ON the Monday evening before
the picnic Marilla came down
from her room with a troubled
face.
"Anne," she said to that small
personage, who was shelling peas
by the spotless table and singing, "Nelly
of the Hazel Dell" with a vigor
and expression that did credit
to Diana's teaching, "did you
see anything of my amethyst brooch?
I thought I stuck it in my pincushion
when I came home from church
yesterday evening, but I can't
find it anywhere."
"I--I saw it this afternoon
when you were away at the Aid
Society," said Anne, a little
slowly. "I was passing your door
when I saw it on the cushion,
so I went in to look at it."
"Did you touch it?" said
Marilla sternly.
"Y-e-e-s," admitted Anne, "I
took it up and I pinned it on
my breast just to see how it
would look."
"You had no
business to do anything of
the sort. It's very
wrong in a little girl to meddle.
You shouldn't have gone into
my room in the first place and
you shouldn't have touched a
brooch that didn't belong to
you in the second. Where did
you put it?"
"Oh, I put
it back on the bureau. I hadn't
it on a minute. Truly,
I didn't mean to meddle, Marilla.
I didn't think about its being
wrong to go in and try on the
brooch; but I see now that it
was and I'll never do it again.
That's one good thing about me.
I never do the same naughty thing
twice."
"You didn't put it back," said
Marilla. "That brooch isn't anywhere
on the bureau. You've taken it
out or something, Anne."
"I did put it back," said Anne
quickly--pertly, Marilla thought. "I
don't just remember whether I
stuck it on the pincushion or
laid it in the china tray. But
I'm perfectly certain I put it
back."
"I'll go and have another look," said
Marilla, determining to be just. "If
you put that brooch back it's
there still. If it isn't I'll
know you didn't, that's all!"
Marilla went to her room and
made a thorough search, not only
over the bureau but in every
other place she thought the brooch
might possibly be. It was not
to be found and she returned
to the kitchen.
"Anne, the
brooch is gone. By your own
admission you were
the last person to handle it.
Now, what have you done with
it? Tell me the truth at once.
Did you take it out and lose
it?"
"No, I didn't," said Anne solemnly,
meeting Marilla's angry gaze
squarely. "I never took the brooch
out of your room and that is
the truth, if I was to be led
to the block for it--although
I'm not very certain what a block
is. So there, Marilla."
Anne's "so there" was
only intended to emphasize
her assertion,
but Marilla took it as a display
of defiance.
"I believe you are telling
me a falsehood, Anne," she said
sharply. "I know you are. There
now, don't say anything more
unless you are prepared to tell
the whole truth. Go to your room
and stay there until you are
ready to confess."
"Will I take the peas with
me?" said Anne meekly.
"No, I'll finish
shelling them myself. Do as
I bid you."
When Anne had gone Marilla
went about her evening tasks
in a very disturbed state of
mind. She was worried about her
valuable brooch. What if Anne
had lost it? And how wicked of
the child to deny having taken
it, when anybody could see she
must have! With such an innocent
face, too!
"I don't know what I wouldn't
sooner have had happen," thought
Marilla, as she nervously shelled
the peas. "Of course, I don't
suppose she meant to steal it
or anything like that. She's
just taken it to play with or
help along that imagination of
hers. She must have taken it,
that's clear, for there hasn't
been a soul in that room since
she was in it, by her own story,
until I went up tonight. And
the brooch is gone, there's nothing
surer. I suppose she has lost
it and is afraid to own up for
fear she'll be punished. It's
a dreadful thing to think she
tells falsehoods. It's a far
worse thing than her fit of temper.
It's a fearful responsibility
to have a child in your house
you can't trust. Slyness and
untruthfulness--that's what she
has displayed. I declare I feel
worse about that than about the
brooch. If she'd only have told
the truth about it I wouldn't
mind so much."
