|
"I suppose it'll have to," said Mrs. Blewett
ungraciously.
During Marilla's speech a sunrise had been dawning on
Anne's face. First
the look of despair faded out; then came a faint flush of
hope;
her eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was
quite
transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs.
Blewett
went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow she
sprang
up and flew across the room to Marilla.
"Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did
you really say that perhaps you would let me
stay at Green Gables?" she said,
in a breathless whisper, as if speaking
aloud might shatter the glorious
possibility. "Did you really say it? Or
did I only imagine that you
did?"
"I think you'd better learn to control that imagination of yours,
Anne,
if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't,"
said
Marilla crossly. "Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more.
It
isn't decided yet and perhaps we will conclude to let Mrs. Blewett
take
you after all. She certainly needs you much more than I do."
"I'd
rather go back to the asylum than go to live with her," said
Anne
passionately. "She looks exactly like a--like a gimlet."
Marilla
smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be
reproved for such a
speech.
"A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a
lady and
a stranger," she said severely. "Go back and sit down quietly and
hold
your tongue and behave as a good girl should."
"I'll try to do
and be anything you want me, if you'll only keep me,"
said Anne, returning
meekly to her ottoman.
When they arrived back at Green Gables that
evening Matthew met them in
the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him
prowling along it and guessed
his motive. She was prepared for the relief she
read in his face when he
saw that she had at least brought back Anne back
with her. But she said
nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they
were both out in the
yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly
told him Anne's
history and the result of the interview with Mrs.
Spencer.
"I wouldn't give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman," said
Matthew with
unusual vim.
"I don't fancy her style myself," admitted
Marilla, "but it's that
or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And since you seem
to want her, I
suppose I'm willing--or have to be. I've been thinking over
the idea
until I've got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I've
never
brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I'll make
a
terrible mess of it. But I'll do my best. So far as I'm
concerned,
Matthew, she may stay."
Matthew's shy face was a glow of
delight.
"Well now, I reckoned you'd come to see it in that light,
Marilla," he
said. "She's such an interesting little thing."
"It'd be
more to the point if you could say she was a useful little
thing," retorted
Marilla, "but I'll make it my business to see she's
trained to be that. And
mind, Matthew, you're not to go interfering with
my methods. Perhaps an old
maid doesn't know much about bringing up
a child, but I guess she knows more
than an old bachelor. So you just
leave me to manage her. When I fail it'll
be time enough to put your oar
in."
"There, there, Marilla, you can
have your own way," said Matthew
reassuringly. "Only be as good and kind to
her as you can without
spoiling her. I kind of think she's one of the sort
you can do anything
with if you only get her to love you."
Marilla
sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew's opinions
concerning anything
feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the
pails.
"I won't tell
her tonight that she can stay," she reflected, as she
strained the milk into
the creamers. "She'd be so excited that she
wouldn't sleep a wink. Marilla
Cuthbert, you're fairly in for it. Did
you ever suppose you'd see the day
when you'd be adopting an orphan
girl? It's surprising enough; but not so
surprising as that Matthew
should be at the bottom of it, him that always
seemed to have such a
mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we've decided on
the experiment
and goodness only knows what will come of
it."
CHAPTER VII. Anne Says Her Prayers
When
Marilla took Anne up to bed that night she said stiffly:
"Now, Anne, I
noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about
the floor when you
took them off. That is a very untidy habit, and I
can't allow it at all. As
soon as you take off any article of clothing
fold it neatly and place it on
the chair. I haven't any use at all for
little girls who aren't
neat."
"I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn't think
about my
clothes at all," said Anne. "I'll fold them nicely tonight. They
always
made us do that at the asylum. Half the time, though, I'd forget, I'd
be
in such a hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and imagine
things."
"You'll have to remember a little better if you stay here,"
admonished
Marilla. "There, that looks something like. Say your prayers now
and get
into bed."
"I never say any prayers," announced
Anne.
