Marilla said nothing to Matthew
about the affair that evening;
but when Anne proved still refractory
the next morning an explanation
had to be made to account for
her absence from the breakfast
table. Marilla told Matthew the
whole story, taking pains to
impress him with a due sense
of the enormity of Anne's behavior.
"It's a good thing Rachel Lynde
got a calling down; she's a meddlesome
old gossip," was Matthew's consolatory
rejoinder.
"Matthew Cuthbert,
I'm astonished at you. You
know that Anne's
behavior was dreadful, and yet
you take her part! I suppose
you'll be saying next thing that
she oughtn't to be punished at
all!"
"Well now--no--not exactly," said
Matthew uneasily. I reckon she
ought to be punished a little.
But don't be too hard on her,
Marilla. Recollect she hasn't
ever had anyone to teach her
right. You're--you're going to
give her something to eat, aren't
you?"
"When did you ever hear of
me starving people into good
behavior?" demanded Marilla indignantly. "She'll
have her meals regular, and I'll
carry them up to her myself.
But she'll stay up there until
she's willing to apologize to
Mrs. Lynde, and that's final,
Matthew."
Breakfast, dinner, and supper
were very silent meals--for Anne
still remained obdurate. After
each meal Marilla carried a well-filled
tray to the east gable and brought
it down later on not noticeably
depleted. Matthew eyed its last
descent with a troubled eye.
Had Anne eaten anything at all?
When Marilla went out that
evening to bring the cows from
the back pasture, Matthew, who
had been hanging about the barns
and watching, slipped into the
house with the air of a burglar
and crept upstairs. As a general
thing Matthew gravitated between
the kitchen and the little bedroom
off the hall where he slept;
once in a while he ventured uncomfortably
into the parlor or sitting room
when the minister came to tea.
But he had never been upstairs
in his own house since the spring
he helped Marilla paper the spare
bedroom, and that was four years
ago.
He tiptoed along the hall and
stood for several minutes outside
the door of the east gable before
he summoned courage to tap on
it with his fingers and then
open the door to peep in.
Anne was sitting on the yellow
chair by the window gazing mournfully
out into the garden. Very small
and unhappy she looked, and Matthew's
heart smote him. He softly closed
the door and tiptoed over to
her.
"Anne," he whispered, as if
afraid of being overheard, "how
are you making it, Anne?"
Anne smiled wanly.
"Pretty well.
I imagine a good deal, and
that helps to pass
the time. Of course, it's rather
lonesome. But then, I may as
well get used to that."
Anne smiled again, bravely
facing the long years of solitary
imprisonment before her.
Matthew recollected
that he must say what he had
come to
say without loss of time, lest
Marilla return prematurely. "Well
now, Anne, don't you think you'd
better do it and have it over
with?" he whispered. "It'll have
to be done sooner or later, you
know, for Marilla's a dreadful
deter- mined woman--dreadful
determined, Anne. Do it right
off, I say, and have it over."
"Do you mean
apologize to Mrs. Lynde?"
"Yes--apologize--that's the
very word," said Matthew eagerly. "Just
smooth it over so to speak. That's
what I was trying to get at."
"I suppose I could do it to
oblige you," said Anne thoughtfully. "It
would be true enough to say I
am sorry, because I AM sorry
now. I wasn't a bit sorry last
night. I was mad clear through,
and I stayed mad all night. I
know I did because I woke up
three times and I was just furious
every time. But this morning
it was over. I wasn't in a temper
anymore--and it left a dreadful
sort of goneness, too. I felt
so ashamed of myself. But I just
couldn't think of going and telling
Mrs. Lynde so. It would be so
humili- ating. I made up my mind
I'd stay shut up here forever
rather than do that. But still--I'd
do anything for you--if you really
want me to--"
"Well now,
of course I do. It's terrible
lonesome downstairs
without you. Just go and smooth
things over-- that's a good girl."
"Very well," said Anne resignedly. "I'll
tell Marilla as soon as she comes
in I've repented."
"That's right--that's
right, Anne. But don't tell
Marilla
I said anything about it. She
might think I was putting my
oar in and I promised not to
do that."
"Wild horses won't drag the
secret from me," promised Anne
solemnly. "How would wild horses
drag a secret from a person anyhow?"
