It was broad daylight when Anne
awoke and sat up in bed, staring
confusedly at the window through
which a flood of cheery sunshine
was pouring and outside of which
something white and feathery
waved across glimpses of blue
sky.
For a moment she could not
remember where she was. First
came a delightful thrill, as
something very pleasant; then
a horrible remembrance. This
was Green Gables and they didn't
want her because she wasn't a
boy!
But it was morning and, yes,
it was a cherry-tree in full
bloom outside of her window.
With a bound she was out of bed
and across the floor. She pushed
up the sash--it went up stiffly
and creakily, as if it hadn't
been opened for a long time,
which was the case; and it stuck
so tight that nothing was needed
to hold it up.
Anne dropped on her knees and
gazed out into the June morning,
her eyes glistening with delight.
Oh, wasn't it beautiful? Wasn't
it a lovely place? Suppose she
wasn't really going to stay here!
She would imagine she was. There
was scope for imagination here.
A huge cherry-tree grew outside,
so close that its boughs tapped
against the house, and it was
so thick-set with blossoms that
hardly a leaf was to be seen.
On both sides of the house was
a big orchard, one of apple-trees
and one of cherry-trees, also
showered over with blossoms;
and their grass was all sprinkled
with dandelions. In the garden
below were lilac-trees purple
with flowers, and their dizzily
sweet fragrance drifted up to
the window on the morning wind.
Below the garden a green field
lush with clover sloped down
to the hollow where the brook
ran and where scores of white
birches grew, upspringing airily
out of an undergrowth suggestive
of delightful possibilities in
ferns and mosses and woodsy things
generally. Beyond it was a hill,
green and feathery with spruce
and fir; there was a gap in it
where the gray gable end of the
little house she had seen from
the other side of the Lake of
Shining Waters was visible.
Off to the left were the big
barns and beyond them, away down
over green, low-sloping fields,
was a sparkling blue glimpse
of sea.
Anne's beauty-loving eyes lingered
on it all, taking everything
greedily in. She had looked on
so many unlovely places in her
life, poor child; but this was
as lovely as anything she had
ever dreamed.
She knelt there, lost to everything
but the loveliness around her,
until she was startled by a hand
on her shoulder. Marilla had
come in unheard by the small
dreamer.
"It's time you were dressed," she
said curtly.
Marilla really did not know
how to talk to the child, and
her uncomfortable ignorance made
her crisp and curt when she did
not mean to be.
Anne stood up and drew a long
breath.
"Oh, isn't it wonderful?" she
said, waving her hand comprehensively
at the good world outside.
"It's a big tree," said Marilla, "and
it blooms great, but the fruit
don't amount to much never--small
and wormy."
"Oh, I don't
mean just the tree; of course
it's lovely--yes,
it's RADIANTLY lovely--it blooms
as if it meant it--but I meant
everything, the garden and the
orchard and the brook and the
woods, the whole big dear world.
Don't you feel as if you just
loved the world on a morning
like this? And I can hear the
brook laughing all the way up
here. Have you ever noticed what
cheerful things brooks are? They're
always laughing. Even in winter-time
I've heard them under the ice.
I'm so glad there's a brook near
Green Gables. Perhaps you think
it doesn't make any difference
to me when you're not going to
keep me, but it does. I shall
always like to remember that
there is a brook at Green Gables
even if I never see it again.
If there wasn't a brook I'd be
HAUNTED by the uncomfortable
feeling that there ought to be
one. I'm not in the depths of
despair this morning. I never
can be in the morning. Isn't
it a splendid thing that there
are mornings? But I feel very
sad. I've just been imagining
that it was really me you wanted
after all and that I was to stay
here for ever and ever. It was
a great comfort while it lasted.
But the worst of imagining things
is that the time comes when you
have to stop and that hurts."
"You'd better get dressed and
come down-stairs and never mind
your imaginings," said Marilla
as soon as she could get a word
in edgewise. "Breakfast is waiting.
Wash your face and comb your
hair. Leave the window up and
turn your bedclothes back over
the foot of the bed. Be as smart
as you can."
Anne could evidently be smart
so some purpose for she was down-stairs
in ten minutes' time, with her
clothes neatly on, her hair brushed
and braided, her face washed,
and a comfortable consciousness
pervading her soul that she had
fulfilled all Marilla's requirements.
As a matter of fact, however,
she had forgotten to turn back
the bedclothes.
"I'm pretty hungry this morning," she
announced as she slipped into
the chair Marilla placed for
her. "The world doesn't seem
such a howling wilderness as
it did last night. I'm so glad
it's a sunshiny morning. But
I like rainy mornings real well,
too. All sorts of mornings are
interesting, don't you think?
You don't know what's going to
happen through the day, and there's
so much scope for imagination.
But I'm glad it's not rainy today
because it's easier to be cheerful
and bear up under affliction
on a sunshiny day. I feel that
I have a good deal to bear up
under. It's all very well to
read about sorrows and imagine
yourself living through them
heroically, but it's not so nice
when you really come to have
them, is it?"
"For pity's sake hold your
tongue," said Marilla. "You talk
entirely too much for a little
girl."
Thereupon Anne held her tongue
so obediently and thoroughly
that her continued silence made
Marilla rather nervous, as if
in the presence of something
not exactly natural. Matthew
also held his tongue,--but this
was natural,--so that the meal
was a very silent one.
As it progressed Anne became
more and more abstracted, eating
mechanically, with her big eyes
fixed unswervingly and unseeingly
on the sky outside the window.
This made Marilla more nervous
than ever; she had an uncomfortable
feeling that while this odd child's
body might be there at the table
her spirit was far away in some
remote airy cloudland, borne
aloft on the wings of imagination.
