Immediately after Mrs. Lynde's departure, Marilla betook herself upstairs, to the east gable.
"Anne Shirley!" Marilla bellowed—yes, bellowed. Any one who knew Marilla Cuthbert would have been astonished to see the usually cool, calm woman in this state; but such situations required a certain decibel level.
She'd known that Anne had a hot temper—just look at the way Anne had flown at Mrs. Lynde before!—but to think that the usually gentle, dreamy girl would result to physical violence was almost laughable. But apparently, Anne had indeed cracked a school slate on a boy's head!
And here, Marilla had been about to tell Anne she could remain at Green Gables! Evidently she needed to rethink this!
What on earth had her father been thinking to put a latch on the east gable door? Marilla wondered, rattling the door handle violently.
"Anne Shirley! I've heard all about it! Now you open your door at once!"
A plaintive wail sounded from within. "Please go away, Marilla! I'm in the depths of despair!"
No one who had smashed a slate over a boy's head had any right to be despairing, was Marilla's opinion. "Oh fiddlesticks! Now, you open this door at once."
She had been wondering what she should do if Anne did not open the door, and was both surprised and gratified when a click sounded against the door. Relieved, Marilla walked into the room, just in time to see the quilt settle entirely over Anne's form—and suddenly, was not quite so relieved. "Are you sick?" she demanded worriedly.
"Go away…don't look at me!" said the lump in the quilt.
Marilla rolled her eyes—a look entirely lost on Anne, who, after all, was hidden entirely under the covers. "Oh, don't play innocent with me. I'm so ashamed I don't know where to begin! What do you mean by breaking your slate over some boy's head?!"
"He called me CARROTS!"
Marilla suddenly remembered the first insult she herself had ever received—"What a pity she is such a dark, homely little thing," her favorite aunt (until then) had said to another relative. As a young girl Marilla had been one of those unfortunates who seem to hover on the very edge of being pretty, and every year speak of being "pretty someday" with lesser conviction.
However, Marilla was unused to reminiscing about her girlhood—look at how pleasant it had been!—which is probably what caused her to say tartly, flinging back Anne's quilt, "I don't care what he called you—you had no reason to lose your temper—" and stopping dead.
Anne's hair was over her face; it, as well as her dress, was oddly black in some places and rusty green in others. Through the limp locks, Anne's eyes regarded Marilla beseechingly as she seemingly braced herself for Marilla's anger.
But it didn't come. Marilla was, for a few moments, speechless with shock. But, quickly recovering her famous tongue, she exclaimed "Anne…Shirley! What have you done to your hair?"
"Oh, Marilla," cried Anne, sitting up, "I thought nothing could be as bad as red hair—but GREEN is ten times worse. You little know how utterly wretched I am."
"I 'little know' how you got into this fix, but I demand that you tell me."
"I dyed it," said Anne in a small voice.
"You…dyed it!" repeated Marilla, blankly. "For mercy's sake, child!"
"He positively assured me it would turn my hair a beautiful raven black," continued Anne, still in the same sobbing tones.
"Who did?" ejaculated Marilla. "Who are you talking about?"
"The peddler we met on the road today…!"
Marilla sighed. "You know I absolutely forbade you to—"
Anne let out a great wail, and flopped over on her side, burying her face in the covers.
"Oh, what's the use?" Marilla sighed again, settling down beside Anne. "Well, I hope that this has opened your eyes to see where your vanity has taken you." One could hope.
"What shall I do?" cried Anne, rolling over to look at Marilla. "I'll never be able to live this down. I can't face him again. But," she insisted, a firm note entering her voice, "Gilbert Blythe had no right to call me carrots!"
Gilbert Blythe? Before, it hadn't mattered to Marilla which Avonlea boy had gone home with a lump on his head—but Gilbert Blythe, now, was a completely different matter.
A matter which evoked another memory in Marilla's head, a memory of a curly-headed boy with hazel eyes and a flat gray cap, taunting a small girl on her first day of school: "Marilla—vanilla—Marilla—vanilla!"
"You give my books back, John Blythe!" cried the six-year-old, throwing her nice, shiny red apple for teacher on the ground and bursting into tears. Although John's teasing had weakened a very little at the sight of tears, he'd dropped the books in surprise when Marilla picked up the apple again and lobbed it at his stomach.
Now, Marilla smiled a little—fortunately, Anne could not see—and asked, in a much gentler voice: "You really smashed your slate over that boy's head?"
"Yes."
"Hard?" Marilla pressed, hopefully.
"Very hard, I'm afraid," replied Anne ruefully—although, of course, not too ruefully.
"Well," said Marilla, "I know I should be angry—I should be furious."(I should be furious still, is what I suppose I mean!) "What a way to behave, you first day at school! But…if you promise me that nothing of the sort will ever happen again, I won't say another word about it"
At the words "ever" and "again," Anne rose slowly, as though in a dream. "You're not going to send me back?" she asked hesitantly—seemingly afraid she was dreaming.
"I've come to a decision," said Marilla perfunctorily: "Your trial is over, and you will stay at Green Gables."
Instantly a change came over the young girl. Anne sat up fully and clasped her hands before her. "Oh—Marilla!"
But Marilla, unused to grateful affection—affection of most sorts, really—was already at the door. She turned and observed Anne, and finally remarked, thinking of John and Gilbert Blythe with a smile, "I think you may be a kindred spirit after all."