章节正文
for one beautiful day. I'd gladly give my life for
THAT!"
"I wouldn't talk like that, Leslie, dearie," said Miss
Cornelia deprecatingly. She was afraid that the
dignified Miss Cuthbert would think 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 so
mercilessly down on that little grave across the
harbor; and when the wind blew around the eaves she
heard sad voices in it she had never heard before.
Kindly callers hurt her, too, with the well-meant
platitudes with which they strove to cover the
nakedness of bereavement. A letter from Phil Blake was
an added sting. Phil had heard of the baby's birth,
but not of its death, and she wrote Anne a
congratulatory letter of sweet mirth which hurt her
horribly.
"I would have laughed over it so happily if I had my
baby," she sobbed to Marilla. "But when I haven't it
just seems like wanton cruelty--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 will
hurt me all the rest of my life."
"Time will help you," said Marilla, who was racked
with sympathy but could never learn to express it in
other than age-worn formulas.
"It doesn't seem FAIR," said Anne rebelliously.
"Babies are born and live where they are not
wanted--where they will be neglected-- where they will
have no chance. I would have loved my baby so--and
cared for it so tenderly--and tried to give her every
chance for good. And yet I wasn't allowed to keep
her."
"It was God's will, Anne," said Marilla, helpless
before the riddle of the universe--the WHY of
undeserved pain. "And little Joy is better off."
"I can't believe THAT," cried Anne bitterly. Then,
seeing that Marilla looked shocked, she added
passionately, "Why should she be born at all--why
should any one be born at all--if she's better off
dead? I DON'T believe it is better for a child to die
at birth than to live its life out--and love and be
loved--and enjoy and suffer--and do its work--and
develop a character that would give it a personality in
eternity. And how do you know it was God's will?
Perhaps it was just a thwarting of His purpose by the
Power of Evil. We can't be expected to be resigned to
THAT."
"Oh, Anne, don't talk so," said Marilla, genuinely
alarmed lest Anne were drifting into deep and dangerous
waters. "We can't understand--but we must have
faith--we MUST believe that all is for the best. I
know you find it hard to think so, just now. But try
to be brave--for Gilbert's sake. He's so worried about
you. You aren't getting strong as fast as you
should."
"Oh, I know I've been very selfish," sighed Anne. "I
love Gilbert more than ever--and I want to live for his
sake. But it seems as if part of me was buried over
there in that little harbor graveyard-- and it hurts so
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 all else, Marilla."
"Yes, I know, I've felt that too, about other things.
But we all love you, 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, I
think, cooking up nice things for you. Susan doesn't
like it very well. 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 ache grows a little
less--I'll find that I can go on living."
CHAPTER 20
LOST MARGARET
Anne found that she could go on living; the day came
when she even smiled again over one of Miss Cornelia's
speeches. But there was something in the smile that
had never been in Anne's smile before and would never
be absent from it again.
On the first day she was able to go for a drive Gilbert
took her down to Four Winds Point, and left her there
while he rowed over the channel to see a patient at the
fishing village. A rollicking wind was scudding across
the harbor and the dunes, whipping the water into
white-caps and washing the sandshore with long lines of
silvery breakers.
"I'm real proud to see you here again, Mistress
Blythe," said Captain Jim. "Sit down--sit down. I'm
afeared it's mighty dusty here today--but there's no
need of looking at dust when you can look at such
scenery, is there?"
"I don't mind the dust," said Anne, "but Gilbert says
I must keep in the open air. I think I'll go and sit
on the rocks down there."
"Would you like company or would you rather be alone?"
"If by company you mean yours I'd much rather have it
than be alone," said Anne, smiling. Then she sighed.
She had never before minded being alone. Now she
dreaded it. When she was alone now she felt so
dreadfully alone.
"Here's a nice little spot where the wind can't get at
you," said Captain Jim, when they reached the rocks.
"I often sit here. It's a great place jest to sit and
dream."
"Oh--dreams," sighed Anne. "I can't dream now,
Captain Jim--I'm done with dreams."
"Oh, no, you're not, Mistress Blythe--oh, no, you're
not," said Captain Jim meditatively. "I know how you
feel jest now--but if you keep on living you'll get
glad again, and the first thing you know you'll be
dreaming again--thank the good Lord for it! If it
wasn't for our dreams they might as well bury us.
How'd we stand living if it wasn't for our dream of
immortality? And that's a dream that's BOUND to come
true, Mistress Blythe. You'll see your little Joyce
again some day."
"But she won't be my baby," said Anne, with trembling
lips. "Oh, she may be, as Longfellow says, `a fair
maiden clothed with celestial grace'--but she'll be a
stranger to me."
