It was not until the next Friday
that Marilla heard the story
of the flower-wreathed hat. She
came home from Mrs. Lynde's and
called Anne to account.
"Anne, Mrs.
Rachel says you went to church
last Sunday with
your hat rigged out ridiculous
with roses and buttercups. What
on earth put you up to such a
caper? A pretty-looking object
you must have been!"
"Oh. I know pink and yellow
aren't becoming to me," began
Anne.
"Becoming fiddlesticks!
It was putting flowers on your
hat
at all, no matter what color
they were, that was ridiculous.
You are the most aggravating
child!"
"I don't see why it's any more
ridiculous to wear flowers on
your hat than on your dress," protested
Anne. "Lots of little girls there
had bouquets pinned on their
dresses. What's the difference?"
Marilla was not to be drawn
from the safe concrete into dubious
paths of the abstract.
"Don't answer
me back like that, Anne. It
was very silly
of you to do such a thing. Never
let me catch you at such a trick
again. Mrs. Rachel says she thought
she would sink through the floor
when she come in all rigged out
like that. She couldn't get near
enough to tell you to take them
off till it was too late. She
says people talked about it something
dreadful. Of course they would
think I had no better sense than
to let you go decked out like
that."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Anne,
tears welling into her eyes. "I
never thought you'd mind. The
roses and buttercups were so
sweet and pretty I thought they'd
look lovely on my hat. Lots of
the little girls had artificial
flowers on their hats. I'm afraid
I'm going to be a dreadful trial
to you. Maybe you'd better send
me back to the asylum. That would
be terrible; I don't think I
could endure it; most likely
I would go into consumption;
I'm so thin as it is, you see.
But that would be better than
being a trial to you."
"Nonsense," said Marilla, vexed
at herself for having made the
child cry. "I don't want to send
you back to the asylum, I'm sure.
All I want is that you should
behave like other little girls
and not make yourself ridiculous.
Don't cry any more. I've got
some news for you. Diana Barry
came home this afternoon. I'm
going up to see if I can borrow
a skirt pattern from Mrs. Barry,
and if you like you can come
with me and get acquainted with
Diana."
Anne rose to her feet, with
clasped hands, the tears still
glistening on her cheeks; the
dish towel she had been hemming
slipped unheeded to the floor.
"Oh, Marilla,
I'm frightened--now that it
has come I'm actually
frightened. What if she shouldn't
like me! It would be the most
tragical disappointment of my
life."
"Now, don't
get into a fluster. And I do
wish you wouldn't use
such long words. It sounds so
funny in a little girl. I guess
Diana'll like you well enough.
It's her mother you've got to
reckon with. If she doesn't like
you it won't matter how much
Diana does. If she has heard
about your outburst to Mrs. Lynde
and going to church with buttercups
round your hat I don't know what
she'll think of you. You must
be polite and well behaved, and
don't make any of your startling
speeches. For pity's sake, if
the child isn't actually trembling!"
Anne WAS trembling. Her face
was pale and tense.
"Oh, Marilla, you'd be excited,
too, if you were going to meet
a little girl you hoped to be
your bosom friend and whose mother
mightn't like you," she said
as she hastened to get her hat.
They went over to Orchard Slope
by the short cut across the brook
and up the firry hill grove.
Mrs. Barry came to the kitchen
door in answer to Marilla's knock.
She was a tall black-eyed, black-haired
woman, with a very resolute mouth.
She had the reputation of being
very strict with her children.
"How do you do, Marilla?" she
said cordially. "Come in. And
this is the little girl you have
adopted, I suppose?"
"Yes, this is Anne Shirley," said
Marilla.
"Spelled with an E," gasped
Anne, who, tremulous and excited
as she was, was determined there
should be no misunderstanding
on that important point.
Mrs. Barry, not hearing or
not comprehending, merely shook
hands and said kindly:
"How are you?"
"I am well in body although
considerable rumpled up in spirit,
thank you ma'am," said Anne gravely.
Then aside to Marilla in an audible
whisper, "There wasn't anything
startling in that, was there,
Marilla?"
Diana was sitting on the sofa,
reading a book which she dropped
when the callers entered. She
was a very pretty little girl,
with her mother's black eyes
and hair, and rosy cheeks, and
the merry expression which was
her inheritance from her father.
"This is my little girl Diana," said
Mrs. Barry. "Diana, you might
take Anne out into the garden
and show her your flowers. It
will be better for you than straining
your eyes over that book. She
reads entirely too much--" this
to Marilla as the little girls
went out--"and I can't prevent
her, for her father aids and
abets her. She's always poring
over a book. I'm glad she has
the prospect of a playmate--
perhaps it will take her more
out-of-doors."
Outside in the garden, which
was full of mellow sunset light
streaming through the dark old
firs to the west of it, stood
Anne and Diana, gazing bashfully
at each other over a clump of
gorgeous tiger lilies.
The Barry garden was a bowery
wilderness of flowers which would
have delighted Anne's heart at
any time less fraught with destiny.
It was encircled by huge old
willows and tall firs, beneath
which flourished flowers that
loved the shade. Prim, right-angled
paths neatly bordered with clamshells,
intersected it like moist red
ribbons and in the beds between
old-fashioned flowers ran riot.
