CHAPTER II. Matthew Cuthbert is surprised
|MATTHEW Cuthbert and the sorrel mare jogged comfortably over the eightmiles to Bright River. It was a pretty road, running along betweensnug farmsteads, with now and again a bit of balsamy fir wood to drivethrough or a hollow where wild plums hung out their filmy bloom. The airwas sweet with the breath of many apple orchards and the meadows slopedaway in the distance to horizon mists of pearl and purple; while
The little birds sang as if it were The one day of summer in all the year.
Matthew enjoyed the drive after his own fashion, except during themoments when he met women and had to nod to them--for in Prince Edwardisland you are supposed to nod to all and sundry you meet on the roadwhether you know them or not.
Matthew dreaded all women except Marilla and Mrs. Rachel; he had anuncomfortable feeling that the mysterious creatures were secretlylaughing at him. He may have been quite right in thinking so, for hewas an odd-looking personage, with an ungainly figure and long iron-grayhair that touched his stooping shoulders, and a full, soft brown beardwhich he had worn ever since he was twenty. In fact, he had lookedat twenty very much as he looked at sixty, lacking a little of thegrayness.
When he reached Bright River there was no sign of any train; he thoughthe was too early, so he tied his horse in the yard of the small BrightRiver hotel and went over to the station house. The long platform wasalmost deserted; the only living creature in sight being a girl who wassitting on a pile of shingles at the extreme end. Matthew, barely notingthat it _was_ a girl, sidled past her as quickly as possible withoutlooking at her. Had he looked he could hardly have failed to notice thetense rigidity and expectation of her attitude and expression. She wassitting there waiting for something or somebody and, since sitting andwaiting was the only thing to do just then, she sat and waited with allher might and main.
Matthew encountered the stationmaster locking up the ticket officepreparatory to going home for supper, and asked him if the five-thirtytrain would soon be along.
The five-thirty train has been in and gone half an hour ago, answeredthat brisk official. But there was a passenger dropped off for you--alittle girl. She's sitting out there on the shingles. I asked her togo into the ladies' waiting room, but she informed me gravely that shepreferred to stay outside. 'There was more scope for imagination,' shesaid. She's a case, I should say.
I'm not expecting a girl, said Matthew blankly. It's a boy I've comefor. He should be here. Mrs. Alexander Spencer was to bring him overfrom Nova Scotia for me.
The stationmaster whistled.
Guess there's some mistake, he said. Mrs. Spencer came off the trainwith that girl and gave her into my charge. Said you and your sisterwere adopting her from an orphan asylum and that you would be along forher presently. That's all I know about it--and I haven't got any moreorphans concealed hereabouts.
I don't understand, said Matthew helplessly, wishing that Marilla wasat hand to cope with the situation.
Well, you'd better question the girl, said the station-mastercarelessly. I dare say she'll be able to explain--she's got a tongueof her own, that's certain. Maybe they were out of boys of the brand youwanted.
He walked jauntily away, being hungry, and the unfortunate Matthew wasleft to do that which was harder for him than bearding a lion in itsden--walk up to a girl--a strange girl--an orphan girl--and demand ofher why she wasn't a boy. Matthew groaned in spirit as he turned aboutand shuffled gently down the platform towards her.
She had been watching him ever since he had passed her and she had hereyes on him now. Matthew was not looking at her and would not have seenwhat she was really like if he had been, but an ordinary observer wouldhave seen this: A child of about eleven, garbed in a very short, verytight, very ugly dress of yellowish-gray wincey. She wore a faded brownsailor hat and beneath the hat, extending down her back, were two braidsof very thick, decidedly red hair. Her face was small, white and thin,also much freckled; her mouth was large and so were her eyes, whichlooked green in some lights and moods and gray in others.
So far, the ordinary observer; an extraordinary observer might have seenthat the chin was very pointed and pronounced; that the big eyeswere full of spirit and vivacity; that the mouth was sweet-lippedand expressive; that the forehead was broad and full; in short,our discerning extraordinary observer might have concluded that nocommonplace soul inhabited the body of this stray woman-child of whomshy Matthew Cuthbert was so ludicrously afraid.
Matthew, however, was spared the ordeal of speaking first, for as soonas she concluded that he was coming to her she stood up, grasping withone thin brown hand the handle of a shabby, old-fashioned carpet-bag;the other she held out to him.
