"MARILLA, can I go over to see
Diana just for a minute?" asked
Anne, running breathlessly down
from the east gable one February
evening.
"I don't see what you want
to be traipsing about after dark
for," said Marilla shortly. "You
and Diana walked home from school
together and then stood down
there in the snow for half an
hour more, your tongues going
the whole blessed time, clickety-clack.
So I don't think you're very
badly off to see her again."
"But she wants to see me," pleaded
Anne. "She has something very
important to tell me."
"How do you
know she has?"
"Because she
just signaled to me from her
window. We have
arranged a way to signal with
our candles and cardboard. We
set the candle on the window
sill and make flashes by passing
the cardboard back and forth.
So many flashes mean a certain
thing. It was my idea, Marilla."
"I'll warrant you it was," said
Marilla emphatically. "And the
next thing you'll be setting
fire to the curtains with your
signaling nonsense."
"Oh, we're
very careful, Marilla. And
it's so interesting. Two
flashes mean, `Are you there?'
Three mean `yes' and four `no.'
Five mean, `Come over as soon
as possible, because I have something
important to reveal.' Diana has
just signaled five flashes, and
I'm really suffering to know
what it is."
"Well, you needn't suffer any
longer," said Marilla sarcastically. "You
can go, but you're to be back
here in just ten minutes, remember
that."
Anne did remember it and was
back in the stipulated time,
although probably no mortal will
ever know just what it cost her
to confine the discussion of
Diana's important communication
within the limits of ten minutes.
But at least she had made good
use of them.
"Oh, Marilla,
what do you think? You know
tomorrow is Diana's
birthday. Well, her mother told
her she could ask me to go home
with her from school and stay
all night with her. And her cousins
are coming over from Newbridge
in a big pung sleigh to go to
the Debating Club concert at
the hall tomorrow night. And
they are going to take Diana
and me to the concert--if you'll
let me go, that is. You will,
won't you, Marilla? Oh, I feel
so excited."
"You can calm
down then, because you're not
going. You're better
at home in your own bed, and
as for that club concert, it's
all nonsense, and little girls
should not be allowed to go out
to such places at all."
"I'm sure the Debating Club
is a most respectable affair," pleaded
Anne.
"I'm not saying
it isn't. But you're not going
to begin gadding
about to concerts and staying
out all hours of the night. Pretty
doings for children. I'm surprised
at Mrs. Barry's letting Diana
go."
"But it's such a very special
occasion," mourned Anne, on the
verge of tears. "Diana has only
one birthday in a year. It isn't
as if birthdays were common things,
Marilla. Prissy Andrews is going
to recite `Curfew Must Not Ring
Tonight.' That is such a good
moral piece, Marilla, I'm sure
it would do me lots of good to
hear it. And the choir are going
to sing four lovely pathetic
songs that are pretty near as
good as hymns. And oh, Marilla,
the minister is going to take
part; yes, indeed, he is; he's
going to give an address. That
will be just about the same thing
as a sermon. Please, mayn't I
go, Marilla?"
"You heard
what I said, Anne, didn't you?
Take off your boots
now and go to bed. It's past
eight."
"There's just one more thing,
Marilla," said Anne, with the
air of producing the last shot
in her locker. "Mrs. Barry told
Diana that we might sleep in
the spare-room bed. Think of
the honor of your little Anne
being put in the spare-room bed."
"It's an honor
you'll have to get along without.
Go to bed,
Anne, and don't let me hear another
word out of you."
When Anne, with tears rolling
over her cheeks, had gone sorrowfully
upstairs, Matthew, who had been
apparently sound asleep on the
lounge during the whole dialogue,
opened his eyes and said decidedly:
"Well now,
Marilla, I think you ought
to let Anne go."
"I don't then," retorted Marilla. "Who's
bringing this child up, Matthew,
you or me?"
"Well now, you," admitted
Matthew.
"Don't interfere
then."
"Well now,
I ain't interfering. It ain't
interfering to have
your own opinion. And my opinion
is that you ought to let Anne
go."
