Anne of Green Gables
Gilbert Blythe was trying to make Anne Shirley look at him and failing
utterly, because Anne was at that moment totally oblivious not only
to the very existence of Gilbert Blythe, but of every other scholar in
Avonlea school itself. With her chin propped on her hands and her eyes
fixed on the blue glimpse of the Lake of Shining Waters that the west
window afforded, she was far away in a gorgeous dreamland hearing and
seeing nothing save her own wonderful visions.
Gilbert Blythe wasn’t used to putting himself out to make a girl look
at him and meeting with failure. She _should_ look at him, that red-haired
Shirley girl with the little pointed chin and the big eyes that weren’t
like the eyes of any other girl in Avonlea school.
Gilbert reached across the aisle, picked up the end of Anne’s long red
braid, held it out at arm’s length and said in a piercing whisper:
“Carrots! Carrots!”
Then Anne looked at him with a vengeance!
She did more than look. She sprang to her feet, her bright fancies
fallen into cureless ruin. She flashed one indignant glance at Gilbert
from eyes whose angry sparkle was swiftly quenched in equally angry
tears.
“You mean, hateful boy!” she exclaimed passionately. “How dare you!”
And then--thwack! Anne had brought her slate down on Gilbert’s head and
cracked it--slate not head--clear across.
Avonlea school always enjoyed a scene. This was an especially enjoyable
one. Everybody said “Oh” in horrified delight. Diana gasped. Ruby
Gillis, who was inclined to be hysterical, began to cry. Tommy
Sloane let his team of crickets escape him altogether while he stared
open-mouthed at the tableau.
Mr. Phillips stalked down the aisle and laid his hand heavily on Anne’s
shoulder.
“Anne Shirley, what does this mean?” he said angrily. Anne returned no
answer. It was asking too much of flesh and blood to expect her to tell
before the whole school that she had been called “carrots.” Gilbert it
was who spoke up stoutly.
“It was my fault Mr. Phillips. I teased her.”
Mr. Phillips paid no heed to Gilbert.
“I am sorry to see a pupil of mine displaying such a temper and such
a vindictive spirit,” he said in a solemn tone, as if the mere fact of
being a pupil of his ought to root out all evil passions from the hearts
of small imperfect mortals. “Anne, go and stand on the platform in front
of the blackboard for the rest of the afternoon.”
Anne would have infinitely preferred a whipping to this punishment under
which her sensitive spirit quivered as from a whiplash. With a white,
set face she obeyed. Mr. Phillips took a chalk crayon and wrote on the
blackboard above her head.
“Ann Shirley has a very bad temper. Ann Shirley must learn to control
her temper,” and then read it out loud so that even the primer class,
who couldn’t read writing, should understand it.
Anne stood there the rest of the afternoon with that legend above her.
She did not cry or hang her head. Anger was still too hot in her heart
for that and it sustained her amid all her agony of humiliation. With
resentful eyes and passion-red cheeks she confronted alike Diana’s
sympathetic gaze and Charlie Sloane’s indignant nods and Josie Pye’s
malicious smiles. As for Gilbert Blythe, she would not even look at him.
She would _never_ look at him again! She would never speak to him!!
When school was dismissed Anne marched out with her red head held high.
Gilbert Blythe tried to intercept her at the porch door.
“I’m awfully sorry I made fun of your hair, Anne,” he whispered
contritely. “Honest I am. Don’t be mad for keeps, now.”
Anne swept by disdainfully, without look or sign of hearing. “Oh
how could you, Anne?” breathed Diana as they went down the road half
reproachfully, half admiringly. Diana felt that _she_ could never have
resisted Gilbert’s plea.
“I shall never forgive Gilbert Blythe,” said Anne firmly. “And Mr.
Phillips spelled my name without an e, too. The iron has entered into my
soul, Diana.”
Diana hadn’t the least idea what Anne meant but she understood it was
something terrible.
“You mustn’t mind Gilbert making fun of your hair,” she said soothingly.
“Why, he makes fun of all the girls. He laughs at mine because it’s
so black. He’s called me a crow a dozen times; and I never heard him
apologize for anything before, either.”
“There’s a great deal of difference between being called a crow and
being called carrots,” said Anne with dignity. “Gilbert Blythe has hurt
my feelings _excruciatingly_, Diana.”
It is possible the matter might have blown over without more
excruciation if nothing else had happened. But when things begin to
happen they are apt to keep on.
Avonlea scholars often spent noon hour picking gum in Mr. Bell’s spruce
grove over the hill and across his big pasture field. From there they
could keep an eye on Eben Wright’s house, where the master boarded. When
they saw Mr. Phillips emerging therefrom they ran for the schoolhouse;
but the distance being about three times longer than Mr. Wright’s lane
they were very apt to arrive there, breathless and gasping, some three
minutes too late.
On the following day Mr. Phillips was seized with one of his spasmodic
fits of reform and announced before going home to dinner, that he should
expect to find all the scholars in their seats when he returned. Anyone
who came in late would be punished.
All the boys and some of the girls went to Mr. Bell’s spruce grove as
usual, fully intending to stay only long enough to “pick a chew.” But
spruce groves are seductive and yellow nuts of gum beguiling; they
picked and loitered and strayed; and as usual the first thing that
recalled them to a sense of the flight of time was Jimmy Glover shouting
from the top of a patriarchal old spruce “Master’s coming.”