I suppose you are Mr. Matthew Cuthbert of Green Gables? she said ina peculiarly clear, sweet voice. I'm very glad to see you. I wasbeginning to be afraid you weren't coming for me and I was imaginingall the things that might have happened to prevent you. I had made upmy mind that if you didn't come for me to-night I'd go down the track tothat big wild cherry-tree at the bend, and climb up into it to stay allnight. I wouldn't be a bit afraid, and it would be lovely to sleep in awild cherry-tree all white with bloom in the moonshine, don't you think?You could imagine you were dwelling in marble halls, couldn't you? AndI was quite sure you would come for me in the morning, if you didn'tto-night.
Matthew had taken the scrawny little hand awkwardly in his; then andthere he decided what to do. He could not tell this child with theglowing eyes that there had been a mistake; he would take her home andlet Marilla do that. She couldn't be left at Bright River anyhow, nomatter what mistake had been made, so all questions and explanationsmight as well be deferred until he was safely back at Green Gables.
I'm sorry I was late, he said shyly. Come along. The horse is over inthe yard. Give me your bag.
Oh, I can carry it, the child responded cheerfully. It isn't heavy.I've got all my worldly goods in it, but it isn't heavy. And if it isn'tcarried in just a certain way the handle pulls out--so I'd betterkeep it because I know the exact knack of it. It's an extremely oldcarpet-bag. Oh, I'm very glad you've come, even if it would have beennice to sleep in a wild cherry-tree. We've got to drive a long piece,haven't we? Mrs. Spencer said it was eight miles. I'm glad because Ilove driving. Oh, it seems so wonderful that I'm going to live with youand belong to you. I've never belonged to anybody--not really. But theasylum was the worst. I've only been in it four months, but that wasenough. I don't suppose you ever were an orphan in an asylum, so youcan't possibly understand what it is like. It's worse than anything youcould imagine. Mrs. Spencer said it was wicked of me to talk likethat, but I didn't mean to be wicked. It's so easy to be wicked withoutknowing it, isn't it? They were good, you know--the asylum people. Butthere is so little scope for the imagination in an asylum--only justin the other orphans. It was pretty interesting to imagine things aboutthem--to imagine that perhaps the girl who sat next to you was reallythe daughter of a belted earl, who had been stolen away from her parentsin her infancy by a cruel nurse who died before she could confess. Iused to lie awake at nights and imagine things like that, becauseI didn't have time in the day. I guess that's why I'm so thin--I _am_dreadful thin, ain't I? There isn't a pick on my bones. I do love toimagine I'm nice and plump, with dimples in my elbows.
With this Matthew's companion stopped talking, partly because she wasout of breath and partly because they had reached the buggy. Not anotherword did she say until they had left the village and were driving downa steep little hill, the road part of which had been cut so deeply intothe soft soil, that the banks, fringed with blooming wild cherry-treesand slim white birches, were several feet above their heads.
The child put out her hand and broke off a branch of wild plum thatbrushed against the side of the buggy.
Isn't that beautiful? What did that tree, leaning out from the bank,all white and lacy, make you think of? she asked.
Well now, I dunno, said Matthew.
