A/N: Hi! Welcome to my story, I guess! I haven't written anything in a really long while, but I love Anne of Green Gables, so I wrote something. I wasn't going to publish it, but I really wanted to share it some people! I worked really hard on it, so I hope it's good and everyone likes it! It's obviously from Anne's POV, because I thought it would be really cool to get in her head. I wasn't really sure how to give it that signature "Anne" voice of wonder, but I tried my best. I'll get the hang of it eventually. This chapter is meant to be a premise, so it's a little serious because it's just after Matthew's death. Anyway, I hope you guys like it! Gilbert makes a little appearance at the end ;)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Anne of Green Gables, but I have used rather large blocks of text from the book in this chapter, if you can spot it (hopefully it blends :/).
Also, to be honest, this chapter is skippable plot-wise, if you want to continue to chapter one and start there.
"There isn't anything quite like twilight, is there, Marilla?" I ask, dusting my hands. Little clods of soil fall from them, back to the earth from whence they came. 'Red gold', I once heard Mrs. Lynde call it as she transplanted her violets. The soil is unusually red on the island, makes it look almost like I've blood on my hands, but that's one of the things that makes it my home.
"How do you think, Anne?" Marilla actually entertains my thought as I dig up the rose bush. It was Matthew's favorite, their mother's, and she's thinking of him; I can tell, because entertaining my imaginings is Matthew through and through.
"Well," I say for a start, "for one thing, it exists in the world just between the day and night, doesn't it? It seems as though it isn't really a time or place at all. If anything fantastic or fictitious really did exist—and Marilla, I don't believe anything like that really does—one would reason that exists in the twilight. Can't you just imagine a unicorn or a mighty dragon rounding the bend right now, Marilla?"
"Now, Anne," Marilla begins, herself again, but I haven't finished the thought. "The same goes for daybreak. One can't really distinguish between nightfall and daybreak, can one? But they are the most beautiful times—both feel like a breath held in anticipation for the moon or the sun." I've hit a bush root with the little trowel in my hands, so I stop and dig beneath them, slowly, as Mrs. Lynde taught me as I watched her with those violets.
The bush is in full bloom, and it's a shame to stop the roses growing, but I was seized with the notion to move them to Matthew's grave, and couldn't bear to watch Marilla at the window any longer.
She claims to be watching the sunset, but I know better. It was around this time every evening that Matthew came through the gate—'In with the setting sun,' I used to think. And it is strange, to think he'll never be back, that he is in with the sun forevermore. It brings one of those lumps to my throat, the kind you can't ever swallow. Even imagining has felt a bit empty lately, and I long for him to come home, make things feel normal.
If there were ever a time when Matthew could be back with us, on earth, it would be now, at twilight.
"Anne, you needn't think such thoughts," Marilla says, finishing her earlier chide. "Anyway, it will be dark within the hour—what are planning to do with that bush once it's out of the ground? It's one of my best, and I can't imagine where you're going with it."
"Well," I begin, wary now that she's caught on to the fact that I've diverted her attentions from the gate to me, digging up a bush, "I was going to carry it in planter, over to Matthew's grave. I thought he might like it."
I can't read Marilla's expression when she hears what I've said. It is mixed, with sadness for the words "Matthew" and "grave" put together, chastisement for such an idea—and agreement, where I thought there might be resistance.
"Yes," she says at last, "he would. But come, you can't be wandering around the cemetery so late. Get the planter and take the roses over tomorrow."
"Oh, but Marilla," I protest. I don't know how much longer I can sit at Green Gables, doing nothing but think about Matthew. At least, even in the little action of moving this bush, I'll be doing something in his honor.
"Tomorrow, Anne," insists Marilla, gazing at the gate. Defeated, I sigh and go up to my east gable room for the night.
...
The next morning, though, I am up with the sun. The Snow Queen is in full bloom, and filters the light into a thousand bright orange dapples that shine down on my quilted bed like so many shafts of gold. I think Matthew would have like the sight, and I feel a little twinge of sadness, guilt even, for thinking it looked so beautiful. The same thing happens later, when I am laughing with Diana and Minnie May and talking of the beautiful springtime weather and merry things.
