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IX. A Question of Color
Whensheroundedthesprucecurveshesaw.
ThesightaffectedMrs.Lyndeoddly.Shedroppedthereins,heldupherhands,andsaid“GraciousProvidence!”Shestaredasifshecouldnotbelievehereyes.Thenshelaughedalmosthysterically.
“Theremustbesomemistake...theremust.IknewthosePyeswouldmakeamessofthings.”
Mrs.Lyndedrovehome,meetingseveralpeopleontheroadandstoppingtotellthemaboutthehall.Thenewsflewlikewildfire.GilbertBlythe,poringoveratextbookathome,hearditfromhisfather’shiredboyatsunset,andrushedbreathlesslytoGreenGables,joinedonthewaybyFredWright.TheyfoundDianaBarry,JaneAndrews,andAnneShirley,despairpersonified,attheyardgateofGreenGables,underthebigleaflesswillows.
“Itisn’ttruesurely,Anne?”exclaimedGilbert.
“Itistrue,”answeredAnne,lookinglikethemuseoftragedy.“Mrs.LyndecalledonherwayfromCarmodytotellme.Oh,itissimplydreadful!Whatistheuseoftryingtoimproveanything?”
“Whatisdreadful?”askedOliverSloane,arrivingatthismomentwithabandboxhehadbroughtfromtownforMarilla.
“Haven’tyouheard?”saidJanewrathfully.“Well,itssimplythis...JoshuaPyehasgoneandpaintedthehallblueinsteadofgreen...adeep,brilliantblue,theshadetheyuseforpaintingcartsandwheelbarrows.AndMrs.Lyndesaysitisthemosthideouscolorforabuilding,especiallywhencombinedwitharedroof,thatsheeversaworimagined.YoucouldsimplyhaveknockedmedownwithafeatherwhenIheardit.
