Marilla laid her knitting on
her lap and leaned back in her
chair. Her eyes were tired, and
she thought vaguely that she
must see about having her glasses
changed the next time she went
to town, for her eyes had grown
tired very often of late.
It was nearly dark, for the
full November twilight had fallen
around Green Gables, and the
only light in the kitchen came
from the dancing red flames in
the stove.
Anne was curled up Turk-fashion
on the hearthrug, gazing into
that joyous glow where the sunshine
of a hundred summers was being
distilled from the maple cordwood.
She had been reading, but her
book had slipped to the floor,
and now she was dreaming, with
a smile on her parted lips. Glittering
castles in Spain were shaping
themselves out of the mists and
rainbows of her lively fancy;
adventures wonderful and enthralling
were happening to her in cloudland--adventures
that always turned out triumphantly
and never involved her in scrapes
like those of actual life.
Marilla looked at her with
a tenderness that would never
have been suffered to reveal
itself in any clearer light than
that soft mingling of fireshine
and shadow. The lesson of a love
that should display itself easily
in spoken word and open look
was one Marilla could never learn.
But she had learned to love this
slim, gray-eyed girl with an
affection all the deeper and
stronger from its very undemonstrativeness.
Her love made her afraid of being
unduly indulgent, indeed. She
had an uneasy feeling that it
was rather sinful to set one's
heart so intensely on any human
creature as she had set hers
on Anne, and perhaps she performed
a sort of unconscious penance
for this by being stricter and
more critical than if the girl
had been less dear to her. Certainly
Anne herself had no idea how
Marilla loved her. She sometimes
thought wistfully that Marilla
was very hard to please and distinctly
lacking in sympathy and understanding.
But she always checked the thought
reproachfully, remembering what
she owed to Marilla.
"Anne," said Marilla abruptly, "Miss
Stacy was here this afternoon
when you were out with Diana."
Anne came back from her other
world with a start and a sigh.
"Was she? Oh,
I'm so sorry I wasn't in. Why
didn't you call
me, Marilla? Diana and I were
only over in the Haunted Wood.
It's lovely in the woods now.
All the little wood things--the
ferns and the satin leaves and
the crackerberries--have gone
to sleep, just as if somebody
had tucked them away until spring
under a blanket of leaves. I
think it was a little gray fairy
with a rainbow scarf that came
tiptoeing along the last moonlight
night and did it. Diana wouldn't
say much about that, though.
Diana has never forgotten the
scolding her mother gave her
about imagining ghosts into the
Haunted Wood. It had a very bad
effect on Diana's imagination.
It blighted it. Mrs. Lynde says
Myrtle Bell is a blighted being.
I asked Ruby Gillis why Myrtle
was blighted, and Ruby said she
guessed it was because her young
man had gone back on her. Ruby
Gillis thinks of nothing but
young men, and the older she
gets the worse she is. Young
men are all very well in their
place, but it doesn't do to drag
them into everything, does it?
Diana and I are thinking seriously
of promising each other that
we will never marry but be nice
old maids and live together forever.
Diana hasn't quite made up her
mind though, because she thinks
perhaps it would be nobler to
marry some wild, dashing, wicked
young man and reform him. Diana
and I talk a great deal about
serious subjects now, you know.
We feel that we are so much older
than we used to be that it isn't
becoming to talk of childish
matters. It's such a solemn thing
to be almost fourteen, Marilla.
Miss Stacy took all us girls
who are in our teens down to
the brook last Wednesday, and
talked to us about it. She said
we couldn't be too careful what
habits we formed and what ideals
we acquired in our teens, because
by the time we were twenty our
characters would be developed
and the foundation laid for our
whole future life. And she said
if the foundation was shaky we
could never build anything really
worth while on it. Diana and
I talked the matter over coming
home from school. We felt extremely
solemn, Marilla. And we decided
that we would try to be very
careful indeed and form respectable
habits and learn all we could
and be as sensible as possible,
so that by the time we were twenty
our characters would be properly
developed. It's perfectly appalling
to think of being twenty, Marilla.
It sounds so fearfully old and
grown up. But why was Miss Stacy
here this afternoon?"
"That is what
I want to tell you, Anne, if
you'll ever give
me a chance to get a word in
edgewise. She was talking about
you."
