And now we finally come to Anne. If you'll remember, Gilbert had agreed to make the trip to Echo Lodge for tea on Saturday (a week into her visit). I have a feeling he isn't going to make it…

Chapter 7: Love Knows

T

Anne's visit to the Irvings was, by all appearances, everything she had hoped it to be. She loved the enchanted feel of Echo Lodge; whenever she was there, she felt as if she had stepped out of the real world and into the pages of a fairy-tale. She felt young and romantic and whimsical, free to let her imagination run away with her as she used to do when she was a child. Echo Lodge was a place frozen in time—the ivy would forever creep along the grooves of the red-stone house, the fairies would continue to dance and sing in the fields of clover, and the spruces would never cease to arc their great needled branches over the garden below.

Anne had been pleased to find both the house and its inhabitants every bit as beautiful and thriving as the last time she had lain eyes upon them. Paul was growing taller and more handsome by the day—at sixteen, his face was becoming that of a man, although he still retained a bit of his boyish glow and spirit. His dark blue eyes and defined jawline were nearly a mirror of his father's, although where Paul's hair was a shiny chestnut brown, Mr. Irving's was every bit as salt-and-pepper gray as Anne remembered. Miss Lavender was her usual rosy-cheeked, pearly-haired, dimply-smiled self, and Charlotta the Fourth's over-large grin was perhaps wider than ever before.

Yet as Anne spent her days soaking up the beauty of nature outside the house and delighting in the fellowship and stories shared within, she could not deny a strange sense of foreboding growing within her. It had tiptoed into her heart on the first day of her visit, a silent yet sinister stranger, and since then it had taken up residence, causing a dull ache that Anne simply could not explain. She knew not the reason for her unease, but somehow she could not help feeling that it had something to do with Gilbert.

Anne first dismissed her anxiety as a product of Gilbert's absence; after all, they had hardly spent a day apart since Anne first came into the knowledge of her love for him. This was the first time she had been away from him, and she was failing the test utterly. If this was what it felt like to miss him, she was certain she could not stand the three years of separation which lay ahead.

As the week wore on, Anne's anxiety only grew. Perhaps something was wrong with Gilbert? She wished she could ring him in Avonlea, but Echo Lodge did not have a telephone. More than once she entertained the possibility of cutting her visit with the Irvings short and rushing home, but she dismissed the urge. She told herself that she was nothing but a pathetic, lovesick girl, without an ounce of the patience nor the fortitude of the boy she loved. The feeling of foreboding was nothing more than her imagination running away with her—something that was bound to happen at Echo Lodge. She took comfort in the fact that Gilbert would be joining her that Saturday, if only for the afternoon. Once that day arrived, the unease ebbing away at her heart would surely dissipate.

Yet when the morning of Gilbert's visit did finally dawn, with all of the magical splendor that a morning in that special corner of the world ought to have, Anne only found herself more distraught. She could not enjoy the morning chorus of the sparrows and chickadees, and the glint of the sun on the Grafton River below did nothing to stir her soul. Anne felt sick with worry—something must be very wrong.

"Everything alright, ma'am?" said Charlotta the Fourth, as Anne entered the front garden a few minutes later in search of a quiet path down which to clear her head. Anne eyed Charlotta's freckled face and large, toothy smile. The pink blossoms in her arms accentuated the perpetual redness of her cheeks.

"Hmmm?" Anne replied absently. Charlotta stood up from the patch of lilies she had been picking over and wiped her brow with her arm.

"If you don't mind me saying so, ma'am, you look a bit distraught."

"Do I?" said Anne, realizing she had been biting her lip and fiddling absent-mindedly with the end of her braid. She tried to gather her composure.

"Yes ma'am. Ah, but I suppose you're just anxious to see Gilbert this afternoon, that's it. I've never been in love before, ma'am, but I reckon it's an uncomfortable thing. Shall I fix you something to help with the nerves, ma'am?"