There were rosy bleeding-hearts
and great splendid crimson peonies;
white, fragrant narcissi and
thorny, sweet Scotch roses; pink
and blue and white columbines
and lilac-tinted Bouncing Bets;
clumps of southernwood and ribbon
grass and mint; purple Adam-and-Eve,
daffodils, and masses of sweet
clover white with its delicate,
fragrant, feathery sprays; scarlet
lightning that shot its fiery
lances over prim white musk-flowers;
a garden it was where sunshine
lingered and bees hummed, and
winds, beguiled into loitering,
purred and rustled.
"Oh, Diana," said Anne at last,
clasping her hands and speaking
almost in a whisper, "oh, do
you think you can like me a little--enough
to be my bosom friend?"
Diana laughed. Diana always
laughed before she spoke.
"Why, I guess so," she said
frankly. "I'm awfully glad you've
come to live at Green Gables.
It will be jolly to have somebody
to play with. There isn't any
other girl who lives near enough
to play with, and I've no sisters
big enough."
"Will you swear to be my friend
forever and ever?" demanded Anne
eagerly.
Diana looked shocked.
"Why it's dreadfully wicked
to swear," she said rebukingly.
"Oh no, not
my kind of swearing. There
are two kinds, you know."
"I never heard of but one kind," said
Diana doubtfully.
"There really
is another. Oh, it isn't wicked
at all. It just
means vowing and promising solemnly."
"Well, I don't mind doing that," agreed
Diana, relieved. "How do you
do it?"
"We must join hands--so," said
Anne gravely. "It ought to be
over running water. We'll just
imagine this path is running
water. I'll repeat the oath first.
I solemnly swear to be faithful
to my bosom friend, Diana Barry,
as long as the sun and moon shall
endure. Now you say it and put
my name in."
Diana repeated
the "oath" with
a laugh fore and aft. Then she
said:
"You're a queer
girl, Anne. I heard before
that you were
queer. But I believe I'm going
to like you real well."
When Marilla and Anne went
home Diana went with them as
for as the log bridge. The two
little girls walked with their
arms about each other. At the
brook they parted with many promises
to spend the next afternoon together.
"Well, did you find Diana a
kindred spirit?" asked Marilla
as they went up through the garden
of Green Gables.
"Oh yes," sighed Anne, blissfully
unconscious of any sarcasm on
Marilla's part. "Oh Marilla,
I'm the happiest girl on Prince
Edward Island this very moment.
I assure you I'll say my prayers
with a right good-will tonight.
Diana and I are going to build
a playhouse in Mr. William Bell's
birch grove tomorrow. Can I have
those broken pieces of china
that are out in the woodshed?
Diana's birthday is in February
and mine is in March. Don't you
think that is a very strange
coincidence? Diana is going to
lend me a book to read. She says
it's perfectly splendid and tremendously
exciting. She's going to show
me a place back in the woods
where rice lilies grow. Don't
you think Diana has got very
soulful eyes? I wish I had soulful
eyes. Diana is going to teach
me to sing a song called `Nelly
in the Hazel Dell.' She's going
to give me a picture to put up
in my room; it's a perfectly
beautiful picture, she says--a
lovely lady in a pale blue silk
dress. A sewing-machine agent
gave it to her. I wish I had
something to give Diana. I'm
an inch taller than Diana, but
she is ever so much fatter; she
says she'd like to be thin because
it's so much more graceful, but
I'm afraid she only said it to
soothe my feelings. We're going
to the shore some day to gather
shells. We have agreed to call
the spring down by the log bridge
the Dryad's Bubble. Isn't that
a perfectly elegant name? I read
a story once about a spring called
that. A dryad is sort of a grown-up
fairy, I think."
"Well, all I hope is you won't
talk Diana to death," said Marilla. "But
remember this in all your planning,
Anne. You're not going to play
all the time nor most of it.
You'll have your work to do and
it'll have to be done first."
Anne's cup of happiness was
full, and Matthew caused it to
overflow. He had just got home
from a trip to the store at Carmody,
and he sheepishly produced a
small parcel from his pocket
and handed it to Anne, with a
deprecatory look at Marilla.
"I heard you say you liked
chocolate sweeties, so I got
you some," he said.
"Humph," sniffed Marilla. "It'll
ruin her teeth and stomach. There,
there, child, don't look so dismal.
You can eat those, since Matthew
has gone and got them. He'd better
have brought you peppermints.
They're wholesomer. Don't sicken
yourself eating all them at once
now."
"Oh, no, indeed, I won't," said
Anne eagerly. "I'll just eat
one tonight, Marilla. And I can
give Diana half of them, can't
I? The other half will taste
twice as sweet to me if I give
some to her. It's delightful
to think I have something to
give her."
"I will say it for the child," said
Marilla when Anne had gone to
her gable, "she isn't stingy.
I'm glad, for of all faults I
detest stinginess in a child.
Dear me, it's only three weeks
since she came, and it seems
as if she'd been here always.
I can't imagine the place without
her. Now, don't be looking I
told-you-so, Matthew. That's
bad enough in a woman, but it
isn't to be endured in a man.
I'm perfectly willing to own
up that I'm glad I consented
to keep the child and that I'm
getting fond of her, but don't
you rub it in, Matthew Cuthbert."
|