The girls who were on the ground, started first and managed to reach the
schoolhouse in time but without a second to spare. The boys, who had to
wriggle hastily down from the trees, were later; and Anne, who had not
been picking gum at all but was wandering happily in the far end of the
grove, waist deep among the bracken, singing softly to herself, with a
wreath of rice lilies on her hair as if she were some wild divinity
of the shadowy places, was latest of all. Anne could run like a deer,
however; run she did with the impish result that she overtook the boys
at the door and was swept into the schoolhouse among them just as Mr.
Phillips was in the act of hanging up his hat.
Mr. Phillips’s brief reforming energy was over; he didn’t want the
bother of punishing a dozen pupils; but it was necessary to do something
to save his word, so he looked about for a scapegoat and found it
in Anne, who had dropped into her seat, gasping for breath, with a
forgotten lily wreath hanging askew over one ear and giving her a
particularly rakish and disheveled appearance.
“Anne Shirley, since you seem to be so fond of the boys’ company we
shall indulge your taste for it this afternoon,” he said sarcastically.
“Take those flowers out of your hair and sit with Gilbert Blythe.”
The other boys snickered. Diana, turning pale with pity, plucked the
wreath from Anne’s hair and squeezed her hand. Anne stared at the master
as if turned to stone.
“Did you hear what I said, Anne?” queried Mr. Phillips sternly.
“Yes, sir,” said Anne slowly “but I didn’t suppose you really meant it.”
“I assure you I did”--still with the sarcastic inflection which all the
children, and Anne especially, hated. It flicked on the raw. “Obey me at
once.”
For a moment Anne looked as if she meant to disobey. Then, realizing
that there was no help for it, she rose haughtily, stepped across the
aisle, sat down beside Gilbert Blythe, and buried her face in her arms
on the desk. Ruby Gillis, who got a glimpse of it as it went down,
told the others going home from school that she’d “acksually never seen
anything like it--it was so white, with awful little red spots in it.”
To Anne, this was as the end of all things. It was bad enough to be
singled out for punishment from among a dozen equally guilty ones; it
was worse still to be sent to sit with a boy, but that that boy should
be Gilbert Blythe was heaping insult on injury to a degree utterly
unbearable. Anne felt that she could not bear it and it would be of
no use to try. Her whole being seethed with shame and anger and
humiliation.
At first the other scholars looked and whispered and giggled and nudged.
But as Anne never lifted her head and as Gilbert worked fractions as if
his whole soul was absorbed in them and them only, they soon returned
to their own tasks and Anne was forgotten. When Mr. Phillips called the
history class out Anne should have gone, but Anne did not move, and
Mr. Phillips, who had been writing some verses “To Priscilla” before he
called the class, was thinking about an obstinate rhyme still and never
missed her. Once, when nobody was looking, Gilbert took from his desk
a little pink candy heart with a gold motto on it, “You are sweet,” and
slipped it under the curve of Anne’s arm. Whereupon Anne arose, took the
pink heart gingerly between the tips of her fingers, dropped it on the
floor, ground it to powder beneath her heel, and resumed her position
without deigning to bestow a glance on Gilbert.
When school went out Anne marched to her desk, ostentatiously took out
everything therein, books and writing tablet, pen and ink, testament and
arithmetic, and piled them neatly on her cracked slate.
“What are you taking all those things home for, Anne?” Diana wanted to
know, as soon as they were out on the road. She had not dared to ask the
question before.
“I am not coming back to school any more,” said Anne. Diana gasped and
stared at Anne to see if she meant it.
“Will Marilla let you stay home?” she asked.
“She’ll have to,” said Anne. “I’ll _never_ go to school to that man
again.”
“Oh, Anne!” Diana looked as if she were ready to cry. “I do think you’re
mean. What shall I do? Mr. Phillips will make me sit with that horrid
Gertie Pye--I know he will because she is sitting alone. Do come back,
Anne.”
“I’d do almost anything in the world for you, Diana,” said Anne sadly.
“I’d let myself be torn limb from limb if it would do you any good. But
I can’t do this, so please don’t ask it. You harrow up my very soul.”
“Just think of all the fun you will miss,” mourned Diana. “We are going
to build the loveliest new house down by the brook; and we’ll be playing
ball next week and you’ve never played ball, Anne. It’s tremendously
exciting. And we’re going to learn a new song--Jane Andrews is
practicing it up now; and Alice Andrews is going to bring a new Pansy
book next week and we’re all going to read it out loud, chapter about,
down by the brook. And you know you are so fond of reading out loud,
Anne.”
Nothing moved Anne in the least. Her mind was made up. She would not go
to school to Mr. Phillips again; she told Marilla so when she got home.
“Nonsense,” said Marilla.
“It isn’t nonsense at all,” said Anne, gazing at Marilla with solemn,
reproachful eyes. “Don’t you understand, Marilla? I’ve been insulted.”
“Insulted fiddlesticks! You’ll go to school tomorrow as usual.”
“Oh, no.” Anne shook her head gently. “I’m not going back, Marilla. I’ll
learn my lessons at home and I’ll be as good as I can be and hold my
tongue all the time if it’s possible at all. But I will not go back to
school, I assure you.”
Marilla saw something remarkably like unyielding stubbornness looking
out of Anne’s small face. She understood that she would have trouble in
overcoming it; but she resolved wisely to say nothing more just then.
“I’ll run down and see Rachel about it this evening,” she thought.
“There’s no use reasoning with Anne now. She’s too worked up and I’ve