Chapter Six: The Late Lamented
Sunlight's golden shadow faded as the moon rose up through orange-streaked skies and dusk slowly took over the day. The distant lowing of cows and the ringing of their bells told Marilla, as they had every other day of her adult life, that Matthew would be home presently for dinner after bedding up the animals in the barn for the night. But their evening routine went much deeper than habit, and so Marilla only half-heard the sounds and mostly took to the routine as naturally and intuitively as if she were lacing her boots or making her bed. Squinting out the window, Marilla spied Anne's red hair bobbing along next to Matthew's in the distance. She hoped her brother was taking it easy; he'd had several spells with his heart the past spring and Dr. Blair had ordered him not to work so hard. With Anne home, she prayed he'd heed the advice.
Despite concerns over Matthew's health and news circulating about the Abbey Bank being in trouble weighing on her, Marilla found cause for gladness. It was Anne's second night back from Queen's Academy after earning her teaching credential and winning the Avery scholarship to Redmond College. Her sixteen year-old girl had grown into a tall and handsome young woman, girlishness and folly replaced with serious gray-green eyes and a quietness of spirit that spoke to her maturity and intelligence. "It's good to have her back, though in a few months she'll be gone again for four whole years," Marilla thought sadly. "I can't help remembering her as a little girl and even with all her queer little ways she was such a loveable child; awful hard on her and bewildered I was trying to manage her. Oh Lord," Marilla sighed. "But I'm grateful for Matthew; he always understood her better and yet I've never seen him sorrowful about Anne growing up; I reckon he still sees her as his little girl." Marilla's eyes smarted and she indulged in a cry against the doctor's orders. The familiar throbbing of a headache swelled behind her eyes; she wiped her tears and chided herself in reproach for giving in to reminiscence; Anne's life was moving along just as it should. Her horizons were wide and the world waited with open arms of possibility beckoning her forth.
Dusk grew heavier, and though Marilla's eyes had adjusted to the darkening light, she lit the kerosene lamps and placed one by the window and one on the table. Supper was hot on the stove and Matthew should be back by now, Marilla thought. Maybe Anne's conversation is making him dally in the barn. She felt annoyed that their evening ritual was being delayed by one of Anne's monologues. But she peered out the window and listened closely; she could hear the cows still lowing in the field and the ringing of their bells; she didn't see Matthew or Anne and the animals were straying away from the trail. Mildly concerned, she untied her apron, reached for a lamp, and headed towards the cow trail in the northwest pasture. She figured she'd track down Matthew and Anne, scold them for losing track of time, and march stoically behind them in secret relief as they headed home for supper together. Once outside, the cool wind snapped at her hair, causing it to unfurl from its bun, and the coldness caught in her chest; she walked forward through the fading light, surveying the gentle slopes. Several minutes into her walk, she saw a form, darkish and crumpled against the gray-green grass in the distance. "Maybe a calf separated from its mother," she thought, and then continuing towards it, noticed another form next to it rocking gently. Her heart dropped to her stomach and she didn't need to see the faces to know that it was Anne and Matthew. The minutes that followed would be the ones that, in the coming year, would wake her in the middle of the night in fearful panic. Marilla's heart beat faster in her stomach, she felt a bolt of fear pass through her, a wave of nausea, and then time sped up in a rush. She couldn't feel her legs running, just the surge of concern propelling her forward towards her family.
"Anne – Matthew – how – what –" The words came out fast and rattled as Marilla knelt beside Anne in shock. She looked at her brother, long gray hair framing his pallid countenance, eyes closed, skin cold, and she felt for his heartbeat, his pulse. She tried again, and again, and again, until finally she felt Anne's hand gentle on her shoulder as if to say there is no use. Marilla looked across at Anne and saw on the girl's face a sorrow that filled up her being, and then the older woman began to weep openly. "My brother, my brother," she repeated, herself rocking as she held Anne's hand and tenderly stroked Matthews'. The women sat there for a long time holding each other in their sorrow, not wanting to let Matthew go, waiting for the dream to end.
Sometime later, Marilla heard Anne whispering the Lord's Prayer, and she straightened, coming to in the darkness of early night, the kerosene lamp flickering angrily in the wind. "Anne," she started, suddenly taking stock of their surroundings and speaking with firm urgency, "you must run to the Blythe's and tell John and Gilbert what's happened. They're our closest neighbors from here if you take the shortcut through the pasture. Go now!" Anne nodded in understanding. Marilla helped her up and then handed her the lamp. Anne gave Marilla's hand another squeeze before running off into the night.
Marilla sat holding vigil for her brother while she watched Anne and the light from the lamp drift farther and farther away. She looked up at the sky and it was filled with twinkling stars; she didn't know how long they'd been out there, but the temperature had dropped considerably and it was full dark. Her mind drifted to days past, and she recollected things that had once been. Matthew had been her big brother in childhood, protector in their school days, confidant and truest friend throughout adult life; always kind and gentle, always a good brother. And then her thoughts drifted to the future, where she mused upon days that would never be. Matthew at Anne's Redmond graduation, Matthew giving away Anne at her wedding, Anne's children playing with their grandfather Matthew; always kind and gentle, always a father at heart. Marilla breathed slowly and wept. Her spirit was now host to the great river of tears that flows unbridled from the heart that has struck sorrow.
She heard the party before she saw them. There was the neighing of the horse, the rattling of the wooden cart, and the distant voices of the men along with Anne giving directions through the field. When she saw the glimmer of the lamps, she stood up and called to them in turn.