I tell Mrs. Allan so when I go to the manse.
"It seems like disloyalty to Matthew, somehow, to find pleasure in these things now that he has gone," I admit over tea in the garden. "I miss him so much—all the time—and yet, Mrs. Allan, the world and life seem very beautiful and interesting to me for all. Today Diana said something funny and I found myself laughing. I thought when it happened I could never laugh again. And it somehow seems as if I oughtn't to."
"When Matthew was here he liked to hear you laugh and he liked to know that you found pleasure in the pleasant things around you," says Mrs. Allan gently. "He is just away now; and he likes to know it just the same. I am sure we should not shut our hearts against the healing influences that nature offers us. But I can understand your feeling. I think we all experience the same thing. We resent the thought that anything can please us when someone we love is no longer here to share the pleasure with us, and we almost feel as if we were unfaithful to our sorrow when we find our interest in life returning to us."
Mrs. Allan is so wise, I think. How sad that wisdom of grief can only come with grief itself; I wonder who it was she lost to know such things.
"I was down to the graveyard to plant a rosebush on Matthew's grave this afternoon," I inform her, taking a sip of tea, "and I took a slip of the little white Scotch rosebush his mother brought out from Scotland long ago; Matthew always liked those roses the best—they were so small and sweet on their thorny stems. It made me feel glad that I could plant it by his grave—as if I were doing something that must please him in taking it there to be near him. I hope he has roses like them in heaven. Perhaps the souls of all those little white roses that he has loved so many summers were all there to meet him."
Mrs. Allan smiles. "I am sure there are roses and all manner of beautiful things in heaven, and I am yet surer that Matthew is enjoying them at this very moment."
"Yes, it wouldn't be like him to miss out on beautiful things," I agree. "Well, I must go home now. Marilla is all alone and she gets lonely at twilight. She won't admit it, but I see her looking at the gate every evening."
"She will be lonelier still, I fear, when you go away again to college," says Mrs. Allan. She squeezes my hand, but I don't say anything more, besides "Good night Mrs. Allan, dear." With that one sentence, she's given so much to consider.
I think about it the whole way home, my feet taking a path that's become so familiar I don't think about walking it any longer. I've got to do something. My heart hurts to think of leaving Marilla, especially now—it was different when I left for Queens, for she had Matthew. Oh, Matthew! As if the pain of his passing wasn't enough, it now puts us in a terrible place financially, which is something I never even gave a second thought to when I was young and yearning for puffed sleeves. I've got the Redmond scholarship, but I can't imagine what Marilla'd do all alone in Avonlea—and with the bank failure, I just know there won't be enough money for her to live off unless she lets someone else manage the farm, and she's so stubborn that I can almost picture her refusing to hire even a man.
When I arrive at home Marilla is waiting for me at the door. When I see her, silhouetted on the porch, I try to shake off my expression of worry. She tells me Dr. Spencer came to call while I was away and she's going to town for the day tomorrow to have her eyes examined. It's the first action toward her health I've ever noticed her taking, and of course I agree with it, promising that Diana will keep me company. What I don't tell her is that I won't be home either.
...
The next day at dawn, Marilla leaves for White Sands and Dr. Spencer. She's taken the carriage, so I have to walk to my destination: Avonlea Hall. It's situated on the road to Newbridge, surrounded by extraneous flora and fauna. This is not usually the type of observation I make about flora and fauna—flowers are, in my opinion, nature's greatest yields—but no one's tended the ones outside the Hall since the years we used to put on Christmas concerts. Nowadays it's a vessel for Debate Club and biannual town meetings for the citizens of the village of Avonlea. There is, however, one more function which the building serves.
The door creaks on its hinges when I open it, and is, along with the entire building to which it is attached, in need of new coat of paint. The inside is comfortingly familiar. The ballroom stretches, double-doored, off to my left, and several rooms in which meeting take place are on a hallway to my right. Straight ahead lie the offices.
My boot heels click and echo off the marble tiles and walls. For all the wear on the outside of the place, the inside of the hall is in good repair. I find myself imagining what it would be like to live in a place like this—a building always seems much more vast when one thinks of it as a house—with stone instead of wood floors and walls, ceilings and doorways with majestic arches and windows with fine draperies. Not that Avonlea Hall has many of these things, but even so. I haven't done much imagining for fun since Matthew's death. It feels nice, that such an ordinary place can suddenly have new scope, even now that he's gone.
