Anne of Green Gables
freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God’s love,
since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of
human love.
“You’re old enough to pray for yourself, Anne,” she said finally. “Just
thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you
want.”
“Well, I’ll do my best,” promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla’s
lap. “Gracious heavenly Father--that’s the way the ministers say it in
church, so I suppose it’s all right in private prayer, isn’t it?” she
interjected, lifting her head for a moment. “Gracious heavenly Father,
I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining
Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I’m really extremely grateful for
them. And that’s all the blessings I can think of just now to thank
Thee for. As for the things I want, they’re so numerous that it would
take a great deal of time to name them all, so I will only mention the
two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let
me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain,
“Yours respectfully,
Anne Shirley.
“There, did I do all right?” she asked eagerly, getting up. “I could
have made it much more flowery if I’d had a little more time to think it
over.”
Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering
that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part
of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked
the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer
the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne
called her back.
“I’ve just thought of it now. I should have said ‘Amen’ in place
of ‘yours respectfully,’ shouldn’t I?--the way the ministers do. I’d
forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so
I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?”
“I--I don’t suppose it will,” said Marilla. “Go to sleep now like a good
child. Good night.”
“I can say good night tonight with a clear conscience,” said Anne,
cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows.
Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly on the table,
and glared at Matthew.
“Matthew Cuthbert, it’s about time somebody adopted that child and
taught her something. She’s next door to a perfect heathen. Will you
believe that she never said a prayer in her life till tonight? I’ll
send to the manse tomorrow and borrow the Peep of the Day series,
that’s what I’ll do. And she shall go to Sunday-school just as soon as
I can get some suitable clothes made for her. I foresee that I shall
have my hands full. Well, well, we can’t get through this world without
our share of trouble. I’ve had a pretty easy life of it so far, but my
time has come at last and I suppose I’ll just have to make the best of
it.”
CHAPTER VIII. Anne’s Bringing-up Is Begun
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 on 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 dinner table--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 bud, 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