Who would want such a child about
the place?
Yet Matthew wished to keep
her, of all unaccountable things!
Marilla felt that he wanted it
just as much this morning as
he had the night before, and
that he would go on wanting it.
That was Matthew's way--take
a whim into his head and cling
to it with the most amazing silent
persistency--a persistency ten
times more potent and effectual
in its very silence than if he
had talked it out.
When the meal was ended Anne
came out of her reverie and offered
to wash the dishes.
"Can you wash dishes right?" asked
Marilla distrustfully.
"Pretty well.
I'm better at looking after
children, though.
I've had so much experience at
that. It's such a pity you haven't
any here for me to look after."
"I don't feel
as if I wanted any more children
to look after
than I've got at present. YOU'RE
problem enough in all conscience.
What's to be done with you I
don't know. Matthew is a most
ridiculous man."
"I think he's lovely," said
Anne reproachfully. "He is so
very sympathetic. He didn't mind
how much I talked--he seemed
to like it. I felt that he was
a kindred spirit as soon as ever
I saw him."
"You're both queer enough,
if that's what you mean by kindred
spirits," said Marilla with a
sniff. "Yes, you may wash the
dishes. Take plenty of hot water,
and be sure you dry them well.
I've got enough to attend to
this morning for I'll have to
drive over to White Sands in
the afternoon and see Mrs. Spencer.
You'll come with me and we'll
settle what's to be done with
you. After you've finished the
dishes go up-stairs and make
your bed."
Anne washed the dishes deftly
enough, as Marilla who kept a
sharp eye on the process, discerned.
Later on she made her bed less
successfully, for she had never
learned the art of wrestling
with a feather tick. But is was
done somehow and smoothed down;
and then Marilla, to get rid
of her, told her she might go
out-of-doors and amuse herself
until dinner time.
Anne flew to the door, face
alight, eyes glowing. On the
very threshold she stopped short,
wheeled about, came back and
sat down by the table, light
and glow as effectually blotted
out as if some one had clapped
an extinguisher on her.
"What's the matter now?" demanded
Marilla.
"I don't dare go out," said
Anne, in the tone of a martyr
relinquishing all earthly joys. "If
I can't stay here there is no
use in my loving Green Gables.
And if I go out there and get
acquainted with all those trees
and flowers and the orchard and
the brook I'll not be able to
help loving it. It's hard enough
now, so I won't make it any harder.
I want to go out so much--everything
seems to be calling to me, `Anne,
Anne, come out to us. Anne, Anne,
we want a playmate'--but it's
better not. There is no use in
loving things if you have to
be torn from them, is there?
And it's so hard to keep from
loving things, isn't it? That
was why I was so glad when I
thought I was going to live here.
I thought I'd have so many things
to love and nothing to hinder
me. But that brief dream is over.
I am resigned to my fate now,
so I don't think I'll go out
for fear I'll get unresigned
again. What is the name of that
geranium on the window-sill,
please?"
"That's the
apple-scented geranium."
"Oh, I don't
mean that sort of a name. I
mean just a name
you gave it yourself. Didn't
you give it a name? May I give
it one then? May I call it--let
me see--Bonny would do--may I
call it Bonny while I'm here?
Oh, do let me!"
"Goodness,
I don't care. But where on
earth is the sense of
naming a geranium?"
"Oh, I like
things to have handles even
if they are only
geraniums. It makes them seem
more like people. How do you
know but that it hurts a geranium's
feelings just to be called a
geranium and nothing else? You
wouldn't like to be called nothing
but a woman all the time. Yes,
I shall call it Bonny. I named
that cherry-tree outside my bedroom
window this morning. I called
it Snow Queen because it was
so white. Of course, it won't
always be in blossom, but one
can imagine that it is, can't
one?"
"I never in all my life say
or heard anything to equal her," muttered
Marilla, beating a retreat down
to the cellar after potatoes. "She
is kind of interesting as Matthew
says. I can feel already that
I'm wondering what on earth she'll
say next. She'll be casting a
spell over me, too. She's cast
it over Matthew. That look he
gave me when he went out said
everything he said or hinted
last night over again. I wish
he was like other men and would
talk things out. A body could
answer back then and argue him
into reason. But what's to be
done with a man who just LOOKS?"
Anne had relapsed into reverie,
with her chin in her hands and
her eyes on the sky, when Marilla
returned from her cellar pilgrimage.
There Marilla left her until
the early dinner was on the table.
"I suppose I can have the mare
and buggy this afternoon, Matthew?" said
Marilla.
Matthew nodded and looked wistfully
at Anne. Marilla intercepted
the look and said grimly:
"I'm going
to drive over to White Sands
and settle this thing.
I'll take Anne with me and Mrs.
Spencer will probably make arrangements
to send her back to Nova Scotia
at once. I'll set your tea out
for you and I'll be home in time
to milk the cows."
Still Matthew said nothing
and Marilla had a sense of having
wasted words and breath. There
is nothing more aggravating than
a man who won't talk back--unless
it is a woman who won't.
Matthew hitched the sorrel
into the buggy in due time and
Marilla and Anne set off. Matthew
opened the yard gate for them
and as they drove slowly through,
he said, to nobody in particular
as it seemed:
"Little Jerry
Buote from the Creek was here
this morning,
and I told him I guessed I'd
hire him for the summer."
Marilla made no reply, but
she hit the unlucky sorrel such
a vicious clip with the whip
that the fat mare, unused to
such treatment, whizzed indignantly
down the lane at an alarming
pace. Marilla looked back once
as the buggy bounced along and
saw that aggravating Matthew
leaning over the gate, looking
wistfully after them.
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