The task at hand brings me back from my musings. There are five offices, none of which I've ever had reason to enter before. The lettering on the door, announcing 'Avonlea School Board Trustees', tells me that the third from the right is the one I'm looking for. I knock.
"Come in," says a voice from within, and I feel suddenly like I'm about to step into the belly of a whale, never to return.
The inside of the office has the appearance of a nicely furnished parlor—not unlike Diana's mother's. There's a desk a man behind it.
"Hello, Mr. Blair," approaching the desk like a schoolgirl approaching her teacher. I've met Richard Blair before, run into him on the roads to and from Carmody and Newbridge, seen him in the stores. He is easy to recognize—he has a curious indent on his chin, as though he was once hit with a ball or a tomato, beady eyes, and a curly mustache.
"Miss Shirley," he says, rising. Everyone in Avonlea recognizes me, for better, for worse, or for red hair. "What brings you here?"
"Well, Mr. Blair," I begin, not really knowing what to say, cursing myself for not remembering what I had rehearsed on the way home from Mrs. Allan's; words have never come hard to me in my life, and here I am choking on my tongue in what may well be the most important moment of my young life thus far. "I... I know it seems rather sudden and unprompted, maybe even a little unfounded and ridiculous for me to be asking, but I'd like to be hired the Avonlea schoolteacher. I know Miss Stacy is leaving and I hadn't heard that anyone had been found. Besides that, I think I would make an adequate teacher, at least, and I've been top—well, nearly top, at given moments—of my own class, and I do enjoy children, and we, that is Marilla and I, could use the money, now that Matthew's gone, we haven't got much to live on, and if I can't teach I don't know what else I can do." I have to clamp my lips shut with my teeth to cease them moving. My entire self is trembling, whether from relief of finally having said what I needed to, or nervous anticipation of what Mr. Blair's response will be I don't know.
Mr. Blair examines me quizzically. "Yes, I've heard a few things about the finances of Green Gables." No doubt from Mrs. Lynde, I think, humiliated. "And I was sorry to hear of Matthew Cuthbert's passing."
"Thank you," I mumbled, red-faced.
"However—and I am sorry—I can't offer you the position at the Avonlea school. It's already been secured."
"Oh." My heart has fallen to my feet, perhaps through the floor. I brace myself on Mr. Blair's desk. I can't even bring myself to ask who he's given it to. Jane maybe. Someone from out of town.
"There are a few teaching places still open nearby, though," he says brightly, shuffling through some papers on his desk, and my world is buoyed out of the depths. "And Miss Stacy has already recommended you to me, with many praises. Is it alright if I get back to you? By the end of the week, no later I should think."
"Yes!" I exclaim, happily grasping his outstretched hand. "Thank you, Mr. Blair, thank you!" and I dance out of the office.
Diana meets me on my way through the clearing to Green Gables past her house.
"You look awfully happy, Anne," she smiles. Diana has such a beautiful smile, but I haven't time to be envious of it the way I usually am.
"Yes, things are working just swimmingly for me just, Diana," I tell her, "and look, the daisies are coming out, and the clover and the honeysuckle. Fortune has smiled on this day."
"Well, I bear more fortuitous tidings," Diana informs me with a twinkle in her eye. "You can tell me all about yours in a minute. Father saw Mr. Sadler leaving your house and asked Marilla what he was here about, and well, he's decided he wants to rent the farm this next year. He thought it'd bring Marilla a bit of extra money, and it's good investment for him."
"Oh, Diana, you lovely, lovely creature!" I exclaim, practically flying at her and wrapping my arms around her tightly. "Tell you father he's a dear for doing such a thing!"
After I leave Diana, at home I find Marilla slouched in her rocking chair.
"Are you very tired, Marilla?" I ask, hurrying over, forgetting the previous few minutes' jubilation. I've never seen her looking so cheerless before—not that Marilla often looks cheerful, but it is alarming all the same. She looks grey and worn, as if she's been overwashed, and I wonder if she's been crying again.