Marilla went to her room at
intervals all through the evening
and searched for the brooch,
without finding it. A bedtime
visit to the east gable produced
no result. Anne persisted in
denying that she knew anything
about the brooch but Marilla
was only the more firmly convinced
that she did.
She told Matthew the story
the next morning. Matthew was
confounded and puzzled; he could
not so quickly lose faith in
Anne but he had to admit that
circumstances were against her.
"You're sure it hasn't fell
down behind the bureau?" was
the only suggestion he could
offer.
"I've moved the bureau and
I've taken out the drawers and
I've looked in every crack and
cranny" was Marilla's positive
answer. "The brooch is gone and
that child has taken it and lied
about it. That's the plain, ugly
truth, Matthew Cuthbert, and
we might as well look it in the
face."
"Well now, what are you going
to do about it?" Matthew asked
forlornly, feeling secretly thankful
that Marilla and not he had to
deal with the situation. He felt
no desire to put his oar in this
time.
"She'll stay in her room until
she confesses," said Marilla
grimly, remembering the success
of this method in the former
case. "Then we'll see. Perhaps
we'll be able to find the brooch
if she'll only tell where she
took it; but in any case she'll
have to be severely punished,
Matthew."
"Well now, you'll have to punish
her," said Matthew, reaching
for his hat. "I've nothing to
do with it, remember. You warned
me off yourself."
Marilla felt
deserted by everyone. She could
not even go to Mrs.
Lynde for advice. She went up
to the east gable with a very
serious face and left it with
a face more serious still. Anne
steadfastly refused to confess.
She persisted in asserting that
she had not taken the brooch.
The child had evidently been
crying and Marilla felt a pang
of pity which she sternly repressed.
By night she was, as she expressed
it, "beat out."
"You'll stay in this room until
you confess, Anne. You can make
up your mind to that," she said
firmly.
"But the picnic is tomorrow,
Marilla," cried Anne. "You won't
keep me from going to that, will
you? You'll just let me out for
the afternoon, won't you? Then
I'll stay here as long as you
like AFTERWARDS cheerfully. But
I MUST go to the picnic."
"You'll not
go to picnics nor anywhere
else until you've confessed,
Anne."
"Oh, Marilla," gasped
Anne.
But Marilla had gone out and
shut the door.
Wednesday morning dawned as
bright and fair as if expressly
made to order for the picnic.
Birds sang around Green Gables;
the Madonna lilies in the garden
sent out whiffs of perfume that
entered in on viewless winds
at every door and window, and
wandered through halls and rooms
like spirits of benediction.
The birches in the hollow waved
joyful hands as if watching for
Anne's usual morning greeting
from the east gable. But Anne
was not at her window. When Marilla
took her breakfast up to her
she found the child sitting primly
on her bed, pale and resolute,
with tight-shut lips and gleaming
eyes.
"Marilla, I'm
ready to confess."
"Ah!" Marilla laid down her
tray. Once again her method had
succeeded; but her success was
very bitter to her. "Let me hear
what you have to say then, Anne."
"I took the amethyst brooch," said
Anne, as if repeating a lesson
she had learned. "I took it just
as you said. I didn't mean to
take it when I went in. But it
did look so beautiful, Marilla,
when I pinned it on my breast
that I was overcome by an irresistible
temptation. I imagined how perfectly
thrilling it would be to take
it to Idlewild and play I was
the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald.
It would be so much easier to
imagine I was the Lady Cordelia
if I had a real amethyst brooch
on. Diana and I make necklaces
of roseberries but what are roseberries
compared to amethysts? So I took
the brooch. I thought I could
put it back before you came home.
I went all the way around by
the road to lengthen out the
time. When I was going over the
bridge across the Lake of Shining
Waters I took the brooch off
to have another look at it. Oh,
how it did shine in the sunlight!
And then, when I was leaning
over the bridge, it just slipped
through my fingers--so--and went
down--down--down, all purplysparkling,
and sank forevermore beneath
the Lake of Shining Waters. And
that's the best I can do at confessing,
Marilla."
