Artboard Created with Sketch. Close Search Dialog
! Error Created with Sketch.

Anne of Green Gables

Full Text

Chapter XXVIII

Full Text Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXVIII

An Unfortunate Lily Maid

OF course you must
be Elaine, Anne," said Diana. "I could never have the courage to float
down there."

"Nor I," said Ruby Gillis, with a shiver. "I don't mind floating down when
there's two or three of us in the flat and we can sit up. It's fun then.
But to lie down and pretend I was dead—I just couldn't. I'd die
really of fright."

"Of course it would be romantic," conceded Jane Andrews, "but I know I
couldn't keep still. I'd be popping up every minute or so to see where I
was and if I wasn't drifting too far out. And you know, Anne, that would
spoil the effect."

"But it's so ridiculous to have a redheaded Elaine," mourned Anne. "I'm
not afraid to float down and I'd love to be Elaine. But it's ridiculous
just the same. Ruby ought to be Elaine because she is so fair and has such
lovely long golden hair—Elaine had 'all her bright hair streaming
down,' you know. And Elaine was the lily maid. Now, a red-haired person
cannot be a lily maid."

"Your complexion is just as fair as Ruby's," said Diana earnestly, "and
your hair is ever so much darker than it used to be before you cut it."

"Oh, do you really think so?" exclaimed Anne, flushing sensitively with
delight. "I've sometimes thought it was myself—but I never dared to
ask anyone for fear she would tell me it wasn't. Do you think it could be
called auburn now, Diana?"

"Yes, and I think it is real pretty," said Diana, looking admiringly at
the short, silky curls that clustered over Anne's head and were held in
place by a very jaunty black velvet ribbon and bow.

They were standing on the bank of the pond, below Orchard Slope, where a
little headland fringed with birches ran out from the bank; at its tip was
a small wooden platform built out into the water for the convenience of
fishermen and duck hunters. Ruby and Jane were spending the midsummer
afternoon with Diana, and Anne had come over to play with them.

Anne and Diana had spent most of their playtime that summer on and about
the pond. Idlewild was a thing of the past, Mr. Bell having ruthlessly cut
down the little circle of trees in his back pasture in the spring. Anne
had sat among the stumps and wept, not without an eye to the romance of
it; but she was speedily consoled, for, after all, as she and Diana said,
big girls of thirteen, going on fourteen, were too old for such childish
amusements as playhouses, and there were more fascinating sports to be
found about the pond. It was splendid to fish for trout over the bridge
and the two girls learned to row themselves about in the little
flat-bottomed dory Mr. Barry kept for duck shooting.

It was Anne's idea that they dramatize Elaine. They had studied Tennyson's
poem in school the preceding winter, the Superintendent of Education
having prescribed it in the English course for the Prince Edward Island
schools. They had analyzed and parsed it and torn it to pieces in general
until it was a wonder there was any meaning at all left in it for them,
but at least the fair lily maid and Lancelot and Guinevere and King Arthur
had become very real people to them, and Anne was devoured by secret
regret that she had not been born in Camelot. Those days, she said, were
so much more romantic than the present.

Anne's plan was hailed with enthusiasm. The girls had discovered that if
the flat were pushed off from the landing place it would drift down with
the current under the bridge and finally strand itself on another headland
lower down which ran out at a curve in the pond. They had often gone down
like this and nothing could be more convenient for playing Elaine.

"Well, I'll be Elaine," said Anne, yielding reluctantly, for, although she
would have been delighted to play the principal character, yet her
artistic sense demanded fitness for it and this, she felt, her limitations
made impossible. "Ruby, you must be King Arthur and Jane will be Guinevere
and Diana must be Lancelot. But first you must be the brothers and the
father. We can't have the old dumb servitor because there isn't room for
two in the flat when one is lying down. We must pall the barge all its
length in blackest samite. That old black shawl of your mother's will be
just the thing, Diana."

The black shawl having been procured, Anne spread it over the flat and
then lay down on the bottom, with closed eyes and hands folded over her

"Oh, she does look really dead," whispered Ruby Gillis nervously, watching
the still, white little face under the flickering shadows of the birches.
"It makes me feel frightened, girls. Do you suppose it's really right to
act like this? Mrs. Lynde says that all play-acting is abominably wicked."

"Ruby, you shouldn't talk about Mrs. Lynde," said Anne severely. "It
spoils the effect because this is hundreds of years before Mrs. Lynde was
born. Jane, you arrange this. It's silly for Elaine to be talking when
she's dead."

