March 25, 1896
Avonlea, PEI
Dear Doug,
I cannot remember if I've appropriately thanked you for your visit - not to mention all your help with the wedding, Mrs. Blythe, and other things. In case I haven't yet, please consider this letter as an expression of my profound gratitude. Everything turned out better than expected, and you played a rather large part in that.
I dread to think that this letter might reach its destination even before you do. What a long journey you've had to make, and for such a short visit - you'd have spent nearly as much time on the road than on the Island. I do hope your trip back was as pleasant and restful as possible.
You must feel glad to be home, back with your friends and colleagues, out of sight from nosy villagers and harmless grass-fed cows. Avonlea is just as you've left it: Davy and Millie are settling nicely in Green Gables, and Mrs. Blythe is faring unbelievably better (I daresay, it was your visit which perked her spirits so). Dora has written from Charlottetown: she seems to be doing well, though I suspect the sophistication of the "city" is wearing thin.
Any further news to report would be gossip, nothing of interest: rumors of that 'scandalous' Keith wedding in White Sands, most likely spread by those overlooked on the guest list (the name Pye comes to mind). There is also talk of a certain young Mr. Andrews, planning to buy two acres of his father's land for himself - the purpose of this is left to the gossiper's imagination, though the alleged transaction has yet to be performed.
Though you visited only for a few days, your absence here is felt prominently. Even Lavinia looked around balefully for you, the morning after you'd left - but the promise of greener pastures kept her quite distracted. I have no such way to distract myself, so please do send word. Eagerly awaiting your response, I remain
Your friend,
Anne
April 14, 1896
Avonlea, PEI
Dear Doug,
It's been nearly three weeks since your departure, and yet, no word from you. Everyone here is worried - Mrs. Blythe says that your letters to her seem to have stopped as well. Millie asks after you every day, and Davy every other. Even Dora's emerged from her cloud of egocentric manners long enough to ask of your news. I have nothing to offer them: truth be told, I am every bit as worried as they are, if not more so.
I do hope you're well. Are you? It wouldn't do to have you fall ill, too - not when we've only just become good friends. At least, I hope we are - good friends, that is.
While it was wonderful to have you on the Island, I do feel guilty for keeping you from your livelihood. You must be very busy at the hospital and otherwise, and I feel greedy in asking for more of your time - but should you find a moment to spare, might you let me know that you've arrived home safely? A short note would go a long way in reassurance.
Your friend,
Anne
April 21, 1896
Avonlea, PEI
Doug,
If I was worried one week ago, it was nothing compared to what I feel now. Not panic, exactly, but the awful sensation that something, somewhere, is horribly wrong.
Oh, I know that this is founded on nothing but fear and doubt. After all, there are three very logical explanations for your prolonged silence. The first is that you've contracted a terrible illness, and are bedridden: incapable of writing back, let alone holding a pen, or even sitting upright.
The second, slightly more pleasant, is that you are healthy and well: you are simply catching up on the social obligations you've neglected, at the expense of your impromptu visit. A third, and most likely scenario, is that you've been working unreasonably long shifts, and sleeping (far too little, I'd venture) in between.
Though you owe me no explanation, and I am certainly not in any position to demand answers, I selfishly wish you would reply. Even a short note would suffice: Let me know that you are alive and well, and I promise to stop badgering you.
Your friend,
Anne
May 1, 1896
"Well, that's a better color on you," noted Millie upon Anne's return. "I trust the Wrights are well?"
"They are." Anne ducked halfway into a cupboard, willing the heated flush off her cheeks as she searched for a vase in which to display her posy.
"Any other news?" Millie glanced up from her simmering broth.
"The lilies-of-the-valley have finally blossomed. I found the lushest patch in the forest - aren't they lovely?" Anne held out her fragile findings to her sister-in-law, whose unimpressed glare was vaguely reminiscent of Rachel Lynde's. "That, and Doug- Dr. Sheehan called."
"I knew it!" exclaimed the girl gleefully, the matronly sternness replaced by her usual sunny grin. Though claiming to have "known" anything of the sort would have been a stretch: the call had come in at the Wrights', where Anne was helping Diana with some spring cleaning. They'd been wiping down the windows in the children's room, supervised by a cooing Jack, when Fred had burst in: redder-faced than ever, eyes widened in alarm, he'd only managed to wheeze the word telephone before his wife had bolted. Ever practical in a panic, Anne picked up the wailing, frightened babe, cuddling him consolingly as she followed Fred out to the barn. They'd arrived just in time to hear Diana sigh "Thank goodness!" A pause, and then: "Yes, she's here with us - ... yes, of course." There was a quick wordless exchange (the baby for the telephone), and all was set right in a few words.
"... And?" prompted Millie.
Anne blinked, snapping back to the present. "And nothing. He'd been busy, of course - working nastily long shifts. It was good of him to call, even if he has precious little time to spare..." A pensive frown creased her brow. "I do wish he'd take better care of himself. He sounded terribly tired."