Marilla looked horrified astonishment.
"Why, Anne, what do
you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers?
God always wants little
girls to say their prayers. Don't you know who
God is, Anne?"
"'God is
a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being,
wisdom, power,
holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,'" responded Anne
promptly and
glibly.
Marilla looked rather relieved.
"So you do know something
then, thank goodness! You're not quite a
heathen. Where did you learn
that?"
"Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the
whole
catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's something splendid about
some
of the words. 'Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.' Isn't that grand?
It
has such a roll to it--just like a big organ playing. You couldn't
quite
call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't
it?"
"We're not talking about poetry, Anne--we are talking about saying
your
prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible wicked thing not to say
your
prayers every night? I'm afraid you are a very bad little
girl."
"You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair,"
said
Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red hair don't know what
trouble
is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red ON PURPOSE, and
I've
never cared about Him since. And anyhow I'd always be too tired at
night
to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't
be
expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they
can?"
Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at
once.
Plainly there was no time to be lost.
"You must say your prayers
while you are under my roof, Anne."
"Why, of course, if you want me to,"
assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do
anything to oblige you. But you'll have to
tell me what to say for this
once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a
real nice prayer to say
always. I believe that it will be quite interesting,
now that I come to
think of it."
"You must kneel down," said Marilla
in embarrassment.
Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up
gravely.
"Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray
I'll
tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone
or
into the deep, deep, woods, and I'd look up into the
sky--up--up--up--into
that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no
end to its blueness. And
then I'd just FEEL a prayer. Well, I'm ready.
What am I to
say?"
Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach
Anne
the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as
I
have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply
another
name for a sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred
to her that
that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood
lisping at
motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch
of a girl who
knew and cared nothing about God's love, since she had
never had it
translated to her through the medium of human love.
"You're old enough to
pray for yourself, Anne," she said finally. "Just
thank God for your
blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you
want."
"Well, I'll do
my best," promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla's
lap. "Gracious
heavenly Father--that's the way the ministers say it in
church, so I suppose
it's all right in private prayer, isn't it?" she
interjected, lifting her
head for a moment.
"Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the
White
Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny
and
the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for
them. And that's all the
blessings I can think of just
now to thank Thee for. As for the things I
want,
they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of
time to
name them all so I will only mention the two
most important. Please let me
stay at Green Gables;
and please let me be good-looking when I grow
up.
I remain,
"Yours
respectfully,
Anne Shirley.
"There, did I do
all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could
have made it much more
flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it
over."
Poor Marilla
was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering
that it was not
irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part
of Anne that was
responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked
the child up in bed,
mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer
the very next day, and was
leaving the room with the light when Anne
called her back.
"I've just
thought of it now. I should have said, 'Amen' in place
of 'yours
respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd
forgotten it, but
I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so
I put in the other. Do
you suppose it will make any difference?"
"I--I don't suppose it will,"
said Marilla. "Go to sleep now like a good
child. Good night."
"I can
only say good night tonight with a clear conscience," said Anne,
cuddling
luxuriously down among her pillows.
Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set
the candle firmly on the table,
and glared at Matthew.
"Matthew
Cuthbert, it's about time somebody adopted that child and
taught her
something. She's next door to a perfect heathen. Will you
believe that she
never said a prayer in her life till tonight? I'll send
her to the manse
tomorrow and borrow the Peep of the Day series, that's
what I'll do. And she
shall go to Sunday-school just as soon as I can
get some suitable clothes
made for her. I foresee that I shall have
my hands full. Well, well, we can't
get through this world without our
share of trouble. I've had a pretty easy
life of it so far, but my time
has come at last and I suppose I'll just have
to make the best of it."
CHAPTER VIII. Anne's Bringing-up Is
Begun
For reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell Anne
that
she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During
the
forenoon she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over
her
with a keen eye while she did them. By noon she had concluded that
Anne
was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn; her
most
serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency to fall into daydreams
in
the middle of a task and forget all about it until such time as she
was
sharply recalled to earth by a reprimand or a catastrophe.
