Marilla, walking home one late
April evening from an Aid meeting,
realized that the winter was
over and gone with the thrill
of delight that spring never
fails to bring to the oldest
and saddest as well as to the
youngest and merriest. Marilla
was not given to subjective analysis
of her thoughts and feelings.
She probably imagined that she
was thinking about the Aids and
their missionary box and the
new carpet for the vestry room,
but under these reflections was
a harmonious consciousness of
red fields smoking into pale-purply
mists in the declining sun, of
long, sharp-pointed fir shadows
falling over the meadow beyond
the brook, of still, crimson-budded
maples around a mirrorlike wood
pool, of a wakening in the world
and a stir of hidden pulses under
the gray sod. The spring was
abroad in the land and Marilla's
sober, middle-aged step was lighter
and swifter because of its deep,
primal gladness.
Her eyes dwelt affectionately
on Green Gables, peering through
its network of trees and reflecting
the sunlight back from its windows
in several little coruscations
of glory. Marilla, as she picked
her steps along the damp lane,
thought that it was really a
satisfaction to know that she
was going home to a briskly snapping
wood fire and a table nicely
spread for tea, instead of to
the cold comfort of old Aid meeting
evenings before Anne had come
to Green Gables.
Consequently, when Marilla
entered her kitchen and found
the fire black out, with no sign
of Anne anywhere, she felt justly
disappointed and irritated. She
had told Anne to be sure and
have tea ready at five o'clock,
but now she must hurry to take
off her second-best dress and
prepare the meal herself against
Matthew's return from plowing.
"I'll settle Miss Anne when
she comes home," said Marilla
grimly, as she shaved up kindlings
with a carving knife and with
more vim than was strictly necessary.
Matthew had come in and was waiting
patiently for his tea in his
corner. "She's gadding off somewhere
with Diana, writing stories or
practicing dialogues or some
such tomfoolery, and never thinking
once about the time or her duties.
She's just got to be pulled up
short and sudden on this sort
of thing. I don't care if Mrs.
Allan does say she's the brightest
and sweetest child she ever knew.
She may be bright and sweet enough,
but her head is full of nonsense
and there's never any knowing
what shape it'll break out in
next. Just as soon as she grows
out of one freak she takes up
with another. But there! Here
I am saying the very thing I
was so riled with Rachel Lynde
for saying at the Aid today.
I was real glad when Mrs. Allan
spoke up for Anne, for if she
hadn't I know I'd have said something
too sharp to Rachel before everybody.
Anne's got plenty of faults,
goodness knows, and far be it
from me to deny it. But I'm bringing
her up and not Rachel Lynde,
who'd pick faults in the Angel
Gabriel himself if he lived in
Avonlea. Just the same, Anne
has no business to leave the
house like this when I told her
she was to stay home this afternoon
and look after things. I must
say, with all her faults, I never
found her disobedient or untrustworthy
before and I'm real sorry to
find her so now."
"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew,
who, being patient and wise and,
above all, hungry, had deemed
it best to let Marilla talk her
wrath out unhindered, having
learned by experience that she
got through with whatever work
was on hand much quicker if not
delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps
you're judging her too hasty,
Marilla. Don't call her untrustworthy
until you're sure she has disobeyed
you. Mebbe it can all be explained--Anne's
a great hand at explaining."
"She's not here when I told
her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I
reckon she'll find it hard to
explain THAT to my satisfaction.
Of course I knew you'd take her
part, Matthew. But I'm bringing
her up, not you."
It was dark when supper was
ready, and still no sign of Anne,
coming hurriedly over the log
bridge or up Lover's Lane, breathless
and repentant with a sense of
neglected duties. Marilla washed
and put away the dishes grimly.
Then, wanting a candle to light
her way down the cellar, she
went up to the east gable for
the one that generally stood
on Anne's table. Lighting it,
she turned around to see Anne
herself lying on the bed, face
downward among the pillows.
"Mercy on us," said astonished
Marilla, "have you been asleep,
Anne?"
"No," was the
muffled reply.
"Are you sick then?" demanded
Marilla anxiously, going over
to the bed.
Anne cowered deeper into her
pillows as if desirous of hiding
herself forever from mortal eyes.