But Matthew
was gone, scared at his own
success. He fled hastily
to the remotest corner of the
horse pasture lest Marilla should
suspect what he had been up to.
Marilla herself, upon her return
to the house, was agreeably surprised
to hear a plaintive voice calling, "Marilla" over
the banisters.
"Well?" she
said, going into the hall.
"I'm sorry
I lost my temper and said rude
things, and I'm
willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde
so."
"Very well." Marilla's crispness
gave no sign of her relief. She
had been wondering what under
the canopy she should do if Anne
did not give in. "I'll take you
down after milking."
Accordingly, after milking,
behold Marilla and Anne walking
down the lane, the former erect
and triumphant, the latter drooping
and dejected. But halfway down
Anne's dejection vanished as
if by enchantment. She lifted
her head and stepped lightly
along, her eyes fixed on the
sunset sky and an air of subdued
exhilaration about her. Marilla
beheld the change disapprovingly.
This was no meek penitent such
as it behooved her to take into
the presence of the offended
Mrs. Lynde.
"What are you thinking of,
Anne?" she asked sharply.
"I'm imagining out what I must
say to Mrs. Lynde," answered
Anne dreamily.
This was satisfactory--or should
have been so. But Marilla could
not rid herself of the notion
that something in her scheme
of punishment was going askew.
Anne had no business to look
so rapt and radiant.
Rapt and radiant Anne continued
until they were in the very presence
of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting
knitting by her kitchen window.
Then the radiance vanished. Mournful
penitence appeared on every feature.
Before a word was spoken Anne
suddenly went down on her knees
before the astonished Mrs. Rachel
and held out her hands beseechingly.
"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so extremely
sorry," she said with a quiver
in her voice. "I could never
express all my sorrow, no, not
if I used up a whole dictionary.
You must just imagine it. I behaved
terribly to you--and I've disgraced
the dear friends, Matthew and
Marilla, who have let me stay
at Green Gables although I'm
not a boy. I'm a dreadfully wicked
and ungrateful girl, and I deserve
to be punished and cast out by
respectable people forever. It
was very wicked of me to fly
into a temper because you told
me the truth. It WAS the truth;
every word you said was true.
My hair is red and I'm freckled
and skinny and ugly. What I said
to you was true, too, but I shouldn't
have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde,
please, please, forgive me. If
you refuse it will be a lifelong
sorrow on a poor little orphan
girl would you, even if she had
a dreadful temper? Oh, I am sure
you wouldn't. Please say you
forgive me, Mrs. Lynde."
Anne clasped her hands together,
bowed her head, and waited for
the word of judgment.
There was no mistaking her
sincerity--it breathed in every
tone of her voice. Both Marilla
and Mrs. Lynde recognized its
unmistakable ring. But the former
under- stood in dismay that Anne
was actually enjoying her valley
of humiliation--was reveling
in the thoroughness of her abasement.
Where was the wholesome punishment
upon which she, Marilla, had
plumed herself? Anne had turned
it into a species of positive
pleasure.
Good Mrs. Lynde, not being
overburdened with perception,
did not see this. She only perceived
that Anne had made a very thorough
apology and all resentment vanished
from her kindly, if somewhat
officious, heart.
"There, there, get up, child," she
said heartily. "Of course I forgive
you. I guess I was a little too
hard on you, anyway. But I'm
such an outspoken person. You
just mustn't mind me, that's
what. It can't be denied your
hair is terrible red; but I knew
a girl once--went to school with
her, in fact--whose hair was
every mite as red as yours when
she was young, but when she grew
up it darkened to a real handsome
auburn. I wouldn't be a mite
surprised if yours did, too--not
a mite."
"Oh, Mrs. Lynde!" Anne drew
a long breath as she rose to
her feet. "You have given me
a hope. I shall always feel that
you are a benefactor. Oh, I could
endure anything if I only thought
my hair would be a handsome auburn
when I grew up. It would be so
much easier to be good if one's
hair was a handsome auburn, don't
you think? And now may I go out
into your garden and sit on that
bench under the apple-trees while
you and Marilla are talking?
There is so much more scope for
imagination out there."
"Laws, yes,
run along, child. And you can
pick a bouquet of
them white June lilies over in
the corner if you like."
As the door closed behind Anne
Mrs. Lynde got briskly up to
light a lamp.
