The clear June evening sparkled, and the apple trees were filled with sweet, serene joy that can be found in the opened apple blossoms. A little restless, Leslie Moore glanced out of her window in the direction of the House of Dreams, all its windows shining with light, as the evening grew dark.
A couple of days before, Leslie had made her usual evening visit, and she had found Anne sitting in a wicker chair on the verandah, and by her side had been the stern, austere figure of Marilla Cuthbert, and at a glance Leslie had read in Miss Cuthbert's eyes an unspoken, deep love for Anne, which was bursting forth as a form of mild rebuke, " Anne, you ought not to be up so late, though Mrs Moore is a beloved guest. If Rachel Lynde were here she would give you several practical instructions of your blessed state."
Anne had smiled at that, and that smile had been filled with the happiness of the upcoming flower of motherhood slowly bursting into fruit. There had been dutiful, eager Susan Baker clattering in the little-kitchen preparing a delicious, light supper to her beloved Mrs. Doctor Dear.
And in the garden the pale clamshells lining the rose beds had shone creamy in the twilight as Anne had raised her bright eyes to Leslie and said softly, "I'm sure my future child will be very fond of that dress you made for it, dearest Leslie."
Leslie's laughter had at that moment sparkled with delicious innocence in the evening.
Hearing it Marilla Cuthbert had glanced sideways at Anne, for her face had for a moment had the same ecstatic glow as that distant time when they had returned from the Barrys' house, in that first summer.
Anne had exclaimed with italics, " Oh Marilla. Marilla, Diana is such a name, so romantic, and what pleasant moments we had, and how beautiful the flowers were in Barry's garden. I think someday I will meet someone who is like a fairy princess, all gold and blue, and crimson, anything is possible, as fate did threw me here to Green Gables and to you and dear Matthew."
When Mrs. Moore's slim upright figure had disappeared towards the cross-lots road, Marilla said dryly, "Anne, Leslie seems to be an extremely practical and loyal soul. I think you have found in her a new kindred spirit or a fulfillment of a childhood dream."
Anne's gaze was dreamily turned inward as she stroked her stomach unconsciously, as she murmured, "Perhaps, you are right dearest Marilla. She is very lovely, is she not. Will you call Gilbert, I can't get up from this chair without help, as you were right earlier. I truly need to have rest, now when I can."
In the dark hours of the night, Leslie lay awake, sleepless, circling her room, and thought of Anne, Anne, who, perhaps at this very moment, was in the cutting pains of childbirth. The light of the oil lamp fluttered in the window, like the beating of a tired butterfly's wing.
And Dick's snoring was loud and grating.
With a shudder, Leslie remembered anew how Dick's body had pressed hard, unyielding against her, and how, one morning swollen and bruised, Leslie had woken bleeding, and deep, cutting cramps, it was not to be, that child, it did not have a chance to grow under her heart, because Leslie knew she was cursed, nothing right and decent could grow in a barren womb, such as hers, but still the miracle of motherhood, was an extreme privilege, it was a sacred space that of course touched Anne, like all wonderful things in this world did.
Footsteps were heard on the stairs of the House of Dreams, as nurse Campbell walked into the kitchen again. There was a serious look in her kind watery blue eyes, as Mrs. Blythe's labor lasted, and lasted, much longer than a first-time mother usually does. Miss Baker and Miss Cuthbert were keeping vigil, with a tea set by their side. Nurse glanced at them and grabbed the steaming pot from the stove, and carefully walked upstairs.
The bedroom smelled of blood, and all the usual implements and instruments were placed on a clean cloth, out of sight of the laboring mother.
Sweat had glued Anne's hair to her temple as she panted, exhausted, amid severe, prolonged labourpains. Slowly, the pain changed and expanded into an all-encompassing flow, and half-conscious Anne surrendered to Gilbert's instructions as the labor finally began to progress as it should.
Anne slowly opened her eyes, and saw Gilbert holding their child in his arms. It was rose-colored lovely dawn.
Gilbert's heart was cut by unspeakable pain, as the newborn in his arms was so small and delicately graceful. The little baby girl's large eyes opened and Gilbert looked into pure gray eyes that seemed to be so far away.
Anne's ecstatic voice declared, "She is Joyce, our very own Joy. Let me hold my baby, Gil."
Gilbert touched Joyce's delicate cheek, as he did so he noticed faint, blue tint of her tiny fingernails, the breath of Joy was so very faint, it seemed that, as her lungs did not work properly. The flame of life was slowly dying out.
Carefully Gilbert lowered his daughter into Anne's arms and went to have a consultation with nurse Campbell, who confirmed his intuitive diagnosis.
Slowly, slowly, the cycle of the day passed in House of Dreams, in sorrowful mood, as the birth of Little Joyce Blythe was celebrated in silence.
Marilla's heart ached as she listened to Anne's desperate cry from behind the bedroom door, as she said sharply, with tearchoked voice, "Gilbert, why can't you save our child, what good is your skill and expertise if you can't save my child for me?"
Near sunset time Miss Cornelia stopped on the porch of Moore House and inquired, "I'm going to offer my support to the Blythes, as the news of this loss is truly terrible. Do you happen to have a request to pass on to Anne, if that dear is any condition to notice anything, as she is heartbroken and tearblinded poor, poor lass."
Cornelia looked up at Leslie's face, which was as pale as marble.
The silence deepened and then Leslie looked up and nodded once and said in a numb voice, "If little Joyce could be laid to rest in that gown that I made, but of course that's Anne's decision."
The funeral was intimate, as Joyce Blythe was laid to rest in a tiny coffin where Leslie had sprinkled pure white apple blossoms.
In Anne's heart, there was a stabbing pain in her soul, there was a new tone in her smile. She rested with her eyes open beside Gilbert, listening to Gilbert toss and turn in his sleep. The thought that filled her with terror was the following; what if this pain of loss subsides one day, for so long while this pain was present, it kept sharp the few memories of her daughter's only day of life.
Anne instinctively felt that she could not follow Joy, for she had to try to live, not for herself but for Gilbert's pained, love-filled eyes. But how grim was the hope of a life, of a future, filled with mirth, in which Anne had previously believed with steadfast optimism. Now she touched the gray side of life, stood in dark waters, not wanting to surface, not quite, yet.