A/N: Thanks for the reviews!
Ipegasus- Thanks for reviewing! I'm so glad you like the Winken, Blinken and Nod poem, too-- I love so many different poems and it's a joy to be able to work them into this story. I was a poetry major in college and have always loved the way LMM's characters love poetry as much as I do.
Personally, Shirley is my favorite of Anne's boys. Jem was always too sure of himself and Walter a little too dreamy. My own husband (though he looks JUST like Gilbert in the movies) is a lot like Shirley, and so when I think of Shirley, I always see James in my mind's eye. He's played a lot into the character development. And I always felt, too, that it was sad the way Susan "took over" Shirley's childhood. One of the only times in the story that Anne really seems to be Shirley's mother is in RoI, when he announces he's going off to war and she says,
"Two of my sons have gone and one will never return. Must the war take you, too?"
Truthfully, Susan is not my favorite LMM character. She's too-- prosaic and solid. I'll try to work some scenes with Anne and Shirley into the story, just for you.
Gufa: Thank you for the compliment, friend. I'm going to try to tie up most of the loose ends here, with Una and Bruce and Penny, but the story of Sid and Cecilia might have to wait for the sequel!
Queen Kathrine: Hail, fellow Catherine! Shirley and Bruce are two of my favorites, too. Bruce was so sweet in the books, a lot like Walter. I haven't been able to write him that way-- somehow he ends up flippant and humorous instead-- though very perceptive. But he always idolized Jem, so maybe he picked up some mannerisms from him throughout the years. I also feel the same way about Di-- I always liked her more than Nan or Rilla. I wrote a fanfic about Di meeting Jack but I might rewrite it. I'm not satisfied with it at all.
Karen: Thank you!
Strawberry Lip Gloss: I'm sorry you don't like the Miss Branston-- Uncle Bruce love story as much. Hopefully this chapter will have something for everyone-- a little Blythe and Cecilia, a little Penny and Bruce, with some Cecilia and Sid thrown in for good measure. So, darling, this chapter is for you.
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"The twilight is a balmy sea-- the stars are ships; the winds, the tides." Cecilia lay back against the trunk of the Tree Lovers and quoted from one of Blythe's poems as night descended on Rainbow Valley. Somehow it seemed to always be dawn or dusk there, no matter how bright and sunny it was anyplace else. But it truly was dusk now, and Cecilia thrilled at how perfectly Blythe was able to capture mood and magic by stringing together a few commonplace words.
The two had been in Rainbow Valley all day, setting Blythe's poems to music. Cecilia would sing them, and Blythe played the melody on his violin. He had neglected it over the school year but now that summer was here again he was determined to make up for lost time.
"Music is the soul of poetry," he had explained to Cecilia, who again delighted in his choice of words.
"You should be a concert singer," he said to her now. "You have such a pretty voice-- peoples' voices always remind me of flowers. Mother's is a pink peony-- Joyce's a daisy-- Grandmother's a lily of the valley. But yours is everything that is beautiful and lovely-- yours is a rose."
Cecilia laughed and squeezed his hand in silent thanks. "I don't know," she said. "I always think people are being polite when they tell me I have a lovely voice-- that they'd prefer to stick their fingers in their ears and run away if they could. I never thought I could sing, not since once when Leslie heard me in the parlor at home. I had been cleaning there all day and sang to pass the time, but she wanted to listen to a radio show and I suppose I was disturbing her. She stomped furiously downstairs and shouted, 'Stop--stop--STOP that caterwauling!' What flower is Leslie's voice, Blythe?"
"A branch of holly with red berries, all brightness and gloss," said Blythe automatically. "What will you be-- when you grow up-- if not a singer?"
"I--I think I'd like to be a doctor," said Cecilia pensively, putting her finger against the dimple on her chin. "Or a nurse, if people are determined to stand in my way. I like to help people, and make them well when they are ill. It's like that poem Miss Branston and I read,
If I can help one fainting robin
Into his nest again
I shall not live in vain."
"I'll fight like a tiger to keep you from it," Blythe said crossly.
"What!"
"I will." Blythe's jaw was set stubbornly. "There is no poetry in doctoring-- only sickness and ugliness-- terrible things that shouldn't be seen by a soul such as yours."
"No, no!" Cecilia cried. "The way that the human body works-- the way it fits together-- it is lovely, Blythe. And knowing someone is getting well because of you is the best feeling in the world."
"It's a God complex," Blythe said in a lofty tone. "And Father says it's evil to want to feel like God."
"No-- it doesn't make you feel like God-- rather that God is working through you," Cecilia clarified furiously. "And when you felt sick after eating those green apples last year you were happy enough to see Uncle Jem's medicine bag then. You didn't ask for poetry at all then!"
