Marilla went to town the next
day and returned in the evening.
Anne had gone over to Orchard
Slope with Diana and came back
to find Marilla in the kitchen,
sitting by the table with her
head leaning on her hand. Something
in her dejected attitude struck
a chill to Anne's heart. She
had never seen Marilla sit limply
inert like that.
"Are you very
tired, Marilla?"
"Yes--no--I don't know," said
Marilla wearily, looking up. "I
suppose I am tired but I haven't
thought about it. It's not that."
"Did you see the oculist? What
did he say?" asked Anne anxiously.
"Yes, I saw
him. He examined my eyes. He
says that if I give
up all reading and sewing entirely
and any kind of work that strains
the eyes, and if I'm careful
not to cry, and if I wear the
glasses he's given me he thinks
my eyes may not get any worse
and my headaches will be cured.
But if I don't he says I'll certainly
be stone-blind in six months.
Blind! Anne, just think of it!"
For a minute Anne, after her
first quick exclamation of dismay,
was silent. It seemed to her
that she could NOT speak. Then
she said bravely, but with a
catch in her voice:
"Marilla, DON'T
think of it. You know he has
given you hope.
If you are careful you won't
lose your sight altogether; and
if his glasses cure your headaches
it will be a great thing."
"I don't call it much hope," said
Marilla bitterly. "What am I
to live for if I can't read or
sew or do anything like that?
I might as well be blind--or
dead. And as for crying, I can't
help that when I get lonesome.
But there, it's no good talking
about it. If you'll get me a
cup of tea I'll be thankful.
I'm about done out. Don't say
anything about this to any one
for a spell yet, anyway. I can't
bear that folks should come here
to question and sympathize and
talk about it."
When Marilla had eaten her
lunch Anne persuaded her to go
to bed. Then Anne went herself
to the east gable and sat down
by her window in the darkness
alone with her tears and her
heaviness of heart. How sadly
things had changed since she
had sat there the night after
coming home! Then she had been
full of hope and joy and the
future had looked rosy with promise.
Anne felt as if she had lived
years since then, but before
she went to bed there was a smile
on her lips and peace in her
heart. She had looked her duty
courageously in the face and
found it a friend--as duty ever
is when we meet it frankly.
One afternoon a few days later
Marilla came slowly in from the
front yard where she had been
talking to a caller-- a man whom
Anne knew by sight as Sadler
from Carmody. Anne wondered what
he could have been saying to
bring that look to Marilla's
face.
"What did Mr.
Sadler want, Marilla?"
Marilla sat down by the window
and looked at Anne. There were
tears in her eyes in defiance
of the oculist's prohibition
and her voice broke as she said:
"He heard that
I was going to sell Green Gables
and he wants
to buy it."
"Buy it! Buy Green Gables?" Anne
wondered if she had heard aright. "Oh,
Marilla, you don't mean to sell
Green Gables!"
"Anne, I don't
know what else is to be done.
I've thought it
all over. If my eyes were strong
I could stay here and make out
to look after things and manage,
with a good hired man. But as
it is I can't. I may lose my
sight altogether; and anyway
I'll not be fit to run things.
Oh, I never thought I'd live
to see the day when I'd have
to sell my home. But things would
only go behind worse and worse
all the time, till nobody would
want to buy it. Every cent of
our money went in that bank;
and there's some notes Matthew
gave last fall to pay. Mrs. Lynde
advises me to sell the farm and
board somewhere--with her I suppose.
It won't bring much--it's small
and the buildings are old. But
it'll be enough for me to live
on I reckon. I'm thankful you're
provided for with that scholarship,
Anne. I'm sorry you won't have
a home to come to in your vacations,
that's all, but I suppose you'll
manage somehow."
Marilla broke down and wept
bitterly.
"You mustn't sell Green Gables," said
Anne resolutely.
"Oh, Anne,
I wish I didn't have to. But
you can see for
yourself. I can't stay here alone.
I'd go crazy with trouble and
loneliness. And my sight would
go--I know it would."
"You won't
have to stay here alone, Marilla.
I'll be with
you. I'm not going to Redmond."
"Not going to Redmond!" Marilla
lifted her worn face from her
hands and looked at Anne. "Why,
what do you mean?"
"Just what
I say. I'm not going to take
the scholarship. I decided
so the night after you came home
from town. You surely don't think
I could leave you alone in your
trouble, Marilla, after all you've
done for me. I've been thinking
and planning. Let me tell you
my plans. Mr. Barry wants to
rent the farm for next year.
So you won't have any bother
over that. And I'm going to teach.
I've applied for the school here--but
I don't expect to get it for
I understand the trustees have
promised it to Gilbert Blythe.
But I can have the Carmody school--Mr.
Blair told me so last night at
the store. Of course that won't
be quite as nice or convenient
as if I had the Avonlea school.
