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
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
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
"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
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
"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
"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!"
"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
"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.
"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
"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.
"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
"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."
"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.