"No. But please,
Marilla, go away and don't
look at me. I'm
in the depths of despair and
I don't care who gets head in
class or writes the best composition
or sings in the Sunday-school
choir any more. Little things
like that are of no importance
now because I don't suppose I'll
ever be able to go anywhere again.
My career is closed. Please,
Marilla, go away and don't look
at me."
"Did anyone ever hear the like?" the
mystified Marilla wanted to know. "Anne
Shirley, whatever is the matter
with you? What have you done?
Get right up this minute and
tell me. This minute, I say.
There now, what is it?"
Anne had slid to the floor
in despairing obedience.
"Look at my hair, Marilla," she
whispered.
Accordingly, Marilla lifted
her candle and looked scrutinizingly
at Anne's hair, flowing in heavy
masses down her back. It certainly
had a very strange appearance.
"Anne Shirley,
what have you done to your
hair? Why, it's
GREEN!"
Green it might be called, if
it were any earthly color--a
queer, dull, bronzy green, with
streaks here and there of the
original red to heighten the
ghastly effect. Never in all
her life had Marilla seen anything
so grotesque as Anne's hair at
that moment.
"Yes, it's green," moaned Anne. "I
thought nothing could be as bad
as red hair. But now I know it's
ten times worse to have green
hair. Oh, Marilla, you little
know how utterly wretched I am."
"I little know how you got
into this fix, but I mean to
find out," said Marilla. "Come
right down to the kitchen--it's
too cold up here--and tell me
just what you've done. I've been
expecting something queer for
some time. You haven't got into
any scrape for over two months,
and I was sure another one was
due. Now, then, what did you
do to your hair?"
"I dyed it."
"Dyed it! Dyed
your hair! Anne Shirley, didn't
you know it was
a wicked thing to do?"
"Yes, I knew it was a little
wicked," admitted Anne. "But
I thought it was worth while
to be a little wicked to get
rid of red hair. I counted the
cost, Marilla. Besides, I meant
to be extra good in other ways
to make up for it."
"Well," said Marilla sarcastically, "if
I'd decided it was worth while
to dye my hair I'd have dyed
it a decent color at least. I
wouldn't have dyed it green."
"But I didn't mean to dye it
green, Marilla," protested Anne
dejectedly. "If I was wicked
I meant to be wicked to some
purpose. He said it would turn
my hair a beautiful raven black--he
positively assured me that it
would. How could I doubt his
word, Marilla? I know what it
feels like to have your word
doubted. And Mrs. Allan says
we should never suspect anyone
of not telling us the truth unless
we have proof that they're not.
I have proof now--green hair
is proof enough for anybody.
But I hadn't then and I believed
every word he said IMPLICITLY."
"Who said?
Who are you talking about?"
"The peddler
that was here this afternoon.
I bought the
dye from him."
"Anne Shirley,
how often have I told you never
to let one of
those Italians in the house!
I don't believe in encouraging
them to come around at all."
"Oh, I didn't
let him in the house. I remembered
what you
told me, and I went out, carefully
shut the door, and looked at
his things on the step. Besides,
he wasn't an Italian--he was
a German Jew. He had a big box
full of very interesting things
and he told me he was working
hard to make enough money to
bring his wife and children out
from Germany. He spoke so feelingly
about them that it touched my
heart. I wanted to buy something
from him to help him in such
a worthy object. Then all at
once I saw the bottle of hair
dye. The peddler said it was
warranted to dye any hair a beautiful
raven black and wouldn't wash
off. In a trice I saw myself
with beautiful raven-black hair
and the temptation was irresistible.
But the price of the bottle was
seventy-five cents and I had
only fifty cents left out of
my chicken money. I think the
peddler had a very kind heart,
for he said that, seeing it was
me, he'd sell it for fifty cents
and that was just giving it away.
So I bought it, and as soon as
he had gone I came up here and
applied it with an old hairbrush
as the directions said. I used
up the whole bottle, and oh,
Marilla, when I saw the dreadful
color it turned my hair I repented
of being wicked, I can tell you.
And I've been repenting ever
since."