When
Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes she suddenly confronted
Marilla
with the air and expression of one desperately determined to
learn the worst.
Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her
face flushed and her
eyes dilated until they were almost black; she
clasped her hands tightly and
said in an imploring voice:
"Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won't you tell me
if you are going to send
me away or not? I've tried to be patient all the
morning, but I really
feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It's a
dreadful feeling.
Please tell me."
"You haven't scalded the dishcloth
in clean hot water as I told you to
do," said Marilla immovably. "Just go and
do it before you ask any more
questions, Anne."
Anne went and attended
to the dishcloth. Then she returned to Marilla
and fastened imploring eyes of
the latter's face. "Well," said Marilla,
unable to find any excuse for
deferring her explanation longer, "I
suppose I might as well tell you.
Matthew and I have decided to keep
you--that is, if you will try to be a good
little girl and show yourself
grateful. Why, child, whatever is the
matter?"
"I'm crying," said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. "I can't
think why.
I'm glad as glad can be. Oh, GLAD doesn't seem the right word at
all. I
was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms--but this! Oh,
it's
something more than glad. I'm so happy. I'll try to be so good.
It
will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs. Thomas often told me I
was
desperately wicked. However, I'll do my very best. But can you tell
me
why I'm crying?"
"I suppose it's because you're all excited and
worked up," said Marilla
disapprovingly. "Sit down on that chair and try to
calm yourself. I'm
afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can
stay here and
we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it's
only a
fortnight till vacation so it isn't worth while for you to start
before
it opens again in September."
"What am I to call you?" asked
Anne. "Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert?
Can I call you Aunt
Marilla?"
"No; you'll call me just plain Marilla. I'm not used to being
called
Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous."
"It sounds awfully
disrespectful to just say Marilla," protested Anne.
"I guess there'll be
nothing disrespectful in it if you're careful
to speak respectfully.
Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me
Marilla except the minister. He
says Miss Cuthbert--when he thinks of
it."
"I'd love to call you Aunt
Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've never
had an aunt or any relation at
all--not even a grandmother. It would
make me feel as if I really belonged to
you. Can't I call you Aunt
Marilla?"
"No. I'm not your aunt and I
don't believe in calling people names that
don't belong to them."
"But
we could imagine you were my aunt."
"I couldn't," said Marilla
grimly.
"Do you never imagine things different from what they really
are?" asked
Anne wide-eyed.
"No."
"Oh!" Anne drew a long
breath. "Oh, Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!"
"I don't believe in
imagining things different from what they really
are," retorted Marilla.
"When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances
He doesn't mean for us to
imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go
into the sitting room, Anne--be
sure your feet are clean and don't
let any flies in--and bring me out the
illustrated card that's on the
mantelpiece. The Lord's Prayer is on it and
you'll devote your spare
time this afternoon to learning it off by heart.
There's to be no more
of such praying as I heard last night."
"I
suppose I was very awkward," said Anne apologetically, "but then, you
see,
I'd never had any practice. You couldn't really expect a person
to pray very
well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a
splendid prayer
after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would.
It was nearly as long as
a minister's and so poetical. But would you
believe it? I couldn't remember
one word when I woke up this morning.
And I'm afraid I'll never be able to
think out another one as good.
Somehow, things never are so good when they're
thought out a second
time. Have you ever noticed that?"
"Here is
something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell you to do
a thing I want you
to obey me at once and not stand stock-still and
discourse about it. Just you
go and do as I bid you."
Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room
across the hall; she failed
to return; after waiting ten minutes Marilla laid
down her knitting
and marched after her with a grim expression. She found
Anne standing
motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two
windows,
with her eyes astar with dreams. The white and green light
strained
through apple trees and clustering vines outside fell over the
rapt
little figure with a half-unearthly radiance.