At Charlotta's mention of Gilbert, Anne felt her eyes begin to grow warm. She pressed her fingers to their corners to keep them from watering. She wanted nothing more than to fall into a heap on the ground and sob out her worries, yet she knew Charlotta would not understand. She needed to talk to a true kindred spirit—someone who might possibly understand how a person could feel a feeling so strongly, yet without reason. It was just then that Anne noticed Paul, heading into the woods on the west side of the garden with an axe slung over his shoulder. Paul. She needed to talk to Paul.

"No thank you, Charlotta, excuse me!" Anne apologized, as she sprinted across the lawn and off towards the spot where Paul had disappeared.

When a much-winded Anne finally caught up to Paul, he had selected a rather thick spruce tree and was staring keenly up at it in contemplation.

"I've always hated chopping down trees," Paul admitted as she approached him. "Never again will they reach their dainty fingers up to the sun; never again will the wind whistle through their leaves—I feel as if I am silencing their grand voices forever."

Anne drew herself up next to Paul and fingered the slick needles of the tree in question.

''I think if I were to ever chop down a tree, I should say a little thank you first," said Anne. "I would wrap both of my hands up in its leaves and thank it for its sacrifice—for its many years of purifying the air we breathe, and now for warming us when we are cold, and fueling the fires to cook our food."

Anne's suggestion, which Marilla would have called "a load of poppycock," made every bit of sense to Paul, and he nodded his head in agreement. "Shall we then?" he asked.

"Oh," said Anne rather dully, setting herself down on a nearby boulder and drawing her knees up to her chest. "I don't think I have the energy to make up something suitable now. I'd only do the tree a disservice." She brought her gaze to the ground. A moment later, she heard the crunch of dried needles under Paul's feet and saw his shadow throw the ground into darkness as he approached her and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

"Something is upsetting you, isn't it, teacher?" Paul asked quietly. Gray eyes looked into dark blue ones as Anne raised her gaze to meet his. She said nothing, but her quivering lip gave her away. "I've noticed you haven't quite been yourself, although I haven't mentioned it in front of Mother Lavender and Father," Paul added. "You seem worried about something."

Anne was amazed at Paul's perception, yet thankful for it. She had always treasured her friendship with Paul—of all the kindred spirits in the world, Paul had always been the kindredest to her. His imagination and sense of the world rivaled only her own.

"I feel so foolish, Paul," Anne said with a sigh. "I can't explain it, but ever since I've arrived here, I've felt a strange sense of unease. Each day it grows worse, and I can't help but suppose… oh well never mind, it will just sound silly."

"It's not silly, Anne. What do you suppose?" Paul asked.

"Well, that it's something to do with Gilbert," she admitted with a blush. "I know it sounds strange, but somehow I just feel that he isn't coming for tea today. No, I don't feel it, I know it. And beyond that, I think something is wrong, Paul. Oh, I know you must think me absurd…"

"I don't think you absurd, Anne," said Paul seriously, using Anne's true name for the first time in her memory. He looked off into the distance, his mind miles away. They sat quietly for several moments; Anne did not know what to say next. She looked down and began fingering her braid for the second time that morning.

"I felt it once," came Paul's soft voice out of the silence. Anne glanced up; she had not expected this.

"You did?"

Paul paused, recalling some past memory. "Yes, when my little mother died," he said. Anne's lips parted slightly in surprise, yet she said nothing. She knew his mother had died while Paul was only eight years old, yet he had never spoken of how it happened.

"We were living in Boston, you know. My uncle and I took the train to Cape Cod—just for a short fishing trip. Well, she had caught meningitis, although nobody knew yet. She was as beautiful and lovely as ever when I left her, but two days into our trip she died. And Anne, I felt it. I can't explain how, but I knew… right in that moment. I could tell you the very minute that it happened."

