You’re—you’re going to give her something to eat, aren’t you?”
“When did you ever hear of me starving people into good behavior?” demanded Marilla indignantly.
“She’ll have her meals regular, and I’ll carry them up to her myself.
But she’ll stay up there until she’s willing to apologize to Mrs. Lynde, and that’s final, Matthew.”
Breakfast, dinner, and supper were very silent meals—for Anne still remained obdurate.
After each meal Marilla carried a well-filled tray to the east gable and brought it down later on not noticeably depleted.
Matthew eyed its last descent with a troubled eye.
Had Anne eaten anything at all?
When Marilla went out that evening to bring the cows from the back pasture, Matthew, who had been hanging about the barns and watching, slipped into the house with the air of a burglar and crept upstairs.
As a general thing Matthew gravitated between the kitchen and the little bedroom off the hall where he slept; once in a while he ventured uncomfortably into the parlor or sitting room when the minister came to tea.
But he had never been upstairs in his own house since the spring he helped Marilla paper the spare bedroom, and that was four years ago.
He tiptoed along the hall and stood for several minutes outside the door of the east gable before he summoned courage to tap on it with his fingers and then open the door to peep in.
Anne was sitting on the yellow chair by the window gazing mournfully out into the garden.
Very small and unhappy she looked, and Matthew’s heart smote him.
He softly closed the door and tiptoed over to her.
“Anne,” he whispered, as if afraid of being overheard, “how are you making it, Anne?”
Anne smiled wanly.
“Pretty well.
I imagine a good deal, and that helps to pass the time.
Of course, it’s rather lonesome.
But then, I may as well get used to that.”
Anne smiled again, bravely facing the long years of solitary imprisonment before her.
Matthew recollected that he must say what he had come to say without loss of time, lest Marilla return prematurely.
“Well now, Anne, don’t you think you’d better do it and have it over with?” he whispered.
“It’ll have to be done sooner or later, you know, for Marilla’s a dreadful deter-mined woman—dreadful determined, Anne.
Do it right off, I say, and have it over.”
“Do you mean apologize to Mrs. Lynde?”
“Yes—apologize—that’s the very word,” said Matthew eagerly.
“Just smooth it over so to speak.
That’s what I was trying to get at.”
“I suppose I could do it to oblige you,” said Anne thoughtfully.
“It would be true enough to say I am sorry, because I am sorry now.
I wasn’t a bit sorry last night.
I was mad clear through, and I stayed mad all night.
I know I did because I woke up three times and I was just furious every time.
But this morning it was over.
I wasn’t in a temper anymore—and it left a dreadful sort of goneness, too.
I felt so ashamed of myself.
But I just couldn’t think of going and telling Mrs. Lynde so.
It would be so humiliating.
I made up my mind I’d stay shut up here forever rather than do that.
But still—I’d do anything for you—if you really want me to—”
“Well now, of course I do.
It’s terrible lonesome downstairs without you.
Just go and smooth things over—that’s a good girl.”
“Very well,” said Anne resignedly.
“I’ll tell Marilla as soon as she comes in I’ve repented.”
“That’s right—that’s right, Anne.
But don’t tell Marilla I said anything about it.
She might think I was putting my oar in and I promised not to do that.”