Bleak dark clouds that predicted a July summer storm roared on the horizon. A cold wind stirred the garden of Idlewind Farm, but for once Mrs. John Blythe couldn't think of her flowers and herbs, or her purring cats, for upstairs her beloved only child was fighting for his life.
Footsteps were heard on the stairs, and Mrs. Blythe lifted her strained face into a somewhat social smile, which fell quite flat, as Dr. Giddens raised his hat, and said with sotto-voice to John, " I will not lie this case is very difficult, even mortally serious, as the patient, your son Gilbert is terribly run down. And this type of highly virulent strain of typhoid fever is not usually seen on these shores. So I ask where your son has been before coming to Avonlea, as it may take three to four weeks for the disease to break out and become contagious. Now it's a critical stage, he is delirious, and the fever is very high, it has to be brought down by any means, otherwise his core temperature will no longer hold. Although, he is solid despite his body withered by the disease, he has severe case of adynamia. Maybe there is a chance. I gave the nurse exact instructions, and here is a medicines you can try."
Mrs. Blythe saw how John's sure hands trembled as he accepted the small bluish glass bottles that looked so fragile in John's large hands. John, wetted his lips, and brushed his graying dark brown hair from his temples and said a little hoarsely, "Gil, I mean Gilbert graduated from Redmond this spring, and he won the Cooper Prize, he's been working there as a running-help, at a newspaper in Kingsport."
Mrs. Blythe noticed how the doctor's gaze sharpened as she said, "Ah, I see, a well sought after prize, your son is clearly gifted, not many are up for it. I'll visit again in the morning."
Quietly but emphatically, Dr. Giddens closed the solid front door of Idlewind Farm and stood for a short moment in the rain-scented darkness, and then he turned to look out of the farm's one, only lighted window, where two shadows moved, one of them that of the nurse, the other not.
Giddens stroked his bushy moustache, and thought to himself, there's no reason to sugar-coat the situation. The boy's either going to make it or he's not. It looks bad, he is nearly dying, but there's always hope until it's choked with disease. I have not seen a case like this one in years. The family will cling to hope until the boys coffin will be nailed shut. Rapid recovery is very unlikely.
John Blythe smoked his pipe, the wisps of smoke slowly dissipating. He put his head in his hands. For a few days now, his wife's dark hazel eyes had had the same expression as years ago when little Sorcha had been fighting for her own life.
Suddenly John turned, hit the hay bale with all his might. It didn't help, at all.
John moved to the sturdy poles, and hit them until his knuckles were open and bleeding, that didn't help either, for here in the barn, in the smell of hay and past summers, John remembered Gilbert and Fred's laughter when the boys had jumped on the hay bales and tasted his moonshine too, and vomited into the buckets after half a bottle, it had been his best brew.
John had remarked, withholding his smile, "I'll say you both are fishing if anyone asks." Gilbert had raised his head and his eyes had twinkled faintly as he had said, firmly, with the bravado of a soon-to-be-eleven-year-old, "Thanks, Pa!"
Ildewind Farm's windows were shaded, but the light still peeked through. July night was cool and the storm raged relentlessly. Knocking his pipe empty, John Blythe stepped into the rain to check on his animals, as he did not quite yet bear to see his wifes gaze.
Mrs. Blythe looked at the restlessly writhing figure in the bed, it no longer looked like her child, he was now so slim, even delicate, as he had been before so solid and muscular, those muscles rippling gently in his arms, they had withered away, bearing delicate bone-structure of his Blythe-bones.
The fever had moistened and straightened the curls resting on his forehead. Gilbert's lips were dry and he occasionally mumbled something almost inaudible. And Gilbert's chest had a whole bunch of red spots, typhoid roses, the nurse had called them.
Nurse, cleared her throat in efficient style as she said, "Mrs Blythe, it's time to change the sheets and the cold wraps. Too bad it's not winter. Well, we do what we can, I always do my duty, sometimes even to the bitter end."
Mrs. Blythe, cast a sharp glance at the nurse as she said calmly, in a steely voice, "I will do that, Miss, just go downstairs for a cup of tea. He's my son." Almost unconsciously, Mrs. Blythe's fingers were curled over Gilbert's hand, the fever burning hot on her skin.
A slight sympathetic twinkle rose in the nurse's bright gray eyes, as she nodded and said, "Very well, M´am. I will return here shortly."
With sure fingers, Mrs. Blythe changed the pillowcases one by one, and carefully she even rolled Gilbert back to change the clean, fragrant sheets. And finally, she looked at her child, whose proportions were almost identical to that of a man in a Renaissance drawing by Da Vinci that resembled the ideal, a copy of which hung in a frame on the wall of Gilbert's room - Vitruvian Man, it was named. Gilbert was the best that her and John's shared love had produced, he had in him her impishess and John´s sense of responsibility twined with his own boundless drive and cleverness. Gilbert squirmed, and with careful loving hands Mrs. Blythe fixed the collar of the striped pyjamas.