Anne was speechless. Paul thought for a moment before continuing, "All I remember after that is screaming for my uncle to take me back, and then arriving home and rushing into my father's arms, and crying until there were no more tears left. He never even had to tell me the news." Anne's eyes grew wide and she felt a pang of sorrow for Paul. She could see the scene plainly in her mind—of a tiny Paul sobbing into his father's shoulder—and her heart broke for him.

"I'm ever so sorry, Paul," Anne said, giving his knee a squeeze.

"It was a long time ago," he said, as if to let her know he was alright. "What I mean to say is that I do believe it's possible, when you love someone very much, to feel their pain."

Anne thought over Paul's words and began to grow very frightened. How much danger must Gilbert be in—how much pain must he be feeling—to make Anne feel it too? Her throat began to feel thick and her mouth grew dry; she felt unsteady on her feet. Anne met Paul's gaze with eyes full of fear and the two shared a silent exchange of words unspoken.

"Should we wait?"

"Can you wait?"

"Will you take me there?"

"Do you even need to ask?"

Five minutes later, Paul had rushed off to saddle up the Irvings' horse, while Anne returned to the house in search of Miss Lavender. She found her in the kitchen, humming a merry tune to herself as she mixed up a batch of doughnuts.

She looked up at Anne and her plump cheeks dimpled in a girlish smile. She wiped a frosty curl from her face with her forearm and crossed to the sink, where she worked the sticky dough from her fingers. She then turned around to face Anne, while wiping her hands on a towel. Her smile evaporated as soon as she saw the look on Anne's face.

"My goodness, Anne, are you feeling alright?" Miss Lavender asked. Anne felt very sorry to admit to Miss Lavender that she was ending her visit prematurely, yet the throbbing ache inside her told her that she must.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Miss Lavender, but I'm afraid I must return to Avonlea," Anne said. Miss Lavender looked confused, and Anne felt compelled to explain. "Gilbert is… is… well he's not going to..." Anne's voice broke and tears began to stream down her cheeks.

Without a word, Miss. Lavender strode towards Anne and wiped away her tears with a pink handkerchief.

"No need to explain, dearie. When you know, you know."

Anne had never been more thankful to be in a house full of kindred spirits.

…

The ride from Echo Lodge to Green Gables was a short one on horseback, but to Anne, trapped in a world of darkness and dread, if might as well have been an eternity. There was no doubt in her mind that something was very wrong with Gilbert, and not knowing exactly what had happened was the worst part of all. No matter what trouble had befallen him, knowing would be better than not knowing. She tortured herself by imagining a thousand plights for her beloved Gil, each more unsettling than the next. At first she presumed there had been an accident of sorts, but she eventually ruled out that possibility. The unease in her heart and mind had been growing steadily; if there had been some mishap or disaster, she certainly would have felt it as a sharp, sudden prick of alarm.

Anne eventually settled on the idea that Gilbert must be ill. The more she pondered this possibility, the more it made sense to her. Anne remembered how pale and sickly Gilbert had looked at the end of term. He had recovered somewhat over the summer, but he had never returned to his usual state of robustness. And hadn't he been out of sorts on their last outing, while they picked the cherries for that cursed pie? She recalled him falling as they fled Simon Fletcher's fields, along with her skepticism over his insistence that he had tripped rather than fainted. She remembered his annoyance at snagging his shirt in the tree, which she had thought contrary to his normal easy-going character. Hadn't she thought him rather tired that day? Hadn't Mrs. Lynde insisted he looked ill?

How could she have been so foolish as to miss the signs? As his future wife, shouldn't she know him better than anyone else? She of all people should have recognized what was happening. And what kind of lover was she, to abandon Gilbert just when he needed her most? She felt ignorant and selfish and unworthy of him.

Still worse than the multitude of questions circling about Anne's mind was a tiny voice lurking beneath it all, whispering over and over again, "This is all your fault." This, above all else, Anne could not take. If Gilbert was indeed ill, then she was to blame. He had worn down his health because of her. He had studied himself into madness so that he might become numb—because he could not take the pain she had caused him. She and she alone had been the reason for his sallow skin, dark-rimmed eyes, and baggy clothing. Whatever ailment had befallen him, Anne was sure that she was the cause of it. She tortured herself with this thought for a short while, until she could stand it no longer. She then tried to cast it away—she did not know for sure that he was ill, after all. Perhaps she was tormenting herself over nothing. This she told herself, though she did not believe it.

