CHAPTER 19
DAWN AND DUSK
In early June, when the sand hills were a great glory of pink wildroses, and the Glen was smothered in apple blossoms, Marilla arrived atthe little house, accompanied by a black horsehair trunk, patternedwith brass nails, which had reposed undisturbed in the Green Gablesgarret for half a century. Susan Baker, who, during her few weeks'sojourn in the little house, had come to worship "young Mrs. Doctor,"as she called Anne, with blind fervor, looked rather jealously askanceat Marilla at first. But as Marilla did not try to interfere inkitchen matters, and showed no desire to interrupt Susan'sministrations to young Mrs. Doctor, the good handmaiden becamereconciled to her presence, and told her cronies at the Glen that MissCuthbert was a fine old lady and knew her place.
One evening, when the sky's limpid bowl was filled with a red glory,and the robins were thrilling the golden twilight with jubilant hymnsto the stars of evening, there was a sudden commotion in the littlehouse of dreams. Telephone messages were sent up to the Glen, DoctorDave and a white-capped nurse came hastily down, Marilla paced thegarden walks between the quahog shells, murmuring prayers between herset lips, and Susan sat in the kitchen with cotton wool in her ears andher apron over her head.
Leslie, looking out from the house up the brook, saw that every windowof the little house was alight, and did not sleep that night.
The June night was short; but it seemed an eternity to those who waitedand watched.
"Oh, will it NEVER end?" said Marilla; then she saw how grave the nurseand Doctor Dave looked, and she dared ask no more questions. SupposeAnne--but Marilla could not suppose it.
"Do not tell me," said Susan fiercely, answering the anguish inMarilla's eyes, "that God could be so cruel as to take that darlinglamb from us when we all love her so much."
"He has taken others as well beloved," said Marilla hoarsely.
But at dawn, when the rising sun rent apart the mists hanging over thesandbar, and made rainbows of them, joy came to the little house. Annewas safe, and a wee, white lady, with her mother's big eyes, was lyingbeside her. Gilbert, his face gray and haggard from his night's agony,came down to tell Marilla and Susan.
"Thank God," shuddered Marilla.
Susan got up and took the cotton wool out of her ears.
"Now for breakfast," she said briskly. "I am of the opinion that wewill all be glad of a bite and sup. You tell young Mrs. Doctor not toworry about a single thing--Susan is at the helm. You tell her just tothink of her baby."
Gilbert smiled rather sadly as he went away. Anne, her pale faceblanched with its baptism of pain, her eyes aglow with the holy passionof motherhood, did not need to be told to think of her baby. Shethought of nothing else. For a few hours she tasted of happiness sorare and exquisite that she wondered if the angels in heaven did notenvy her.
"Little Joyce," she murmured, when Marilla came in to see the baby."We planned to call her that if she were a girlie. There were so manywe would have liked to name her for; we couldn't choose between them,so we decided on Joyce--we can call her Joy for short--Joy--it suits sowell. Oh, Marilla, I thought I was happy before. Now I know that Ijust dreamed a pleasant dream of happiness. THIS is the reality."
"You mustn't talk, Anne--wait till you're stronger," said Marillawarningly.
"You know how hard it is for me NOT to talk," smiled Anne.
At first she was too weak and too happy to notice that Gilbert and thenurse looked grave and Marilla sorrowful. Then, as subtly, and coldly,and remorselessly as a sea-fog stealing landward, fear crept into herheart. Why was not Gilbert gladder? Why would he not talk about thebaby? Why would they not let her have it with her after that firstheavenly--happy hour? Was--was there anything wrong?
"Gilbert," whispered Anne imploringly, "the baby--is all right--isn'tshe? Tell me--tell me."
Gilbert was a long while in turning round; then he bent over Anne andlooked in her eyes. Marilla, listening fearfully outside the door,heard a pitiful, heartbroken moan, and fled to the kitchen where Susanwas weeping.
"Oh, the poor lamb--the poor lamb! How can she bear it, Miss Cuthbert?I am afraid it will kill her. She has been that built up and happy,longing for that baby, and planning for it. Cannot anything be donenohow, Miss Cuthbert?"
"I'm afraid not, Susan. Gilbert says there is no hope. He knew fromthe first the little thing couldn't live."
"And it is such a sweet baby," sobbed Susan. "I never saw one sowhite--they are mostly red or yallow. And it opened its big eyes as ifit was months old. The little, little thing! Oh, the poor, young Mrs.Doctor!"