But I can board home and drive
myself over to Carmody and back,
in the warm weather at least.
And even in winter I can come
home Fridays. We'll keep a horse
for that. Oh, I have it all planned
out, Marilla. And I'll read to
you and keep you cheered up.
You sha'n't be dull or lonesome.
And we'll be real cozy and happy
here together, you and I."
Marilla had listened like a
woman in a dream.
"Oh, Anne,
I could get on real well if
you were here, I know.
But I can't let you sacrifice
yourself so for me. It would
be terrible."
"Nonsense!" Anne laughed merrily. "There
is no sacrifice. Nothing could
be worse than giving up Green
Gables--nothing could hurt me
more. We must keep the dear old
place. My mind is quite made
up, Marilla. I'm NOT going to
Redmond; and I AM going to stay
here and teach. Don't you worry
about me a bit."
"But your ambitions--and--"
"I'm just as
ambitious as ever. Only, I've
changed the object
of my ambitions. I'm going to
be a good teacher-- and I'm going
to save your eyesight. Besides,
I mean to study at home here
and take a little college course
all by myself. Oh, I've dozens
of plans, Marilla. I've been
thinking them out for a week.
I shall give life here my best,
and I believe it will give its
best to me in return. When I
left Queen's my future seemed
to stretch out before me like
a straight road. I thought I
could see along it for many a
milestone. Now there is a bend
in it. I don't know what lies
around the bend, but I'm going
to believe that the best does.
It has a fascination of its own,
that bend, Marilla. I wonder
how the road beyond it goes--what
there is of green glory and soft,
checkered light and shadows--what
new landscapes--what new beauties--what
curves and hills and valleys
further on."
"I don't feel as if I ought
to let you give it up," said
Marilla, referring to the scholarship.
"But you can't prevent me.
I'm sixteen and a half, `obstinate
as a mule,' as Mrs. Lynde once
told me," laughed Anne. "Oh,
Marilla, don't you go pitying
me. I don't like to be pitied,
and there is no need for it.
I'm heart glad over the very
thought of staying at dear Green
Gables. Nobody could love it
as you and I do--so we must keep
it."
"You blessed girl!" said Marilla,
yielding. "I feel as if you'd
given me new life. I guess I
ought to stick out and make you
go to college--but I know I can't,
so I ain't going to try. I'll
make it up to you though, Anne."
When it became noised abroad
in Avonlea that Anne Shirley
had given up the idea of going
to college and intended to stay
home and teach there was a good
deal of discussion over it. Most
of the good folks, not knowing
about Marilla's eyes, thought
she was foolish. Mrs. Allan did
not. She told Anne so in approving
words that brought tears of pleasure
to the girl's eyes. Neither did
good Mrs. Lynde. She came up
one evening and found Anne and
Marilla sitting at the front
door in the warm, scented summer
dusk. They liked to sit there
when the twilight came down and
the white moths flew about in
the garden and the odor of mint
filled the dewy air.
Mrs. Rachel deposited her substantial
person upon the stone bench by
the door, behind which grew a
row of tall pink and yellow hollyhocks,
with a long breath of mingled
weariness and relief.
"I declare
I'm getting glad to sit down.
I've been on my
feet all day, and two hundred
pounds is a good bit for two
feet to carry round. It's a great
blessing not to be fat, Marilla.
I hope you appreciate it. Well,
Anne, I hear you've given up
your notion of going to college.
I was real glad to hear it. You've
got as much education now as
a woman can be comfortable with.
I don't believe in girls going
to college with the men and cramming
their heads full of Latin and
Greek and all that nonsense."
"But I'm going to study Latin
and Greek just the same, Mrs.
Lynde," said Anne laughing. "I'm
going to take my Arts course
right here at Green Gables, and
study everything that I would
at college."
Mrs. Lynde lifted her hands
in holy horror.
"Anne Shirley,
you'll kill yourself."
"Not a bit
of it. I shall thrive on it.
Oh, I'm not going to overdo
things. As `Josiah Allen's wife,'
says, I shall be `mejum'. But
I'll have lots of spare time
in the long winter evenings,
and I've no vocation for fancy
work. I'm going to teach over
at Carmody, you know."
"I don't know
it. I guess you're going to
teach right here in
Avonlea. The trustees have decided
to give you the school."
"Mrs. Lynde!" cried Anne, springing
to her feet in her surprise. "Why,
I thought they had promised it
to Gilbert Blythe!"
"So they did.
But as soon as Gilbert heard
that you had applied
for it he went to them--they
had a business meeting at the
school last night, you know--and
told them that he withdrew his
application, and suggested that
they accept yours. He said he
was going to teach at White Sands.
Of course he knew how much you
wanted to stay with Marilla,
and I must say I think it was
real kind and thoughtful in him,
that's what. Real self-sacrificing,
too, for he'll have his board
to pay at White Sands, and everybody
knows he's got to earn his own
way through college. So the trustees
decided to take you. I was tickled
to death when Thomas came home
and told me."
