I'm having a little trouble uploading this chapter and this is my 3rd attempt. The system doesn't like the dot dot dot I use a lot and keeps cutting off sentences prematurely. I have redone the chapter removing the dot dot dots and replaced them with dashes so I hope that works. If you're reading along and enjoying the story please leave me a few comments, I'd love to hear from you. This chapter picks up right where the last one left off.
Chapter 8 - Tears and Comfort
Gilbert Blythe entered the stand of trees near Barry's Pond and paused a moment, puzzled by a strange sound. His brain tried to process the noise but it was a ways off and muffled and he wasn't certain what it was. Had Anne heard it too? Had she heard the strange noise too and that's why she'd come this way? He hadn't meant to follow Anne into the forest, he'd only double-backed on his own journey home to remind Mr. Barry he'd be by tomorrow to work in his potato field when he'd spotted Anne heading into the stand of trees. Out of curiousity he had followed her, wondering what might be up since Green Gables lay in the opposite direction.
And now he stood amongst the sheltering trees wondering at the odd sound. Carefully he drew deeper into the forest, following the sound, determined to discover its source. Why it almost sounded like--like someone was crying--no, that couldn't be, Gilbert rationalized away the improbable answer. Someone crying? In the middle of the forest? Gilbert shook his head. Rounding several thick tree trunks, letting his ear guide his way, he finally stopped dead in his tracks, stunned by what was brought into view. It was someone crying! That was the first shock. The second was that the someone was Anne Shirley! Gilbert blinked. But the strange apparition didn't disappear. Anne Shirley stood with her face turned into a wide maple tree, her hands up close beside her head on either side of her face and she was crying. No, sobbing was the better word. Her shoulders shook with her tears and Gilbert felt a knife of pain twist in his own gut to see her so. To see her in so much pain. Swiftly he moved up close behind her.
"Anne! Anne, what's wrong?" he asked in alarm. Why was she crying? Had something happened? Was she hurt?
At the sound of the familiar voice, Anne suddenly froze, her back stiffening in surprise as she halted her tears. Gilbert. What was Gilbert doing here, of all people? The thought of anyone finding her like this was appalling, the fact that it was Gilbert who'd found her--found her crying like some little child, her behaviour totally incongruous with the grown woman she purportedly was--was the absolute worst.
"Go away Gilbert. Leave me alone." The words were harsh, as she'd meant them to be, even muffled as they were said into a tree.
"Anne!" Gilbert said her name in surprised objection. What did she mean 'go away'? Not about to leave anyone alone, especially a friend who was crying, Gilbert's tone took on a bit of authority, "Anne, what happened." It was a command, not a question.
"Gilbert please!" Anne begged, her voice beginning to quaver, tears threatening to erupt once again.
Realizing he was getting nowhere, Gilbert amended his command to a plea, "Well let me get someone then. Mrs. Barry. Or Diana. Please Anne, you're upset, let me get someone."
"No, I don't want to see anyone!" Anne cried in alarm over that possibility. That would just make this all so much worse by spreading her humiliation even more.
Gilbert paused over that pronouncement, eyeing Anne's slender form with her back still to him. "Then I guess you'll have to make do with me," he said, his tone suddenly light and non-pitying.
Anne sniffled aloud. Gilbert wasn't going to go away, she realized. Suddenly she noted a splotch of white in the corner of her vision near her left shoulder. A hankerchief. Gilbert was offering her a hankerchief. Anne sniffled again and reached for the small neatly-folded cloth. She took a moment to wipe her eyes and nose and then turned from the tree to meet Gilbert's questioning gaze.
"I'm perfectly alright," she announced, raising her chin just a little in defiance. As Gilbert raised a doubtful brow at her assertion, Anne proceeded to defend herself. "I was just a little upset by what happened back there," she clarified, waving her hand dismissively in the direction of the Barry house.
"Back there?" Gilbert turned a little to gaze through the thick trees back towards the house. Back there? Did she mean in the Barry parlour today? "You mean you're upset about what you said to Mrs. Bluitt?" Gilbert asked, trying to piece it all together. "But Anne," he protested, "I admired what you did back there. Everyone did. There's no reason to be upset about it."
But Anne was already shaking her head and wiping the hankerchief under her eyes, removing the final traces of tears. "No, I wasn't upset about that," she said quietly.
