it’s very petty of me to mind these things, even if they do rub a little bloom off life. And she isn’t always hateful… she is quite nice by spells…’
‘Do you tell me so?’ said Miss Cornelia sarcastically.
‘Yes… and kind. She heard me say I wanted an afternoon tea-set, and she sent to Toronto and got me one… by mail order! And, oh, Miss Cornelia, it’s so ugly!’
Anne gave a laugh that ended in a sob. Then she laughed again.
‘Now we won’t talk of her any more… it doesn’t seem so bad now that I’ve blurted this all out, like a baby. Look at wee Rilla, Miss Cornelia. Aren’t her lashes darling when she is asleep? Now let’s have a good gab-fest.’
Anne was herself again by the time Miss Cornelia had gone. Nevertheless, she sat thoughtfully before her fire for some time. She had not told Miss Cornelia all of it. She had never told Gilbert any of it. There were so many little things…
‘So little I can’t complain of them,’ thought Anne. ‘And yet… it’s the little things that fret the holes in life… like moths… and ruin it.’
Aunt Mary Maria with her trick of acting hostess… Aunt Mary Maria inviting guests and never saying a word about it till they came.
She makes me feel as if I didn’t belong in my own home
… Aunt Mary Maria moving the furniture around when Anne was out… ‘I hope you didn’t mind, Annie. I thought we need the table so much more here than in the library.’… Aunt Mary Maria’s insatiable childish curiosity about everything… her point-blank questions about intimate matters…
always coming into my room without knocking… always smelling smoke… always plumping up the cushions I’ve crushed… always implying that I gossip too much with Susan… always picking at the children… we have to be at them all the time to make them behave and then we can’t manage it always
.
‘Ugly old Aunt Maywia,’ Shirley had said distinctly one dreadful day. Gilbert had been going to spank him for it, but Susan had risen up in outraged majesty and forbade it.
‘We’re cowed,’ thought Anne. ‘This household is beginning to revolve around the question, “Will Aunt Mary Maria like it?” We won’t admit it, but it’s true. Anything rather than have her wiping tears nobly away. It just can’t go on.’
Then Anne remembered what Miss Cornelia had said… that Mary Maria Blythe had never had a friend. How terrible! Out of her own richness of friendships Anne felt a sudden rush of compassion for this woman who had never had a friend… who had nothing before her but a lonely, restless old age, with no one coming to her for shelter or healing, for hope and help, for warmth and love. Surely they could have patience with her. These annoyances were only superficial after all. They could not poison the deep springs of life.
‘I’ve just had a terrible spasm of being sorry for myself, that’s all,’ said Anne, picking Rilla out of her basket and thrilling to the little round satin cheek against hers. ‘It’s over now and I’m wholeheartedly ashamed of it.’
13
‘We never seem to have old-fashioned winters nowadays, do we, Mummy?’ said Walter gloomily.
For the November snow had gone long ago, and all through December Glen St Mary had been a black and sombre land, rimmed in by a grey gulf dotted with curling crests of ice-white foam. There had been only a few sunny days, when the harbour sparkled in the golden arms of the hills: the rest had been dour and hard-bitten. In vain had the Ingleside folk hoped for snow for Christmas: but preparations went steadily on and as the last week drew to a close Ingleside was full of mystery and secrets and whispers and delicious smells. Now, on the very day before Christmas everything was ready. The fir-tree Walter and Jem had brought up from the Hollow was in the corner of the living-room, the doors and windows were hung with big green wreaths tied with huge bows of red ribbon. The banisters were twined with
‘Do you tell me so?’ said Miss Cornelia sarcastically.
‘Yes… and kind. She heard me say I wanted an afternoon tea-set, and she sent to Toronto and got me one… by mail order! And, oh, Miss Cornelia, it’s so ugly!’
Anne gave a laugh that ended in a sob. Then she laughed again.
‘Now we won’t talk of her any more… it doesn’t seem so bad now that I’ve blurted this all out, like a baby. Look at wee Rilla, Miss Cornelia. Aren’t her lashes darling when she is asleep? Now let’s have a good gab-fest.’
Anne was herself again by the time Miss Cornelia had gone. Nevertheless, she sat thoughtfully before her fire for some time. She had not told Miss Cornelia all of it. She had never told Gilbert any of it. There were so many little things…
‘So little I can’t complain of them,’ thought Anne. ‘And yet… it’s the little things that fret the holes in life… like moths… and ruin it.’
Aunt Mary Maria with her trick of acting hostess… Aunt Mary Maria inviting guests and never saying a word about it till they came.
She makes me feel as if I didn’t belong in my own home
… Aunt Mary Maria moving the furniture around when Anne was out… ‘I hope you didn’t mind, Annie. I thought we need the table so much more here than in the library.’… Aunt Mary Maria’s insatiable childish curiosity about everything… her point-blank questions about intimate matters…
always coming into my room without knocking… always smelling smoke… always plumping up the cushions I’ve crushed… always implying that I gossip too much with Susan… always picking at the children… we have to be at them all the time to make them behave and then we can’t manage it always
.
‘Ugly old Aunt Maywia,’ Shirley had said distinctly one dreadful day. Gilbert had been going to spank him for it, but Susan had risen up in outraged majesty and forbade it.
‘We’re cowed,’ thought Anne. ‘This household is beginning to revolve around the question, “Will Aunt Mary Maria like it?” We won’t admit it, but it’s true. Anything rather than have her wiping tears nobly away. It just can’t go on.’
Then Anne remembered what Miss Cornelia had said… that Mary Maria Blythe had never had a friend. How terrible! Out of her own richness of friendships Anne felt a sudden rush of compassion for this woman who had never had a friend… who had nothing before her but a lonely, restless old age, with no one coming to her for shelter or healing, for hope and help, for warmth and love. Surely they could have patience with her. These annoyances were only superficial after all. They could not poison the deep springs of life.
‘I’ve just had a terrible spasm of being sorry for myself, that’s all,’ said Anne, picking Rilla out of her basket and thrilling to the little round satin cheek against hers. ‘It’s over now and I’m wholeheartedly ashamed of it.’
13
‘We never seem to have old-fashioned winters nowadays, do we, Mummy?’ said Walter gloomily.
For the November snow had gone long ago, and all through December Glen St Mary had been a black and sombre land, rimmed in by a grey gulf dotted with curling crests of ice-white foam. There had been only a few sunny days, when the harbour sparkled in the golden arms of the hills: the rest had been dour and hard-bitten. In vain had the Ingleside folk hoped for snow for Christmas: but preparations went steadily on and as the last week drew to a close Ingleside was full of mystery and secrets and whispers and delicious smells. Now, on the very day before Christmas everything was ready. The fir-tree Walter and Jem had brought up from the Hollow was in the corner of the living-room, the doors and windows were hung with big green wreaths tied with huge bows of red ribbon. The banisters were twined with
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