At sunset the little soul that had come with the dawning went away,leaving heartbreak behind it. Miss Cornelia took the wee, white ladyfrom the kindly but stranger hands of the nurse, and dressed the tinywaxen form in the beautiful dress Leslie had made for it. Leslie hadasked her to do that. Then she took it back and laid it beside thepoor, broken, tear-blinded little mother.
"The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away, dearie," she saidthrough her own tears. "Blessed be the name of the Lord."
Then she went away, leaving Anne and Gilbert alone together with theirdead.
The next day, the small white Joy was laid in a velvet casket whichLeslie had lined with apple-blossoms, and taken to the graveyard of thechurch across the harbor. Miss Cornelia and Marilla put all the littlelove-made garments away, together with the ruffled basket which hadbeen befrilled and belaced for dimpled limbs and downy head. LittleJoy was never to sleep there; she had found a colder, narrower bed.
"This has been an awful disappointment to me," sighed Miss Cornelia."I've looked forward to this baby--and I did want it to be a girl, too."
"I can only be thankful that Anne's life was spared," said Marilla,with a shiver, recalling those hours of darkness when the girl sheloved was passing through the valley of the shadow.
"Poor, poor lamb! Her heart is broken," said Susan.
"I ENVY Anne," said Leslie suddenly and fiercely, "and I'd envy hereven if she had died! She was a mother for one beautiful day. I'dgladly give my life for THAT!"
"I wouldn't talk like that, Leslie, dearie," said Miss Corneliadeprecatingly. She was afraid that the dignified Miss Cuthbert wouldthink Leslie quite terrible.
Anne's convalescence was long, and made bitter for her by many things.The bloom and sunshine of the Four Winds world grated harshly on her;and yet, when the rain fell heavily, she pictured it beating somercilessly down on that little grave across the harbor; and when thewind blew around the eaves she heard sad voices in it she had neverheard before.
Kindly callers hurt her, too, with the well-meant platitudes with whichthey strove to cover the nakedness of bereavement. A letter from PhilBlake was an added sting. Phil had heard of the baby's birth, but notof its death, and she wrote Anne a congratulatory letter of sweet mirthwhich hurt her horribly.
"I would have laughed over it so happily if I had my baby," she sobbedto Marilla. "But when I haven't it just seems like wantoncruelty--though I know Phil wouldn't hurt me for the world. Oh,Marilla, I don't see how I can EVER be happy again--EVERYTHING willhurt me all the rest of my life."
"Time will help you," said Marilla, who was racked with sympathy butcould never learn to express it in other than age-worn formulas.
"It doesn't seem FAIR," said Anne rebelliously. "Babies are born andlive where they are not wanted--where they will be neglected--wherethey will have no chance. I would have loved my baby so--and cared forit so tenderly--and tried to give her every chance for good. And yet Iwasn't allowed to keep her."
"It was God's will, Anne," said Marilla, helpless before the riddle ofthe universe--the WHY of undeserved pain. "And little Joy is betteroff."
"I can't believe THAT," cried Anne bitterly. Then, seeing that Marillalooked shocked, she added passionately, "Why should she be born atall--why should any one be born at all--if she's better off dead? IDON'T believe it is better for a child to die at birth than to live itslife
out--and love and be loved--and enjoy and suffer--and do itswork--and develop a character that would give it a personality ineternity. And how do you know it was God's will? Perhaps it was justa thwarting of His purpose by the Power of Evil. We can't be expectedto be resigned to THAT."
"Oh, Anne, don't talk so," said Marilla, genuinely alarmed lest Annewere drifting into deep and dangerous waters. "We can'tunderstand--but we must have faith--we MUST believe that all is for thebest. I know you find it hard to think so, just now. But try to bebrave--for Gilbert's sake. He's so worried about you. You aren'tgetting strong as fast as you should."
"Oh, I know I've been very selfish," sighed Anne. "I love Gilbert morethan ever--and I want to live for his sake. But it seems as if part ofme was buried over there in that little harbor graveyard--and it hurtsso much that I'm afraid of life."
"It won't hurt so much always, Anne."
"The thought that it may stop hurting sometimes hurts me worse than allelse, Marilla."
"Yes, I know, I've felt that too, about other things. But we all loveyou, Anne. Captain Jim has been up every day to ask for you--and Mrs.Moore haunts the place--and Miss Bryant spends most of her time, Ithink, cooking up nice things for you. Susan doesn't like it verywell. She thinks she can cook as well as Miss Bryant."
"Dear Susan! Oh, everybody has been so dear and good and lovely to me,Marilla. I'm not ungrateful--and perhaps--when this horrible achegrows a little less--I'll find that I can go on living."