"I was bodily ill then. A doctor helps the body-- a poet soothes the soul," was Blythe's retort. "And everyone knows it is the soul that counts."
"Oh, but they go hand in hand," Cecilia said, suddenly far away. "The body experiences beauty-- the soul appreciates it. Like when the sun shines on you, or when you feel a breeze ruffling your hair or when someone-- when--someone--"
"When someone kisses you?" said Blythe coolly.
"Yes," Cecilia flushed. She had not meant to say it. "Those are all wonderful feelings. They're living poetry. Haven't you ever kissed anyone Blythe?"
Cecilia tried to keep the curious note out of her voice. For a moment, a shot of-- something-- ran through her, something hot and sharp, like jealousy. The thought of Blythe kissing any other girl made her feel jealous! But she would not admit that even to herself--that would make her as bad as Joyce, always wanting Blythe to love her above all things. So Cecilia only acknowledged that it made her feel strange. But then Blythe said, "No."
"Why--why not? Haven't you ever wanted to kiss anybody?"
"Of course," said Blythe matter-of-factly. "There is somebody that I want to kiss dreadfully."
Who? But Blythe would not tell her. Cecilia sighed and thought. "But--does--she want to kiss you?"
"No," said Blythe, and leaned his chin pensively on his hand.
How dear he looked, with his shaggy light hair sticking up all over his forehead, his high, broad forehead wrinkled in thought, and his upturned nose with the smattering of freckles on it over red, red lips. His gray eyes were like the sea: open and unforgettable and full of depth.
Cecilia felt a sudden burst of anger toward the nameless girl.
"What a little fool she must be, then!" she cried.
"No," said Blythe. "She is many things--wonderful things -- but she is not a fool."
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Bruce Meredith heard their little voices and turned away with a regretful smile. He would have liked a walk through Rainbow Valley-- that magical place always soothed his soul when it was turbulent. Blythe was right about beauty doing that. Wise little things! How he envied them-- they still had their whole lives in front of them, like the clean, uncut pages of a book. Bruce's face was youthful and unlined-- he still walked with a spring in his step at not-yet thirty—but right then he felt that the pages of his life were wrinkled and smudged with fingerprints, the corners folded down and yellowed with age.
"What deep thoughts you must be thinking!"
Without realizing it, Bruce's feet had taken him across the Glen, past the House of Dreams on the outskirts of Four Winds, and down to the light. Where he had used to tryst with her, so long ago. But here—and now—she was!
"I've come to say that I forgive you," said Penelope Branston seriously. "I didn't know until I saw you just now, but now I know that's why I went out for a walk tonight."
She had been in to town and brought back a new dress, a dress she was wearing now. A green dress, like Bruce had said she must get, the yellowy, new green of spring leaves. It made her hair look like spun gold. When she had come to the Island it had been cropped severely, but now it had grown and jaunty, graceful curls grazed her shoulders. Bruce wanted to take her in his arms but dared not. She had been willing to let him, once, but who knew, now? Even forgiveness could not bring back love.
His eyes must have looked his question, because Penelope answered it.
"It wasn't your fault, Bruce, and even if it was, it was as much mine," she explained. "I let down my guard—I shouldn't have—I stopped looking at that brass ring for a second-- just a second—but when I looked back it was gone. And in some ways, I'm glad. I've learned a lot doing things that I didn't want to all these years. And I never would have met Cecilia if I had gone away to school—she is young, but she is a friend. She's my only friend, you know—but she is a good friend.
"But oh, I wish," she said, with a sweet sigh, "That I would know it would work out while I was doing those unpleasant things. It would have made them more—palatable. So I forgive you, Bruce—and what's more, I forgive myself."
Bruce found his voice."For what?"
"At times I doubted God," said Penelope lightly. "But I see now that he has a way of providing. He has given me this uncle, this elusive 'Mr. X'--and he has given me another chance—and he has given me a life. So come, Bruce, will we shake hands now, in friendship?"
They did—and something in the moonlight—or in his heart—compelled Bruce to draw her small hand to his chest and lower his head to meet her lips. But when they met, she drew back and wrenched her hand away. It was as if an electric shock had gone through her, and the lovely, tranquil Penny he had been looking at only moments before was
trembling and white.
"Oh," she said. "Oh, how mean of you to do it! When you know—you must—that your love is like a fetter to me—you know that I cannot leave knowing you care! And I must leave! You want to hold me back again, Bruce—oh, how mean! No, I won't stay for this!"
She picked up her skirts and ran, and the last light of the day hit her hair and turned it to the sun itself. Bruce suddenly remembered what she reminded him of, in that dress. It was a poem he'd read when he was in school himself.