Anne wrapped her arms tightly around Paul's waist as the horse sped through Middle Grafton, towards Avonlea. She pressed her forehead into his back and whispered, "Faster, faster." Yet the wind whipped against her face and carried off her cries.

When at long last Paul guided the horse up the lane to Green Gables, Anne was relieved to find both Marilla and Rachel Lynde sitting on the front porch. Anne did not wait for Paul to help her safely to the ground—rather she flung herself from the saddle and bounded up the front steps. Marilla had already risen to meet her.

"Good heavens, thank goodness you've returned! Only… I can't say I'm not surprised, we didn't expect you for two weeks more," Marilla reached forward and took Anne's shoulders in her hands. "Now, I need to speak with you about something."

"You'd best have her sit down, Marilla," insisted Mrs. Lynde from her chair, where she was mending a rather large pile of clothes.

Marilla gave Mrs. Lynde a pointed look before glancing back around at Anne. She gestured towards a nearby chair. Anne, however, stood rooted on the spot.

"Please, Marilla," Anne said, her breaths coming quickly and heavily, "I haven't a second to lose. Where is Gilbert?" Marilla's face fell and her brow furrowed.

"That's what I need to speak to you about, Anne. Please sit—"

"But this is important, Marilla—" Anne interrupted.

"I would be hard pressed to believe that anything you have to say is more important that what I have to tell you, Anne," Marilla said sternly, oblivious to the fact that she and Anne were both attempting to bring up the same subject. "Now please, sit—"

"I will do no such thing!" Anne cried. Paul now climbed the verandah steps, having secured the horse, but neither of the three women noticed him. "Now please, I beg of you, Marilla, tell me what you know!"

Marilla, who assumed Anne remained in the dark as to the doings in Avonlea, looked confused. "Heavens, Anne, you are speaking nonsense! I am to tell you what I know about what?"

"About Gilbert!" Anne cried, almost hysterical. "What is the matter with Gilbert?" Anne's eyes were wide and pleading, her hands were clasped together as if in prayer. Mrs. Lynde raised her eyebrows and Marilla looked taken aback.

"Why… Gilbert? But how on earth could you know, child? You've been away..." Marilla stuttered. Though Anne had known all along that something was wrong with Gilbert, Marilla's words only served as the confirmation she had dreaded, and her heart grew heavy in her chest.

"There will be plenty of bushes to beat around later, Marilla. What has happened to him? Tell me now!" Anne cried, this last sentence coming out as a high-pitched shriek.

"Well he…" yet Marilla faltered; the distress on Anne's face was disconcerting.

"Please Marilla," Anne begged, her voice shaking.

Marilla paused for a moment, trying to choose the proper words. "He's ill, Anne. He's come down with Typhoid fever."

Marilla's words echoed back and forth through Anne's brain until they had no meaning; so plain they were, yet so impossible to comprehend. She gave out a muted cry and clutched Marilla's shoulder to steady herself.

"T… Typhoid?" Anne asked stupidly, as if questioning this simple fact might make it less certain. Marilla merely nodded, her eyes full of sorrow and sympathy. "And… is it… is it serious?" she managed to inquire. The look on Marilla's face told all, yet Anne needed to hear it for herself.

"Well… keep in mind that we can't know for sure," Marilla started, yet communicating the gravity of Gilbert's illness to Anne was more difficult than she had imagined. She tried and failed to find the right words. How did you break such grave news to someone you loved so dearly? Mrs. Lynde, however, had never been at a loss for words, and she wasn't about to pick up the habit now.

"It's a bad case and you know it, Marilla. Don't you glare at me, the doctor said it was one of the worst he'd come across. Word is, Anne, he is entering the most trying phase."