Marilla felt hot anger surge
up into her heart again. This
child had taken and lost her
treasured amethyst brooch and
now sat there calmly reciting
the details thereof without the
least apparent compunction or
repentance.
"Anne, this is terrible," she
said, trying to speak calmly. "You
are the very wickedest girl I
ever heard of"
"Yes, I suppose I am," agreed
Anne tranquilly. "And I know
I'll have to be punished. It'll
be your duty to punish me, Marilla.
Won't you please get it over
right off because I'd like to
go to the picnic with nothing
on my mind."
"Picnic, indeed!
You'll go to no picnic today,
Anne Shirley.
That shall be your punishment.
And it isn't half severe enough
either for what you've done!"
"Not go to the picnic!" Anne
sprang to her feet and clutched
Marilla's hand. "But you PROMISED
me I might! Oh, Marilla, I must
go to the picnic. That was why
I confessed. Punish me any way
you like but that. Oh, Marilla,
please, please, let me go to
the picnic. Think of the ice
cream! For anything you know
I may never have a chance to
taste ice cream again."
Marilla disengaged Anne's clinging
hands stonily.
"You needn't
plead, Anne. You are not going
to the picnic and
that's final. No, not a word."
Anne realized that Marilla
was not to be moved. She clasped
her hands together, gave a piercing
shriek, and then flung herself
face downward on the bed, crying
and writhing in an utter abandonment
of disappointment and despair.
"For the land's sake!" gasped
Marilla, hastening from the room. "I
believe the child is crazy. No
child in her senses would behave
as she does. If she isn't she's
utterly bad. Oh dear, I'm afraid
Rachel was right from the first.
But I've put my hand to the plow
and I won't look back."
That was a dismal morning.
Marilla worked fiercely and scrubbed
the porch floor and the dairy
shelves when she could find nothing
else to do. Neither the shelves
nor the porch needed it--but
Marilla did. Then she went out
and raked the yard.
When dinner was ready she went
to the stairs and called Anne.
A tear-stained face appeared,
looking tragically over the banisters.
"Come down
to your dinner, Anne."
"I don't want any dinner, Marilla," said
Anne, sobbingly. "I couldn't
eat anything. My heart is broken.
You'll feel remorse of conscience
someday, I expect, for breaking
it, Marilla, but I forgive you.
Remember when the time comes
that I forgive you. But please
don't ask me to eat anything,
especially boiled pork and greens.
Boiled pork and greens are so
unromantic when one is in affliction."
Exasperated, Marilla returned
to the kitchen and poured out
her tale of woe to Matthew, who,
between his sense of justice
and his unlawful sympathy with
Anne, was a miserable man.
"Well now, she shouldn't have
taken the brooch, Marilla, or
told stories about it," he admitted,
mournfuly surveying his plateful
of unromantic pork and greens
as if he, like Anne, thought
it a food unsuited to crises
of feeling, "but she's such a
little thing--such an interesting
little thing. Don't you think
it's pretty rough not to let
her go to the picnic when she's
so set on it?"
"Matthew Cuthbert,
I'm amazed at you. I think
I've let her
off entirely too easy. And she
doesn't appear to realize how
wicked she's been at all--that's
what worries me most. If she'd
really felt sorry it wouldn't
be so bad. And you don't seem
to realize it, neither; you're
making excuses for her all the
time to yourself--I can see that."
"Well now, she's such a little
thing," feebly reiterated Matthew. "And
there should be allowances made,
Marilla. You know she's never
had any bringing up."
"Well, she's having it now" retorted
Marilla.
The retort silenced Matthew
if it did not convince him. That
dinner was a very dismal meal.
The only cheerful thing about
it was Jerry Buote, the hired
boy, and Marilla resented his
cheerfulness as a personal insult.
When her dishes were washed
and her bread sponge set and
her hens fed Marilla remembered
that she had noticed a small
rent in her best black lace shawl
when she had taken it off on
Monday afternoon on returning
from the Ladies' Aid.