Why, a bride, of course--a bride all in white with a lovely misty veil.I've never seen one, but I can imagine what she would look like. I don'tever expect to be a bride myself. I'm so homely nobody will ever want tomarry me--unless it might be a foreign missionary. I suppose a foreignmissionary mightn't be very particular. But I do hope that some day Ishall have a white dress. That is my highest ideal of earthly bliss. Ijust love pretty clothes. And I've never had a pretty dress in my lifethat I can remember--but of course it's all the more to look forwardto, isn't it? And then I can imagine that I'm dressed gorgeously. Thismorning when I left the asylum I felt so ashamed because I had to wearthis horrid old wincey dress. All the orphans had to wear them, youknow. A merchant in Hopeton last winter donated three hundred yards ofwincey to the asylum. Some people said it was because he couldn't sellit, but I'd rather believe that it was out of the kindness of his heart,wouldn't you? When we got on the train I felt as if everybody must belooking at me and pitying me. But I just went to work and imagined thatI had on the most beautiful pale blue silk dress--because when you _are_imagining you might as well imagine something worth while--and a bighat all flowers and nodding plumes, and a gold watch, and kid gloves andboots. I felt cheered up right away and I enjoyed my trip to the Islandwith all my might. I wasn't a bit sick coming over in the boat. Neitherwas Mrs. Spencer although she generally is. She said she hadn't timeto get sick, watching to see that I didn't fall overboard. She said shenever saw the beat of me for prowling about. But if it kept her frombeing seasick it's a mercy I did prowl, isn't it? And I wanted to seeeverything that was to be seen on that boat, because I didn't knowwhether I'd ever have another opportunity. Oh, there are a lot morecherry-trees all in bloom! This Island is the bloomiest place. I justlove it already, and I'm so glad I'm going to live here. I've alwaysheard that Prince Edward Island was the prettiest place in the world,and I used to imagine I was living here, but I never really expected Iwould. It's delightful when your imaginations come true, isn't it?But those red roads are so funny. When we got into the train atCharlottetown and the red roads began to flash past I asked Mrs. Spencerwhat made them red and she said she didn't know and for pity's sake notto ask her any more questions. She said I must have asked her a thousandalready. I suppose I had, too, but how you going to find out aboutthings if you don't ask questions? And what _does_ make the roads red?
Well now, I dunno, said Matthew.
Well, that is one of the things to find out sometime. Isn't it splendidto think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makesme feel glad to be alive--it's such an interesting world. It wouldn't behalf so interesting if we know all about everything, would it? There'dbe no scope for imagination then, would there? But am I talking toomuch? People are always telling me I do. Would you rather I didn'ttalk? If you say so I'll stop. I can _stop_ when I make up my mind to it,although it's difficult.
Matthew, much to his own surprise, was enjoying himself. Like most quietfolks he liked talkative people when they were willing to do the talkingthemselves and did not expect him to keep up his end of it. But he hadnever expected to enjoy the society of a little girl. Women were badenough in all conscience, but little girls were worse. He detested theway they had of sidling past him timidly, with sidewise glances, as ifthey expected him to gobble them up at a mouthful if they ventured tosay a word. That was the Avonlea type of well-bred little girl. Butthis freckled witch was very different, and although he found it ratherdifficult for his slower intelligence to keep up with her brisk mentalprocesses he thought that he kind of liked her chatter. So he said asshyly as usual:
Oh, you can talk as much as you like. I don't mind.
Oh, I'm so glad. I know you and I are going to get along togetherfine. It's such a relief to talk when one wants to and not be toldthat children should be seen and not heard. I've had that said to me amillion times if I have once. And people laugh at me because I use bigwords. But if you have big ideas you have to use big words to expressthem, haven't you?
Well now, that seems reasonable, said Matthew.
Mrs. Spencer said that my tongue must be hung in the middle. But itisn't--it's firmly fastened at one end. Mrs. Spencer said your place wasnamed Green Gables. I asked her all about it. And she said there weretrees all around it. I was gladder than ever. I just love trees. Andthere weren't any at all about the asylum, only a few poor weeny-teenythings out in front with little whitewashed cagey things about them.They just looked like orphans themselves, those trees did. It used tomake me want to cry to look at them. I used to say to them, 'Oh, you_poor_ little things! If you were out in a great big woods with othertrees all around you and little mosses and June bells growing over yourroots and a brook not far away and birds singing in you branches, youcould grow, couldn't you? But you can't where you are. I know justexactly how you feel, little trees.' I felt sorry to leave them behindthis morning. You do get so attached to things like that, don't you? Isthere a brook anywhere near Green Gables? I forgot to ask Mrs. Spencerthat.
Well now, yes, there's one right below the house.
Fancy. It's always been one of my dreams to live near a brook. Inever expected I would, though. Dreams don't often come true, do they?Wouldn't it be nice if they did? But just now I feel pretty nearlyperfectly happy. I can't feel exactly perfectly happy because--well,what color would you call this?
She twitched one of her long glossy braids over her thin shoulder andheld it up before Matthew's eyes. Matthew was not used to deciding onthe tints of ladies' tresses, but in this case there couldn't be muchdoubt.
It's red, ain't it? he said.
The girl let the braid drop back with a sigh that seemed to come fromher very toes and to exhale forth all the sorrows of the ages.