"I don't feel that I ought
to take it," murmured Anne. "I
mean--I don't think I ought to
let Gilbert make such a sacrifice
for--for me."
"I guess you
can't prevent him now. He's
signed papers with
the White Sands trustees. So
it wouldn't do him any good now
if you were to refuse. Of course
you'll take the school. You'll
get along all right, now that
there are no Pyes going. Josie
was the last of them, and a good
thing she was, that's what. There's
been some Pye or other going
to Avonlea school for the last
twenty years, and I guess their
mission in life was to keep school
teachers reminded that earth
isn't their home. Bless my heart!
What does all that winking and
blinking at the Barry gable mean?"
"Diana is signaling for me
to go over," laughed Anne. "You
know we keep up the old custom.
Excuse me while I run over and
see what she wants."
Anne ran down the clover slope
like a deer, and disappeared
in the firry shadows of the Haunted
Wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after
her indulgently.
"There's a
good deal of the child about
her yet in some ways."
"There's a good deal more of
the woman about her in others," retorted
Marilla, with a momentary return
of her old crispness.
But crispness was no longer
Marilla's distinguishing characteristic.
As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas
that night.
"Marilla Cuthbert
has got MELLOW. That's what."
Anne went to
the little Avonlea graveyard
the next evening to
put fresh flowers on Matthew's
grave and water the Scotch rosebush.
She lingered there until dusk,
liking the peace and calm of
the little place, with its poplars
whose rustle was like low, friendly
speech, and its whispering grasses
growing at will among the graves.
When she finally left it and
walked down the long hill that
sloped to the Lake of Shining
Waters it was past sunset and
all Avonlea lay before her in
a dreamlike afterlight-- "a haunt
of ancient peace." There was
a freshness in the air as of
a wind that had blown over honey-sweet
fields of clover. Home lights
twinkled out here and there among
the homestead trees. Beyond lay
the sea, misty and purple, with
its haunting, unceasing murmur.
The west was a glory of soft
mingled hues, and the pond reflected
them all in still softer shadings.
The beauty of it all thrilled
Anne's heart, and she gratefully
opened the gates of her soul
to it.
"Dear old world," she murmured, "you
are very lovely, and I am glad
to be alive in you."
Halfway down the hill a tall
lad came whistling out of a gate
before the Blythe homestead.
It was Gilbert, and the whistle
died on his lips as he recognized
Anne. He lifted his cap courteously,
but he would have passed on in
silence, if Anne had not stopped
and held out her hand.
"Gilbert," she said, with scarlet
cheeks, "I want to thank you
for giving up the school for
me. It was very good of you--and
I want you to know that I appreciate
it."
Gilbert took the offered hand
eagerly.
"It wasn't
particularly good of me at
all, Anne. I was pleased
to be able to do you some small
service. Are we going to be friends
after this? Have you really forgiven
me my old fault?"
Anne laughed and tried unsuccessfully
to withdraw her hand.
"I forgave
you that day by the pond landing,
although I
didn't know it. What a stubborn
little goose I was. I've been--I
may as well make a complete confession--I've
been sorry ever since."
"We are going to be the best
of friends," said Gilbert, jubilantly. "We
were born to be good friends,
Anne. You've thwarted destiny
enough. I know we can help each
other in many ways. You are going
to keep up your studies, aren't
you? So am I. Come, I'm going
to walk home with you."
Marilla looked curiously at
Anne when the latter entered
the kitchen.
"Who was that
came up the lane with you,
Anne?"
"Gilbert Blythe," answered
Anne, vexed to find herself blushing. "I
met him on Barry's hill."
"I didn't think you and Gilbert
Blythe were such good friends
that you'd stand for half an
hour at the gate talking to him," said
Marilla with a dry smile.
"We haven't
been--we've been good enemies.
But we have decided
that it will be much more sensible
to be good friends in the future.
Were we really there half an
hour? It seemed just a few minutes.
But, you see, we have five years'
lost conversations to catch up
with, Marilla."
Anne sat long at her window
that night companioned by a glad
content. The wind purred softly
in the cherry boughs, and the
mint breaths came up to her.
The stars twinkled over the pointed
firs in the hollow and Diana's
light gleamed through the old
gap.
Anne's horizons had closed
in since the night she had sat
there after coming home from
Queen's; but if the path set
before her feet was to be narrow
she knew that flowers of quiet
happiness would bloom along it.
The joy of sincere work and worthy
aspiration and congenial friendship
were to be hers; nothing could
rob her of her birthright of
fancy or her ideal world of dreams.
And there was always the bend
in the road!
"`God's in his heaven, all's
right with the world,'" whispered
Anne softly.
***
END. |