For reasons best known to herself,
Marilla did not tell Anne that
she was to stay at Green Gables
until the next afternoon. During
the forenoon she kept the child
busy with various tasks and watched
over her with a keen eye while
she did them. By noon she had
concluded that Anne was smart
and obedient, willing to work
and quick to learn; her most
serious shortcoming seemed to
be a tendency to fall into daydreams
in the middle of a task and forget
all about it until such time
as she was sharply recalled to
earth by a
reprimand or a catastrophe.
When Anne had finished washing
the dinner dishes she suddenly
confronted Marilla with the air
and expression of one desperately
determined to learn the worst.
Her thin little body trembled
from head to foot; her face flushed
and her eyes dilated until they
were almost black; she clasped
her hands tightly and said in
an imploring voice:
"Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert,
won't you tell me if you are
going to send me away or not?" I've
tried to be patient all the morning,
but I really feel that I cannot
bear not knowing any longer.
It's a dreadful feeling. Please
tell me."
"You haven't scalded the dishcloth
in clean hot water as I told
you to do," said Marilla immovably. "Just
go and do it before you ask any
more questions, Anne."
Anne went and
attended to the dishcloth.
Then she returned
to Marilla and fastened imploring
eyes of the latter's face. "Well," said
Marilla, unable to find any excuse
for deferring her explanation
longer, "I suppose I might as
well tell you. Matthew and I
have decided to keep you--that
is, if you will try to be a good
little girl and show yourself
grateful. Why, child, whatever
is the matter?"
"I'm crying," said Anne in
a tone of bewilderment. "I can't
think why. I'm glad as glad can
be. Oh, GLAD doesn't seem the
right word at all. I was glad
about the White Way and the cherry
blossoms--but this! Oh, it's
something more than glad. I'm
so happy. I'll try to be so good.
It will be uphill work, I expect,
for Mrs. Thomas often told me
I was desperately wicked. However,
I'll do my very best. But can
you tell me why I'm crying?"
"I suppose it's because you're
all excited and worked up," said
Marilla disapprovingly. "Sit
down on that chair and try to
calm yourself. I'm afraid you
both cry and laugh far too easily.
Yes, you can stay here and we
will try to do right by you.
You must go to school; but it's
only a fortnight till vacation
so it isn't worth while for you
to start before it opens again
in September."
"What am I to call you?" asked
Anne. "Shall I always say Miss
Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt
Marilla?"
"No; you'll
call me just plain Marilla.
I'm not used to being
called Miss Cuthbert and it would
make me nervous."
"It sounds awfully disrespectful
to just say Marilla," protested
Anne.
"I guess there'll
be nothing disrespectful in
it if you're
careful to speak respectfully.
Everybody, young and old, in
Avonlea calls me Marilla except
the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert--when
he thinks of it."
"I'd love to call you Aunt
Marilla," said Anne wistfully. "I've
never had an aunt or any relation
at all--not even a grandmother.
It would make me feel as if I
really belonged to you. Can't
I call you Aunt Marilla?"
"No. I'm not
your aunt and I don't believe
in calling people
names that don't belong to them."
"But we could
imagine you were my aunt."
"I couldn't," said
Marilla grimly.
"Do you never imagine things
different from what they really
are?" asked Anne wide-eyed.
"No."
"Oh!" Anne drew a long breath. "Oh,
Miss--Marilla, how much you miss!"
"I don't believe in imagining
things different from what they
really are," retorted Marilla. "When
the Lord puts us in certain circumstances
He doesn't mean for us to imagine
them away. And that reminds me.
Go into the sitting room, Anne--be
sure your feet are clean and
don't let any flies in--and bring
me out the illustrated card that's
on the mantelpiece. The Lord's
Prayer is on it and you'll devote
your spare time this afternoon
to learning it off by heart.
There's to be no more of such
praying as I heard last night."
"I suppose I was very awkward," said
Anne apologetically, "but then,
you see, I'd never had any practice.
You couldn't really expect a
person to pray very well the
first time she tried, could you?
I thought out a splendid prayer
after I went to bed, just as
I promised you I would. It was
nearly as long as a minister's
and so poetical. But would you
believe it? I couldn't remember
one word when I woke up this
morning. And I'm afraid I'll
never be able to think out another
one as good. Somehow, things
never are so good when they're
thought out a second time. Have
you ever noticed that?"
"Here is something
for you to notice, Anne. When
I tell
you to do a thing I want you
to obey me at once and not stand
stock-still and discourse about
it. Just you go and do as I bid
you."
Anne promptly departed for
the sitting-room across the hall;
she failed to return; after waiting
ten minutes Marilla laid down
her knitting and marched after
her with a grim expression. She
found Anne standing motionless
before a picture hanging on the
wall between the two windows,
with her eyes astar with dreams.
The white and green light strained
through apple trees and clustering
vines outside fell over the rapt
little figure with a half-unearthly
radiance.