"God will manage better'n THAT, I believe," said
Captain Jim.
They were both silent for a little time. Then Captain
Jim said very softly:
"Mistress Blythe, may I tell you about lost Margaret?"
"Of course," said Anne gently. She did not know who
"lost Margaret" was, but she felt that she was going
to hear the romance of Captain Jim's life.
"I've often wanted to tell you about her," Captain Jim
went on.
"Do you know why, Mistress Blythe? It's because I want
somebody to remember and think of her sometime after
I'm gone. I can't bear that her name should be
forgotten by all living souls. And now nobody
remembers lost Margaret but me."
Then Captain Jim told the story--an old, old forgotten
story, for it was over fifty years since Margaret had
fallen asleep one day in her father's dory and
drifted--or so it was supposed, for nothing was ever
certainly known as to her fate--out of the channel,
beyond the bar, to perish in the black thundersquall
which had come up so suddenly that long-ago summer
afternoon. But to Captain Jim those fifty years were
but as yesterday when it is past.
"I walked the shore for months after that," he said
sadly, "looking to find her dear, sweet little body;
but the sea never give her back to me. But I'll find
her sometime, Mistress Blythe--I'll find her sometime .
She's waiting for me. I wish I could tell you jest how
she looked, but I can't. I've seen a fine, silvery
mist hanging over the bar at sunrise that seemed like
her--and then again I've seen a white birch in the
woods back yander that made me think of her. She had
pale, brown hair and a little white, sweet face, and
long slender fingers like yours, Mistress Blythe, only
browner, for she was a shore girl. Sometimes I wake up
in the night and hear the sea calling to me in the old
way, and it seems as if lost Margaret called in it.
And when there's a storm and the waves are sobbing and
moaning I hear her lamenting among them. And when they
laugh on a gay day it's HER laugh--lost Margaret's
sweet, roguish, little laugh. The sea took her from
me, but some day I'll find her. Mistress Blythe. It
can't keep us apart forever."
"I am glad you have told me about her," said Anne. "I
have often wondered why you had lived all your life
alone."
"I couldn't ever care for anyone else. Lost Margaret
took my heart with her--out there," said the old
lover, who had been faithful for fifty years to his
drowned sweetheart. "You won't mind if I talk a good
deal about her, will you, Mistress Blythe? It's a
pleasure to me--for all the pain went out of her memory
years ago and jest left its blessing. I know you'll
never forget her, Mistress Blythe. And if the years,
as I hope, bring other little folks to your home, I
want you to promise me that you'll tell THEM the story
of lost Margaret, so that her name won't be forgotten
among humankind."
CHAPTER 21
BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY
"Anne," said Leslie, breaking abruptly a short
silence, "you don't know how GOOD it is to be sitting
here with you again--working-- and talking--and being
silent together."
They were sitting among the blue-eyed grasses on the
bank of the brook in Anne's garden. The water sparkled
and crooned past them; the birches threw dappled
shadows over them; roses bloomed along the walks. The
sun was beginning to be low, and the air was full of
woven music. There was one music of the wind in the
firs behind the house, and another of the waves on the
bar, and still another from the distant bell of the
church near which the wee, white lady slept. Anne
loved that bell, though it brought sorrowful thoughts
THAT!"
"I wouldn't talk like that, Leslie, dearie," said Miss
Cornelia deprecatingly. She was afraid that the
dignified Miss Cuthbert would think 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 so
mercilessly down on that little grave across the
harbor; and when the wind blew around the eaves she
heard sad voices in it she had never heard before.
Kindly callers hurt her, too, with the well-meant
platitudes with which they strove to cover the
nakedness of bereavement. A letter from Phil Blake was
an added sting. Phil had heard of the baby's birth,
but not of its death, and she wrote Anne a
congratulatory letter of sweet mirth which hurt her
horribly.
"I would have laughed over it so happily if I had my
baby," she sobbed to Marilla. "But when I haven't it
just seems like wanton cruelty--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 will
hurt me all the rest of my life."
"Time will help you," said Marilla, who was racked
with sympathy but could never learn to express it in
other than age-worn formulas.
"It doesn't seem FAIR," said Anne rebelliously.
"Babies are born and live where they are not
wanted--where they will be neglected-- where they will
have no chance. I would have loved my baby so--and
cared for it so tenderly--and tried to give her every
chance for good. And yet I wasn't allowed to keep
her."
"It was God's will, Anne," said Marilla, helpless
before the riddle of the universe--the WHY of
undeserved pain. "And little Joy is better off."