Gilbert's brow knit in puzzlement. "Then what?"
Anne took a deep steadying breath and looked up to meet Gilbert's eyes with the truth. "I was upset about--about Lizzy and Henry being sent to an orphanage," she explained, surprised to feel a sudden relief now that the words had been spoken out loud.
"But they aren't!" Gilbert countered. "Being sent to an orphanage I mean."
"Not yet maybe," Anne said pragmatically, after all, nothing was really settled yet. She'd only managed to buy Lizzy and Henry some more time on the remote chance that they did have some family somewhere willing to take them.
With some small illumination of understanding beginning to form inside him Gilbert asked a leading question, "And going to an orphanage would be--?" his words trailing off open-ended.
"That would be the worst thing that could ever happen to them," Anne finished, her words forceful over the bald truth. With the statement now out in the open, Anne rushed on. "They don't understand, Gil. Mrs. Bluitt and the others. None of them do. Not even Marilla or Diana--or y-you," she stammered. "No one understands what it's like to live in an orphanage."
Gilbert eyed Anne thoughtfully. "But you do," he said quietly.
Anne met Gilbert's eyes and read something in their depths. Slowly she nodded. "Yes, I do."
The glimmer of illumination now burning bright within him Gilbert asked, "And what is it like to live in an orphanage?"
Anne hesitated over the question. It was strange really. In all this time she'd been in Avonlea no one had ever asked her such a question before. Oh, she'd sometimes mentioned some of her childhood experiences to others, usually an amusing escapade of some sort, but no one had out-and-out asked before what living in an orphanage was like. And she had lived in plenty of them. Between the orphanages and the various families she'd stayed with Anne had lost count of the number of times she's been shuffled around before she'd finally come to Avonlea. Blessed, beautiful Avonlea, her only true home. But Gilbert was waiting for answer. Anne peered up at him under her lashes, trying to read him, knowing she couldn't bear anyone's pity, and especially not his. Finding no signs of pity in his countenance, merely what appeared to be polite inquisition, Anne struggled to find the words to reply. She, who had no trouble finding words to describe the marble halls and divinely beautiful sunbursts of her imagination, had trouble finding the words to answer Gilbert's simple question.
"It's--cold--and--lonely--and--," she choked the stark words out. "Oh Gil, don't you see?" she wailed. "It would be ten times worse for Lizzy and Henry than it was for me. I never knew my mother, I never knew Avonlea. They've known all this. To go to an orphanage from here--" Anne trailed off, waving her hand about her. "Don't you see? My childhood only began when I was eleven. Theirs would end at seven and four. I cannot bear it Gil!" she cried out, close to tears once again.
Suddenly Gil took a step forward and reached out his hand to place on Anne's arm. He knew she was worried about the children, but her words had revealed even more than a justifiable concern for two orphans. He understood that Anne was mourning for lost childhoods, and one of those childhoods had been her own. Her wretched statements had produced an overwhelming urge to comfort her. But theirs was a peculiar relationship. They were friends, yes. But for him he knew it was something more. But he could never express the 'more', only the friendship. So he merely placed a comforting hand on Anne's arm at the same time he fought the urge to envelope her in his embrace.
Her revealing narrative over, Anne looked down, averting her gaze from Gilbert. She felt his hand on her arm, knowing he meant to reassure her, to comfort her, and for once she didn't mind the physical contact. Gilbert was her friend and it had been a huge emotional relief inside her to say what she had, to finally express some of the turmoil she had always kept locked so carefully in her heart.
"I'm sorry, Gil," Anne apologized. "You probably think I'm acting like some silly schoolgirl."
"I don't think anything of the kind," Gilbert refuted. "I think you're a very caring person, who doesn't want to see anyone go through what they did," Gilbert stopped, realizing his own reference to Anne's unhappy years before she came to Avonlea was maybe getting too personal.
But Anne didn't seem to mind or notice. "Thank you, Gil," she whispered, her head still lowered. It was reassuring to know that he didn't think less of her for her outburst. That he didn't think her silly or childish. Suddenly she felt a squeezing pressure on her arm and looked up.
"Can I walk you home Anne?" Gilbert asked, tenderly smiling the question, the second time today he'd asked it.
This time Anne smiled back, and nodded.