"Well, I hope you'll repent
to good purpose," said Marilla
severely, "and that you've got
your eyes opened to where your
vanity has led you, Anne. Goodness
knows what's to be done. I suppose
the first thing is to give your
hair a good washing and see if
that will do any good."
Accordingly, Anne washed her
hair, scrubbing it vigorously
with soap and water, but for
all the difference it made she
might as well have been scouring
its original red. The peddler
had certainly spoken the truth
when he declared that the dye
wouldn't wash off, however his
veracity might be impeached in
other respects.
"Oh, Marilla, what shall I
do?" questioned Anne in tears. "I
can never live this down. People
have pretty well forgotten my
other mistakes--the liniment
cake and setting Diana drunk
and flying into a temper with
Mrs. Lynde. But they'll never
forget this. They will think
I am not respectable. Oh, Marilla,
`what a tangled web we weave
when first we practice to deceive.'
That is poetry, but it is true.
And oh, how Josie Pye will laugh!
Marilla, I CANNOT face Josie
Pye. I am the unhappiest girl
in Prince Edward Island."
Anne's unhappiness continued
for a week. During that time
she went nowhere and shampooed
her hair every day. Diana alone
of outsiders knew the fatal secret,
but she promised solemnly never
to tell, and it may be stated
here and now that she kept her
word. At the end of the week
Marilla said decidedly:
"It's no use,
Anne. That is fast dye if ever
there was any.
Your hair must be cut off; there
is no other way. You can't go
out with it looking like that."
Anne's lips quivered, but she
realized the bitter truth of
Marilla's remarks. With a dismal
sigh she went for the scissors.
"Please cut
it off at once, Marilla, and
have it over. Oh,
I feel that my heart is broken.
This is such an unromantic affliction.
The girls in books lose their
hair in fevers or sell it to
get money for some good deed,
and I'm sure I wouldn't mind
losing my hair in some such fashion
half so much. But there is nothing
comforting in having your hair
cut off because you've dyed it
a dreadful color, is there? I'm
going to weep all the time you're
cutting it off, if it won't interfere.
It seems such a tragic thing."
Anne wept then, but later on,
when she went upstairs and looked
in the glass, she was calm with
despair. Marilla had done her
work thoroughly and it had been
necessary to shingle the hair
as closely as possible. The result
was not becoming, to state the
case as mildly as may be. Anne
promptly turned her glass to
the wall.
"I'll never, never look at
myself again until my hair grows," she
exclaimed passionately.
Then she suddenly righted the
glass.
"Yes, I will,
too. I'd do penance for being
wicked that way. I'll
look at myself every time I come
to my room and see how ugly I
am. And I won't try to imagine
it away, either. I never thought
I was vain about my hair, of
all things, but now I know I
was, in spite of its being red,
because it was so long and thick
and curly. I expect something
will happen to my nose next."
Anne's clipped head made a
sensation in school on the following
Monday, but to her relief nobody
guessed the real reason for it,
not even Josie Pye, who, however,
did not fail to inform Anne that
she looked like a perfect scarecrow.
"I didn't say anything when
Josie said that to me," Anne
confided that evening to Marilla,
who was lying on the sofa after
one of her headaches, "because
I thought it was part of my punishment
and I ought to bear it patiently.
It's hard to be told you look
like a scarecrow and I wanted
to say something back. But I
didn't. I just swept her one
scornful look and then I forgave
her. It makes you feel very virtuous
when you forgive people, doesn't
it? I mean to devote all my energies
to being good after this and
I shall never try to be beautiful
again. Of course it's better
to be good. I know it is, but
it's sometimes so hard to believe
a thing even when you know it.
I do really want to be good,
Marilla, like you and Mrs. Allan
and Miss Stacy, and grow up to
be a credit to you. Diana says
when my hair begins to grow to
tie a black velvet ribbon around
my head with a bow at one side.
She says she thinks it will be
very becoming. I will call it
a snood--that sounds so romantic.
But am I talking too much, Marilla?
Does it hurt your head?"
"My head is
better now. It was terrible
bad this afternoon,
though. These headaches of mine
are getting worse and worse.
I'll have to see a doctor about
them. As for your chatter, I
don't know that I mind it--I've
got so used to it."
Which was Marilla's way of
saying that she liked to hear
it.
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