"About me?" Anne
looked rather scared. Then
she flushed and
exclaimed:
"Oh, I know
what she was saying. I meant
to tell you, Marilla,
honestly I did, but I forgot.
Miss Stacy caught me reading
Ben Hur in school yesterday afternoon
when I should have been studying
my Canadian history. Jane Andrews
lent it to me. I was reading
it at dinner hour, and I had
just got to the chariot race
when school went in. I was simply
wild to know how it turned out--
although I felt sure Ben Hur
must win, because it wouldn't
be poetical justice if he didn't--so
I spread the history open on
my desk lid and then tucked Ben
Hur between the desk and my knee.
I just looked as if I were studying
Canadian history, you know, while
all the while I was reveling
in Ben Hur. I was so interested
in it that I never noticed Miss
Stacy coming down the aisle until
all at once I just looked up
and there she was looking down
at me, so reproachful-like. I
can't tell you how ashamed I
felt, Marilla, especially when
I heard Josie Pye giggling. Miss
Stacy took Ben Hur away, but
she never said a word then. She
kept me in at recess and talked
to me. She said I had done very
wrong in two respects. First,
I was wasting the time I ought
to have put on my studies; and
secondly, I was deceiving my
teacher in trying to make it
appear I was reading a history
when it was a storybook instead.
I had never realized until that
moment, Marilla, that what I
was doing was deceitful. I was
shocked. I cried bitterly, and
asked Miss Stacy to forgive me
and I'd never do such a thing
again; and I offered to do penance
by never so much as looking at
Ben Hur for a whole week, not
even to see how the chariot race
turned out. But Miss Stacy said
she wouldn't require that, and
she forgave me freely. So I think
it wasn't very kind of her to
come up here to you about it
after all."
"Miss Stacy
never mentioned such a thing
to me, Anne, and
its only your guilty conscience
that's the matter with you. You
have no business to be taking
storybooks to school. You read
too many novels anyhow. When
I was a girl I wasn't so much
as allowed to look at a novel."
"Oh, how can you call Ben Hur
a novel when it's really such
a religious book?" protested
Anne. "Of course it's a little
too exciting to be proper reading
for Sunday, and I only read it
on weekdays. And I never read
ANY book now unless either Miss
Stacy or Mrs. Allan thinks it
is a proper book for a girl thirteen
and three-quarters to read. Miss
Stacy made me promise that. She
found me reading a book one day
called, The Lurid Mystery of
the Haunted Hall. It was one
Ruby Gillis had lent me, and,
oh, Marilla, it was so fascinating
and creepy. It just curdled the
blood in my veins. But Miss Stacy
said it was a very silly, unwholesome
book, and she asked me not to
read any more of it or any like
it. I didn't mind promising not
to read any more like it, but
it was AGONIZING to give back
that book without knowing how
it turned out. But my love for
Miss Stacy stood the test and
I did. It's really wonderful,
Marilla, what you can do when
you're truly anxious to please
a certain person."
"Well, I guess I'll light the
lamp and get to work," said Marilla. "I
see plainly that you don't want
to hear what Miss Stacy had to
say. You're more interested in
the sound of your own tongue
than in anything else."
"Oh, indeed, Marilla, I do
want to hear it," cried Anne
contritely. "I won't say another
word--not one. I know I talk
too much, but I am really trying
to overcome it, and although
I say far too much, yet if you
only knew how many things I want
to say and don't, you'd give
me some credit for it. Please
tell me, Marilla."
"Well, Miss
Stacy wants to organize a class
among her advanced
students who mean to study for
the entrance examination into
Queen's. She intends to give
them extra lessons for an hour
after school. And she came to
ask Matthew and me if we would
like to have you join it. What
do you think about it yourself,
Anne? Would you like to go to
Queen's and pass for a teacher?"
"Oh, Marilla!" Anne straightened
to her knees and clasped her
hands. "It's been the dream of
my life--that is, for the last
six months, ever since Ruby and
Jane began to talk of studying
for the Entrance. But I didn't
say anything about it, because
I supposed it would be perfectly
useless. I'd love to be a teacher.
But won't it be dreadfully expensive?
Mr. Andrews says it cost him
one hundred and fifty dollars
to put Prissy through, and Prissy
wasn't a dunce in geometry."