"Yes—no—I don't know," Marilla says, sighing. "I suppose I am tired, but I haven't thought about it. It's not that."
"Did you see the oculist?" I ask, anxiety building in my chest. It feels like... and I am sure he must have given her the worst news. "What did he say?"
"Yes, I saw him," Marilla mumbles, and she launches into her diagnosis, all the things she can't and must do in order to prevent her going to completely bat blind.
"Blind," she says. "Just think of it, Anne."
"Marilla, don't think of it," I say, grasping her hand. "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," says 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 anyone for a spell yet, anyway. I can't bear that folks should come here to question and sympathize and talk about it."
"I wouldn't dream of it," I promise her, though I'm not sure how to keep it from Mrs. Lynde; if she saw Dr. Spencer come in the house, she'll know something is afoot. "And Marilla, I just know you'll find something wonderful to occupy your time with. Yesterday, when I was with Mrs. Allan, she told me that blessing always come to those who need them, God can only know in what form."
"You are a blessing, Anne dear. I only wish there were another one of you to keep me company while you're away at Redmond."
My mouth goes wry at the way Marilla mentions my leaving. It clearly upsets her, so I cut some bread and bring some jam for her supper and send her to bed. I can't say anything to her about the school just yet.
...
Marilla talks nothing of her eyes for the next three days, but on fourth, more abysmal news comes.
"What did Mr. Sadler want, Marilla?" I ask. I saw him riding up the path on my way back from the store at Carmody. I'd nearly forgotten that Diana saw him earlier this week, but clearly his presence means something his very amiss. I can tell it from the expression on Marilla's face.
"He heard that I was going to sell Green Gables and he wants to buy it."
"Buy it! Buy Green Gables?" I can't help wondering if I've misheard. "Oh, Marilla, you don't mean to sell Green Gables!" I am stunned that she kept the idea from. Thunderstruck, as if a bolt had come through the roof and frozen me on the spot, and I reel from the shock. Sell our home?
"Anne, I don't know what else is to be done," Marilla laments, tears of bitterness streaming down her cheeks in spite of Dr. Spencer's orders. "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. 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."
"You mustn't sell Green Gables, Marilla," I tell her. Compassion for her misery burns out what little spark of resentment I feel for her keeping this a secret from me, for I've been keeping one from her too.
"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 tell her, tears filling my own eyes. "I'll be with you. I'm not going to Redmond."
"Not going to Redmond!" Marilla echoes. "Why, what do you mean?"
"Just what I say. I'm not going to take the scholarship." I shake my head. "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."
Marilla tries to protest. I knew she wouldn't agree, but I stop her. "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." This came as a surprise. When Mr. Blair told me—I ran into him at the store before I saw Mr. Sadler—I hadn't even known Gilbert was going to be a teacher at all—wanted to be a teacher. He never struck me as the type, but I suppose that shows how little I know about him.
"I can have the Carmody school—Mr. Blair told me so tonight at the store," I continue. "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..." A smile creeps over my face as I finish explaining my ideas to Marilla. Fate really has been too kind to us.
...
A few days later, I go to Matthew's grave to water the rosebush. I've taken into my head to come water it every Saturday, and keep after the headstone. For the first time, I don't feel sad leaving the cemetery; I haven't, really, since I got the news about the school. As if things could have been going any better for Marilla and I, I hear that Gilbert Blythe, my childhood nemesis if ever there was such a thing, caught wind of our situation and gave up the Avonlea school—for me. I immediately thought of the rosebush. It felt like a dream; it still does.
The dusk settles into twilight as I blissfully stroll down the road toward home. "Dear old world," I murmur, entranced by the scent of honeysuckle and clover in the air. "You are lovely and I am glad to be alive in you." I think of Matthew, ahead of me on the path, walking up to Green Gables and Marilla, if only to be there until the sunsets.
There is someone ahead of me, though, and I am startled. Marilla's been discouraging me from believing in ghosts ever since the incident in the Haunted Wood, but the thought crosses my mind before I recognize the face. Gilbert Blythe. None other than, of course.