This news hit Anne like a physical blow. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor. Anne knew as well as anyone the dangers of even a moderate case of Typhoid fever. Could it really be true? Could her beloved Gil be sick—perhaps dying—at this very moment?

"We're dreadfully sorry for you to find out like this, Anne," Mrs. Lynde added. "We sent Davy to fetch you, but I'm afraid he got lost. It's not an easy place to find, you know. Heaven knows neither Marilla nor I can make the trip, and of course his parents can't leave the house at a time like this…I thought perhaps we could send—" yet for once in her life, Mrs. Lynde was unable to finish a speech she had begun. The color had drained from Anne's face, which was now a ghostly white; her eyes, however, were rimmed with red, almost painful in their contrast.

"Please Anne, don't look that way," pleaded Marilla. "There is still hope yet. The good Lord is more powerful than anything we know on this earth, always remember that."

Anne saw Marilla's mouth move, yet her words meant nothing. Her ears were ringing loudly; all speech was jumbled and shuffled in space, and by the time it reached her, it was meaningless. Anne's senses failed her—all she knew in that moment was that life as she knew it was crumbling around her, giving way to nothing but blackness.

What if the worst should happen? A world without any Gilbert in it? Anne had decided weeks ago that it simply could not be. Life without him was unimaginable. He was everything she had ever needed yet never wanted. Would he really be taken from her, just after she had finally realized how much she cared? She had chosen Gilbert to build her world around—without him she had nothing. A Gilbert-less future stared her in the face, more real than ever before, and all she wanted was to scream at the top of her lungs.

"Anne," came a voice from far away, "Anne." Yet she did not care to whom the voice belonged. She stared blankly ahead, unseeing and unhearing. Gilbert could be dying. That was the only thing that mattered.

Anne felt, rather than saw, someone grab her wrist and lead her back down the porch steps. She followed numbly, unaware of where she was being taken. The ground felt unsteady under her feet and the sky tipped and turned above her.

"Anne," came Paul's voice, swimming through the sea of muddled thoughts which possessed her mind, "we need to get you to Fairview."

…

Anne Shirley was a strong-minded girl. It was her level-headedness in a crisis that had saved many a Hammond baby, along with Minnie Mae Barry, as well as her own neck on many occasions. As such, by the time they arrived at Fairview, she had gathered her wits about her as much as one might hope. She was about to see Gilbert, and this gave her resolve. She would soon be at his bedside. She would be strong, as he had always been for her.

Paul drew the horse up to the verandah, and this time Anne accepted his assistance. She then climbed up the front steps and paused in front of the door.

"Take a deep breath and count to ten," she said to herself, repeating the instructions Marilla had often given her as a child whenever she was nervous or frustrated. She did this, then knocked gingerly on the door.

A few moments later, Mrs. Blythe answered it. Upon seeing Anne, she threw up her hands and let out a small cry.

"Oh Anne! Thank goodness, we were so worried. I am ever so happy to see you. Gilbert has spoken of nothing else. Maybe with you here, he'll… oh well nevermind. Come in, come in."

Anne had never seen Mrs. Blythe so disconcerted. The bright sparkle in her eyes—a trait she shared with her son—had dimmed to almost nothing. She looked tired and worn down. Little frizzes of hair peaked out from her tightly pulled bun; several strands had fallen loose entirely and hung down the back of her neck.

"I assume you've been told that Gil..." Mrs. Blythe began, yet she paused here, having trouble voicing the rest of her sentence aloud. Anne stepped forward and took Mrs. Blythe by surprise as she pulled her into a long, firm embrace. In it, she conveyed her shared grief and doubt. It was an embrace that said, "You are no longer alone." When Anne finally stepped back, pale face looked upon pale face and the two women locked eyes—a silent bond had been created through their shared love of the one who lay abed upstairs.

"May I see him?" Anne asked simply. Mrs. Blythe brought her hand up to Anne's chin and nodded.