"I guess you
needn't worry about that part
of it. When Matthew
and I took you to bring up we
resolved we would do the best
we could for you and give you
a good education. I believe in
a girl being fitted to earn her
own living whether she ever has
to or not. You'll always have
a home at Green Gables as long
as Matthew and I are here, but
nobody knows what is going to
happen in this uncertain world,
and it's just as well to be prepared.
So you can join the Queen's class
if you like, Anne."
"Oh, Marilla, thank you." Anne
flung her arms about Marilla's
waist and looked up earnestly
into her face. "I'm extremely
grateful to you and Matthew.
And I'll study as hard as I can
and do my very best to be a credit
to you. I warn you not to expect
much in geometry, but I think
I can hold my own in anything
else if I work hard."
"I dare say you'll get along
well enough. Miss Stacy says
you are bright and diligent." Not
for worlds would Marilla have
told Anne just what Miss Stacy
had said about her; that would
have been to pamper vanity. "You
needn't rush to any extreme of
killing yourself over your books.
There is no hurry. You won't
be ready to try the Entrance
for a year and a half yet. But
it's well to begin in time and
be thoroughly grounded, Miss
Stacy says."
"I shall take more interest
than ever in my studies now," said
Anne blissfully, "because I have
a purpose in life. Mr. Allan
says everybody should have a
purpose in life and pursue it
faithfully. Only he says we must
first make sure that it is a
worthy purpose. I would call
it a worthy purpose to want to
be a teacher like Miss Stacy,
wouldn't you, Marilla? I think
it's a very noble profession."
The Queen's class was organized
in due time. Gilbert Blythe,
Anne Shirley, Ruby Gillis, Jane
Andrews, Josie Pye, Charlie Sloane,
and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson
joined it. Diana Barry did not,
as her parents did not intend
to send her to Queen's. This
seemed nothing short of a calamity
to Anne. Never, since the night
on which Minnie May had had the
croup, had she and Diana been
separated in anything. On the
evening when the Queen's class
first remained in school for
the extra lessons and Anne saw
Diana go slowly out with the
others, to walk home alone through
the Birch Path and Violet Vale,
it was all the former could do
to keep her seat and refrain
from rushing impulsively after
her chum. A lump came into her
throat, and she hastily retired
behind the pages of her uplifted
Latin grammar to hide the tears
in her eyes. Not for worlds would
Anne have had Gilbert Blythe
or Josie Pye see those tears.
"But, oh, Marilla, I really
felt that I had tasted the bitterness
of death, as Mr. Allan said in
his sermon last Sunday, when
I saw Diana go out alone," she
said mournfully that night. "I
thought how splendid it would
have been if Diana had only been
going to study for the Entrance,
too. But we can't have things
perfect in this imperfect world,
as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs. Lynde
isn't exactly a comforting person
sometimes, but there's no doubt
she says a great many very true
things. And I think the Queen's
class is going to be extremely
interesting. Jane and Ruby are
just going to study to be teachers.
That is the height of their ambition.
Ruby says she will only teach
for two years after she gets
through, and then she intends
to be married. Jane says she
will devote her whole life to
teaching, and never, never marry,
because you are paid a salary
for teaching, but a husband won't
pay you anything, and growls
if you ask for a share in the
egg and butter money. I expect
Jane speaks from mournful experience,
for Mrs. Lynde says that her
father is a perfect old crank,
and meaner than second skimmings.
Josie Pye says she is just going
to college for education's sake,
because she won't have to earn
her own living; she says of course
it is different with orphans
who are living on charity--THEY
have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon
is going to be a minister. Mrs.
Lynde says he couldn't be anything
else with a name like that to
live up to. I hope it isn't wicked
of me, Marilla, but really the
thought of Moody Spurgeon being
a minister makes me laugh. He's
such a funny-looking boy with
that big fat face, and his little
blue eyes, and his ears sticking
out like flaps. But perhaps he
will be more intellectual looking
when he grows up. Charlie Sloane
says he's going to go into politics
and be a member of Parliament,
but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never
succeed at that, because the
Sloanes are all honest people,
and it's only rascals that get
on in politics nowadays."
