A Concert, a Catastrophe, and a Confession

MARILLA, can I go over to see Diana just for a minute?” asked Anne,

running breathlessly down from the east gable one February evening.

“I don’t see what you want to be traipsing about after dark for,” said

Marilla shortly. “You and Diana walked home from school together and

then stood down there in the snow for half an hour more, your tongues

going the whole blessed time, clickety-clack. So I don’t think you’re

very badly off to see her again.”

“But she wants to see me,” pleaded Anne. “She has something very

important to tell me.”

“How do you know she has?”

“Because she just signaled to me from her window. We have arranged a

way to signal with our candles and cardboard. We set the candle on the

window sill and make flashes by passing the cardboard back and forth. So

many flashes mean a certain thing. It was my idea, Marilla.”

“I’ll warrant you it was,” said Marilla emphatically. “And the next

thing you’ll be setting fire to the curtains with your signaling

nonsense.”

“Oh, we’re very careful, Marilla. And it’s so interesting. Two flashes

mean, ‘Are you there?’ Three mean ‘yes’ and four ‘no.’ Five mean, ‘Come

over as soon as possible, because I have something important to reveal.’

Diana has just signaled five flashes, and I’m really suffering to know

what it is.”

“Well, you needn’t suffer any longer,” said Marilla sarcastically. “You

can go, but you’re to be back here in just ten minutes, remember that.”

Anne did remember it and was back in the stipulated time, although

probably no mortal will ever know just what it cost her to confine the

discussion of Diana’s important communication within the limits of ten

minutes. But at least she had made good use of them.

“Oh, Marilla, what do you think? You know tomorrow is Diana’s birthday.

Well, her mother told her she could ask me to go home with her from

school and stay all night with her. And her cousins are coming over from

Newbridge in a big pung sleigh to go to the Debating Club concert at

the hall tomorrow night. And they are going to take Diana and me to the

concert--if you’ll let me go, that is. You will, won’t you, Marilla? Oh,

I feel so excited.”

“You can calm down then, because you’re not going. You’re better at home

in your own bed, and as for that club concert, it’s all nonsense, and

little girls should not be allowed to go out to such places at all.”

“I’m sure the Debating Club is a most respectable affair,” pleaded Anne.

“I’m not saying it isn’t. But you’re not going to begin gadding about

to concerts and staying out all hours of the night. Pretty doings for

children. I’m surprised at Mrs. Barry’s letting Diana go.”

“But it’s such a very special occasion,” mourned Anne, on the verge of

tears. “Diana has only one birthday in a year. It isn’t as if birthdays

were common things, Marilla. Prissy Andrews is going to recite ‘Curfew

Must Not Ring Tonight.’ That is such a good moral piece, Marilla, I’m

sure it would do me lots of good to hear it. And the choir are going to

sing four lovely pathetic songs that are pretty near as good as hymns.

And oh, Marilla, the minister is going to take part; yes, indeed, he is;

he’s going to give an address. That will be just about the same thing as

a sermon. Please, mayn’t I go, Marilla?”

“You heard what I said, Anne, didn’t you? Take off your boots now and go

to bed. It’s past eight.”

“There’s just one more thing, Marilla,” said Anne, with the air of

producing the last shot in her locker. “Mrs. Barry told Diana that we

might sleep in the spare-room bed. Think of the honor of your little

Anne being put in the spare-room bed.”

“It’s an honor you’ll have to get along without. Go to bed, Anne, and

don’t let me hear another word out of you.”

When Anne, with tears rolling over her cheeks, had gone sorrowfully

upstairs, Matthew, who had been apparently sound asleep on the lounge

during the whole dialogue, opened his eyes and said decidedly:

“Well now, Marilla, I think you ought to let Anne go.”

“I don’t then,” retorted Marilla. “Who’s bringing this child up,

Matthew, you or me?”

“Well now, you,” admitted Matthew.

“Don’t interfere then.”

“Well now, I ain’t interfering. It ain’t interfering to have your own

opinion. And my opinion is that you ought to let Anne go.”

