
curve in the pond. They had often
gone down like this and nothing
could be more convenient for
playing Elaine.
"Well, I'll be Elaine," said
Anne, yielding reluctantly, for,
although she would have been
delighted to play the principal
character, yet her artistic sense
demanded fitness for it and this,
she felt, her limitations made
impossible. "Ruby, you must be
King Arthur and Jane will be
Guinevere and Diana must be Lancelot.
But first you must be the brothers
and the father. We can't have
the old dumb servitor because
there isn't room for two in the
flat when one is lying down.
We must pall the barge all its
length in blackest samite. That
old black shawl of your mother's
will be just the thing, Diana."
The black shawl having been
procured, Anne spread it over
the flat and then lay down on
the bottom, with closed eyes
and hands folded over her breast.
"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 crepe 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 forever,' 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 gray 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 crepe.
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 your 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
color 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.
Halfway 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," explained 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 skeptically.
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."
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