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One of the first things Gilbert noticed upon arrival at the schoolhouse that crisp January morning was that Anne Shirley was not there yet.
Neither Anne’s absence nor Gilbert’s awareness of it were particularly unusual— in the days before the apparent tragic separation of she and Diana Barry, the two were apt to wander in bare minutes before class began, often with mismatched flowers woven into Anne’s copper braids, and Gilbert always took note of how the vibrant blossoms were silhouetted against her pale ear. However, since Anne and Diana’s separation and Anne’s return to school, she had arrived earlier most mornings, a sense of deliberate melancholy perforating the air around her. Diana hadn’t arrived either, Gilbert deemed to notice in the aftermath of his musing on Anne’s demeanor, a topic that often distracted him from his studies despite his best efforts.
Many of the girls in the class had convened by the coat racks, Tillie Boulter whispering madly as the others listened with rapt attention. Gilbert wandered over to a nearby rack, taking his time removing his scarf, cap, and coat as he eavesdropped.
“...and she was apparently coughing something awful, could die awful, and Anne had brought a bottle of ipecac and began to tend to her. She gave Minnie May the whole bottle and waited for her to cough it all up and get better. Mrs. Lynde told me that if Anne hadn’t been there, she might have ack-sually died. Isn’t that awful?”
Ruby Gillis, deathly pale in horror and wonderment, nodded furiously, seemingly ready to faint away. Even Jane Andrews, whom Gilbert considered polite but rather stiff, seemed entranced— but none were more entranced than Gilbert himself, who paused in the hanging of his scarf for a moment before remembering himself.
“I haven’t known anyone to have the croup,” Julia Bell said breathlessly, clutching Ella May MacPherson’s arm in dramatic wonder.
“Mrs Lynde said that Anne mentioned to the doctor who told the Barrys who told her that Anne once took care of three sets of twins with the croup. At once!”
The girls gasped. Gilbert, now in the process of removing his coat with the pace of a snail, blinked in surprise. He’d never really considered what Anne’s life might have been like before Avonlea, with the orphan aspect of her identity shoved to the back of his mind in favour of her fiery spirit and large grey eyes.
Tillie nodded. “It’s truly heroic. Poor Anne— and Diana.”
“Wherever are they?” Josie Pye inquired. “D’you suppose they’ve caught it as well?”
Ruby burst into tears. Minnie Andrews shook her head, tossing her hair haughtily. “Don’t be silly, Josie. Croup isn’t catching.”
Gilbert knew that to be untrue, but any potential nerves at the thought of Anne Shirley getting sick were tempered by the rational Jane. “l wouldn’t expect either of them to be here today,” she said practically. “If I had been awake all night I’d be sleeping the whole day.”
“Yes,” agreed Minnie, patting Ruby gently on the shoulder. “There you go, Ruby, do stop crying. They’ll be here tomorrow.”
Ruby nodded, using the handkerchief Minnie had produced to dab at her eyes with vigor.
Gilbert felt that familiar flutter of reinforcement in his belief that Anne Shirley was the finest girl on the whole of the Island. That thought, and the accompanying twist in his stomach, had initially thrown him off-kilter— Gilbert was thoroughly unaccustomed to the sense of excitement and unfettered hope that seized him whenever Anne dared to fix him with a glare, her large gray eyes bright with anger.
Such occasions were rare indeed, as Anne seemingly preferred to not look at him at all. In fact she seemed determined not to, her countenance possessed entirely by contempt as she stared straight ahead.
Gilbert did not know, precisely, what to do about this. His admiration for her was clear, he thought, at least to some of the smarter Avonlea school pupils. Diana Barry, who a year or two before would have blushed to the roots of her hair for their eyes meeting, now looked over at him so knowingly every time Anne haughtily turned away from him that he’d begun to wonder if he was making an awful fool of himself.
Thankfully, Anne snubbed Charlie Sloane at every turn. Gilbert really did quite like him, but it was Charlie Sloane, and if it wasn’t for overhearing Anne’s pronouncement to Diana of Charlie’s goggle-eyes, Gilbert may have been slightly colder with Charlie than he had been.
Gilbert thought again of Tillie’s insider information about Anne’s life before Avonlea. He pictured her there, suddenly, braids loose with half-escaped strands of hair, surrounded by crying babies, eyes still so bright. No wonder she hadn’t gone to a proper school.
Everything about Avonlea had always remained fairly idyllic, and Gilbert was suddenly struck with the horrifying realization that Anne had likely not been given the unending care and attention she so clearly deserved. How anyone could have met her and not understand they’d crossed paths with someone marvelous was beyond Gilbert. She practically lit up a room, which was no small feat in one as dreary as the schoolhouse. He’d really never met anyone like her, no one with such spirit and such endless imagination, no one so driven and determined, and no one quite so capable of holding a grudge.
And she was so smart. She pushed him to be better, simply by being as bright as she was. There were nights when Gilbert spent hours working on his spelling just so she’d have a fair fight. And now she knew how to save lives, too. The sort of thing Gilbert wanted to be able to do years from now, as a man in the world, Anne Shirley could already do— had already done!— at twelve years old with those lovely copper braids still hanging down her back.
Anne Shirley, Gilbert thought wistfully. She became more wonderful every day.
He really did hope she hadn’t caught the croup.