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 unseason -able 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 halfdeaf
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, tremu- lous 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 redhaired 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."
"We're not in the habit of
shutting people up in dark damp
dungeons," said Marilla drily, "especially
as they're rather scarce in Avonlea.
But apologize to Mrs. Lynde you
must and shall and you'll stay
here in your room until you can
tell me you're willing to do
it."
"I shall have to stay here
forever then," said Anne mournfully, "because
I can't tell Mrs. Lynde I'm sorry
I said those things to her. How
can I? I'm NOT sorry. I'm sorry
I've vexed you; but I'm GLAD
I told her just what I did. It
was a great satisfaction. I can't
say I'm sorry when I'm not, can
I? I can't even IMAGINE I'm sorry."
"Perhaps your imagination will
be in better working order by
the morning," said Marilla, rising
to depart. "You'll have the night
to think over your conduct in
and come to a better frame of
mind. You said you would try
to be a very good girl if we
kept you at Green Gables, but
I must say it hasn't seemed very
much like it this evening."
Leaving this Parthian shaft
to rankle in Anne's stormy bosom,
Marilla descended to the kitchen,
grievously troubled in mind and
vexed in soul. She was as angry
with herself as with Anne, because,
whenever she recalled Mrs. Rachel's
dumbfounded countenance her lips
twitched with amusement and she
felt a most reprehensible desire
to laugh.
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