"I want to prepare you, Anne," Mrs. Blythe said as the two woman ascended the stairs, "he's a bit confused and out-of-sorts. Don't let it alarm you." They had reached the bedroom door, and Anne took another deep breath. Whatever version of Gilbert she found on the other side, he was still her Gilbert. And she was his Anne. No matter what came their way, she would take care of him.

Mrs. Blythe pushed the door open, revealing the dimly lit room beyond. She remained in the hall as she motioned for Anne to pass inside. Anne took a timid step forward and entered. To the right she saw Gilbert, his eyes closed, his face pale, lost in a perfect slumber. Next to him on a chair by the bed was a girl, fair skinned and slender, who couldn't be more than a few years older than Anne herself. The knot of hair on top of her head was a sort of sandy color—too dark to be called blonde, yet too light to be called brown. She was humming softly as she held a white towel in her hand; she was dabbing Gilbert's forehead with it, while her other hand rested just next to his arm. Were Anne in her right mind, she might have considered her to be a rather pretty girl, but her eyes were only for the boy on the bed.

The girl turned to Anne and her lips broke into a soft little smile.

"Hello, are you here to see Gilbert?" she asked in a sweet voice, which seemed almost out of place for the occasion.

"Yes..." Anne said slowly, unsure of any other possible reason for her to be standing in a sick man's bedroom.

"Well then, I'm Lydia, but you can call me Lyddie," she said, rising from her seat and placing the towel back on the washstand. "I'm here from Carmody, taking care of Gilbert. If he needs anything, you let me know."

Anne ears pricked slightly at this innocently delivered remark; she was suddenly unnerved by this strange girl who had taken charge of Gilbert's recovery—this girl, who was humming to Gilbert, and wiping his forehead in Anne's place. Her heart gave a sharp, achy twinge at the sight of it. So Gilbert was Lyddie's to take care of, was he? If he needed anything, was Lyddie to be the first one informed, and not Anne herself? She felt like a stranger in the home of her own betrothed. This feeling was accompanied by a sense of guilt and shame—she had not been there to take care of Gilbert in his time of need, and so who was she to spurn the person who had?

Yet Anne had no room for anger or jealousy now—the important thing was that Gilbert was so well taken care of in the first place—and so she pushed the feelings aside as quickly as they had come. All she cared about was her dear Gil, laying on the bed in a stillness that was eerie in its intensity.

"Thank you, Lyddie," she said politely. Lyddie nodded, then left the room, leaving a tiny crack in the doorway.

Anne gently took the place that Lyddie had just occupied and stared into Gilbert's face. The red glow that normally braised his cheeks was absent. His skin was slightly sallow and his cheeks a bit hollow. Yet what struck Anne most were his lips—so pale they nearly blended into his face entirely. Could this truly be the Gilbert who had parted with her at the gate of Green Gables, only a week ago? He had looked positively vibrant compared to now.

Anne reached forward and grasped Gilbert's hand. She took it into both of hers and kissed it. Gilbert stirred ever-so-slightly at her touch.

"Hello, Gilbert, it's me," she said. She tried to hold her voice steady, yet it was no use. Tears began to well up in her eyes and trickle down her face. Gilbert remained still, yet his eyelids fluttered slightly—she could not tell whether they were open or closed.

"I'm here, Gil," she murmured, her voice husky as the tears caught in her throat. She wished more than anything that Gilbert would wake up, if only for a moment. She needed him to know she was here—that she had not abandoned him. She brought his hand up to her face and pressed it against her cheek. His fingers flexed slightly; she looked up and his eyelids fluttered once again. She looked into them, trying to detect a glint of hazel between his faded lids.

"Anne?"

AN: I am blown away at the response to the last chapter. Thank you so much for the reviews! They were each appreciated greatly. Perhaps the reason I'm always a week between updates is because these chapters are so darn long. Sorry about that. Maybe for my next story I'll do shorter ones, only more of them…