Nature's first green is gold
It's hardest hue to hold.
It's early leaf's a flower
But only so an hour.
So leaf goes down to leaf
So Eden sank to grief.
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
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Cecilia stopped to drop off a book for Nellie Douglas and stayed to supper at Mary Vance's urgings. It was a happy, boisterous meal, with Mary Vance telling old stories, jumping up to serve them, the girls gossiping and Marsh, the youngest boy, telling jokes. Mr. Douglas sat solidly and quietly throughout it, like the calm in the middle of a hurricane. But he had a kindly smile for everyone. Mary Vance made Cecilia stay for dessert even though the poor damsel was stuffed to brimming, and would have had her stay all night—indeed forever, wasn't she dear Una's girl?--if Cecilia had not begged to be allowed to go home before it got too dark.
But it was dark by the time Cecilia got to the Shore Road, and for a moment she felt turned around and lost. There was a light far off in the trees and Cecilia pulled her sweater more tightly around her thin frame.
"Hello! Who's there?"
It was Joyce! Cecilia hurried toward the light.
"Oh, I'm glad to see you!" she said, not caring that Joyce would make fun of her for being so silly and young. "It was so dark—I wasn't sure if I was going the right way--"
But Joyce did not make fun. She nodded understandingly, if not absently.
"These old branches do cast eerie shadows," she said. "Come on, you can walk with me to the manse. Why don't you stay the night? It's Saturday tomorrow and Mother was just saying this morning that you spend all your time at Aunt Rilla's. And Blythe will like to see you. Why are you just standing there? Come on!"
Cecilia had stopped in shock. Was—this—Joyce?
"Where have you been?" she asked casually, resuming her step. It must have been someplace wonderful to put Joy in such high spirits.
"At Gabby Penhallow's," Joy said—and blushed. "Cecilia do you—do you think Jake Penhallow is handsome?"
"Jake Penhallow?" repeated Cecilia wonderingly.
"You know Jake—he was in the school play last term. And he's on the rugby team--"
"Oh, yes!" Cecilia nodded. Jake Penhallow was a long, lean chap with reddish hair, a roguish grin and snapping green eyes. "I—suppose—so."
Joy sighed. "We were talking about our plans for the summer—he's going West to work on his uncle's farm—and I said something about how I wished it could be summer all the time, and he said," Joy gathered her breath with a smile, "He said I didn't have to worry because my 'eternal summer shall not fade.'"
"That's Shakespeare," Cecilia pointed out.
"I know that," Joy said with some spirit. "But it's the fact that he said it. Do you think that he likes me?"
"I don't see how he couldn't," said Cecilia truthfully, studying Joy's beautiful face in the light cast by the flashlight.
"Oh, I hope he does," Joy sighed. "I hope so! Who's that up ahead? Whoever it is, I wish they wouldn't spoon on the Shore Road. It's so tacky—and unromantic."
"I—know who it is," said Cecilia in a hard voice. She recognized that red scarf—it was the red cap that Sid had got for Christmas. And those blonde curls—!
"May Binnie!" Joy gasped and raised her chin in the air.
"Don't say anything," Cecilia begged but it was too late. The couple—who were not spooning actually, but having a heated conversation—had looked up and seen them staring.
"Cecilia!" Sid said with a broad, relieved grin, and Cecilia might have gone to him, might have walked the short distance separating them, if May Binnie had not looked up, then, with a cat's smile. Cecilia stood as one paralyzed, trying to make sense out of it.
"Walk on," Joy said in a low voice, taking her arm and dragging Cecilia along. "Hello Sid," she said loudly, and coldly. And then, with false cordiality, "May Binnie! What are you doing out so late!"
"Sid was seeing me home," said the destestable Miss Binnie. "Weren't you, Siddy?"
'Siddy' realized that Cecilia was watching him with blazing eyes and shook off May's arm. But Joyce wasn't stopping anymore to talk.
"Better hurry along, then, May," she said cattily herself. "You wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea."
She fairly dragged Cecilia down the road until they were safely around the bend. Then Cecilia stopped and slumped against a tree.
"She's always wanted him—she's got her claws in him," said Cecilia dully. "Oh Joy—I'm going home, I think. I don't think I'm in the mood to spend the night tonight—not tonight."
"It might not be what you think," said Joy sympathetically.
"But it might," said Cecilia bitterly. "Thank you for walking me home, Joy. I—couldn't have borne it alone." It was not much of a thank you--it sounded choked and hollow—but it was all she could muster.
She turned and fled. When she was halfway to Ingleside she realized that truly—she meant it.