"Anne, whatever are
you thinking of?" demanded Marilla sharply.
Anne came back to earth with
a start.
"That," she said, pointing to the picture--a rather vivid
chromo
entitled, "Christ Blessing Little Children"--"and I was just imagining
I
was one of them--that I was the little girl in the blue dress,
standing
off by herself in the corner as if she didn't belong to anybody,
like
me. She looks lonely and sad, don't you think? I guess she hadn't
any
father or mother of her own. But she wanted to be blessed, too, so
she
just crept shyly up on the outside of the crowd, hoping nobody
would
notice her--except Him. I'm sure I know just how she felt. Her
heart
must have beat and her hands must have got cold, like mine did when
I
asked you if I could stay. She was afraid He mightn't notice her.
But
it's likely He did, don't you think? I've been trying to imagine it
all
out--her edging a little nearer all the time until she was quite
close
to Him; and then He would look at her and put His hand on her hair
and
oh, such a thrill of joy as would run over her! But I wish the
artist
hadn't painted Him so sorrowful looking. All His pictures are like
that,
if you've noticed. But I don't believe He could really have looked
so
sad or the children would have been afraid of Him."
"Anne," said
Marilla, wondering why she had not broken into this speech
long before, "you
shouldn't talk that way. It's
irreverent--positively
irreverent."
Anne's eyes marveled.
"Why,
I felt just as reverent as could be. I'm sure I didn't mean to
be
irreverent."
"Well I don't suppose you did--but it doesn't sound
right to talk so
familiarly about such things. And another thing, Anne, when
I send you
after something you're to bring it at once and not fall into
mooning and
imagining before pictures. Remember that. Take that card and come
right
to the kitchen. Now, sit down in the corner and learn that prayer off
by
heart."
Anne set the card up against the jugful of apple blossoms
she had
brought in to decorate the dinner-table--Marilla had eyed
that
decoration askance, but had said nothing--propped her chin on her
hands,
and fell to studying it intently for several silent minutes.
"I
like this," she announced at length. "It's beautiful. I've heard it
before--I
heard the superintendent of the asylum Sunday school say it
over once. But I
didn't like it then. He had such a cracked voice and
he prayed it so
mournfully. I really felt sure he thought praying was a
disagreeable duty.
This isn't poetry, but it makes me feel just the same
way poetry does. 'Our
Father who art in heaven hallowed be Thy name.'
That is just like a line of
music. Oh, I'm so glad you thought of making
me learn this,
Miss--Marilla."
"Well, learn it and hold your tongue," said Marilla
shortly.
Anne tipped the vase of apple blossoms near enough to bestow a
soft
kiss on a pink-cupped bud, and then studied diligently for some
moments
longer.
"Marilla," she demanded presently, "do you think that
I shall ever have
a bosom friend in Avonlea?"
"A--a what kind of
friend?"
"A bosom friend--an intimate friend, you know--a really kindred
spirit
to whom I can confide my inmost soul. I've dreamed of meeting her
all
my life. I never really supposed I would, but so many of my
loveliest
dreams have come true all at once that perhaps this one will, too.
Do
you think it's possible?"
"Diana Barry lives over at Orchard Slope
and she's about your age. She's
a very nice little girl, and perhaps she will
be a playmate for you when
she comes home. She's visiting her aunt over at
Carmody just now. You'll
have to be careful how you behave yourself, though.
Mrs. Barry is a
very particular woman. She won't let Diana play with any
little girl who
isn't nice and good."
Anne looked at Marilla through
the apple blossoms, her eyes aglow with
interest.
"What is Diana like?
Her hair isn't red, is it? Oh, I hope not. It's bad
enough to have red hair
myself, but I positively couldn't endure it in a
bosom friend."
"Diana
is a very pretty little girl. She has black eyes and hair and
rosy cheeks.
And she is good and smart, which is better than being
pretty."