"You'd think I ought to let
Anne go to the moon if she took
the notion, I've no doubt" was
Marilla's amiable rejoinder. "I
might have let her spend the
night with Diana, if that was
all. But I don't approve of this
concert plan. She'd go there
and catch cold like as not, and
have her head filled up with
nonsense and excitement. It would
unsettle her for a week. I understand
that child's disposition and
what's good for it better than
you, Matthew."
"I think you ought to let Anne
go," repeated Matthew firmly.
Argument was not his strong point,
but holding fast to his opinion
certainly was. Marilla gave a
gasp of helplessness and took
refuge in silence. The next morning,
when Anne was washing the breakfast
dishes in the pantry, Matthew
paused on his way out to the
barn to say to Marilla again:
"I think you
ought to let Anne go, Marilla."
For a moment Marilla looked
things not lawful to be uttered.
Then she yielded to the inevitable
and said tartly:
"Very well,
she can go, since nothing else'll
please you."
Anne flew out of the pantry,
dripping dishcloth in hand.
"Oh, Marilla,
Marilla, say those blessed
words again."
"I guess once
is enough to say them. This
is Matthew's doings
and I wash my hands of it. If
you catch pneumonia sleeping
in a strange bed or coming out
of that hot hall in the middle
of the night, don't blame me,
blame Matthew. Anne Shirley,
you're dripping greasy water
all over the floor. I never saw
such a careless child."
"Oh, I know I'm a great trial
to you, Marilla," said Anne repentantly. "I
make so many mistakes. But then
just think of all the mistakes
I don't make, although I might.
I'll get some sand and scrub
up the spots before I go to school.
Oh, Marilla, my heart was just
set on going to that concert.
I never was to a concert in my
life, and when the other girls
talk about them in school I feel
so out of it. You didn't know
just how I felt about it, but
you see Matthew did. Matthew
understands me, and it's so nice
to be understood, Marilla."
Anne was too excited to do
herself justice as to lessons
that morning in school. Gilbert
Blythe spelled her down in class
and left her clear out of sight
in mental arithmetic. Anne's
consequent humiliation was less
than it might have been, however,
in view of the concert and the
spare-room bed. She and Diana
talked so constantly about it
all day that with a stricter
teacher than Mr. Phillips dire
disgrace must inevitably have
been their portion.
Anne felt that she could not
have borne it if she had not
been going to the concert, for
nothing else was discussed that
day in school. The Avonlea Debating
Club, which met fortnightly all
winter, had had several smaller
free entertainments; but this
was to be a big affair, admission
ten cents, in aid of the library.
The Avonlea young people had
been practicing for weeks, and
all the scholars were especially
interested in it by reason of
older brothers and sisters who
were going to take part. Everybody
in school over nine years of
age expected to go, except Carrie
Sloane, whose father shared Marilla's
opinions about small girls going
out to night concerts. Carrie
Sloane cried into her grammar
all the afternoon and felt that
life was not worth living.
For Anne the
real excitement began with
the dismissal of school
and increased therefrom in crescendo
until it reached to a crash of
positive ecstasy in the concert
itself. They had a "perfectly
elegant tea;" and then came the
delicious occupation of dressing
in Diana's little room upstairs.
Diana did Anne's front hair in
the new pompadour style and Anne
tied Diana's bows with the especial
knack she possessed; and they
experimented with at least half
a dozen different ways of arranging
their back hair. At last they
were ready, cheeks scarlet and
eyes glowing with excitement.
True, Anne could not help a
little pang when she contrasted
her plain black tam and shapeless,
tight-sleeved, homemade gray-cloth
coat with Diana's jaunty fur
cap and smart little jacket.
But she remembered in time that
she had an imagination and could
use it.
Then Diana's cousins, the Murrays
from Newbridge, came; they all
crowded into the big pung sleigh,
among straw and furry robes.
Anne reveled in the drive to
the hall, slipping along over
the satin-smooth roads with the
snow crisping under the runners.
There was a magnificent sunset,
and the snowy hills and deep-blue
water of the St. Lawrence Gulf
seemed to rim??? in the splendor
like a huge bowl of pearl and
sapphire brimmed with wine and
fire. Tinkles of sleigh bells
and distant laughter, that seemed
like the mirth of wood elves,
came from every quarter.
"Oh, Diana," breathed Anne,
squeezing Diana's mittened hand
under the fur robe, "isn't it
all like a beautiful dream? Do
I really look the same as usual?