Suddenly, Gilbert's voice rose into the silence, "All is lost, I will not achieve my dream, no small house, by the shore, general practice, in Uncle Dave's footsteps, no cat, no autumn days gleaming glory with a fireplace, crackling with driftwood or apple-wood flames, and especially not evaisive her, as she belongs to another forever now. How the music glowed, in Redmond's halls fashion dances followed each other, hothouse flowers were shadowy in great china vases. I looked, and did not join. Till she came and took my hand, and we danced. First the polonaise, and then the others. Ever I waited and watched, though my hopes were dashed, there is no more hope. I once saved Lily Maid, of fair Elaine of Astolat, from drowning in the old drowry, it leaked like a sieve. But no ballad was born, as Tennyson told, old, immortal legends, of Elaine and Lancelot, never to meet in life and love, as I too have had, in part of this world-weary lot, she has such grace in her features my Elaine as she is."
Frowning Mrs. Blythe soaked the wrap in cold water, and carefully placed it on Gilbert's forehead. He continued to murmur, his lips moving, soundless as the fever pulled him deeper. Suddenly his muscles tensed, as another violent convulsion came. In violent movement Gilbert threw all the pillows away, and Mrs. Blythe had a full job to calm him down, they came in waves. Finally, his raspy breathing calmed down, a little.
There was a clinking of bottles, as the nurse said, "Let's give another dose, it might help?" With fear in her heart, Mrs. Blythe glanced at the small row of bottles that read in spidery cursive, " Opiate, turpentine, quinine, capsicum, and ammonia." There was cool water in a large enamel bowl and folded embroidered towels on the table, and a pewter carafe and a mug.
Heavy rain pelted the roof a summer storm was raging in Avonlea.
It was half past three in the morning, as Mrs. Blythe touched Gilbert's forehead, it was a little cooler than before, or was it really?
And to do something Mrs. Blythe walked downstairs to kitchen and filled the teapot. There was echoes of John snoaring, raggedly as was his way, in direction of their bedroom. While waiting tea steeped, glanced at the letters left on top of the dresser, on top of Johns seed catalogue, two of them were addressed to Gilbert, one of them had a New Orleans postmark, and the address on the envelope was written in extremely sophisticated calligraphy, in dark purple ink. But another caught Mrs. Blythe's attention, the letter was postmarked from Nova Scotia, and the writer was Mrs. Jonas Blake, Patterson Street, Kingsport. And the cursive on the envelope was neat, almost mischievous, in a way. Mrs. Blythe put Mrs. Jonas Blake's letter on the tea tray and carried it upstairs.
And all that night, not far away from Blythe homestead, in the house of Green Gables, in an upstairs room, amidst the shadows cast by the light of a small lamp, a slender girlish figure was kneeling before an open window.
Anne felt a burning pain in her soul, because now she knew without the slightest doubt. She loved Gilbert, had always loved him, in the depths of her heart. She could just as well not live without her limbs, or her heart.
And in fierce the certainty rose, Christine Stuart's presence was but a cobweb, in Gilbert's life, in these past two years, as Roy had been, only passing fancy, if that. For of course Gilbert did not love Christine for the two of them, belonged together, soul to soul.
But now as Gilbert slowly floated towards the unknown shores of Lethe, whither Anne could not follow him. Long lonely years spread before Anne's eyes, without love, for Gilbert was love, the blooming rose of true love was stronger than the pale lily of friendship.
All that dark and stormy evening, and bleak midnight hours Anne kept her relentless vigil. During it she read her own book of revelation, and deep truths, immortal ones, were visible on the page of that book. Anne's imagination weaved dark, torturous images of love and cutting self-pity before her widened eyes as the storm raged above the Haunted Wood.
Rachel Lynde and Marilla Cuthbert went outside Anne's tightly closed door to listen several times. But the room was completely silent. Marilla clasped her trembling hands tightly together, for the expression in Anne's face and eyes had been indescribable, as the news of Gilberts condition had struck her like the cut of a dagger. The girl, her beloved, lass had been so pale that for a moment Marilla had imagined Anne passing out on the kitchen floor, but that had not happened, as Davy, in his curious carefree way, had repeated what Mr. Harrison had said. Anne's voice had been completely unfamiliar, toneless and her movements had been like a sleepwalkers, as she had slipped away.
Marilla had given Rachel leave to put fear of God into Davy, and the boy had been subdued all evening, and he hadn't even eaten his jam bread, that was almost unheard of. Dora´s usual calmness was fracturing too, as the girl bit her lips almost bloody, as she had under Rachel´s direction taken care of the dishes. And Rachel, Marilla knew was haunted too, for her little girl, only four years old had died of typhoid years ago, and the doctors were unable to save her, sweet Birgitte, she had slipped away, exhausted by the fever. A deep fear had flashed in Rachel's eyes, despite her words of encouragement to Anne, and her scolding to Davy, but Anne had been too numb to notice, as the change in Rachel's demeanor had been so slight.