Marilla
was as fond of morals as the Duchess in Wonderland, and was
firmly convinced
that one should be tacked on to every remark made to a
child who was being
brought up.
But Anne waved the moral inconsequently aside and seized only
on the
delightful possibilities before it.
"Oh, I'm so glad she's
pretty. Next to being beautiful oneself--and
that's impossible in my case--it
would be best to have a beautiful bosom
friend. When I lived with Mrs. Thomas
she had a bookcase in her sitting
room with glass doors. There weren't any
books in it; Mrs. Thomas kept
her best china and her preserves there--when
she had any preserves to
keep. One of the doors was broken. Mr. Thomas
smashed it one night
when he was slightly intoxicated. But the other was
whole and I used to
pretend that my reflection in it was another little girl
who lived in
it. I called her Katie Maurice, and we were very intimate. I
used to
talk to her by the hour, especially on Sunday, and tell her
everything.
Katie was the comfort and consolation of my life. We used to
pretend
that the bookcase was enchanted and that if I only knew the spell
I
could open the door and step right into the room where Katie
Maurice
lived, instead of into Mrs. Thomas' shelves of preserves and china.
And
then Katie Maurice would have taken me by the hand and led me out into
a
wonderful place, all flowers and sunshine and fairies, and we would
have
lived there happy for ever after. When I went to live with Mrs.
Hammond
it just broke my heart to leave Katie Maurice. She felt it
dreadfully,
too, I know she did, for she was crying when she kissed me
good-bye
through the bookcase door. There was no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's.
But
just up the river a little way from the house there was a long
green
little valley, and the loveliest echo lived there. It echoed back
every
word you said, even if you didn't talk a bit loud. So I imagined that
it
was a little girl called Violetta and we were great friends and I
loved
her almost as well as I loved Katie Maurice--not quite, but almost,
you
know. The night before I went to the asylum I said good-bye to
Violetta,
and oh, her good-bye came back to me in such sad, sad tones. I
had
become so attached to her that I hadn't the heart to imagine a
bosom
friend at the asylum, even if there had been any scope for
imagination
there."
"I think it's just as well there wasn't," said
Marilla drily. "I
don't approve of such goings-on. You seem to half believe
your own
imaginations. It will be well for you to have a real live friend
to
put such nonsense out of your head. But don't let Mrs. Barry hear
you
talking about your Katie Maurices and your Violettas or she'll think
you
tell stories."
"Oh, I won't. I couldn't talk of them to
everybody--their memories are
too sacred for that. But I thought I'd like to
have you know about them.
Oh, look, here's a big bee just tumbled out of an
apple blossom. Just
think what a lovely place to live--in an apple blossom!
Fancy going to
sleep in it when the wind was rocking it. If I wasn't a human
girl I
think I'd like to be a bee and live among the
flowers."
"Yesterday you wanted to be a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I
think you
are very fickle minded. I told you to learn that prayer and not
talk.
But it seems impossible for you to stop talking if you've got
anybody
that will listen to you. So go up to your room and learn
it."
"Oh, I know it pretty nearly all now--all but just the last
line."
"Well, never mind, do as I tell you. Go to your room and finish
learning
it well, and stay there until I call you down to help me get
tea."
"Can I take the apple blossoms with me for company?" pleaded
Anne.
"No; you don't want your room cluttered up with flowers. You should
have
left them on the tree in the first place."
"I did feel a little
that way, too," said Anne. "I kind of felt I
shouldn't shorten their lovely
lives by picking them--I wouldn't want
to be picked if I were an apple
blossom. But the temptation was
IRRESISTIBLE. What do you do when you meet
with an irresistible
temptation?"
"Anne, did you hear me tell you to
go to your room?"
Anne sighed, retreated to the east gable, and sat down
in a chair by the
window.
"There--I know this prayer. I learned that
last sentence coming
upstairs. Now I'm going to imagine things into this room
so that they'll
always stay imagined. The floor is covered with a white
velvet carpet
with pink roses all over it and there are pink silk curtains at
the
windows. The walls are hung with gold and silver brocade tapestry.