Jane rose to the occasion. Cloth of gold for coverlet there was none, but
an old piano scarf of yellow Japanese crepe was an excellent substitute. A
white lily was not obtainable just then, but the effect of a tall blue
iris placed in one of Anne's folded hands was all that could be desired.

"Now, she's all ready," said Jane. "We must kiss her quiet brows and,
Diana, you say, 'Sister, farewell forever,' and Ruby, you say, 'Farewell,
sweet sister,' both of you as sorrowfully as you possibly can. Anne, for
goodness sake smile a little. You know Elaine 'lay as though she smiled.'
That's better. Now push the flat off."

The flat was accordingly pushed off, scraping roughly over an old embedded
stake in the process. Diana and Jane and Ruby only waited long enough to
see it caught in the current and headed for the bridge before scampering
up through the woods, across the road, and down to the lower headland
where, as Lancelot and Guinevere and the King, they were to be in
readiness to receive the lily maid.

For a few minutes Anne, drifting slowly down, enjoyed the romance of her
situation to the full. Then something happened not at all romantic. The
flat began to leak. In a very few moments it was necessary for Elaine to
scramble to her feet, pick up her cloth of gold coverlet and pall of
blackest samite and gaze blankly at a big crack in the bottom of her barge
through which the water was literally pouring. That sharp stake at the
landing had torn off the strip of batting nailed on the flat. Anne did not
know this, but it did not take her long to realize that she was in a
dangerous plight. At this rate the flat would fill and sink long before it
could drift to the lower headland. Where were the oars? Left behind at the

Anne gave one gasping little scream which nobody ever heard; she was white
to the lips, but she did not lose her self-possession. There was one
chance—just one.

"I was horribly frightened," she told Mrs. Allan the next day, "and it
seemed like years while the flat was drifting down to the bridge and the
water rising in it every moment. I prayed, Mrs. Allan, most earnestly, but
I didn't shut my eyes to pray, for I knew the only way God could save me
was to let the flat float close enough to one of the bridge piles for me
to climb up on it. You know the piles are just old tree trunks and there
are lots of knots and old branch stubs on them. It was proper to pray, but
I had to do my part by watching out and right well I knew it. I just said,
'Dear God, please take the flat close to a pile and I'll do the rest,'
over and over again. Under such circumstances you don't think much about
making a flowery prayer. But mine was answered, for the flat bumped right
into a pile for a minute and I flung the scarf and the shawl over my
shoulder and scrambled up on a big providential stub. And there I was,
Mrs. Allan, clinging to that slippery old pile with no way of getting up
or down. It was a very unromantic position, but I didn't think about that
at the time. You don't think much about romance when you have just escaped
from a watery grave. I said a grateful prayer at once and then I gave all
my attention to holding on tight, for I knew I should probably have to
depend on human aid to get back to dry land."

The flat drifted under the bridge and then promptly sank in midstream.
Ruby, Jane, and Diana, already awaiting it on the lower headland, saw it
disappear before their very eyes and had not a doubt but that Anne had
gone down with it. For a moment they stood still, white as sheets, frozen
with horror at the tragedy; then, shrieking at the tops of their voices,
they started on a frantic run up through the woods, never pausing as they
crossed the main road to glance the way of the bridge. Anne, clinging
desperately to her precarious foothold, saw their flying forms and heard
their shrieks. Help would soon come, but meanwhile her position was a very
uncomfortable one.

The minutes passed by, each seeming an hour to the unfortunate lily maid.
Why didn't somebody come? Where had the girls gone? Suppose they had
fainted, one and all! Suppose nobody ever came! Suppose she grew so tired
and cramped that she could hold on no longer! Anne looked at the wicked
green depths below her, wavering with long, oily shadows, and shivered.
Her imagination began to suggest all manner of gruesome possibilities to

Then, just as she thought she really could not endure the ache in her arms
and wrists another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge in
Harmon Andrews's dory!

Gilbert glanced up and, much to his amazement, beheld a little white
scornful face looking down upon him with big, frightened but also scornful
gray eyes.

"Anne Shirley! How on earth did you get there?" he exclaimed.

Without waiting for an answer he pulled close to the pile and extended his
hand. There was no help for it; Anne, clinging to Gilbert Blythe's hand,
scrambled down into the dory, where she sat, drabbled and furious, in the
stern with her arms full of dripping shawl and wet crepe. It was certainly
extremely difficult to be dignified under the circumstances!

"What has happened, Anne?" asked Gilbert, taking up his oars. "We were
playing Elaine" explained Anne frigidly, without even looking at her
rescuer, "and I had to drift down to Camelot in the barge—I mean the
flat. The flat began to leak and I climbed out on the pile. The girls went
for help. Will you be kind enough to row me to the landing?"

