Anne of Ingleside - L. M. Montgomery [128]
Gilbert apparently remembered them all in detail. But he had forgotten his wedding anniversary!
When they went back to the drawing-room Christine glanced out of the window at an eastern sky that was showing pale silver behind the dark poplars.
‘Gilbert, let us take a stroll in the garden, I want to learn again the meaning of moonrise in September.’
(Does moonrise mean anything in September that it doesn’t mean in any other month? And what does she mean by ‘again’. Did she ever learn it before… with him?)
Out they went. Anne felt that she had been very neatly and sweetly brushed aside. She sat down on a chair that commanded a view of the garden… though she would not admit even to herself that she selected it for that reason. She could see Christine and Gilbert walking down the path. What were they saying to each other? Christine seemed to be doing most of the talking. Perhaps Gilbert was too dumb with emotion to speak. Was he smiling out there in the moonrise over memories in which she had no share? She recalled nights she and Gilbert had walked in moonlit gardens of Avonlea? Had he forgotten?
Christine was looking up at the sky. Of course she knew she was showing off that fine, full white throat of hers when she lifted her face like that. Did ever a moon take so long in rising?
Other guests were dropping in when they finally came back. There was talk, laughter, music. Christine sang… very well. She had always been ‘musical’ – She sang at Gilbert… ‘the dear, dead days beyond recall’. Gilbert leaned back in an easy-chair and was uncommonly silent. Was he looking back wistfully to those dear, dead days? Was he picturing what his life would have been if he had married Christine? (I’ve always known what Gilbert was thinking of before. If we don’t get away soon I’ll be throwing up my head and howling. Thank heaven our train leaves early.)
When Anne came downstairs Christine was standing in the porch with Gilbert. She reached up and picked a leaf from his shoulder; the gesture was like a caress.
‘Are you really well, Gilbert? You look frightfully tired. I know you’re overdoing it.’
A wave of horror swept over Anne. Gilbert did look tired, frightfully tired… and she hadn’t seen it until Christine pointed it out! Never would she forget the humiliation of that moment. (I’ve been taking Gilbert too much for granted and blaming him for doing the same thing.)
Christine turned to her.
‘It’s been so nice to meet you again, Anne. Quite like old times.’
‘Quite,’ said Anne.
‘But I’ve just been telling Gilbert he looked a little tired. You ought to take better care of him, Anne. There was a time, you know, when I really had quite a fancy for this husband of yours. I believe he really was the nicest beau I ever had. But you must forgive me, since I didn’t take him from you.’
Anne froze up again.
‘Perhaps he is pitying himself that you didn’t,’ she said, with a certain ‘queenishness’ not unknown to Christine in Redmond days, as she stepped into Dr Fowler’s carriage for the drive to the station.
‘You dear, funny thing!’ said Christine, with a shrug of beautiful shoulders. She was looking after them as if something amused her hugely.
43
‘Had a nice evening?’ asked Gilbert, more absently than ever as he helped her on the train.
‘Oh, lovely,’ said Anne… who felt that she had, in Jane Welsh Carlyle’s splendid phrase, ‘spent the evening under a harrow’.
‘What made you do your hair that way?’ said Gilbert, still absently.
‘It’s the new fashion.’
‘Well, it doesn’t suit you. It may be all right for some hair, but not for yours.’
‘Oh, it is too bad my hair is red,’ said Anne icily.
Gilbert thought he was wise in dropping a dangerous subject. Anne,