I feel so different that it seems
to me it must show in my looks."
"You look awfully nice," said
Diana, who having just received
a compliment from one of her
cousins, felt that she ought
to pass it on. "You've got the
loveliest color."
The program
that night was a series of "thrills" for at
least one listener in the audience,
and, as Anne assured Diana, every
succeeding thrill was thrillier
than the last. When Prissy Andrews,
attired in a new pink-silk waist
with a string of pearls about
her smooth white throat and real
carnations in her hair--rumor
whispered that the master had
sent all the way to town for
them for her--"climbed the slimy
ladder, dark without one ray
of light," Anne shivered in luxurious
sympathy; when the choir sang "Far
Above the Gentle Daisies" Anne
gazed at the ceiling as if it
were frescoed with angels; when
Sam Sloane proceeded to explain
and illustrate "How Sockery Set
a Hen" Anne laughed until people
sitting near her laughed too,
more out of sympathy with her
than with amusement at a selection
that was rather threadbare even
in Avonlea; and when Mr. Phillips
gave Mark Antony's oration over
the dead body of Caesar in the
most heartstirring tones--looking
at Prissy Andrews at the end
of every sentence--Anne felt
that she could rise and mutiny
on the spot if but one Roman
citizen led the way.
Only one number
on the program failed to interest
her. When
Gilbert Blythe recited "Bingen
on the Rhine" Anne picked up
Rhoda Murray's library book and
read it until he had finished,
when she sat rigidly stiff and
motionless while Diana clapped
her hands until they tingled.
It was eleven when they got
home, sated with dissipation,
but with the exceeding sweet
pleasure of talking it all over
still to come. Everybody seemed
asleep and the house was dark
and silent. Anne and Diana tiptoed
into the parlor, a long narrow
room out of which the spare room
opened. It was pleasantly warm
and dimly lighted by the embers
of a fire in the grate.
"Let's undress here," said
Diana. "It's so nice and warm."
"Hasn't it been a delightful
time?" sighed Anne rapturously. "It
must be splendid to get up and
recite there. Do you suppose
we will ever be asked to do it,
Diana?"
"Yes, of course,
someday. They're always wanting
the big scholars
to recite. Gilbert Blythe does
often and he's only two years
older than us. Oh, Anne, how
could you pretend not to listen
to him? When he came to the line,
"THERE'S ANOTHER,
not A SISTER,
he looked right
down at you."
"Diana," said Anne with dignity, "you
are my bosom friend, but I cannot
allow even you to speak to me
of that person. Are you ready
for bed? Let's run a race and
see who'll get to the bed first."
The suggestion appealed to
Diana. The two little white-clad
figures flew down the long room,
through the spare-room door,
and bounded on the bed at the
same moment. And then--something--moved
beneath them, there was a gasp
and a cry--and somebody said
in muffled accents:
"Merciful goodness!"
Anne and Diana were never able
to tell just how they got off
that bed and out of the room.
They only knew that after one
frantic rush they found themselves
tiptoeing shiveringly upstairs.
"Oh, who was it--WHAT was it?" whispered
Anne, her teeth chattering with
cold and fright.
"It was Aunt Josephine," said
Diana, gasping with laughter. "Oh,
Anne, it was Aunt Josephine,
however she came to be there.
Oh, and I know she will be furious.
It's dreadful--it's really dreadful--but
did you ever know anything so
funny, Anne?"
"Who is your
Aunt Josephine?"
"She's father's
aunt and she lives in Charlottetown.
She's
awfully old--seventy anyhow--and
I don't believe she was EVER
a little girl. We were expecting
her out for a visit, but not
so soon. She's awfully prim and
proper and she'll scold dreadfully
about this, I know. Well, we'll
have to sleep with Minnie May--and
you can't think how she kicks."
Miss Josephine Barry did not
appear at the early breakfast
the next morning. Mrs. Barry
smiled kindly at the two little
girls.
"Did you have
a good time last night? I tried
to stay awake
until you came home, for I wanted
to tell you Aunt Josephine had
come and that you would have
to go upstairs after all, but
I was so tired I fell asleep.
I hope you didn't disturb your
aunt, Diana."