"What is Gilbert Blythe going
to be?" queried Marilla, seeing
that Anne was opening her Caesar.
"I don't happen to know what
Gilbert Blythe's ambition in
life is-- if he has any," said
Anne scornfully.
There was open rivalry between
Gilbert and Anne now. Previously
the rivalry had been rather onesided,
but there was no longer any doubt
that Gilbert was as determined
to be first in class as Anne
was. He was a foeman worthy of
her steel. The other members
of the class tacitly acknowledged
their superiority, and never
dreamed of trying to compete
with them.
Since the day by the pond when
she had refused to listen to
his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert,
save for the aforesaid determined
rivalry, had evinced no recognition
whatever of the existence of
Anne Shirley. He talked and jested
with the other girls, exchanged
books and puzzles with them,
discussed lessons and plans,
sometimes walked home with one
or the other of them from prayer
meeting or Debating Club. But
Anne Shirley he simply ignored,
and Anne found out that it is
not pleasant to be ignored. It
was in vain that she told herself
with a toss of her head that
she did not care. Deep down in
her wayward, feminine little
heart she knew that she did care,
and that if she had that chance
of the Lake of Shining Waters
again she would answer very differently.
All at once, as it seemed, and
to her secret dismay, she found
that the old resentment she had
cherished against him was gone--gone
just when she most needed its
sustaining power. It was in vain
that she recalled every incident
and emotion of that memorable
occasion and tried to feel the
old satisfying anger. That day
by the pond had witnessed its
last spasmodic flicker. Anne
realized that she had forgiven
and forgotten without knowing
it. But it was too late.
And at least
neither Gilbert nor anybody
else, not even Diana,
should ever suspect how sorry
she was and how much she wished
she hadn't been so proud and
horrid! She determined to "shroud
her feelings in deepest oblivion," and
it may be stated here and now
that she did it, so successfully
that Gilbert, who possibly was
not quite so indifferent as he
seemed, could not console himself
with any belief that Anne felt
his retaliatory scorn. The only
poor comfort he had was that
she snubbed Charlie Sloane, unmercifully,
continually, and undeservedly.
Otherwise the winter passed
away in a round of pleasant duties
and studies. For Anne the days
slipped by like golden beads
on the necklace of the year.
She was happy, eager, interested;
there were lessons to be learned
and honor to be won; delightful
books to read; new pieces to
be practiced for the Sunday-school
choir; pleasant Saturday afternoons
at the manse with Mrs. Allan;
and then, almost before Anne
realized it, spring had come
again to Green Gables and all
the world was abloom once more.
Studies palled just a wee bit
then; the Queen's class, left
behind in school while the others
scattered to green lanes and
leafy wood cuts and meadow byways,
looked wistfully out of the windows
and discovered that Latin verbs
and French exercises had somehow
lost the tang and zest they had
possessed in the crisp winter
months. Even Anne and Gilbert
lagged and grew indifferent.
Teacher and taught were alike
glad when the term was ended
and the glad vacation days stretched
rosily before them.
"But you've done good work
this past year," Miss Stacy told
them on the last evening, "and
you deserve a good, jolly vacation.
Have the best time you can in
the out-of-door world and lay
in a good stock of health and
vitality and ambition to carry
you through next year. It will
be the tug of war, you know--the
last year before the Entrance."
"Are you going to be back next
year, Miss Stacy?" asked Josie
Pye.
Josie Pye never scrupled to
ask questions; in this instance
the rest of the class felt grateful
to her; none of them would have
dared to ask it of Miss Stacy,
but all wanted to, for there
had been alarming rumors running
at large through the school for
some time that Miss Stacy was
not coming back the next year--that
she had been offered a position
in the grade school of her own
home district and meant to accept.
The Queen's class listened in
breathless suspense for her answer.
"Yes, I think I will," said
Miss Stacy. "I thought of taking
another school, but I have decided
to come back to Avonlea. To tell
the truth, I've grown so interested
in my pupils here that I found
I couldn't leave them. So I'll
stay and see you through."
"Hurrah!" said
Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spurgeon
had never been
so carried away by his feelings
before, and he blushed uncomfortably
every time he thought about it
for a week.
"Oh, I'm so glad," said Anne,
with shining eyes. "Dear Stacy,
it would be perfectly dreadful
if you didn't come back. I don't
believe I could have the heart
to go on with my studies at all
if another teacher came here."