Yes, it's red, she said resignedly. Now you see why I can't beperfectly happy. Nobody could who has red hair. I don't mind the otherthings so much--the freckles and the green eyes and my skinniness. Ican imagine them away. I can imagine that I have a beautiful rose-leafcomplexion and lovely starry violet eyes. But I _cannot_ imagine thatred hair away. I do my best. I think to myself, 'Now my hair is aglorious black, black as the raven's wing.' But all the time I _know_ itis just plain red and it breaks my heart. It will be my lifelong sorrow.I read of a girl once in a novel who had a lifelong sorrow but it wasn'tred hair. Her hair was pure gold rippling back from her alabaster brow.What is an alabaster brow? I never could find out. Can you tell me?
Well now, I'm afraid I can't, said Matthew, who was getting a littledizzy. He felt as he had once felt in his rash youth when another boyhad enticed him on the merry-go-round at a picnic.
Well, whatever it was it must have been something nice because she wasdivinely beautiful. Have you ever imagined what it must feel like to bedivinely beautiful?
Well now, no, I haven't, confessed Matthew ingenuously.
I have, often. Which would you rather be if you had thechoice--divinely beautiful or dazzlingly clever or angelically good?
Well now, I--I don't know exactly.
Neither do I. I can never decide. But it doesn't make much realdifference for it isn't likely I'll ever be either. It's certain I'llnever be angelically good. Mrs. Spencer says--oh, Mr. Cuthbert! Oh, Mr.Cuthbert!! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!!!
That was not what Mrs. Spencer had said; neither had the child tumbledout of the buggy nor had Matthew done anything astonishing. They hadsimply rounded a curve in the road and found themselves in the Avenue.
The Avenue, so called by the Newbridge people, was a stretch of roadfour or five hundred yards long, completely arched over with huge,wide-spreading apple-trees, planted years ago by an eccentric oldfarmer. Overhead was one long canopy of snowy fragrant bloom. Below theboughs the air was full of a purple twilight and far ahead a glimpseof painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window at the end of acathedral aisle.
Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb. She leaned back in thebuggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously tothe white splendor above. Even when they had passed out and were drivingdown the long slope to Newbridge she never moved or spoke. Still withrapt face she gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that sawvisions trooping splendidly across that glowing background. ThroughNewbridge, a bustling little village where dogs barked at them and smallboys hooted and curious faces peered from the windows, they drove, stillin silence. When three more miles had dropped away behind them the childhad not spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as energeticallyas she could talk.
I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry, Matthew ventured tosay at last, accounting for her long visitation of dumbness with theonly reason he could think of. But we haven't very far to go now--onlyanother mile.
She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh and looked at him with thedreamy gaze of a soul that had been wondering afar, star-led.
Oh, Mr. Cuthbert, she whispered, that place we came through--thatwhite place--what was it?
Well now, you must mean the Avenue, said Matthew after a few moments'profound reflection. It is a kind of pretty place.
Pretty? Oh, _pretty_ doesn't seem the right word to use. Nor beautiful,either. They don't go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful--wonderful.It's the first thing I ever saw that couldn't be improved upon byimagination. It just satisfies me here--she put one hand on herbreast--it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Didyou ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?
Well now, I just can't recollect that I ever had.
I have it lots of time--whenever I see anything royally beautiful. Butthey shouldn't call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no meaningin a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the White Way ofDelight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the nameof a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think ofthem so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins,but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call thatplace the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight.Have we really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad andI'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so pleasant and I'malways sorry when pleasant things end. Something still pleasanter maycome after, but you can never be sure. And it's so often the case thatit isn't pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm glad tothink of getting home. You see, I've never had a real home since I canremember. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of comingto a really truly home. Oh, isn't that pretty!
They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, lookingalmost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned itmidway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt ofsand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was aglory of many shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus androse and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no namehas ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringinggroves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their waveringshadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like awhite-clad girl tip-toeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at thehead of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs.There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard ona slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light wasshining from one of its windows.
That's Barry's pond, said Matthew.
Oh, I don't like that name, either. I shall call it--let me see--theLake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I knowbecause of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it givesme a thrill. Do things ever give you a thrill?
Matthew ruminated.