"I can't believe THAT," cried Anne bitterly. Then,
seeing that Marilla looked shocked, she added
passionately, "Why should she be born at all--why
should any one be born at all--if she's better off
dead? I DON'T believe it is better for a child to die
at birth than to live its life out--and love and be
loved--and enjoy and suffer--and do its work--and
develop a character that would give it a personality in
eternity. And how do you know it was God's will?
Perhaps it was just a thwarting of His purpose by the
Power of Evil. We can't be expected to be resigned to
THAT."
"Oh, Anne, don't talk so," said Marilla, genuinely
alarmed lest Anne were drifting into deep and dangerous
waters. "We can't understand--but we must have
faith--we MUST believe that all is for the best. I
know you find it hard to think so, just now. But try
to be brave--for Gilbert's sake. He's so worried about
you. You aren't getting strong as fast as you
should."
"Oh, I know I've been very selfish," sighed Anne. "I
love Gilbert more than ever--and I want to live for his
sake. But it seems as if part of me was buried over
there in that little harbor graveyard-- and it hurts so
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 all else, Marilla."
"Yes, I know, I've felt that too, about other things.
But we all love you, 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, I
think, cooking up nice things for you. Susan doesn't
like it very well. 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 ache grows a little
less--I'll find that I can go on living."
CHAPTER 20
LOST MARGARET
Anne found that she could go on living; the day came
when she even smiled again over one of Miss Cornelia's
speeches. But there was something in the smile that
had never been in Anne's smile before and would never
be absent from it again.
On the first day she was able to go for a drive Gilbert
took her down to Four Winds Point, and left her there
while he rowed over the channel to see a patient at the
fishing village. A rollicking wind was scudding across
the harbor and the dunes, whipping the water into
white-caps and washing the sandshore with long lines of
silvery breakers.
"I'm real proud to see you here again, Mistress
Blythe," said Captain Jim. "Sit down--sit down. I'm
afeared it's mighty dusty here today--but there's no
need of looking at dust when you can look at such
scenery, is there?"
"I don't mind the dust," said Anne, "but Gilbert says
I must keep in the open air. I think I'll go and sit
on the rocks down there."
"Would you like company or would you rather be alone?"
"If by company you mean yours I'd much rather have it
than be alone," said Anne, smiling. Then she sighed.
She had never before minded being alone. Now she
dreaded it. When she was alone now she felt so
dreadfully alone.
"Here's a nice little spot where the wind can't get at
you," said Captain Jim, when they reached the rocks.
"I often sit here. It's a great place jest to sit and
dream."
"Oh--dreams," sighed Anne. "I can't dream now,
Captain Jim--I'm done with dreams."
"Oh, no, you're not, Mistress Blythe--oh, no, you're
not," said Captain Jim meditatively. "I know how you
feel jest now--but if you keep on living you'll get
glad again, and the first thing you know you'll be
dreaming again--thank the good Lord for it! If it
wasn't for our dreams they might as well bury us.
How'd we stand living if it wasn't for our dream of
immortality? And that's a dream that's BOUND to come
true, Mistress Blythe. You'll see your little Joyce
again some day."
"But she won't be my baby," said Anne, with trembling
lips. "Oh, she may be, as Longfellow says, `a fair
maiden clothed with celestial grace'--but she'll be a
stranger to me."
"God will manage better'n THAT, I believe," said
Captain Jim.
They were both silent for a little time. Then Captain
Jim said very softly:
"Mistress Blythe, may I tell you about lost Margaret?"
"Of course," said Anne gently. She did not know who
"lost Margaret" was, but she felt that she was going
to hear the romance of Captain Jim's life.
"I've often wanted to tell you about her," Captain Jim
went on.
"Do you know why, Mistress Blythe? It's because I want
somebody to remember and think of her sometime after
I'm gone. I can't bear that her name should be
forgotten by all living souls. And now nobody
remembers lost Margaret but me."
Then Captain Jim told the story--an old, old forgotten
story, for it was over fifty years since Margaret had
fallen asleep one day in her father's dory and
drifted--or so it was supposed, for nothing was ever
certainly known as to her fate--out of the channel,
beyond the bar, to perish in the black thundersquall
which had come up so suddenly that long-ago summer
afternoon. But to Captain Jim those fifty years were
but as yesterday when it is past.
"I walked the shore for months after that," he said
sadly, "looking to find her dear, sweet little body;
but the sea never give her back to me. But I'll find
her sometime, Mistress Blythe--I'll find her sometime .
She's waiting for me. I wish I could tell you jest how
she looked, but I can't. I've seen a fine, silvery
mist hanging over the bar at sunrise that seemed like
her--and then again I've seen a white birch in the
woods back yander that made me think of her. She had
pale, brown hair and a little white, sweet face, and
long slender fingers like yours, Mistress Blythe, only
browner, for she was a shore girl. Sometimes I wake up
in the night and hear the sea calling to me in the old
way, and it seems as if lost Margaret called in it.