“You’d think I ought to let Anne go to the moon if she took the notion,

I’ve no doubt,” was Marilla’s amiable rejoinder. “I might have let her

spend the night with Diana, if that was all. But I don’t approve of this

concert plan. She’d go there and catch cold like as not, and have her

head filled up with nonsense and excitement. It would unsettle her for

a week. I understand that child’s disposition and what’s good for it

better than you, Matthew.”

“I think you ought to let Anne go,” repeated Matthew firmly. Argument

was not his strong point, but holding fast to his opinion certainly was.

Marilla gave a gasp of helplessness and took refuge in silence. The

next morning, when Anne was washing the breakfast dishes in the pantry,

Matthew paused on his way out to the barn to say to Marilla again:

“I think you ought to let Anne go, Marilla.”

For a moment Marilla looked things not lawful to be uttered. Then she

yielded to the inevitable and said tartly:

“Very well, she can go, since nothing else ‘ll please you.”

Anne flew out of the pantry, dripping dishcloth in hand.

“Oh, Marilla, Marilla, say those blessed words again.”

“I guess once is enough to say them. This is Matthew’s doings and I

wash my hands of it. If you catch pneumonia sleeping in a strange bed or

coming out of that hot hall in the middle of the night, don’t blame me,

blame Matthew. Anne Shirley, you’re dripping greasy water all over the

floor. I never saw such a careless child.”

“Oh, I know I’m a great trial to you, Marilla,” said Anne repentantly.

“I make so many mistakes. But then just think of all the mistakes I

don’t make, although I might. I’ll get some sand and scrub up the spots

before I go to school. Oh, Marilla, my heart was just set on going to

that concert. I never was to a concert in my life, and when the other

girls talk about them in school I feel so out of it. You didn’t know

just how I felt about it, but you see Matthew did. Matthew understands

me, and it’s so nice to be understood, Marilla.”

Anne was too excited to do herself justice as to lessons that morning in

school. Gilbert Blythe spelled her down in class and left her clear out

of sight in mental arithmetic. Anne’s consequent humiliation was

less than it might have been, however, in view of the concert and the

spare-room bed. She and Diana talked so constantly about it all day that

with a stricter teacher than Mr. Phillips dire disgrace must inevitably

have been their portion.

Anne felt that she could not have borne it if she had not been going

to the concert, for nothing else was discussed that day in school. The

Avonlea Debating Club, which met fortnightly all winter, had had several

smaller free entertainments; but this was to be a big affair, admission

ten cents, in aid of the library. The Avonlea young people had been

practicing for weeks, and all the scholars were especially interested in

it by reason of older brothers and sisters who were going to take part.

Everybody in school over nine years of age expected to go, except Carrie

Sloane, whose father shared Marilla’s opinions about small girls going

out to night concerts. Carrie Sloane cried into her grammar all the

afternoon and felt that life was not worth living.

For Anne the real excitement began with the dismissal of school and

increased therefrom in crescendo until it reached to a crash of positive

ecstasy in the concert itself. They had a “perfectly elegant tea;” and

then came the delicious occupation of dressing in Diana’s little room

upstairs. Diana did Anne’s front hair in the new pompadour style and

Anne tied Diana’s bows with the especial knack she possessed; and they

experimented with at least half a dozen different ways of arranging

their back hair. At last they were ready, cheeks scarlet and eyes

glowing with excitement.

True, Anne could not help a little pang when she contrasted her plain

black tam and shapeless, tight-sleeved, homemade gray-cloth coat with

Diana’s jaunty fur cap and smart little jacket. But she remembered in

time that she had an imagination and could use it.

Then Diana’s cousins, the Murrays from Newbridge, came; they all crowded

into the big pung sleigh, among straw and furry robes. Anne reveled in

the drive to the hall, slipping along over the satin-smooth roads with

the snow crisping under the runners. There was a magnificent sunset, and

the snowy hills and deep-blue water of the St. Lawrence Gulf seemed to

rim in the splendor like a huge bowl of pearl and sapphire brimmed with

wine and fire. Tinkles of sleigh bells and distant laughter, that seemed

like the mirth of wood elves, came from every quarter.