Diana preserved a discreet
silence, but she and Anne exchanged
furtive smiles of guilty amusement
across the table. Anne hurried
home after breakfast and so remained
in blissful ignorance of the
disturbance which presently resulted
in the Barry household until
the late afternoon, when she
went down to Mrs. Lynde's on
an errand for Marilla.
"So you and Diana nearly frightened
poor old Miss Barry to death
last night?" said Mrs. Lynde
severely, but with a twinkle
in her eye. "Mrs. Barry was here
a few minutes ago on her way
to Carmody. She's feeling real
worried over it. Old Miss Barry
was in a terrible temper when
she got up this morning--and
Josephine Barry's temper is no
joke, I can tell you that. She
wouldn't speak to Diana at all."
"It wasn't Diana's fault," said
Anne contritely. "It was mine.
I suggested racing to see who
would get into bed first."
"I knew it!" said Mrs. Lynde,
with the exultation of a correct
guesser. "I knew that idea came
out of your head. Well, it's
made a nice lot of trouble, that's
what. Old Miss Barry came out
to stay for a month, but she
declares she won't stay another
day and is going right back to
town tomorrow, Sunday and all
as it is. She'd have gone today
if they could have taken her.
She had promised to pay for a
quarter's music lessons for Diana,
but now she is determined to
do nothing at all for such a
tomboy. Oh, I guess they had
a lively time of it there this
morning. The Barrys must feel
cut up. Old Miss Barry is rich
and they'd like to keep on the
good side of her. Of course,
Mrs. Barry didn't say just that
to me, but I'm a pretty good
judge of human nature, that's
what."
"I'm such an unlucky girl," mourned
Anne. "I'm always getting into
scrapes myself and getting my
best friends--people I'd shed
my heart's blood for--into them
too. Can you tell me why it is
so, Mrs. Lynde?"
"It's because
you're too heedless and impulsive,
child, that's
what. You never stop to think--whatever
comes into your head to say or
do you say or do it without a
moment's reflection."
"Oh, but that's the best of
it," protested Anne. "Something
just flashes into your mind,
so exciting, and you must out
with it. If you stop to think
it over you spoil it all. Haven't
you never felt that yourself,
Mrs. Lynde?"
No, Mrs. Lynde had not. She
shook her head sagely.
"You must learn
to think a little, Anne, that's
what. The
proverb you need to go by is
`Look before you leap'--especially
into spare-room beds."
Mrs. Lynde laughed comfortably
over her mild joke, but Anne
remained pensive. She saw nothing
to laugh at in the situation,
which to her eyes appeared very
serious. When she left Mrs. Lynde's
she took her way across the crusted
fields to Orchard Slope. Diana
met her at the kitchen door.
"Your Aunt Josephine was very
cross about it, wasn't she?" whispered
Anne.
"Yes," answered Diana, stifling
a giggle with an apprehensive
glance over her shoulder at the
closed sitting-room door. "She
was fairly dancing with rage,
Anne. Oh, how she scolded. She
said I was the worst-behaved
girl she ever saw and that my
parents ought to be ashamed of
the way they had brought me up.
She says she won't stay and I'm
sure I don't care. But Father
and Mother do."
"Why didn't you tell them it
was my fault?" demanded Anne.
"It's likely I'd do such a
thing, isn't it?" said Diana
with just scorn. "I'm no telltale,
Anne Shirley, and anyhow I was
just as much to blame as you."
"Well, I'm going in to tell
her myself," said Anne resolutely.
Diana stared.
"Anne Shirley,
you'd never! why--she'll eat
you alive!"
"Don't frighten me any more
than I am frightened," implored
Anne. "I'd rather walk up to
a cannon's mouth. But I've got
to do it, Diana. It was my fault
and I've got to confess. I've
had practice in confessing, fortunately."
"Well, she's in the room," said
Diana. "You can go in if you
want to. I wouldn't dare. And
I don't believe you'll do a bit
of good."
With this encouragement
Anne bearded the lion in its
den--that
is to say, walked resolutely
up to the sitting-room door and
knocked faintly. A sharp "Come
in" followed.