The
furniture is mahogany. I never saw any mahogany, but it does sound
SO
luxurious. This is a couch all heaped with gorgeous silken
cushions,
pink and blue and crimson and gold, and I am reclining gracefully
on it.
I can see my reflection in that splendid big mirror hanging on the
wall.
I am tall and regal, clad in a gown of trailing white lace, with
a
pearl cross on my breast and pearls in my hair. My hair is of
midnight
darkness and my skin is a clear ivory pallor. My name is the
Lady
Cordelia Fitzgerald. No, it isn't--I can't make THAT seem
real."
She danced up to the little looking-glass and peered into it.
Her
pointed freckled face and solemn gray eyes peered back at
her.
"You're only Anne of Green Gables," she said earnestly, "and I see
you,
just as you are looking now, whenever I try to imagine I'm the
Lady
Cordelia. But it's a million times nicer to be Anne of Green Gables
than
Anne of nowhere in particular, isn't it?"
She bent forward,
kissed her reflection affectionately, and betook
herself to the open
window.
"Dear Snow Queen, good afternoon. And good afternoon dear
birches down
in the hollow. And good afternoon, dear gray house up on the
hill. I
wonder if Diana is to be my bosom friend. I hope she will, and I
shall
love her very much. But I must never quite forget Katie Maurice
and
Violetta. They would feel so hurt if I did and I'd hate to hurt
anybody's
feelings, even a little bookcase girl's or a little echo
girl's. I must be
careful to remember them and send them a kiss every
day."
Anne blew a
couple of airy kisses from her fingertips past the cherry
blossoms and then,
with her chin in her hands, drifted luxuriously out
on a sea of
daydreams.
CHAPTER IX. Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Properly
Horrified
Anne had been a fortnight at Green Gables before Mrs. Lynde
arrived to
inspect her. Mrs. Rachel, to do her justice, was not to blame for
this.
A severe and unseasonable attack of grippe had confined that good
lady
to her house ever since the occasion of her last visit to Green
Gables.
Mrs. Rachel was not often sick and had a well-defined contempt
for
people who were; but grippe, she asserted, was like no other illness
on
earth and could only be interpreted as one of the special
visitations
of Providence. As soon as her doctor allowed her to put her
foot
out-of-doors she hurried up to Green Gables, bursting with curiosity
to
see Matthew and Marilla's orphan, concerning whom all sorts of
stories
and suppositions had gone abroad in Avonlea.
Anne had made
good use of every waking moment of that fortnight. Already
she was acquainted
with every tree and shrub about the place. She had
discovered that a lane
opened out below the apple orchard and ran up
through a belt of woodland; and
she had explored it to its furthest end
in all its delicious vagaries of
brook and bridge, fir coppice and wild
cherry arch, corners thick with fern,
and branching byways of maple and
mountain ash.
She had made friends
with the spring down in the hollow--that wonderful
deep, clear icy-cold
spring; it was set about with smooth red sandstones
and rimmed in by great
palm-like clumps of water fern; and beyond it was
a log bridge over the
brook.
That bridge led Anne's dancing feet up over a wooded hill beyond,
where
perpetual twilight reigned under the straight, thick-growing firs
and
spruces; the only flowers there were myriads of delicate "June
bells,"
those shyest and sweetest of woodland blooms, and a few pale,
aerial
starflowers, like the spirits of last year's blossoms.
Gossamers
glimmered like threads of silver among the trees and the fir boughs
and
tassels seemed to utter friendly speech.
All these raptured
voyages of exploration were made in the odd half
hours which she was allowed
for play, and Anne talked Matthew and
Marilla half-deaf over her discoveries.
Not that Matthew complained, to
be sure; he listened to it all with a
wordless smile of enjoyment on his
face; Marilla permitted the "chatter"
until she found herself becoming
too interested in it, whereupon she always
promptly quenched Anne by a
curt command to hold her tongue.