“Oh, Diana,” breathed Anne, squeezing Diana’s mittened hand under the

fur robe, “isn’t it all like a beautiful dream? Do I really look the

same as usual? I feel so different that it seems to me it must show in

my looks.”

“You look awfully nice,” said Diana, who having just received a

compliment from one of her cousins, felt that she ought to pass it on.

“You’ve got the loveliest color.”

The program that night was a series of “thrills” for at least one

listener in the audience, and, as Anne assured Diana, every succeeding

thrill was thrillier than the last. When Prissy Andrews, attired in

a new pink-silk waist with a string of pearls about her smooth white

throat and real carnations in her hair--rumor whispered that the master

had sent all the way to town for them for her--“climbed the slimy

ladder, dark without one ray of light,” Anne shivered in luxurious

sympathy; when the choir sang “Far Above the Gentle Daisies” Anne gazed

at the ceiling as if it were frescoed with angels; when Sam Sloane

proceeded to explain and illustrate “How Sockery Set a Hen” Anne laughed

until people sitting near her laughed too, more out of sympathy with her

than with amusement at a selection that was rather threadbare even in

Avonlea; and when Mr. Phillips gave Mark Antony’s oration over the

dead body of Cæsar in the most heart-stirring tones--looking at Prissy

Andrews at the end of every sentence--Anne felt that she could rise and

mutiny on the spot if but one Roman citizen led the way.

Only one number on the program failed to interest her. When Gilbert

Blythe recited “Bingen on the Rhine” Anne picked up Rhoda Murray’s

library book and read it until he had finished, when she sat rigidly

stiff and motionless while Diana clapped her hands until they tingled.

It was eleven when they got home, sated with dissipation, but with the

exceeding sweet pleasure of talking it all over still to come. Everybody

seemed asleep and the house was dark and silent. Anne and Diana tiptoed

into the parlor, a long narrow room out of which the spare room opened.

It was pleasantly warm and dimly lighted by the embers of a fire in the

grate.

“Let’s undress here,” said Diana. “It’s so nice and warm.”

“Hasn’t it been a delightful time?” sighed Anne rapturously. “It must

be splendid to get up and recite there. Do you suppose we will ever be

asked to do it, Diana?”

“Yes, of course, someday. They’re always wanting the big scholars to

recite. Gilbert Blythe does often and he’s only two years older than us.

Oh, Anne, how could you pretend not to listen to him? When he came to

the line,

‘There’s Another, _not_ a sister,’

he looked right down at you.”

“Diana,” said Anne with dignity, “you are my bosom friend, but I cannot

allow even you to speak to me of that person. Are you ready for bed?

Let’s run a race and see who’ll get to the bed first.”

The suggestion appealed to Diana. The two little white-clad figures flew

down the long room, through the spare-room door, and bounded on the bed

at the same moment. And then--something--moved beneath them, there was a

gasp and a cry--and somebody said in muffled accents:

“Merciful goodness!”

Anne and Diana were never able to tell just how they got off that bed

and out of the room. They only knew that after one frantic rush they

found themselves tiptoeing shiveringly upstairs.

“Oh, who was it--_what_ was it?” whispered Anne, her teeth chattering with

cold and fright.

“It was Aunt Josephine,” said Diana, gasping with laughter. “Oh, Anne,

it was Aunt Josephine, however she came to be there. Oh, and I know she

will be furious. It’s dreadful--it’s really dreadful--but did you ever

know anything so funny, Anne?”

“Who is your Aunt Josephine?”

“She’s father’s aunt and she lives in Charlottetown. She’s awfully

old--seventy anyhow--and I don’t believe she was _ever_ a little girl. We

were expecting her out for a visit, but not so soon. She’s awfully prim

and proper and she’ll scold dreadfully about this, I know. Well, we’ll

have to sleep with Minnie May--and you can’t think how she kicks.”

Miss Josephine Barry did not appear at the early breakfast the next

morning. Mrs. Barry smiled kindly at the two little girls.

“Did you have a good time last night? I tried to stay awake until you

came home, for I wanted to tell you Aunt Josephine had come and that you

would have to go upstairs after all, but I was so tired I fell asleep. I

hope you didn’t disturb your aunt, Diana.”