When Anne got home that night
she stacked all her textbooks
away in an old trunk in the attic,
locked it, and threw the key
into the blanket box.
"I'm not even going to look
at a schoolbook in vacation," she
told Marilla. "I've studied as
hard all the term as I possibly
could and I've pored over that
geometry until I know every proposition
in the first book off by heart,
even when the letters ARE changed.
I just feel tired of everything
sensible and I'm going to let
my imagination run riot for the
summer. Oh, you needn't be alarmed,
Marilla. I'll only let it run
riot within reasonable limits.
But I want to have a real good
jolly time this summer, for maybe
it's the last summer I'll be
a little girl. Mrs. Lynde says
that if I keep stretching out
next year as I've done this I'll
have to put on longer skirts.
She says I'm all running to legs
and eyes. And when I put on longer
skirts I shall feel that I have
to live up to them and be very
dignified. It won't even do to
believe in fairies then, I'm
afraid; so I'm going to believe
in them with all my whole heart
this summer. I think we're going
to have a very gay vacation.
Ruby Gillis is going to have
a birthday party soon and there's
the Sunday school picnic and
the missionary concert next month.
And Mrs. Barry says that some
evening he'll take Diana and
me over to the White Sands Hotel
and have dinner there. They have
dinner there in the evening,
you know. Jane Andrews was over
once last summer and she says
it was a dazzling sight to see
the electric lights and the flowers
and all the lady guests in such
beautiful dresses. Jane says
it was her first glimpse into
high life and she'll never forget
it to her dying day."
Mrs. Lynde came up the next
afternoon to find out why Marilla
had not been at the Aid meeting
on Thursday. When Marilla was
not at Aid meeting people knew
there was something wrong at
Green Gables.
"Matthew had a bad spell with
his heart Thursday," Marilla
explained, "and I didn't feel
like leaving him. Oh, yes, he's
all right again now, but he takes
them spells oftener than he used
to and I'm anxious about him.
The doctor says he must be careful
to avoid excitement. That's easy
enough, for Matthew doesn't go
about looking for excitement
by any means and never did, but
he's not to do any very heavy
work either and you might as
well tell Matthew not to breathe
as not to work. Come and lay
off your things, Rachel. You'll
stay to tea?"
"Well, seeing you're so pressing,
perhaps I might as well, stay" said
Mrs. Rachel, who had not the
slightest intention of doing
anything else.
Mrs. Rachel and Marilla sat
comfortably in the parlor while
Anne got the tea and made hot
biscuits that were light and
white enough to defy even Mrs.
Rachel's criticism.
"I must say Anne has turned
out a real smart girl," admitted
Mrs. Rachel, as Marilla accompanied
her to the end of the lane at
sunset. "She must be a great
help to you."
"She is," said Marilla, "and
she's real steady and reliable
now. I used to be afraid she'd
never get over her featherbrained
ways, but she has and I wouldn't
be afraid to trust her in anything
now."
"I never would have thought
she'd have turned out so well
that first day I was here three
years ago," said Mrs. Rachel. "Lawful
heart, shall I ever forget that
tantrum of hers! When I went
home that night I says to Thomas,
says I, `Mark my words, Thomas,
Marilla Cuthbert'll live to rue
the step she's took.' But I was
mistaken and I'm real glad of
it. I ain't one of those kind
of people, Marilla, as can never
be brought to own up that they've
made a mistake. No, that never
was my way, thank goodness. I
did make a mistake in judging
Anne, but it weren't no wonder,
for an odder, unexpecteder witch
of a child there never was in
this world, that's what. There
was no ciphering her out by the
rules that worked with other
children. It's nothing short
of wonderful how she's improved
these three years, but especially
in looks. She's a real pretty
girl got to be, though I can't
say I'm overly partial to that
pale, big-eyed style myself.
I like more snap and color, like
Diana Barry has or Ruby Gillis.
Ruby Gillis's looks are real
showy. But somehow--I don't know
how it is but when Anne and them
are together, though she ain't
half as handsome, she makes them
look kind of common and overdone--
something like them white June
lilies she calls narcissus alongside
of the big, red peonies, that's
what."
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