"Anne, whatever are you thinking
of?" demanded Marilla sharply.
Anne came back to earth with
a start.
"That," she said, pointing
to the picture--a rather vivid
chromo entitled, "Christ Blessing
Little Children"--"and I was
just imagining I was one of them--that
I was the little girl in the
blue dress, standing off by herself
in the corner as if she didn't
belong to anybody, like me. She
looks lonely and sad, don't you
think? I guess she hadn't any
father or mother of her own.
But she wanted to be blessed,
too, so she just crept shyly
up on the outside of the crowd,
hoping nobody would notice her--except
Him. I'm sure I know just how
she felt. Her heart must have
beat and her hands must have
got cold, like mine did when
I asked you if I could stay.
She was afraid He mightn't notice
her. But it's likely He did,
don't you think? I've been trying
to imagine it all out--her edging
a little nearer all the time
until she was quite close to
Him; and then He would look at
her and put His hand on her hair
and oh, such a thrill of joy
as would run over her! But I
wish the artist hadn't painted
Him so sorrowful looking. All
His pictures are like that, if
you've noticed. But I don't believe
He could really have looked so
sad or the children would have
been afraid of Him."
"Anne," said Marilla, wondering
why she had not broken into this
speech long before, "you shouldn't
talk that way. It's irreverent--positively
irreverent."
Anne's eyes marveled.
"Why, I felt
just as reverent as could be.
I'm sure I didn't
mean to be irreverent."
"Well I don't
suppose you did--but it doesn't
sound right to talk
so familiarly about such things.
And another thing, Anne, when
I send you after something you're
to bring it at once and not fall
into mooning and imagining before
pictures. Remember that. Take
that card and come right to the
kitchen. Now, sit down in the
corner and learn that prayer
off by heart."
Anne set the card up against
the jugful of apple blossoms
she had brought in to decorate
the dinnertable--Marilla had
eyed that decoration askance,
but had said nothing-- propped
her chin on her hands, and fell
to studying it intently for several
silent minutes.
"I like this," she announced
at length. "It's beautiful. I've
heard it before--I heard the
superintendent of the asylum
Sunday school say it over once.
But I didn't like it then. He
had such a cracked voice and
he prayed it so mournfully. I
really felt sure he thought praying
was a disagreeable duty. This
isn't poetry, but it makes me
feel just the same way poetry
does. `Our Father who art in
heaven hallowed be Thy name.'
That is just like a line of music.
Oh, I'm so glad you thought of
making me learn this, Miss--
Marilla."
"Well, learn it and hold your
tongue," said Marilla shortly.
Anne tipped the vase of apple
blossoms near enough to bestow
a soft kiss on a pink-cupped
but, and then studied diligently
for some moments longer.
"Marilla," she demanded presently, "do
you think that I shall ever have
a bosom friend in Avonlea?"
"A--a what
kind of friend?"
"A bosom friend--an
intimate friend, you know--a
really kindred
spirit to whom I can confide
my inmost soul. I've dreamed
of meeting her all my life. I
never really supposed I would,
but so many of my loveliest dreams
have come true all at once that
perhaps this one will, too. Do
you think it's possible?"
"Diana Barry
lives over at Orchard Slope
and she's about
your age. She's a very nice little
girl, and perhaps she will be
a playmate for you when she comes
home. She's visiting her aunt
over at Carmody just now. You'll
have to be careful how you behave
yourself, though. Mrs. Barry
is a very particular woman. She
won't let Diana play with any
little girl who isn't nice and
good."
Anne looked at Marilla through
the apple blossoms, her eyes
aglow with interest.
"What is Diana
like? Her hair isn't red, is
it? Oh, I hope
not. It's bad enough to have
red hair myself, but I positively
couldn't endure it in a bosom
friend."
"Diana is a
very pretty little girl. She
has black eyes and
hair and rosy cheeks. And she
is good and smart, which is better
than being pretty."
Marilla was as fond of morals
as the Duchess in Wonderland,
and was firmly convinced that
one should be tacked on to every
remark made to a child who was
being brought up.
But Anne waved the moral inconsequently
aside and seized only on the
delightful possibilities before
it.
"Oh, I'm so
glad she's pretty. Next to
being beautiful oneself--and
that's impossible in my case--it
would be best to have a beautiful
bosom friend. When I lived with
Mrs. Thomas she had a bookcase
in her sitting room with glass
doors. There weren't any books
in it; Mrs. Thomas kept her best
china and her preserves there--when
she had any preserves to keep.
One of the doors was broken.
Mr. Thomas smashed it one night
when he was slightly intoxicated.