Diana preserved a discreet silence, but she and Anne exchanged furtive

smiles of guilty amusement across the table. Anne hurried home after

breakfast and so remained in blissful ignorance of the disturbance which

presently resulted in the Barry household until the late afternoon, when

she went down to Mrs. Lynde’s on an errand for Marilla.

“So you and Diana nearly frightened poor old Miss Barry to death last

night?” said Mrs. Lynde severely, but with a twinkle in her eye. “Mrs.

Barry was here a few minutes ago on her way to Carmody. She’s feeling

real worried over it. Old Miss Barry was in a terrible temper when she

got up this morning--and Josephine Barry’s temper is no joke, I can tell

you that. She wouldn’t speak to Diana at all.”

“It wasn’t Diana’s fault,” said Anne contritely. “It was mine. I

suggested racing to see who would get into bed first.”

“I knew it!” said Mrs. Lynde, with the exultation of a correct guesser.

“I knew that idea came out of your head. Well, it’s made a nice lot of

trouble, that’s what. Old Miss Barry came out to stay for a month, but

she declares she won’t stay another day and is going right back to town

tomorrow, Sunday and all as it is. She’d have gone today if they could

have taken her. She had promised to pay for a quarter’s music lessons

for Diana, but now she is determined to do nothing at all for such a

tomboy. Oh, I guess they had a lively time of it there this morning. The

Barrys must feel cut up. Old Miss Barry is rich and they’d like to keep

on the good side of her. Of course, Mrs. Barry didn’t say just that to

me, but I’m a pretty good judge of human nature, that’s what.”

“I’m such an unlucky girl,” mourned Anne. “I’m always getting into

scrapes myself and getting my best friends--people I’d shed my heart’s

blood for--into them too. Can you tell me why it is so, Mrs. Lynde?”

“It’s because you’re too heedless and impulsive, child, that’s what. You

never stop to think--whatever comes into your head to say or do you say

or do it without a moment’s reflection.”

“Oh, but that’s the best of it,” protested Anne. “Something just flashes

into your mind, so exciting, and you must out with it. If you stop to

think it over you spoil it all. Haven’t you never felt that yourself,

Mrs. Lynde?”

No, Mrs. Lynde had not. She shook her head sagely.

“You must learn to think a little, Anne, that’s what. The proverb you

need to go by is ‘Look before you leap’--especially into spare-room

beds.”

Mrs. Lynde laughed comfortably over her mild joke, but Anne remained

pensive. She saw nothing to laugh at in the situation, which to her

eyes appeared very serious. When she left Mrs. Lynde’s she took her way

across the crusted fields to Orchard Slope. Diana met her at the kitchen

door.

“Your Aunt Josephine was very cross about it, wasn’t she?” whispered

Anne.

“Yes,” answered Diana, stifling a giggle with an apprehensive glance

over her shoulder at the closed sitting-room door. “She was fairly

dancing with rage, Anne. Oh, how she scolded. She said I was the

worst-behaved girl she ever saw and that my parents ought to be ashamed

of the way they had brought me up. She says she won’t stay and I’m sure

I don’t care. But Father and Mother do.”

“Why didn’t you tell them it was my fault?” demanded Anne.

“It’s likely I’d do such a thing, isn’t it?” said Diana with just scorn.

“I’m no telltale, Anne Shirley, and anyhow I was just as much to blame

as you.”

“Well, I’m going in to tell her myself,” said Anne resolutely.

Diana stared.

“Anne Shirley, you’d never! why--she’ll eat you alive!”

“Don’t frighten me any more than I am frightened,” implored Anne. “I’d

rather walk up to a cannon’s mouth. But I’ve got to do it, Diana. It

was my fault and I’ve got to confess. I’ve had practice in confessing,

fortunately.”

“Well, she’s in the room,” said Diana. “You can go in if you want to. I

wouldn’t dare. And I don’t believe you’ll do a bit of good.”

With this encouragement Anne bearded the lion in its den--that is to

say, walked resolutely up to the sitting-room door and knocked faintly.

A sharp “Come in” followed.

