"Well now, of course I do. It's terrible lonesome
downstairs without you. Just go and smooth things over--
that's a good girl."
"Very well," said Anne resignedly. "I'll tell Marilla as
soon as she comes in I've repented."
"That's right--that's right, Anne. But don't tell Marilla I
said anything about it. She might think I was putting my oar
in and I promised not to do that."
"Wild horses won't drag the secret from me," promised Anne
solemnly. "How would wild horses drag a secret from a
person anyhow?"
But Matthew was gone, scared at his own success. He fled
hastily to the remotest corner of the horse
pasture lest
Marilla should
suspect what he had been up to. Marilla herself,
upon her return to the house, was agreeably surprised to hear a
plaintive voice
calling, "Marilla" over the banisters.
"Well?" she said, going into the hall.
"I'm sorry I lost my
temper and said rude things, and
I'm
willing to go and tell Mrs. Lynde so."
"Very well." Marilla's crispness gave no sign of her
relief. She had been wondering what under the
canopy she
should do if Anne did not give in. "I'll take you down
after milking."
Accordingly, after milking, behold Marilla and Anne
walking down the lane, the former erect and triumphant,
the latter drooping and
dejected. But halfway down Anne's
dejection vanished as if by
enchantment. She lifted her
head and stepped
lightly along, her eyes fixed on the
sunset sky and an air of subdued exhilaration about her.
Marilla
beheld the change disapprovingly. This was no
meek
penitent such as it behooved her to take into the
presence of the offended Mrs. Lynde.
"What are you thinking of, Anne?" she asked sharply.
"I'm imagining out what I must say to Mrs. Lynde,"
answered Anne dreamily.
This was satisfactory--or should have been so. But Marilla
could not rid herself of the notion that something in her
scheme of
punishment was going askew. Anne had no business
to look so rapt and
radiant.
Rapt and
radiant Anne continued until they were in the
very presence of Mrs. Lynde, who was sitting
knitting by
her kitchen window. Then the
radiance vanished. Mournful
penitence appeared on every feature. Before a word was
spoken Anne suddenly went down on her knees before the
astonished Mrs. Rachel and held out her hands beseechingly.
"Oh, Mrs. Lynde, I am so
extremely sorry," she said
with a
quiver in her voice. "I could never express all
my sorrow, no, not if I used up a whole dictionary. You
must just imagine it. I behaved
terribly to you--and
I've disgraced the dear friends, Matthew and Marilla, who
have let me stay at Green Gables although I'm not a boy.
I'm a
dreadfully" target="_blank" title="ad.可怕地;糟透地">
dreadfullywicked and ungrateful girl, and I deserve
to be punished and cast out by
respectable people forever.
It was very
wicked of me to fly into a
temper because you
told me the truth. It WAS the truth; every word you said
was true. My hair is red and I'm
freckled and skinny and
ugly. What I said to you was true, too, but I shouldn't
have said it. Oh, Mrs. Lynde, please, please,
forgive me.
If you refuse it will be a
lifelong sorrow on a poor little
orphan girl would you, even if she had a
dreadfultemper?
Oh, I am sure you wouldn't. Please say you
forgive me,
Mrs. Lynde."
Anne clasped her hands together, bowed her head, and
waited for the word of judgment.
There was no mis
taking her sincerity--it
breathed in
every tone of her voice. Both Marilla and Mrs. Lynde
recognized its
unmistakable ring. But the former under-
stood in
dismay that Anne was
actually enjoying her valley
of humiliation--was reveling in the
thoroughness of her
abasement. Where was the
wholesomepunishment upon
which she, Marilla, had plumed herself? Anne had turned
it into a
species of
positive pleasure.
Good Mrs. Lynde, not being overburdened with perception,
did not see this. She only perceived that Anne had
made a very
thoroughapology and all
resentment vanished
from her kindly, if somewhat officious, heart.
"There, there, get up, child," she said
heartily. "Of course
I
forgive you. I guess I was a little too hard on you,
anyway. But I'm such an outspoken person. You just mustn't
mind me, that's what. It can't be denied your hair is
terrible red; but I knew a girl once--went to school with
her, in fact--whose hair was every mite as red as yours
when she was young, but when she grew up it darkened
to a real handsome
auburn. I wouldn't be a mite surprised
if yours did, too--not a mite."
"Oh, Mrs. Lynde!" Anne drew a long
breath as she rose
to her feet. "You have given me a hope. I shall always feel
that you are a
benefactor. Oh, I could
endure anything if I
only thought my hair would be a handsome
auburn when I
grew up. It would be so much easier to be good if one's
hair was a handsome
auburn, don't you think? And now
may I go out into your garden and sit on that bench under
the apple-trees while you and Marilla are talking? There is
so much more scope for
imagination out there."
"Laws, yes, run along, child. And you can pick a bouquet
of them white June lilies over in the corner if you like."
As the door closed behind Anne Mrs. Lynde got briskly
up to light a lamp.
"She's a real odd little thing. Take this chair, Marilla;
it's easier than the one you've got; I just keep that for the
hired boy to sit on. Yes, she certainly is an odd child,
but there is something kind of
taking about her after all.
I don't feel so surprised at you and Matthew keeping her as
I did--nor so sorry for you, either. She may turn out all
right. Of course, she has a queer way of expressing herself--
a little too--well, too kind of forcible, you know; but
she'll likely get over that now that she's come to live among
civilized folks. And then, her
temper's pretty quick, I
guess; but there's one comfort, a child that has a quick
temper, just blaze up and cool down, ain't never likely to
be sly or
deceitful. Preserve me from a sly child, that's
what. On the whole, Marilla, I kind of like her."
When Marilla went home Anne came out of the
fragrant twilight
of the
orchard with a sheaf of white narcissi in her hands.
"I apologized pretty well, didn't I?" she said
proudly as
they went down the lane. "I thought since I had to do it
I might as well do it
thoroughly."
"You did it
thoroughly, all right enough," was Marilla's
comment. Marilla was
dismayed at
finding herself inclined
to laugh over the
recollection. She had also an uneasy
feeling that she ought to scold Anne for apologizing so well;
but then, that was ridiculous! She compromised with her
conscience by
saying severely:
"I hope you won't have occasion to make many more such