Exhausted, Marilla said, "Rachel, shall we have a few glasses of my raspberry cordial, it might help?"
In the kitchen, in the warmth of the fire, Rachel leaned back in a rocking chair and put her hands in her lap. The clock ticked, and the level of the reddish cordial in the decanter slowly dropped.
Finally Rachel said in her sonsy way, " Marilla, Gilbert has the Blythe constitution in his favor, as I also told Anne. There is yet still hope. Strange, in his looks he favors more of his relatives on the Fletcher side, but he has traces of John in him too, that glint of purpose and those shoulders."
Marilla cradled her glass, and in an almost inaudible voice she whispered, "Yes." Marilla prayed, fervently, that the morning would bring good news, for Anne's sake.
Gilbert opened his eyes, light was so bright, his eyes felt so very heavy. A sparkling bright sunrise shimmered on the horizon, reddish just like her hair. Tiredly, he looked around. His old room smelled of medicine and illness, but also of tea. Carefully he raised himself on his pillows, and as he did so he saw something. It was a letter Phil's handwriting was instantly recognizable. Staggering, sweat forming on his forehead, Gilbert reached for the letter, but he found that he had not the strength to raise his hand to take the envelope and open it. Phil's handwriting blurred in his eyes as Gilbert slowly fell asleep.
A few moments, or perhaps an hour later, Gilbert perceived that a rough voice said in a startled tone, " Damnation, it seems, Mrs. Blythe, that your son has got through the worst, has gotten the turn, it happened last night, I think. He is still very weak, of course, and the typhoid could be bringing the fever spikes again, in waves, but at present the prognosis looks promising. And the rose-spots are slowly disappearing, they are not as dark red as they were three days ago, see?"
Cautiously Gilbert opened his eyes, and seeing his mother's worried and pale face, and beside it a gray-bearded doctor, whose sharp features were furrowed from vigilance, he wrote something in a small notebook, and said in a gruff way, "Well, lad, welcome back."
Mrs. Blythe tried to smile with trembling lips as she murmured, "Oh, my dearest, Gil, just rest. Everything else can wait now."
Desperately Gilbert tried to nod, but could not, as he was barely concious. The rising sun blazed in the windows of Blythe's farm, and the intoxicating song of the birds echoed in the garden, Gilbert John Blythe fell asleep, but instead of unconsciousness and feverish eddies of delirium, this was a healing sleep.
Mrs. George Fletcher baked bread, in her very efficient style. Cautiously she glanced at the neighboring plot, the large Ildewind Farm could be seen between the trees, and there seemed to be movement in the garden, as people were runnng to and fro. There were few pairs of sheets drying as they had been every morning for the past four weeks. Alarmed Mrs. George Fletcher left her bread unfinished, and ran to her sister's house.
In the garden, Dr. Giddens spoke in a low voice with the nurse, "The lad did pull through, by a whisker, I might say. But there is still a long way to go, recovery will be slow." Mrs. George Fletcher, smiled in relief when she heard the doctor's words. There was a whistle, it echoed in the garden. Relieved, Fletcher exclaimed, "Pacifique,Pacifique, quit loitering there. Did you hear what Doctor said, my sister's son did get the turn, he lives!"
A slim, lank, ragged youth, slung a worn bag over his shoulder, and a little cap on his head, grinned good-naturedly, and said, "I did hear, Miz George, I did. Just like a Blythe to nearly kill himself with work, in a collage no less. But now I must go for my fader is waiting for me."
A gay, french-influenced rolling whistle echoed brightly as it mingled with the birdsong as Anne watched Pacifique Boute disappear from view, under the verdant maples of Lovers Lane. Her heart was full of sudden almost too painfull happiness, that almost burned. Little later, Anne was standing under the willow trees, and she was listening to the landscape ringing with birdsong.
Everything in creation was like reborn, fragrant and dew-dipped, in moments like this. There was a full-blown rosebush, nearby, dewdrops that fell on its rose petals were like fairies' tears.
Her face was pale and brightened, life itself was sweet again, almost painfully sweet after the torment of the night, and with all her heart she uttered, a certain verse from the good book of books, sincerely.
Marilla looked out of the kitchen window, and saw a pale Anne having her usual communion with morning, but there was something pure and bright in Anne's being. Her everchanging greygreen eyes radiated sincere unspoken happiness, and the sight touched Marilla's heart. Shivering, Marilla whispered, "He must live, and somehow Anne knows it. The ways of the almighty are truly mysterious."