This story is AU...

Everything that L.M.M Montgomery wrote, until convocation in Anne of the Island, happened.

The rest thereafter, did not.

Gilbert never contracted typhoid.

Chapter 4

Returning to an unlit house, was not uncommon for Gilbert. The housemaid had been informed of his arrival before he departed Toronto. Yet the entrance was pitch black, save the dim glow of street lamps.

The maid was not a choice made by Gilbert, or one he could wholly afford yet. Christine's mother insisted they have someone to around, sending help from her house before Gilbert had time to say otherwise.

He moved up the stairs, carrying his body one step at a time. Gilbert found Christine sleeping, her dark hair wound in the accustomed braid draped across the pillow. A thin sheet partially covered her, the open window offering cool relief from the warm night air.

Gilbert carefully placed the present from Eatons at his wife's dresser.

He looked at her, willing himself to crawl into bed. She was handsome and kind, although sometimes mean with her words when irritated. Often using her beauty to get what she desired. A talent Gilbert was aware of from the moment they met.

The longer he stood watching Christine sleep, the less Gilbert wanted to be laying next to her. Perhaps he wads overtired, as he found himself unable to rest properly on the train. The journey was spent flitting between the rustling of conference papers and resting his head against the window, willing himself to sleep a little. Neither held his attention long, the unease of which he addressed Anne in the park resurfacing.

He had been unfair, in retrospect she had not done anything wrong. Here he was holding onto a grudge, grown of jealously and inadequacy. He knew full well how it felt to have a petty grudge held against him. Anne had the life that he had always dreamed for her. When he loved her, all that Gilbert wanted to give her was an existence filled of comfort, ease and safety. Her life was filled to the brim with all he had ever dreamed for her.

Gilbert opened the door to his study. It was organised chaos, papers and books stacked in groups according to patient. Amongst the disorder sat a silver tray, a collection of correspondence sitting on top. He began to sort through it haphazardly, when a telephone message caught his eye.

It was not often his father t'phoned and leaving a message was not common. If ever Gilbert was not in the home to take his call, John Blythe would simply hang up.

Wednesday 2 August
Miss. Marilla Cuthbert passed away.
J. Blythe

Gilbert slumped into his chair, reading the note again. It was Friday night. The two day trip from Toronto to Avonlea, meant Anne would have arrived Thursday night, learning the same news on her surprise arrival. He recalled the elated enthusiasm lighting up Anne's face, as she told him of the plan to surprise Marilla. Her train would have passed through Amherst. No doubt Anne would have been staring out the window, excitedly counting down the minutes until she was driving up the lane to Green Gables.

Memories of afternoons spent hunched over books in the Green Gables dinning room came flooding back to him. Marilla was hard, but kind in her own way. There was never a doubt how proud she was of Anne.

Gilbert listened for the sound of the operator, counting the clicks as they passed. The telephone was installed at the Blythe homestead not long after his parents visited the new home in Amherst. His mother in particular was the one who was sceptical to it, then quickly won over once it had been connected.

"Gilbert, it's late to be calling. I'm guessing you got my note."

He never asked who was calling, always knowing it was his son. "It was sad news to return home too father."

John let out a long breath, "It was a sad day here in Avonlea. The funeral was this afternoon. I guess I feel like part of me past has passed on. Her folks and my folks traveled to the Island together from Norfolk. I remember many a night spent at the Cuthbert's home as children, they were talented musicians and Mr. Cuthbert could turn a fiddle like no one else for miles."

"I didn't know you were so close to the Cuthbert's."

"It's something I had forgotten. Spent so much of my time working and sleeping the last thirty years to dwell on my past. I courted Matilda for a short while."

"What happened? Does Ma know?"

"Of course she knows. We only courted because we were all we knew. Her Pa was more bad than good, especially to Matthew. There were many a time he'd come to school with a bruise or not at all. Every one knew Mr. Cuthbert was unkind to Matthew, but you never heard a bad word come from his mouth about his father. Matthew soon became a better fiddler than his Pa, and singer too. He was kind, quite, polite and the girls all thought him real handsome. The popularity went from his father to him. Well his father never liked that much and he just set about chipping at his confidence. One afternoon I walked Marilla home, and saw the way her father spoke to Matthew. He down right would humiliate the boy. I went to go stand up for her brother, but Marilla warned if I did she would not see me again. I realised quick she was not the person for me.

"Ma would have stood up."

"That she would have. Eventually Matthew stopped playing, stopped singing, he retreated into himself. Stopped school and worked on the farm. Real recluse like. I think that's why Marilla stayed by his side once their folks passed away. Like she owed it to Matthew for not protecting him. Mind she softened when Anne came along son, and Matthew got some of that spark back too."

Gilbert rested his forehead against the wall. A distant click was heard before Gilbert could ask if Anne was at the funeral.

"Sounds like someone else has joined the exchange, I'l bid you goodnight." With that John Blythe hung up.

I have so many people to thank for their encouragement. I hope to be back here with a proper update soon.