Marilla came briskly forward
as Matthew opened the door. But
when her eyes fell of the odd
little figure in the stiff, ugly
dress, with the long braids of
red hair and the eager, luminous
eyes, she stopped short in amazement.
"Matthew Cuthbert, who's that?" she
ejaculated. "Where is the boy?"
"There wasn't any boy," said
Matthew wretchedly. "There was
only HER."
He nodded at the child, remembering
that he had never even asked
her name.
"No boy! But there MUST have
been a boy," insisted Marilla. "We
sent word to Mrs. Spencer to
bring a boy."
"Well, she
didn't. She brought HER. I
asked the station- master.
And I had to bring her home.
She couldn't be left there, no
matter where the mistake had
come in."
"Well, this is a pretty piece
of business!" ejaculated Marilla.
During this dialogue the child
had remained silent, her eyes
roving from one to the other,
all the animation fading out
of her face. Suddenly she seemed
to grasp the full meaning of
what had been said. Dropping
her precious carpet-bag she sprang
forward a step and clasped her
hands.
"You don't want me!" she cried. "You
don't want me because I'm not
a boy! I might have expected
it. Nobody ever did want me.
I might have known it was all
too beautiful to last. I might
have known nobody really did
want me. Oh, what shall I do?
I'm going to burst into tears!"
Burst into tears she did. Sitting
down on a chair by the table,
flinging her arms out upon it,
and burying her face in them,
she proceeded to cry stormily.
Marilla and Matthew looked at
each other deprecatingly across
the stove. Neither of them knew
what to say or do. Finally Marilla
stepped lamely into the breach.
"Well, well,
there's no need to cry so about
it."
"Yes, there IS need!" The child
raised her head quickly, revealing
a tear-stained face and trembling
lips. "YOU would cry, too, if
you were an orphan and had come
to a place you thought was going
to be home and found that they
didn't want you because you weren't
a boy. Oh, this is the most TRAGICAL
thing that ever happened to me!"
Something like a reluctant
smile, rather rusty from long
disuse, mellowed Marilla's grim
expression.
"Well, don't
cry any more. We're not going
to turn you out-
of-doors to-night. You'll have
to stay here until we investigate
this affair. What's your name?"
The child hesitated for a moment.
"Will you please call me Cordelia?" she
said eagerly.
"CALL you Cordelia?
Is that your name?"
"No-o-o, it's
not exactly my name, but I
would love to be
called Cordelia. It's such a
perfectly elegant name."
"I don't know
what on earth you mean. If
Cordelia isn't your
name, what is?"
"Anne Shirley," reluctantly
faltered forth the owner of that
name, "but, oh, please do call
me Cordelia. It can't matter
much to you what you call me
if I'm only going to be here
a little while, can it? And Anne
is such an unromantic name."
"Unromantic fiddlesticks!" said
the unsympathetic Marilla. "Anne
is a real good plain sensible
name. You've no need to be ashamed
of it."
"Oh, I'm not ashamed of it," explained
Anne, "only I like Cordelia better.
I've always imagined that my
name was Cordelia--at least,
I always have of late years.
When I was young I used to imagine
it was Geraldine, but I like
Cordelia better now. But if you
call me Anne please call me Anne
spelled with an E."
"What difference does it make
how it's spelled?" asked Marilla
with another rusty smile as she
picked up the teapot.
"Oh, it makes
SUCH a difference. It LOOKS
so much nicer. When
you hear a name pronounced can't
you always see it in your mind,
just as if it was printed out?
I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful,
but A-n-n-e looks so much more
distinguished. If you'll only
call me Anne spelled with an
E I shall try to reconcile myself
to not being called Cordelia."
"Very well,
then, Anne spelled with an
E, can you tell us how
this mistake came to be made?
We sent word to Mrs. Spencer
to bring us a boy. Were there
no boys at the asylum?"
"Oh, yes, there was an abundance
of them. But Mrs. Spencer said
DISTINCTLY that you wanted a
girl about eleven years old.
And the matron said she thought
I would do. You don't know how
delighted I was. I couldn't sleep
all last night for joy. Oh," she
added reproachfully, turning
to Matthew, "why didn't you tell
me at the station that you didn't
want me and leave me there? If
I hadn't seen the White Way of
Delight and the Lake of Shining
Waters it wouldn't be so hard."