She would go and mend it. The
shawl was in a box in her trunk.
As Marilla lifted it out, the
sunlight, falling through the
vines that clustered thickly
about the window, struck upon
something caught in the shawl--something
that glittered and sparkled in
facets of violet light. Marilla
snatched at it with a gasp. It
was the amethyst brooch, hanging
to a thread of the lace by its
catch!
"Dear life and heart," said
Marilla blankly, "what does this
mean? Here's my brooch safe and
sound that I thought was at the
bottom of Barry's pond. Whatever
did that girl mean by saying
she took it and lost it? I declare
I believe Green Gables is bewitched.
I remember now that when I took
off my shawl Monday afternoon
I laid it on the bureau for a
minute. I suppose the brooch
got caught in it somehow. Well!"
Marilla betook herself to the
east gable, brooch in hand. Anne
had cried herself out and was
sitting dejectedly by the window.
"Anne Shirley," said Marilla
solemnly, "I've just found my
brooch hanging to my black lace
shawl. Now I want to know what
that rigmarole you told me this
morning meant."
"Why, you said you'd keep me
here until I confessed," returned
Anne wearily, "and so I decided
to confess because I was bound
to get to the picnic. I thought
out a confession last night after
I went to bed and made it as
interesting as I could. And I
said it over and over so that
I wouldn't forget it. But you
wouldn't let me go to the picnic
after all, so all my trouble
was wasted."
Marilla had to laugh in spite
of herself. But her conscience
pricked her.
"Anne, you
do beat all! But I was wrong--I
see that now.
I shouldn't have doubted your
word when I'd never known you
to tell a story. Of course, it
wasn't right for you to confess
to a thing you hadn't done--it
was very wrong to do so. But
I drove you to it. So if you'll
forgive me, Anne, I'll forgive
you and we'll start square again.
And now get yourself ready for
the picnic."
Anne flew up like a rocket.
"Oh, Marilla,
isn't it too late?"
"No, it's only
two o'clock. They won't be
more than well
gathered yet and it'll be an
hour before they have tea. Wash
your face and comb your hair
and put on your gingham. I'll
fill a basket for you. There's
plenty of stuff baked in the
house. And I'll get Jerry to
hitch up the sorrel and drive
you down to the picnic ground."
"Oh, Marilla," exclaimed Anne,
flying to the washstand. "Five
minutes ago I was so miserable
I was wishing I'd never been
born and now I wouldn't change
places with an angel!"
That night a thoroughly happy,
completely tired-out Anne returned
to Green Gables in a state of
beatification impossible to describe.
"Oh, Marilla,
I've had a perfectly scrumptious
time. Scrumptious
is a new word I learned today.
I heard Mary Alice Bell use it.
Isn't it very expressive? Everything
was lovely. We had a splendid
tea and then Mr. Harmon Andrews
took us all for a row on the
Lake of Shining Waters--six of
us at a time. And Jane Andrews
nearly fell overboard. She was
leaning out to pick water lilies
and if Mr. Andrews hadn't caught
her by her sash just in the nick
of time she'd fallen in and prob'ly
been drowned. I wish it had been
me. It would have been such a
romantic experience to have been
nearly drowned. It would be such
a thrilling tale to tell. And
we had the ice cream. Words fail
me to describe that ice cream.
Marilla, I assure you it was
sublime."
That evening Marilla told the
whole story to Matthew over her
stocking basket.
"I'm willing to own up that
I made a mistake," she concluded
candidly, "but I've learned a
lesson. I have to laugh when
I think of Anne's `confession,'
although I suppose I shouldn't
for it really was a falsehood.
But it doesn't seem as bad as
the other would have been, somehow,
and anyhow I'm responsible for
it. That child is hard to understand
in some respects. But I believe
she'll turn out all right yet.
And there's one thing certain,
no house will ever be dull that
she's in."
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