Well now, yes. It always kind of gives me a thrill to see them uglywhite grubs that spade up in the cucumber beds. I hate the look ofthem.
Oh, I don't think that can be exactly the same kind of a thrill. Do youthink it can? There doesn't seem to be much connection between grubsand lakes of shining waters, does there? But why do other people call itBarry's pond?
I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house. OrchardSlope's the name of his place. If it wasn't for that big bush behind ityou could see Green Gables from here. But we have to go over the bridgeand round by the road, so it's near half a mile further.
Has Mr. Barry any little girls? Well, not so very little either--aboutmy size.
He's got one about eleven. Her name is Diana.
Oh! with a long indrawing of breath. What a perfectly lovely name!
Well now, I dunno. There's something dreadful heathenish about it,seems to me. I'd ruther Jane or Mary or some sensible name like that.But when Diana was born there was a schoolmaster boarding there and theygave him the naming of her and he called her Diana.
I wish there had been a schoolmaster like that around when I was born,then. Oh, here we are at the bridge. I'm going to shut my eyes tight.I'm always afraid going over bridges. I can't help imagining thatperhaps just as we get to the middle, they'll crumple up like ajack-knife and nip us. So I shut my eyes. But I always have to open themfor all when I think we're getting near the middle. Because, you see, ifthe bridge _did_ crumple up I'd want to _see_ it crumple. What a jollyrumble it makes! I always like the rumble part of it. Isn't it splendidthere are so many things to like in this world? There we're over. NowI'll look back. Good night, dear Lake of Shining Waters. I always saygood night to the things I love, just as I would to people. I think theylike it. That water looks as if it was smiling at me.
When they had driven up the further hill and around a corner Matthewsaid:
We're pretty near home now. That's Green Gables over--
Oh, don't tell me, she interrupted breathlessly, catching at hispartially raised arm and shutting her eyes that she might not see hisgesture. Let me guess. I'm sure I'll guess right.
She opened her eyes and looked about her. They were on the crest of ahill. The sun had set some time since, but the landscape was stillclear in the mellow afterlight. To the west a dark church spire roseup against a marigold sky. Below was a little valley and beyond a long,gently-rising slope with snug farmsteads scattered along it. From oneto another the child's eyes darted, eager and wistful. At last theylingered on one away to the left, far back from the road, dimly whitewith blossoming trees in the twilight of the surrounding woods. Over it,in the stainless southwest sky, a great crystal-white star was shininglike a lamp of guidance and promise.
That's it, isn't it? she said, pointing.
Matthew slapped the reins on the sorrel's back delightedly.
Well now, you've guessed it! But I reckon Mrs. Spencer described itso's you could tell.
No, she didn't--really she didn't. All she said might just as well havebeen about most of those other places. I hadn't any real idea what itlooked like. But just as soon as I saw it I felt it was home. Oh, itseems as if I must be in a dream. Do you know, my arm must be black andblue from the elbow up, for I've pinched myself so many times today.Every little while a horrible sickening feeling would come over me andI'd be so afraid it was all a dream. Then I'd pinch myself to see if itwas real--until suddenly I remembered that even supposing it was onlya dream I'd better go on dreaming as long as I could; so I stoppedpinching. But it _is_ real and we're nearly home.
With a sigh of rapture she relapsed into silence. Matthew stirreduneasily. He felt glad that it would be Marilla and not he who wouldhave to tell this waif of the world that the home she longed for wasnot to be hers after all. They drove over Lynde's Hollow, where it wasalready quite dark, but not so dark that Mrs. Rachel could not see themfrom her window vantage, and up the hill and into the long lane of GreenGables. By the time they arrived at the house Matthew was shrinking fromthe approaching revelation with an energy he did not understand. It wasnot of Marilla or himself he was thinking of the trouble this mistakewas probably going to make for them, but of the child's disappointment.When he thought of that rapt light being quenched in her eyes he hadan uncomfortable feeling that he was going to assist at murderingsomething--much the same feeling that came over him when he had to killa lamb or calf or any other innocent little creature.
The yard was quite dark as they turned into it and the poplar leaveswere rustling silkily all round it.
Listen to the trees talking in their sleep, she whispered, as helifted her to the ground. What nice dreams they must have!
Then, holding tightly to the carpet-bag which contained all her worldlygoods, she followed him into the house.