By the time the daffodils bloomed, Anne had perked up so much that it surprised everyone, even the doctor. Of course he still kept close watch on her and frowned when she spent too much time out of doors. And he would not hear of her on her hands and knees in the garden! A gardener came up from the Glen daily to tend the flower beds, and Anne found it a very unsatisfactory experience to sit and watch. But when Gilbert reminded her of the alternative, she acquiesced.
Besides, it was better than nothing to sit on the verandah and watch the clouds scuttle across the sky—to smell growing things in the salt breeze that came up from the harbor—to watch her flowers nod their heads at her companionably. She set herself up there everyday, usually with Walter by her feet, with a book or a sheaf of letters. She was just finishing up reading one of those letters, and laid it on her lap with a sigh.
"I love this time of year," she said, uneccesarily, to Susan. Everyone knew how much Mrs. Dr. Blythe loved the spring—more than any other time of year. Miss Cornelia, who had come up to visit, as she did so many of those afternoons, nodded approvingly.
"You are looking better, Anne dearie, though you're still a bit peaked. You're springing. Everyone feels better when winter is done and finished with."
"I have always considered Winter just as much a friend as Spring," said Anne. "She is a colder, more aloof friend—not as kind and gentle as my lady Spring, but just as beautiful, in her own way, and possibly more alluring. I hate to think that Winter and I are at odds with one another."
Susan did not like to hear such talk; if a stranger were to hear it, they would think Mrs. Dr, dear was off her head. "Will not you tell us what is in that letter from Miss Brooke?" For all of Miss Brooke's inappropriateness in Susan's mind, the old maid was quite enraptured with the whole romance. She had never witnessed one firsthand before.
"Oh, Susan, of course I will! It's so wonderful! She and Pierce were married at Kingsport last week, you know. I so would have loved to be there—but of course I couldn't. Anyway, he wanted to do it in Paris, but Elizabeth wanted to have her Grandmother there—to shock her, I think. And Katherine and Pierce were quite amenable to that—they see Mrs. Campbell as a dour old fussball and Katherine delights in shocking her. Of course Old Mrs. Campbell thinks Katherine is none too good for Pierce, though she didn't think him too good himself when he married her own daughter. Anyway, they're off to Paris at the end of the month."
"And are they taking a honeymoon, dearie?" Miss Cornelia wanted to know.
"The whole world is their honeymoon, Miss Cornelia. Some people never leave that stage, you know. They will be on their honeymoon for their whole life together."
"Marshall and I went to Charlottetown for ours," said Miss Cornelia. "But I understand what you mean, Anne, dearie. I think you and the doctor are like that—I do. Anne? Is something the matter?"
"Do you have a pain, Mrs. Dr., dear?" Susan worried.
"Actually, Susan—I do. A quite bad one." Anne winced. "Where is the doctor?"
"Over-harbor," said Miss Cornelia. "You don't think that—"
"I do, possibly," said Anne.
"I shall telephone up to the Glen and get someone to fetch him—and the nurse," said Susan grimly, and, with an extra hurried step, went to do just that.
"Don't be frightened, Anne, dearie," said Miss Cornelia brightly—more brightly than she felt. "It's far too early for a baby. Likely it is just indigestion."
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It was not "just indigestion," as Miss Cornelia had thought, evidenced by the doctor's grim face and set lips as he descended the stairs to Susan's kitchen.
"It will be a long night," he said. "Perhaps you should arrange to have the children go to Miss Cornelia's--and--and perhaps you should call over to Green Gables--tell them not to tarry--" Those words were scarcely uttered when Gilbert was gone, taking the stairs two at a time.
It was the last part that struck fear into Susan's heart. Surely--if they were calling Green Gables--so urgently--? But Susan could not believe that anything could possibly happen to Mrs. Dr. Dear. Had not she come through when--when little Joyce had not? And that had been a difficult birth. There had been four babies since then--surely this time would be easier?
Not so, said the doctor's harried eyes when he rushed downstairs and placed a hasty call. Not so, said his white face as he returned upstairs with the little nurse.
Every tick of the clock seemed to pierce the mistress of the Ingleside kitchen's very soul.
Susan could not crochet the little bootees she was making for the child. She could not think fondly of the child when a nurse had just been down--and had shaken her head! Did not she know that they did not shake their heads lightly at Ingleside? But then the doctor had stepped out of the room and had done the same. Susan saw him from the landing. She could not prepare for a child that may cost its mother her life--no one had spoken those words, of course, but Susan thought herself very perceptive, and she knew that the prolonged silence from the upstairs room meant not well. No, she would not crochet those infernal bootees! She threw them down!
For once in her life, Susan Baker found herself completely idle. She could not work, but wandered listlessly through the house, surveying every room. Mrs. Dr. dear, seemed to be in every brick and stone of that blessed house--she was there, in the cluster of crocuses arranged in a glass bowl on the mantle--she was there in the bit of embroidery hanging over the arm of the sofa--she was there in the careful planning of lists and menus on her writing desk.
Even more than that, she was in the little things. The paper snowflakes on the parlor windows that they had forgotten to take down--the little spots of ink on the desk-blotter--the neat lacing of Jem's Sunday boots and the dainty hemstitch of the napkins that were folded on the sideboard.
What would Ingleside do without her?
Susan stood stock still at the thought. She was horrified at having thought it in the first place--and more horrified at the idea that it might be a reality, after this dreadful night. What would Ingleside do without her?
Susan sat back down at her scrubbed kitchen table and gingerly placed her hands together. She would pray--she would pray with all her might and mead. "Then it is up to You," she reminded the kitchen ceiling. "Surely--surely joy will cometh in the morning, before the cock crows thrice."
In her current state of mind, one could forgive Susan mixing her Biblical metaphors.
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It was not the cock's crow that awakened Susan in the morning, but a higher, thinner cry. She bolted upright and knew not, at first, where she was--she had never slept anywhere but her own bed before. And here she was, at the kitchen table, all askew--when it might be all over by now--when the doctor was coming down the stairs with a heavy tread! Susan clutched at her chest and wondered wildly if this was what it felt like to have an epileptic fit.
It was over--the doctor was grim but relief shone in his eyes--he was placing a small bundle in Susan's suddenly steady arms.
"She lives," he said, at the same moment a ray of morning sun came through the half-shut curtain and lit on the sleeping baby's face. "It will be touch and go for a few days--until she gets her strength back--but she is alive. Call to Miss Cornelia's--tell her to tell the children they have a new brother. This baby will need extra care, Susan, for such a small fellow. I hope it will not be a strain on you."
His tone was light enough, but if she had listened hard enough Susan could have heard everything he did not say but knew in his heart...that this birth had cost Anne her strength, probably permanently--that she may never again be the vital woman they loved--that when she had awoken from her stupor she had asked for little Joyce. But Susan was not listening so she did not hear. Something was stirring within her--welling up from the pit of her stomach, the soles of her feet--she felt light-headed--she was completely and totally in love with the little baby with the swarthy little skin and the kicking pink feet that she held in her arms. She had never seen anything so tiny--she would knit him all the bootees in the world. Oh, how his little brown eyes seemed already to know her!
"My little boy!" she cried. "Oh, my little brown boy!"
