Pacifique turned with a grin and a cheerful good morning.
“Pacifique,” said Anne faintly, “did
you come from George Fletcher’s this morning?”
“Sure,” said Pacifique amiably. “I
got de word las’ night dat my fader, he was
seeck. It was so stormy dat I couldn’t go
den, so I start vair early dis mornin’.
I’m goin’ troo de woods for short cut.”
“Did you hear how Gilbert Blythe was this morning?”
Anne’s desperation drove her to the question.
Even the worst would be more endurable than this hideous
suspense.
“He’s better,” said Pacifique.
“He got de turn las’ night. De doctor
say he’ll be all right now dis soon while.
Had close shave, dough! Dat boy, he jus’
keel himself at college. Well, I mus’ hurry.
De old man, he’ll be in hurry to see me.”
Pacifique resumed his walk and his whistle. Anne
gazed after him with eyes where joy was driving out
the strained anguish of the night. He was a very
lank, very ragged, very homely youth. But in her
sight he was as beautiful as those who bring good
tidings on the mountains. Never, as long as she
lived, would Anne see Pacifique’s brown, round,
black-eyed face without a warm remembrance of the
moment when he had given to her the oil of joy for
mourning.
Long after Pacifique’s gay whistle had faded
into the phantom of music and then into silence far
up under the maples of Lover’s Lane Anne stood
under the willows, tasting the poignant sweetness of
life when some great dread has been removed from it.
The morning was a cup filled with mist and glamor.
In the corner near her was a rich surprise of new-blown,
crystal-dewed roses. The trills and trickles of
song from the birds in the big tree above her seemed
in perfect accord with her mood. A sentence from
a very old, very true, very wonderful Book came to
her lips,
“Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh
in the morning.”
Love Takes Up the Glass of Time
“I’ve come up to ask you to go for one
of our old-time rambles through September woods and
‘over hills where spices grow,’ this afternoon,”
said Gilbert, coming suddenly around the porch corner.
“Suppose we visit Hester Gray’s garden.”
Anne, sitting on the stone step with her lap full
of a pale, filmy, green stuff, looked up rather blankly.
“Oh, I wish I could,” she said slowly,
“but I really can’t, Gilbert. I’m
going to Alice Penhallow’s wedding this evening,
you know. I’ve got to do something to this
dress, and by the time it’s finished I’ll
have to get ready. I’m so sorry. I’d
love to go.”
“Well, can you go tomorrow afternoon, then?”
asked Gilbert, apparently not much disappointed.
“Yes, I think so.”
“In that case I shall hie me home at once to
do something I should otherwise have to do tomorrow.
So Alice Penhallow is to be married tonight.
Three weddings for you in one summer, Anne—Phil’s,
Alice’s, and Jane’s. I’ll never
forgive Jane for not inviting me to her wedding.”