Anne was
out in the orchard when Mrs. Rachel came, wandering at her
own sweet will
through the lush, tremulous grasses splashed with ruddy
evening sunshine; so
that good lady had an excellent chance to talk
her illness fully over,
describing every ache and pulse beat with
such evident enjoyment that Marilla
thought even grippe must bring its
compensations. When details were exhausted
Mrs. Rachel introduced the
real reason of her call.
"I've been hearing
some surprising things about you and Matthew."
"I don't suppose you are
any more surprised than I am myself," said
Marilla. "I'm getting over my
surprise now."
"It was too bad there was such a mistake," said Mrs.
Rachel
sympathetically. "Couldn't you have sent her back?"
"I suppose
we could, but we decided not to. Matthew took a fancy to her.
And I must say
I like her myself--although I admit she has her faults.
The house seems a
different place already. She's a real bright little
thing."
Marilla
said more than she had intended to say when she began, for she
read
disapproval in Mrs. Rachel's expression.
"It's a great responsibility
you've taken on yourself," said that
lady gloomily, "especially when you've
never had any experience with
children. You don't know much about her or her
real disposition, I
suppose, and there's no guessing how a child like that
will turn out.
But I don't want to discourage you I'm sure,
Marilla."
"I'm not feeling discouraged," was Marilla's dry response,
"when I make
up my mind to do a thing it stays made up. I suppose you'd like
to see
Anne. I'll call her in."
Anne came running in presently, her
face sparkling with the delight of
her orchard rovings; but, abashed at
finding the delight herself in
the unexpected presence of a stranger, she
halted confusedly inside
the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little
creature in the short
tight wincey dress she had worn from the asylum, below
which her thin
legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous
and
obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair
into
over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that
moment.
"Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure and
certain,"
was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of
those
delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking
their
mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely,
Marilla.
Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart,
did
any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come
here,
child, I say."
Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel
expected. With one
bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs.
Rachel, her
face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole
slender form
trembling from head to foot.
"I hate you," she cried in a
choked voice, stamping her foot on the
floor. "I hate you--I hate you--I hate
you--" a louder stamp with each
assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me
skinny and ugly? How dare
you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude,
impolite, unfeeling
woman!"
"Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in
consternation.
But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head
up, eyes
blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her
like
an atmosphere.
"How dare you say such things about me?" she
repeated vehemently. "How
would you like to have such things said about you?
How would you like
to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't
a spark of
imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by
saying
so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were
ever
hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll
NEVER
forgive you for it, never, never!"
Stamp! Stamp!
"Did
anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified
Mrs.
Rachel.
"Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up,"
said Marilla,
recovering her powers of speech with difficulty.
Anne,
bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the
tins on
the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the
hall and up
the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that
the door of the
east gable had been shut with equal vehemence.
"Well, I don't envy you
your job bringing THAT up, Marilla," said Mrs.
Rachel with unspeakable
solemnity.
Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology
or
deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself then and
ever
afterwards.
"You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks,
Rachel."
"Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that you are upholding
her in
such a terrible display of temper as we've just seen?" demanded
Mrs.
Rachel indignantly.
"No," said Marilla slowly, "I'm not trying to
excuse her. She's been
very naughty and I'll have to give her a talking to
about it. But we
must make allowances for her. She's never been taught what
is right. And
you WERE too hard on her, Rachel."
Marilla could not
help tacking on that last sentence, although she was
again surprised at
herself for doing it. Mrs. Rachel got up with an air
of offended
dignity.
"Well, I see that I'll have to be very careful what I say after
this,
Marilla, since the fine feelings of orphans, brought from
goodness
knows where, have to be considered before anything else. Oh, no, I'm
not
vexed--don't worry yourself. I'm too sorry for you to leave any room
for
anger in my mind. You'll have your own troubles with that child.