He tips his hat to me in acknowledgement, but keeps watching as I approach. As much as habit urges me to, I can't let the moment pass. So I hold out my hand.
"Gilbert." He pauses, looking down at me, and I can't remember if he's always been taller. I feel my cheeks heat up, and my eyes dart away from his, hazel and searching. "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."
He grasps my hand in his, grinning. "It wasn't particularly good of me at all, Anne," he says, and it's a bit of a shock to hear his voice, deep, booming, directed at me, even though I've heard it a thousand times before. "I was pleased to do you some small service." He pauses and I try to turn away, but he's still holding my hand. "Are we going to be friends after this? Have you really forgiven me my old fault?"
He's teasing, but I catch an unexpected a rush of the same feeling I've had every time I've regretted holding a grudge against Gilbert Blythe comes to me in that moment. He seems excited to make a friend out of me, and I am forced to admit to myself that I find it rather charming. "I forgave you that day by the pond landing, although I didn't know it," I admit, smiling sheepishly down at my feet. "What a stubborn little goose I was. I've been—and I may as well make a complete confession—I've been sorry ever since."
"Well, we are going to be the best of friends,"Gilbert declares 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." He is so firm about this decision that I can't dispute it.
"I hadn't thought about continuing my studies," I admit to Gilbert, as we stroll down the lane. He has finally freed my hand and moves at an easy pace beside me. "I thought they had ground to a halt until next year."
"Nonsense," says Gilbert, "There's no sense in wasting a year. I've inquired with Redmond, and they say I can take my arts course independently and redeem the credit when I start attending. I could do the same for you."
"Oh," I say, at a loss for words. It's not very often that I discuss school with another person; Diana isn't much for it, Marilla has nothing but praise, but no advice, for she never furthered her education, and everyone else seems to think I'm a bit too big for my britches, a girl pursuing a Bachelor's degree. "I couldn't let you do that, Gilbert. I owe you enough already, you know, with the school-that, and you've debatably saved my life, once."
"Now, kind of friend would I be if I held that against you?" Gilbert wants to know. "Think of it as a favor. I'm sure there'll be something you can do for me down the road, and I'll be glad I did something for you."
"Alright," I agree slowly, pride and humility warring inside me as I do.
Gilbert nods, satisfied with my compliance. "I've taken a look at the curriculum already. There's quite a bit of Virgil on the reading list, and several essays. What do you think of that, Anne Shirley? Do you like the arts?"
"Yes," I say, guardedly. "And you?"
"I like them just fine. I do prefer science, but there is so much to be taken from a good novel, don't you agree?"
"Yes," I say again, my interest peaked. "But you know, there is so much that goes into one as well. I should know; I think I'd like to write stories for a living. I haven't actually told that to anybody before."
"You'd make a splendid authoress," Gilbert assures me with a grin. "Tell me about that story club you and Diana formed those years ago. I've only ever heard about it secondhand."
We talk until the Green Gables gate is before us, and we talk some more after that. It seems that Gilbert is the friend that the child of my orphan days longed for-a reflection, like Katie Maurice. Different, mirrored, but exactly the same in so many ways. Behind him, the sunsets in the west, painting the sky and clouds as an artist with a box full of colors.
Marilla watches me with curiosity as I come into the kitchen.
"Who was that came up the lane with you, Anne?" she says from her place at the window. I wonder whether she was watching for me or Matthew, and expect all of my troubles to come flooding back to me, but they don't. Perhaps he's just beyond the bend up the road, past the gate. I haven't got any troubles beyond that bend.
"Gilbert Blythe," I answer, feeling my cheeks pinken. "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," says Marilla with a cocked brow.
"We haven't been," I confess, "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."
"And five more years to do it," she adds, shaking her head. "Your supper's getting cold, Anne Shirley."
Marilla and Anne sort of find their new normal at the end there :)
K, so I separated the days with dots to make it more manageable. My plan is to really catalog Anne and Gilbert's relationship and lives between the lines of what LMM tells us in the book! It gets a lot more interesting in the first chapter, I promise, and I plan to go into Gilbert's POV as well, which I am so excited about! Please, please review and tell me what you think, I am dying to know! I have so much planned and I want to continue. Thanks for reading!
-Emily