I know. Chapter Three was a little too close to the movie for my taste as well.
mk985: I do not plan to end Blythe Spirit with the conclusion of Anne of Green Gables. But, as Bilbo Baggins said, "Now far ahead the Road has gone,/ And I must follow, if I can,/ Pursuing it with weary feet,/ Until it joins some larger way,/ Where many paths and errands meet.
"And whither then? I cannot say…"
But there is a hint as to some of its extent near the end of the chapter.
-M.R.
Chapter Four: There's Another, Not A Sister
I am a lone lorn creetur…and everythink goes contrairy with me.
-Dickens, David Copperfield
Fall was quite uneventful, as the students in Avonlea settled back into their scholastic schedules—albeit different this year, as accompanied by Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe. However, this was the only thing in which they interacted; Anne continued to utterly ignore Gilbert.
One week-end Gilbert was strolling along the banks of Barry's pond; in fact, in his family's ancient (or so it seemed) strawberry apple orchard.
Perhaps it was the acoustics of the Pond; perhaps it was Gilbert's new, queer awareness of a certain faerielike presence, but soon a familiar, musical voice lilted from the bridge to Gilbert standing so far away.
"…just finished my story for this month's meeting of the Story Club. It's called 'The Jealous Rival; or, In Death Not Divided'…"
Gilbert looked up; certainly, he could see a willowy figure clad in white with red hair, while a black-haired girl—Diana of course—trailed her hand over the railing. They walked, utterly unconscious of any one that might be watching them—such as Gilbert—who instinctively crept behind a tall oak tree, in case they should suddenly tune in to the world about them again. Furtively, he peered out from behind the trunk.
"Yesterday I found this gorgeous big strawberry apple on my desk."
"Ah-ha," whispered Gilbert, watching Anne show the large red fruit to her bosom friend.
"…didn't know they grew in Avonlea, Diana."
"'Course they do," answered Diana amiably, "but only in one place—the old Blythe orchard across the Lake of Shining Waters"—pointing across at the grove in which Gilbert hid.
"Eurgh!" groaned Anne, dropping the apple. It fell with a plop into the Pond and sank for ever from sight and consumption. She wiped her fingers energetically on her white dress. "You don't mean to tell me that Gil—that that person, Diana Barry—gave m—"
Then Anne froze—stood straight—looked directly at Gilbert!
Gilbert realised all too late that he had leaned precariously far out from his tree to hear Anne, and been spotted. Mentally cursing himself, he swung back behind the tree. Now Anne would think he was a sneak and a cad, in addition to being downright insufferable!
Cautiously he gazed out again, to see if they were gone—and caught only a glimpse of Diana Barry's orange skirt.
Gilbert sank to the ground at the edge of the tree, his misery complete.
It only got worse when, the following Monday, Anne praised a very confused Charlie for his thoughtful gift; and, when he offered up "in addition" a slate pencil with a striped wrapper—the kind the girls favoured, because it kept the chalky powder rubbing onto their hands—she all but lavished him with compliments and gratitude.
Gilbert ate lunch without Charlie that day. It was not because he was indescribably jealous—although he was, and things would have proceeded in this way anyways, if that had been the case—but because Charlie, borne upon the wings of fancy, could not properly land again upon Earth to do his work well, and Mr. Phillips had to keep Charlie in at lunch.
However, Gilbert tried to make amends. That winter, the school gave a Christmas concert.
"And round the prow they read her name:
The Lady of Shalott.
"Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace—
The Lady
of
Shalott."
Anne Shirley was the first to leap to her feet and applaud; at least Diana and several other girls rose also to prevent her being embarrassed, and soon the rest of the audience was giving the oratoress a standing ovation. Gilbert knew that the poem was one of Anne's favorites.
Camille Bell, the young woman who had just delivered her stirringly soulful rendition, blushed, smiled, curtsied, blushed again. Studying the slim, russet-clad figure with pale skin and curly mahogany locks, Gilbert recalled that Charlie had been "dead gone" on Camille until Anne's advent in Avonlea. Probably Camille was infinitely grateful for this transition, even if Gilbert was not.
Camille stepped down from the platform and was replaced by Sam Sloane describing "How Sockery Set A Hen," which he had done every concert for the past three years; so no body really paid any attention—except for Anne, who had never heard it before and therefore could still find it amusing, Gilbert thought ruefully.
Next came Melinda Pye, Josie's older sister—who was not all that disagreeable, for a Pye—speaking of "The Kingfisher":
It was the rainbow gave thee birth,
And left thee all her lovely hues;
So runs it in thy blood to choose
For haunts the lonely pools…
Mr. Phillips was generally bad at speaking publicly, although he was after all a teacher; but "friends, Romans, and countrymen" all "lent him their ear" for a stirring rendition of Marc Antony's famous address.
Finally it was Gilbert's turn. He had chosen his piece carefully—not only because of the pathos which he loved to create in the audience, but because of one verse in particular.
"A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,/ There was lack of woman's nursing—there was dearth of woman's tears;/ But a comrade stood behind him, while his life-blood ebbed away,/ And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say…"
About two-thirds of the way through the piece Gilbert's voice strengthened, loudened, became more passionate in describing the dying soldier's message, looking straight at Anne as he cried:
"There's another—not a sister; in the happy days gone by,/ You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;/ Too innocent for coquetry—too fond for idly scorning,—/ O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!/ Tell her the last night of my life (for ere this moon be risen/ My body will be outof pain—my soul be out of prison)/ I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine/ On the vine-clad hills of Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!"
A great deal of this message would grow to become all too true. But just now, Gilbert did not know this.
He only knew, as he stumbled through the rest of the poem—to an awkwardness that alarmed all and enlightened one (who had raven hair), that he wished, for the first time in his life, that he might be in the soldier's place—in his death, for the whole time Anne had been reading a book!