"Are you considering paying him a visit?" asked Millie, the girl's tone hushed in excitement, and fear of being overheard.
"You know how Davy feels about that," replied Anne with a smirk. "Anyhow, I don't know how much help I'd be over there. He spends all of his time at the hospital...I'd just be in the way."
"I'm sure he wouldn't mind having you around. You could make sure he gets the rest he needs, cook him a proper meal -"
"Millie!" Anne's choked laugh verged on hysterical. "Just because you're enjoying the perks of wifehood, doesn't mean the rest of the world must follow suit."
"Wifehood, my left toe," muttered the girl. "If I didn't make you have supper with us, you'd hardly remember to eat at all. It's bad enough you insist on skipping lunch - I know, I know, people with your constitution don't need as much nutrition or rest as others, and so on."
Anne smiled indulgently. "We really don't. And I'm sure that goes for Doug. He's a grown man, after all, not a child. He ought to know how to look after himself..." she faltered uncertainly.
"Go, Anne! Oh, why won't you? Wouldn't it be a nice escape?"
"We've been over this before: and there's nothing from which to escape. Why can't anyone accept that I'm perfectly happy here? Besides, I have work to do, and manuscripts to submit-"
"Well," interrupted Millie, "if you won't go, you might at least send the poor Doctor a package."
It was on the tip of Anne's tongue to shoot down the idea, but her recently alleviated humor dissolved the exasperation at being shoved towards bachelors - eligible or not.
"That's a fair idea," she acknowledged somewhat grudgingly, then quickly changed the subject to dinner preparations, wondering all the while what could possibly fill a box for a friend she hardly knew.
May 17, 1896
Prince Albert, SK
Dear Anne,
I wasn't expecting anything from you, much less a parcel - especially when your letters went unanswered for so long. I'll apologize for that again in a bit, but thanks are due first.
Thank you, Anne, for the gesture as much as for the gift itself. I really do appreciate it, as little as I deserve any presents from you. The box was waiting for me at the end of my shift, sitting neat and square on my office desk. I made the mistake of opening the package right then and there, instead of at home, and Kate walked into my office just as I'd started unpacking its contents... as soon as she recognized your penmanship on the labeling, that cheeky little thief seized the jar from my hands, refusing to return it. Judging by color, I imagine that it might have contained some type of preserves or other. So, Kate thanks you, and I've vowed to repay her kind at some point, when things have slowed down enough.
Let it be known, though, that I am generous by nature: the rest of the bounty is being shared willingly. Several of our nurses can be seen nursing a cup of steaming Green Gables' herbs, and my office is host to many a hungry colleague hoping to score a homemade pickle, or a piece of nut brittle. Even the director stopped by my desk under the pretense of checking on a patient's file: I made the sorry man blabber on about the case a solid quarter an hour before letting him know that the patient in question had checked out two days ago. Don't waste any pity on him, though: he earned a nibble of soda cake for his troubles, and has returned no less than three times since then for more. You've made me the most popular bloke of the week, and I'm sorry it's taken this long for me to even acknowledge it.
I suppose we've come to the apology portion of this letter. I've said it over the telephone, but it's not enough: Anne, I'm sorry. The hospital can be a wretched place, the field of medicine comes with an unforgiving schedule. Still, it doesn't excuse the fact that you went so long without news. I'd imagined you might have felt insulted or hurt by the lack of response, but hadn't dreamed of causing you any concern.
Please believe that I never meant to make you worry. It is important that you understand this, because what I am about to admit is an ugly truth, one which you might find somewhat upsetting. Work does keep me busy, and I might be running a tad low on rest... but the truth is, I could have written back earlier. It might have taken me less than ten minutes to scribble a line or two, seal and address it. I might have even talked someone into posting it for me - now that my office has turned into the village pantry, everyone is eager to trade a favor for a biscuit.
The reason I haven't - see, this is where it gets hard - is that I had nothing pleasant to say. Exchanging pleasantries was all fine and dandy before, but having seen how you live, I've let my pen run dry. You belong to a world of beauty and warmth, Anne. That Island of yours is magical - everyone is kind and polite, and you live surrounded by your family and friends. Even your foes regard you with admiration, their poor attitudes born of envy rather than genuine hatred. You are immersed in the charm of country life, while I am immersed in frantic chaos. I don't know what Gilbert was thinking when he'd asked me to keep an eye on you: you're splendidly surrounded. What more could I offer you that isn't tainted with fast-paced city grime? And to think I was arrogant enough to pressure you into visiting...! What did I think you could possibly gain here, that you do not already have there?
I'm embarrassed to say that the only reason I caved in and called was out of nostalgia. The impromptu escapade to Avonlea made me want things I never knew I'd missed, and you were my link to that. Guilt upon hearing the Wrights' relief was nothing compared to hearing your own voice, though - so I'll say it again: I'm sorry. If you could find it in you to forgive me, I promise never to cease communications like I did. That was inconsiderate, and I am ever so sorry.
Your friend always,
Doug