And when there's a storm and the waves are sobbing and
moaning I hear her lamenting among them. And when they
laugh on a gay day it's HER laugh--lost Margaret's
sweet, roguish, little laugh. The sea took her from
me, but some day I'll find her. Mistress Blythe. It
can't keep us apart forever."
"I am glad you have told me about her," said Anne. "I
have often wondered why you had lived all your life
alone."
"I couldn't ever care for anyone else. Lost Margaret
took my heart with her--out there," said the old
lover, who had been faithful for fifty years to his
drowned sweetheart. "You won't mind if I talk a good
deal about her, will you, Mistress Blythe? It's a
pleasure to me--for all the pain went out of her memory
years ago and jest left its blessing. I know you'll
never forget her, Mistress Blythe. And if the years,
as I hope, bring other little folks to your home, I
want you to promise me that you'll tell THEM the story
of lost Margaret, so that her name won't be forgotten
among humankind."
CHAPTER 21
BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY
"Anne," said Leslie, breaking abruptly a short
silence, "you don't know how GOOD it is to be sitting
here with you again--working-- and talking--and being
silent together."
They were sitting among the blue-eyed grasses on the
bank of the brook in Anne's garden. The water sparkled
and crooned past them; the birches threw dappled
shadows over them; roses bloomed along the walks. The
sun was beginning to be low, and the air was full of
woven music. There was one music of the wind in the
firs behind the house, and another of the waves on the
bar, and still another from the distant bell of the
church near which the wee, white lady slept. Anne
loved that bell, though it brought sorrowful thoughts
- sunshine [´sʌnʃain]
n.日光，阳光 (初中英语单词) - sympathy [´simpəθi] n.同情，怜悯 (初中英语单词)
- bitterly [´bitəli] ad.悲痛地；憎恨地 (初中英语单词)
- character [´kæriktə] n.特性；性质；人物；字 (初中英语单词)
- personality [,pə:sə´næliti] n.人；个性；人品；人物 (初中英语单词)
- horrible [´hɔrəbəl] a.可怕的；恐怖的 (初中英语单词)
- absent [´æbsənt, əb´sent] a.不在的 vt.使缺席 (初中英语单词)
- channel [´tʃænəl] n.海峡；航道；途径 (初中英语单词)
- mistress [´mistris] n.女主人；情妇；女能手 (初中英语单词)
- gently [´dʒentli] ad.温和地；静静地 (初中英语单词)
- romance [rəu´mæns] n.中世纪骑士小说 (初中英语单词)
- sometime [´sʌmtaim] ad.曾经 a.从前的 (初中英语单词)
- supposed [sə´pəuzd] a.想象的；假定的 (初中英语单词)
- perish [´periʃ] v.灭亡；消灭；(使)死去 (初中英语单词)
- yesterday [´jestədi] n.&ad.昨天；前不久 (初中英语单词)
- waiting [´weitiŋ] n.等候；伺候 (初中英语单词)
- slender [´slendə] a.细长的；微薄的 (初中英语单词)
- faithful [´feiθfəl] a.忠实的；可靠的 (初中英语单词)
- blessing [´blesiŋ] n.祝福 (初中英语单词)
- abruptly [ə´brʌptli] ad.突然地；粗鲁地 (初中英语单词)
- beginning [bi´giniŋ] n.开始，开端；起源 (初中英语单词)
- gladly [´glædli] ad.愉快地，高兴地 (高中英语单词)
- strove [strəuv] strive的过去式 (高中英语单词)
- riddle [´ridl] n.谜(语) v.解(谜等) (高中英语单词)
- mighty [´maiti] a.强有力的 ad.很 (高中英语单词)
- celestial [si´lestiəl] a.天空的，天的 (高中英语单词)
- hanging [´hæŋiŋ] n.绞刑 a.悬挂着的 (高中英语单词)
- sunrise [´sʌnraiz] n.日出，黎明 (高中英语单词)
- sweetheart [´swi:thɑ:t] n.爱人；情人 (高中英语单词)
- wanton [´wɔntən, ´wɑ:n-] a.顽皮的 n.&vi.荡妇 (英语四级单词)
- sorrowful [´sɔrəuful] a.悲伤的，使人伤心的 (英语四级单词)
- harshly [´hɑ:ʃli] ad.粗糙地，冷酷地 (英语六级单词)
- beating [´bi:tiŋ] n.敲；搅打；失败 (英语六级单词)
- minded [´maindid] a.有...心的 (英语六级单词)
- calling [´kɔ:liŋ] n.点名；职业；欲望 (英语六级单词)
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章节正文
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