Well, this story will be a nice handle for those folks who are so down on me for making currant wine, although I haven’t made any for three years ever since I found out that the minister didn’t approve. I just kept that bottle for sickness.
There, there, child, don’t cry.
I can’t see as you were to blame although I’m sorry it happened so.”
“I must cry,” said Anne.
“My heart is broken.
The stars in their courses fight against me, Marilla.
Diana and I are parted forever.
Oh, Marilla, I little dreamed of this when first we swore our vows of friendship.”
“Don’t be foolish, Anne.
Mrs. Barry will think better of it when she finds you’re not to blame.
I suppose she thinks you’ve done it for a silly joke or something of that sort.
You’d best go up this evening and tell her how it was.”
“My courage fails me at the thought of facing Diana’s injured mother,” sighed Anne.
“I wish you’d go, Marilla.
You’re so much more dignified than I am.
Likely she’d listen to you quicker than to me.”
“Well, I will,” said Marilla, reflecting that it would probably be the wiser course.
“Don’t cry any more, Anne.
It will be all right.”
Marilla had changed her mind about it being all right by the time she got back from Orchard Slope.
Anne was watching for her coming and flew to the porch door to meet her.
“Oh, Marilla, I know by your face that it’s been no use,” she said sorrowfully.
“Mrs. Barry won’t forgive me?”
“Mrs. Barry indeed!” snapped Marilla.
“Of all the unreasonable women I ever saw she’s the worst.
I told her it was all a mistake and you weren’t to blame, but she just simply didn’t believe me.
And she rubbed it well in about my currant wine and how I’d always said it couldn’t have the least effect on anybody.
I just told her plainly that currant wine wasn’t meant to be drunk three tumblerfuls at a time and that if a child I had to do with was so greedy I’d sober her up with a right good spanking.”
Marilla whisked into the kitchen, grievously disturbed, leaving a very much distracted little soul in the porch behind her.
Presently Anne stepped out bareheaded into the chill autumn dusk; very determinedly and steadily she took her way down through the sere clover field over the log bridge and up through the spruce grove, lighted by a pale little moon hanging low over the western woods.
Mrs. Barry, coming to the door in answer to a timid knock, found a white-lipped eager-eyed suppliant on the doorstep.
Her face hardened.
Mrs. Barry was a woman of strong prejudices and dislikes, and her anger was of the cold, sullen sort which is always hardest to overcome.
To do her justice, she really believed Anne had made Diana drunk out of sheer malice prepense, and she was honestly anxious to preserve her little daughter from the contamination of further intimacy with such a child.
“What do you want?” she said stiffly.
Anne clasped her hands.
“Oh, Mrs. Barry, please forgive me.
I did not mean to—to—intoxicate Diana.
How could I?
Just imagine if you were a poor little orphan girl that kind people had adopted and you had just one bosom friend in all the world.
Do you think you would intoxicate her on purpose?
I thought it was only raspberry cordial.
I was firmly convinced it was raspberry cordial.
Oh, please don’t say that you won’t let Diana play with me any more.
If you do you will cover my life with a dark cloud of woe.”
This speech which would have softened good Mrs. Lynde’s heart in a twinkling, had no effect on Mrs. Barry except to irritate her still more.
She was suspicious of Anne’s big words and dramatic gestures and imagined that the child was making fun of her.
So she said, coldly and cruelly:
“I don’t think you are a fit little girl for Diana to associate with.
You’d better go home and behave yourself.”