"She's a real
odd little thing. Take this
chair, Marilla; it's
easier than the one you've got;
I just keep that for the hired
boy to sit on. Yes, she certainly
is an odd child, but there is
something kind of taking about
her after all. I don't feel so
surprised at you and Matthew
keeping her as I did--nor so
sorry for you, either. She may
turn out all right. Of course,
she has a queer way of expressing
herself-- a little too--well,
too kind of forcible, you know;
but she'll likely get over that
now that she's come to live among
civilized folks. And then, her
temper's pretty quick, I guess;
but there's one comfort, a child
that has a quick temper, just
blaze up and cool down, ain't
never likely to be sly or deceitful.
Preserve me from a sly child,
that's what. On the whole, Marilla,
I kind of like her."
When Marilla went home Anne
came out of the fragrant twilight
of the orchard with a sheaf of
white narcissi in her hands.
"I apologized pretty well,
didn't I?" she said proudly as
they went down the lane. "I thought
since I had to do it I might
as well do it thoroughly."
"You did it thoroughly, all
right enough," was Marilla's
comment. Marilla was dismayed
at finding herself inclined to
laugh over the recollection.
She had also an uneasy feeling
that she ought to scold Anne
for apologizing so well; but
then, that was ridiculous! She
compromised with her conscience
by saying severely:
"I hope you
won't have occasion to make
many more such apologies.
I hope you'll try to control
your temper now, Anne."
"That wouldn't be so hard if
people wouldn't twit me about
my looks," said Anne with a sigh. "I
don't get cross about other things;
but I'm SO tired of being twitted
about my hair and it just makes
me boil right over. Do you suppose
my hair will really be a handsome
auburn when I grow up?"
"You shouldn't
think so much about your looks,
Anne. I'm afraid
you are a very vain little girl."
"How can I be vain when I know
I'm homely?" protested Anne. "I
love pretty things; and I hate
to look in the glass and see
something that isn't pretty.
It makes me feel so sorrowful--just
as I feel when I look at any
ugly thing. I pity it because
it isn't beautiful."
"Handsome is as handsome does," quoted
Marilla. "I've had that said
to me before, but I have my doubts
about it," remarked skeptical
Anne, sniffing at her narcissi. "Oh,
aren't these flowers sweet! It
was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give
them to me. I have no hard feelings
against Mrs. Lynde now. It gives
you a lovely, comfortable feeling
to apologize and be forgiven,
doesn't it? Aren't the stars
bright tonight? If you could
live in a star, which one would
you pick? I'd like that lovely
clear big one away over there
above that dark hill."
"Anne, do hold your tongue." said
Marilla, thoroughly worn out
trying to follow the gyrations
of Anne's thoughts.
Anne said no more until they
turned into their own lane. A
little gypsy wind came down it
to meet them, laden with the
spicy perfume of young dew-wet
ferns. Far up in the shadows
a cheerful light gleamed out
through the trees from the kitchen
at Green Gables. Anne suddenly
came close to Marilla and slipped
her hand into the older woman's
hard palm.
"It's lovely to be going home
and know it's home," she said. "I
love Green Gables already, and
I never loved any place before.
No place ever seemed like home.
Oh, Marilla, I'm so happy. I
could pray right now and not
find it a bit hard."
Something warm and pleasant
welled up in Marilla's heart
at touch of that thin little
hand in her own--a throb of the
maternity she had missed, perhaps.
Its very unaccustomedness and
sweetness disturbed her. She
hastened to restore her sensations
to their normal calm by inculcating
a moral.
"If you'll
be a good girl you'll always
be happy, Anne. And you
should never find it hard to
say your prayers."
"Saying one's prayers isn't
exactly the same thing as praying," said
Anne meditatively. "But I'm going
to imagine that I'm the wind
that is blowing up there in those
tree tops. When I get tired of
the trees I'll imagine I'm gently
waving down here in the ferns--and
then I'll fly over to Mrs. Lynde's
garden and set the flowers dancing--and
then I'll go with one great swoop
over the clover field--and then
I'll blow over the Lake of Shining
Waters and ripple it all up into
little sparkling waves. Oh, there's
so much scope for imagination
in a wind! So I'll not talk any
more just now, Marilla."
"Thanks be to goodness for
that," breathed Marilla in devout
relief.
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