ON the Monday
evening before the picnic Marilla came down from her room with a troubled
"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
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,
"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
"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
purply-sparkling, 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
"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
"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
"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, mournfully 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
"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
"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."