Miss Josephine Barry, thin,
prim, and rigid, was knitting
fiercely by the fire, her wrath
quite unappeased and her eyes
snapping through her gold-rimmed
glasses. She wheeled around in
her chair, expecting to see Diana,
and beheld a white-faced girl
whose great eyes were brimmed
up with a mixture of desperate
courage and shrinking terror.
"Who are you?" demanded
Miss Josephine Barry, without
ceremony.
"I'm Anne of Green Gables," said
the small visitor tremulously,
clasping her hands with her characteristic
gesture, "and I've come to confess,
if you please."
"Confess what?"
"That it was
all my fault about jumping
into bed on you last
night. I suggested it. Diana
would never have thought of such
a thing, I am sure. Diana is
a very ladylike girl, Miss Barry.
So you must see how unjust it
is to blame her."
"Oh, I must,
hey? I rather think Diana did
her share of
the jumping at least. Such carryings
on in a respectable house!"
"But we were only in fun," persisted
Anne. "I think you ought to forgive
us, Miss Barry, now that we've
apologized. And anyhow, please
forgive Diana and let her have
her music lessons. Diana's heart
is set on her music lessons,
Miss Barry, and I know too well
what it is to set your heart
on a thing and not get it. If
you must be cross with anyone,
be cross with me. I've been so
used in my early days to having
people cross at me that I can
endure it much better than Diana
can."
Much of the snap had gone out
of the old lady's eyes by this
time and was replaced by a twinkle
of amused interest. But she still
said severely:
"I don't think
it is any excuse for you that
you were only in
fun. Little girls never indulged
in that kind of fun when I was
young. You don't know what it
is to be awakened out of a sound
sleep, after a long and arduous
journey, by two great girls coming
bounce down on you."
"I don't KNOW, but I can IMAGINE," said
Anne eagerly. "I'm sure it must
have been very disturbing. But
then, there is our side of it
too. Have you any imagination,
Miss Barry? If you have, just
put yourself in our place. We
didn't know there was anybody
in that bed and you nearly scared
us to death. It was simply awful
the way we felt. And then we
couldn't sleep in the spare room
after being promised. I suppose
you are used to sleeping in spare
rooms. But just imagine what
you would feel like if you were
a little orphan girl who had
never had such an honor."
All the snap had gone by this
time. Miss Barry actually laughed--a
sound which caused Diana, waiting
in speechless anxiety in the
kitchen outside, to give a great
gasp of relief.
"I'm afraid my imagination
is a little rusty--it's so long
since I used it," she said. "I
dare say your claim to sympathy
is just as strong as mine. It
all depends on the way we look
at it. Sit down here and tell
me about yourself."
"I am very sorry I can't," said
Anne firmly. "I would like to,
because you seem like an interesting
lady, and you might even be a
kindred spirit although you don't
look very much like it. But it
is my duty to go home to Miss
Marilla Cuthbert. Miss Marilla
Cuthbert is a very kind lady
who has taken me to bring up
properly. She is doing her best,
but it is very discouraging work.
You must not blame her because
I jumped on the bed. But before
I go I do wish you would tell
me if you will forgive Diana
and stay just as long as you
meant to in Avonlea."
"I think perhaps I will if
you will come over and talk to
me occasionally," said Miss Barry.
That evening Miss Barry gave
Diana a silver bangle bracelet
and told the senior members of
the household that she had unpacked
her valise.
"I've made up my mind to stay
simply for the sake of getting
better acquainted with that Anne-girl," she
said frankly. "She amuses me,
and at my time of life an amusing
person is a rarity."
Marilla's only
comment when she heard the
story was, "I told
you so." This was for Matthew's
benefit.
Miss Barry stayed her month
out and over. She was a more
agreeable guest than usual, for
Anne kept her in good humor.
They became firm friends.
When Miss Barry went away she
said:
"Remember,
you Anne-girl, when you come
to town you're to visit
me and I'll put you in my very
sparest spare-room bed to sleep."
"Miss Barry was a kindred spirit,
after all," Anne confided to
Marilla. "You wouldn't think
so to look at her, but she is.
You don't find it right out at
first, as in Matthew's case,
but after a while you come to
see it. Kindred spirits are not
so scarce as I used to think.
It's splendid to find out there
are so many of them in the world."
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