Miss Josephine Barry, thin, prim, and rigid, was knitting fiercely by

the fire, her wrath quite unappeased and her eyes snapping through her

gold-rimmed glasses. She wheeled around in her chair, expecting to see

Diana, and beheld a white-faced girl whose great eyes were brimmed up

with a mixture of desperate courage and shrinking terror.

“Who are you?” demanded Miss Josephine Barry, without ceremony.

“I’m Anne of Green Gables,” said the small visitor tremulously, clasping

her hands with her characteristic gesture, “and I’ve come to confess, if

you please.”

“Confess what?”

“That it was all my fault about jumping into bed on you last night. I

suggested it. Diana would never have thought of such a thing, I am sure.

Diana is a very ladylike girl, Miss Barry. So you must see how unjust it

is to blame her.”

“Oh, I must, hey? I rather think Diana did her share of the jumping at

least. Such carryings on in a respectable house!”

“But we were only in fun,” persisted Anne. “I think you ought to forgive

us, Miss Barry, now that we’ve apologized. And anyhow, please forgive

Diana and let her have her music lessons. Diana’s heart is set on her

music lessons, Miss Barry, and I know too well what it is to set your

heart on a thing and not get it. If you must be cross with anyone, be

cross with me. I’ve been so used in my early days to having people cross

at me that I can endure it much better than Diana can.”

Much of the snap had gone out of the old lady’s eyes by this time

and was replaced by a twinkle of amused interest. But she still said

severely:

“I don’t think it is any excuse for you that you were only in fun.

Little girls never indulged in that kind of fun when I was young. You

don’t know what it is to be awakened out of a sound sleep, after a long

and arduous journey, by two great girls coming bounce down on you.”

“I don’t _know_, but I can _imagine_,” said Anne eagerly. “I’m sure it must

have been very disturbing. But then, there is our side of it too. Have

you any imagination, Miss Barry? If you have, just put yourself in

our place. We didn’t know there was anybody in that bed and you nearly

scared us to death. It was simply awful the way we felt. And then we

couldn’t sleep in the spare room after being promised. I suppose you are

used to sleeping in spare rooms. But just imagine what you would feel

like if you were a little orphan girl who had never had such an honor.”

All the snap had gone by this time. Miss Barry actually laughed--a

sound which caused Diana, waiting in speechless anxiety in the kitchen

outside, to give a great gasp of relief.

“I’m afraid my imagination is a little rusty--it’s so long since I used

it,” she said. “I dare say your claim to sympathy is just as strong as

mine. It all depends on the way we look at it. Sit down here and tell me

about yourself.”

“I am very sorry I can’t,” said Anne firmly. “I would like to, because

you seem like an interesting lady, and you might even be a kindred

spirit although you don’t look very much like it. But it is my duty to

go home to Miss Marilla Cuthbert. Miss Marilla Cuthbert is a very kind

lady who has taken me to bring up properly. She is doing her best, but

it is very discouraging work. You must not blame her because I jumped on

the bed. But before I go I do wish you would tell me if you will forgive

Diana and stay just as long as you meant to in Avonlea.”

“I think perhaps I will if you will come over and talk to me

occasionally,” said Miss Barry.

That evening Miss Barry gave Diana a silver bangle bracelet and told the

senior members of the household that she had unpacked her valise.

“I’ve made up my mind to stay simply for the sake of getting better

acquainted with that Anne-girl,” she said frankly. “She amuses me, and

at my time of life an amusing person is a rarity.”

Marilla’s only comment when she heard the story was, “I told you so.”

This was for Matthew’s benefit.

Miss Barry stayed her month out and over. She was a more agreeable guest

than usual, for Anne kept her in good humor. They became firm friends.

When Miss Barry went away she said:

“Remember, you Anne-girl, when you come to town you’re to visit me and

I’ll put you in my very sparest spare-room bed to sleep.”

“Miss Barry was a kindred spirit, after all,” Anne confided to Marilla.

“You wouldn’t think so to look at her, but she is. You don’t find it

right out at first, as in Matthew’s case, but after a while you come

to see it. Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It’s

splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world.”