CHAPTER FIVE
Fred wrung his hands as he sat in his buggy, beside Barry's pond. Gazing over the still waters, he wondered what he would say. He knew that Anne would accept nothing but the truth; yet when the truth was so unbearable, how could he speak of it?
He lit one of his few cigars and inhaled deeply, the fumes steadying his nerves. It was almost one o'clock; by now, Diana would have told Anne about his mission; and by now, Anne would surely be expecting an answer, a visit, a response. She would be fretting. He did not know her very well; yet he knew her well enough to know that she would not be sitting calmly, awaiting his return. He sighed, discarded his cigar, and set the buggy into motion, riding over to Green Gables, next door.
Patting the horses gently as he dismounted, he took a deep breath and surveyed the house before him. He could see Marilla, cross-stitching, yet again; Rachel Lynde, washing the dishes; and Anne and Diana, sitting at the table, busily chattering and giggling. Taken aback, Fred inched closer to the house. Why was she so happy? Not that it bothered him, in the slightest; but it was not what he had expected. He had expected tears, shaking, desolation. But Anne was lively and happy; her smile lit up her face, and accentuated her creamy, English rose complexion. For a moment, Fred could see exactly what Gilbert saw in her, and he chuckled to himself at the prospect. 'Oh, Anne,' Fred thought wearily, 'don't you see it?'
Clearly not, Fred realised as he opened the back door and was greeted by the four women. Why else would she have declined his fervent proposal, four years earlier; why else would she have been on the verge of engagement to a rich Quebec businessman; why else would she have discarded Gilbert for a more exciting and prosperous life; why else would she have left without saying goodbye?
Anne looked up from the table, and the wide smile that covered her face slowly disappeared. 'Fred?'
Fred took off his cap and shook his head. 'No news. He's still in his coma; Mr Blythe says that the doctors don't know how long it will be. It could be a week; it could be six months. They just don't know.'
Anne paled, and a strange sensation clutched her stomach. He can't die, she whispered hoarsely within the confines of her own head, he just can't. Anne, known around Avonlea as a beacon of optimism, was surprised at her negativity, yet could think of no other thought. If he were to die…She could not complete the thought. The notion was too unbearable to even contemplate.
'Plenty of people 'round these parts are praying mighty hard for that boy, I can safely say,' Rachel Lynde piped up from the sink in the kitchen, where she was still rinsing the dishes. Her voice was rather bright and cheerful, a little inappropriate for the situation; but Anne excused her on account of knowing that Rachel thrived in dramatic circumstances. 'Why, Mrs Abbott has begun a prayer-group with her friends, and the minister is having all the Sunday school children pray twice a day, and 'specially hard on Sundays. Mark my words, Anne, that boy'll scrape through with a good ten dozen prayers a day and a good, kind heart.'
Anne wasn't entirely sure whether to feel reassured or even worse than she had to begin with; however, she thanked Rachel, and Fred, too, for his efforts.
'Please let me know when you hear anything,' Anne said, 'anything at all, day or night. I must know, the moment he is better.'
'I will,' Fred said. 'I'll check up with Mr Blythe again in a few days.'
Anne eyed Diana sadly. 'Diana…what if he doesn't make it?'
'I won't allow you to even think of that,' Diana said firmly. 'Now, I want you to get out Tennyson and recite so much poetry that you won't have room left to think of Gilbert.'
And so that's what Anne did; she spent the rest of the afternoon poring over her fifty or so Alfred Lord Tennyson poems, reading them aloud to her audience in all the right personas and voices – and by the time she was finished, it was true – she had managed to momentarily forget about Gilbert.
Fred wrung his hands as he sat in his buggy, beside Barry's pond. Gazing over the still waters, he wondered what he would say. He knew that Anne would accept nothing but the truth; yet when the truth was so unbearable, how could he speak of it?
He lit one of his few cigars and inhaled deeply, the fumes steadying his nerves. It was almost one o'clock; by now, Diana would have told Anne about his mission; and by now, Anne would surely be expecting an answer, a visit, a response. She would be fretting. He did not know her very well; yet he knew her well enough to know that she would not be sitting calmly, awaiting his return. He sighed, discarded his cigar, and set the buggy into motion, riding over to Green Gables, next door.
Patting the horses gently as he dismounted, he took a deep breath and surveyed the house before him. He could see Marilla, cross-stitching, yet again; Rachel Lynde, washing the dishes; and Anne and Diana, sitting at the table, busily chattering and giggling. Taken aback, Fred inched closer to the house. Why was she so happy? Not that it bothered him, in the slightest; but it was not what he had expected. He had expected tears, shaking, desolation. But Anne was lively and happy; her smile lit up her face, and accentuated her creamy, English rose complexion. For a moment, Fred could see exactly what Gilbert saw in her, and he chuckled to himself at the prospect. 'Oh, Anne,' Fred thought wearily, 'don't you see it?'
Clearly not, Fred realised as he opened the back door and was greeted by the four women. Why else would she have declined his fervent proposal, four years earlier; why else would she have been on the verge of engagement to a rich Quebec businessman; why else would she have discarded Gilbert for a more exciting and prosperous life; why else would she have left without saying goodbye?
Anne looked up from the table, and the wide smile that covered her face slowly disappeared. 'Fred?'
Fred took off his cap and shook his head. 'No news. He's still in his coma; Mr Blythe says that the doctors don't know how long it will be. It could be a week; it could be six months. They just don't know.'
Anne paled, and a strange sensation clutched her stomach. He can't die, she whispered hoarsely within the confines of her own head, he just can't. Anne, known around Avonlea as a beacon of optimism, was surprised at her negativity, yet could think of no other thought. If he were to die…She could not complete the thought. The notion was too unbearable to even contemplate.
'Plenty of people 'round these parts are praying mighty hard for that boy, I can safely say,' Rachel Lynde piped up from the sink in the kitchen, where she was still rinsing the dishes. Her voice was rather bright and cheerful, a little inappropriate for the situation; but Anne excused her on account of knowing that Rachel thrived in dramatic circumstances. 'Why, Mrs Abbott has begun a prayer-group with her friends, and the minister is having all the Sunday school children pray twice a day, and 'specially hard on Sundays. Mark my words, Anne, that boy'll scrape through with a good ten dozen prayers a day and a good, kind heart.'
Anne wasn't entirely sure whether to feel reassured or even worse than she had to begin with; however, she thanked Rachel, and Fred, too, for his efforts.
'Please let me know when you hear anything,' Anne said, 'anything at all, day or night. I must know, the moment he is better.'
'I will,' Fred said. 'I'll check up with Mr Blythe again in a few days.'
Anne eyed Diana sadly. 'Diana…what if he doesn't make it?'
'I won't allow you to even think of that,' Diana said firmly. 'Now, I want you to get out Tennyson and recite so much poetry that you won't have room left to think of Gilbert.'
And so that's what Anne did; she spent the rest of the afternoon poring over her fifty or so Alfred Lord Tennyson poems, reading them aloud to her audience in all the right personas and voices – and by the time she was finished, it was true – she had managed to momentarily forget about Gilbert.