But the other was whole and I
used to pretend that my reflection
in it was another little girl
who lived in it. I called her
Katie Maurice, and we were very
intimate. I used to talk to her
by the hour, especially on Sunday,
and tell her everything. Katie
was the comfort and consolation
of my life. We used to pretend
that the bookcase was enchanted
and that if I only knew the spell
I could open the door and step
right into the room where Katie
Maurice lived, instead of into
Mrs. Thomas' shelves of preserves
and china. And then Katie Maurice
would have taken me by the hand
and led me out into a wonderful
place, all flowers and sunshine
and fairies, and we would have
lived there happy for ever after.
When I went to live with Mrs.
Hammond it just broke my heart
to leave Katie Maurice. She felt
it dreadfully, too, I know she
did, for she was crying when
she kissed me good-bye through
the bookcase door. There was
no bookcase at Mrs. Hammond's.
But just up the river a little
way from the house there was
a long green little valley, and
the loveliest echo lived there.
It echoed back every word you
said, even if you didn't talk
a bit loud. So I imagined that
it was a little girl called Violetta
and we were great friends and
I loved her almost as well as
I loved Katie Maurice--not quite,
but almost, you know. The night
before I went to the asylum I
said good-bye to Violetta, and
oh, her good-bye came back to
me in such sad, sad tones. I
had become so attached to her
that I hadn't the heart to imagine
a bosom friend at the asylum,
even if there had been any scope
for imagination there."
"I think it's just as well
there wasn't," said Marilla drily. "I
don't approve of such goings-on.
You seem to half believe your
own imaginations. It will be
well for you to have a real live
friend to put such nonsense out
of your head. But don't let Mrs.
Barry hear you talking about
your Katie Maurices and your
Violettas or she'll think you
tell stories."
"Oh, I won't.
I couldn't talk of them to
everybody--their memories
are too sacred for that. But
I thought I'd like to have you
know about them. Oh, look, here's
a big bee just tumbled out of
an apple blossom. Just think
what a lovely place to live--in
an apple blossom! Fancy going
to sleep in it when the wind
was rocking it. If I wasn't a
human girl I think I'd like to
be a bee and live among the flowers."
"Yesterday you wanted to be
a sea gull," sniffed Marilla. "I
think you are very fickle minded.
I told you to learn that prayer
and not talk. But it seems impossible
for you to stop talking if you've
got anybody that will listen
to you. So go up to your room
and learn it."
"Oh, I know
it pretty nearly all now--all
but just the last
line."
"Well, never
mind, do as I tell you. Go
to your room and
finish learning it well, and
stay there until I call you down
to help me get tea."
"Can I take the apple blossoms
with me for company?" pleaded
Anne.
"No; you don't
want your room cluttered up
with flowers. You
should have left them on the
tree in the first place."
"I did feel a little that way,
too," said Anne. "I kind of felt
I shouldn't shorten their lovely
lives by picking them--I wouldn't
want to be picked if I were an
apple blossom. But the temptation
was IRRESISTIBLE. What do you
do when you meet with an irresistible
temptation?"
"Anne, did
you hear me tell you to go
to your room?"
Anne sighed, retreated to the
east gable, and sat down in a
chair by the window.
"There--I know
this prayer. I learned that
last sentence
coming upstairs. Now I'm going
to imagine things into this room
so that they'll always stay imagined.
The floor is covered with a white
velvet carpet with pink roses
all over it and there are pink
silk curtains at the windows.
The walls are hung with gold
and silver brocade tapestry.
The furniture is mahogany. I
never saw any mahogany, but it
does sound SO luxurious. This
is a couch all heaped with gorgeous
silken cushions, pink and blue
and crimson and gold, and I am
reclining gracefully on it. I
can see my reflection in that
splendid big mirror hanging on
the wall. I am tall and regal,
clad in a gown of trailing white
lace, with a pearl cross on my
breast and pearls in my hair.
My hair is of midnight darkness
and my skin is a clear ivory
pallor. My name is the Lady Cordelia
Fitzgerald. No, it isn't--I can't
make THAT seem real."
She danced up to the little
looking-glass and peered into
it. Her pointed freckled face
and solemn gray eyes peered back
at her.
"You're only Anne of Green
Gables," she said earnestly, "and
I see you, just as you are looking
now, whenever I try to imagine
I'm the Lady Cordelia. But it's
a million times nicer to be Anne
of Green Gables than Anne of
nowhere in particular, isn't
it?"
She bent forward, kissed her
reflection affectionately, and
betook herself to the open window
"Dear Snow
Queen, good afternoon. And
good afternoon dear birches
down in the hollow. And good
afternoon, dear gray house up
on the hill. I wonder if Diana
is to be my bosom friend. I hope
she will, and I shall love her
very much. But I must never quite
forget Katie Maurice and Violetta.
They would feel so hurt if I
did and I'd hate to hurt anybody's
feelings, even a little bookcase
girl's or a little echo girl's.
I must be careful to remember
them and send them a kiss every
day."
Anne blew a couple of airy
kisses from her fingertips past
the cherry blossoms and then,
with her chin in her hands, drifted
luxuriously out on a sea of daydreams.
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