But
if you'll take my advice--which I suppose you won't do, although
I've
brought up ten children and buried two--you'll do that 'talking to'
you
mention with a fair-sized birch switch. I should think THAT would be
the
most effective language for that kind of a child. Her temper matches
her
hair I guess. Well, good evening, Marilla. I hope you'll come down
to
see me often as usual. But you can't expect me to visit here again in
a
hurry, if I'm liable to be flown at and insulted in such a fashion.
It's
something new in MY experience."
Whereat Mrs. Rachel swept out
and away--if a fat woman who always
waddled COULD be said to sweep away--and
Marilla with a very solemn face
betook herself to the east gable.
On
the way upstairs she pondered uneasily as to what she ought to do.
She felt
no little dismay over the scene that had just been enacted.
How unfortunate
that Anne should have displayed such temper before Mrs.
Rachel Lynde, of all
people! Then Marilla suddenly became aware of an
uncomfortable and rebuking
consciousness that she felt more humiliation
over this than sorrow over the
discovery of such a serious defect
in Anne's disposition. And how was she to
punish her? The amiable
suggestion of the birch switch--to the efficiency of
which all of Mrs.
Rachel's own children could have borne smarting
testimony--did not
appeal to Marilla. She did not believe she could whip a
child. No,
some other method of punishment must be found to bring Anne to a
proper
realization of the enormity of her offense.
Marilla found Anne
face downward on her bed, crying bitterly, quite
oblivious of muddy boots on
a clean counterpane.
"Anne," she said not ungently.
No
answer.
"Anne," with greater severity, "get off that bed this minute and
listen
to what I have to say to you."
Anne squirmed off the bed and
sat rigidly on a chair beside it, her face
swollen and tear-stained and her
eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor.
"This is a nice way for you to
behave. Anne! Aren't you ashamed of
yourself?"
"She hadn't any right
to call me ugly and redheaded," retorted Anne,
evasive and
defiant.
"You hadn't any right to fly into such a fury and talk the way
you did
to her, Anne. I was ashamed of you--thoroughly ashamed of you.
I
wanted you to behave nicely to Mrs. Lynde, and instead of that you
have
disgraced me. I'm sure I don't know why you should lose your temper
like
that just because Mrs. Lynde said you were red-haired and homely.
You
say it yourself often enough."
"Oh, but there's such a difference
between saying a thing yourself and
hearing other people say it," wailed
Anne. "You may know a thing is
so, but you can't help hoping other people
don't quite think it is. I
suppose you think I have an awful temper, but I
couldn't help it. When
she said those things something just rose right up in
me and choked me.
I HAD to fly out at her."
"Well, you made a fine
exhibition of yourself I must say. Mrs. Lynde
will have a nice story to tell
about you everywhere--and she'll tell
it, too. It was a dreadful thing for
you to lose your temper like that,
Anne."
"Just imagine how you would
feel if somebody told you to your face that
you were skinny and ugly,"
pleaded Anne tearfully.
An old remembrance suddenly rose up before
Marilla. She had been a very
small child when she had heard one aunt say of
her to another, "What a
pity she is such a dark, homely little thing."
Marilla was every day of
fifty before the sting had gone out of that
memory.
"I don't say that I think Mrs. Lynde was exactly right in saying
what
she did to you, Anne," she admitted in a softer tone. "Rachel is
too
outspoken. But that is no excuse for such behavior on your part.
She
was a stranger and an elderly person and my visitor--all three very
good
reasons why you should have been respectful to her. You were rude
and
saucy and"--Marilla had a saving inspiration of punishment--"you must
go
to her and tell her you are very sorry for your bad temper and ask
her
to forgive you."
"I can never do that," said Anne determinedly and
darkly. "You can
punish me in any way you like, Marilla. You can shut me up
in a dark,
damp dungeon inhabited by snakes and toads and feed me only on
bread and
water and I shall not complain. But I cannot ask Mrs. Lynde to
forgive me." |
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