Gilbert obligingly rowed to the landing and Anne, disdaining assistance,
sprang nimbly on shore.

"I'm very much obliged to you," she said haughtily as she turned away. But
Gilbert had also sprung from the boat and now laid a detaining hand on her

"Anne," he said hurriedly, "look here. Can't we be good friends? I'm
awfully sorry I made fun of your hair that time. I didn't mean to vex you
and I only meant it for a joke. Besides, it's so long ago. I think your
hair is awfully pretty now—honest I do. Let's be friends."

For a moment Anne hesitated. She had an odd, newly awakened consciousness
under all her outraged dignity that the half-shy, half-eager expression in
Gilbert's hazel eyes was something that was very good to see. Her heart
gave a quick, queer little beat. But the bitterness of her old grievance
promptly stiffened up her wavering determination. That scene of two years
before flashed back into her recollection as vividly as if it had taken
place yesterday. Gilbert had called her "carrots" and had brought about
her disgrace before the whole school. Her resentment, which to other and
older people might be as laughable as its cause, was in no whit allayed
and softened by time seemingly. She hated Gilbert Blythe! She would never
forgive him!

"No," she said coldly, "I shall never be friends with you, Gilbert Blythe;
and I don't want to be!"

"All right!" Gilbert sprang into his skiff with an angry color in his
cheeks. "I'll never ask you to be friends again, Anne Shirley. And I don't
care either!"

He pulled away with swift defiant strokes, and Anne went up the steep,
ferny little path under the maples. She held her head very high, but she
was conscious of an odd feeling of regret. She almost wished she had
answered Gilbert differently. Of course, he had insulted her terribly, but
still—! Altogether, Anne rather thought it would be a relief to sit
down and have a good cry. She was really quite unstrung, for the reaction
from her fright and cramped clinging was making itself felt.

Halfway up the path she met Jane and Diana rushing back to the pond in a
state narrowly removed from positive frenzy. They had found nobody at
Orchard Slope, both Mr. and Mrs. Barry being away. Here Ruby Gillis had
succumbed to hysterics, and was left to recover from them as best she
might, while Jane and Diana flew through the Haunted Wood and across the
brook to Green Gables. There they had found nobody either, for Marilla had
gone to Carmody and Matthew was making hay in the back field.

"Oh, Anne," gasped Diana, fairly falling on the former's neck and weeping
with relief and delight, "oh, Anne—we thought—you were—drowned—and
we felt like murderers—because we had made—you be—Elaine.
And Ruby is in hysterics—oh, Anne, how did you escape?"

"I climbed up on one of the piles," explained Anne wearily, "and Gilbert
Blythe came along in Mr. Andrews's dory and brought me to land."

"Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic!" said Jane, finding
breath enough for utterance at last. "Of course you'll speak to him after

"Of course I won't," flashed Anne, with a momentary return of her old
spirit. "And I don't want ever to hear the word 'romantic' again, Jane
Andrews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my
fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything I do gets
me or my dearest friends into a scrape. We've gone and lost your father's
flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that we'll not be allowed to row on
the pond any more."

Anne's presentiment proved more trustworthy than presentiments are apt to
do. Great was the consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert households when
the events of the afternoon became known.

"Will you ever have any sense, Anne?" groaned Marilla.

"Oh, yes, I think I will, Marilla," returned Anne optimistically. A good
cry, indulged in the grateful solitude of the east gable, had soothed her
nerves and restored her to her wonted cheerfulness. "I think my prospects
of becoming sensible are brighter now than ever."

"I don't see how," said Marilla.

"Well," explained Anne, "I've learned a new and valuable lesson today.
Ever since I came to Green Gables I've been making mistakes, and each
mistake has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. The affair of the
amethyst brooch cured me of meddling with things that didn't belong to me.
The Haunted Wood mistake cured me of letting my imagination run away with
me. The liniment cake mistake cured me of carelessness in cooking. Dyeing
my hair cured me of vanity. I never think about my hair and nose now—at
least, very seldom. And today's mistake is going to cure me of being too
romantic. I have come to the conclusion that it is no use trying to be
romantic in Avonlea. It was probably easy enough in towered Camelot
hundreds of years ago, but romance is not appreciated now. I feel quite
sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me in this respect,

"I'm sure I hope so," said Marilla skeptically.

But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on
Anne's shoulder when Marilla had gone out.

"Don't give up all your romance, Anne," he whispered shyly, "a little of
it is a good thing—not too much, of course—but keep a little
of it, Anne, keep a little of it."