"What on earth does she mean?" demanded
Marilla, staring at Matthew.
"She--she's just referring
to some conversation we had on
the road," said Matthew hastily. "I'm
going out to put the mare in,
Marilla. Have tea ready when
I come back."
"Did Mrs. Spencer bring anybody
over besides you?" continued
Marilla when Matthew had gone
out.
"She brought
Lily Jones for herself. Lily
is only five years
old and she is very beautiful
and had nut-brown hair. If I
was very beautiful and had nut-brown
hair would you keep me?"
"No. We want
a boy to help Matthew on the
farm. A girl would
be of no use to us. Take off
your hat. I'll lay it and your
bag on the hall table."
Anne took off her hat meekly.
Matthew came back presently and
they sat down to supper. But
Anne could not eat. In vain she
nibbled at the bread and butter
and pecked at the crab-apple
preserve out of the little scalloped
glass dish by her plate. She
did not really make any headway
at all.
"You're not eating anything," said
Marilla sharply, eying her as
if it were a serious shortcoming.
Anne sighed.
"I can't. I'm
in the depths of despair. Can
you eat when
you are in the depths of despair?"
"I've never been in the depths
of despair, so I can't say," responded
Marilla.
"Weren't you?
Well, did you ever try to IMAGINE
you were
in the depths of despair?"
"No, I didn't."
"Then I don't
think you can understand what
it's like. It's
very uncomfortable feeling indeed.
When you try to eat a lump comes
right up in your throat and you
can't swallow anything, not even
if it was a chocolate caramel.
I had one chocolate caramel once
two years ago and it was simply
delicious. I've often dreamed
since then that I had a lot of
chocolate caramels, but I always
wake up just when I'm going to
eat them. I do hope you won't
be offended because I can't eat.
Everything is extremely nice,
but still I cannot eat."
"I guess she's tired," said
Matthew, who hadn't spoken since
his return from the barn. "Best
put her to bed, Marilla."
Marilla had been wondering
where Anne should be put to bed.
She had prepared a couch in the
kitchen chamber for the desired
and expected boy. But, although
it was neat and clean, it did
not seem quite the thing to put
a girl there somehow. But the
spare room was out of the question
for such a stray waif, so there
remained only the east gable
room. Marilla lighted a candle
and told Anne to follow her,
which Anne spiritlessly did,
taking her hat and carpet-bag
from the hall table as she passed.
The hall was fearsomely clean;
the little gable chamber in which
she presently found herself seemed
still cleaner.
Marilla set the candle on a
three-legged, three-cornered
table and turned down the bedclothes.
"I suppose you have a nightgown?" she
questioned.
Anne nodded.
"Yes, I have
two. The matron of the asylum
made them for me.
They're fearfully skimpy. There
is never enough to go around
in an asylum, so things are always
skimpy--at least in a poor asylum
like ours. I hate skimpy night-dresses.
But one can dream just as well
in them as in lovely trailing
ones, with frills around the
neck, that's one consolation."
"Well, undress
as quick as you can and go
to bed. I'll come
back in a few minutes for the
candle. I daren't trust you to
put it out yourself. You'd likely
set the place on fire."
When Marilla had gone Anne
looked around her wistfully.
The whitewashed walls were so
painfully bare and staring that
she thought they must ache over
their own bareness. The floor
was bare, too, except for a round
braided mat in the middle such
as Anne had never seen before.
In one corner was the bed, a
high, old-fashioned one, with
four dark, low- turned posts.
In the other corner was the aforesaid
three- corner table adorned with
a fat, red velvet pin-cushion
hard enough to turn the point
of the most adventurous pin.
Above it hung a little six-by-eight
mirror. Midway between table
and bed was the window, with
an icy white muslin frill over
it, and opposite it was the wash-stand.
The whole apartment was of a
rigidity not to be described
in words, but which sent a shiver
to the very marrow of Anne's
bones. With a sob she hastily
discarded her garments, put on
the skimpy nightgown and sprang
into bed where she burrowed face
downward into the pillow and
pulled the clothes over her head.
When Marilla came up for the
light various skimpy articles
of raiment scattered most untidily
over the floor and a certain
tempestuous appearance of the
bed were the only indications
of any presence save her own.
She deliberately picked up
Anne's clothes, placed them neatly
on a prim yellow chair, and then,
taking up the candle, went over
to the bed.
"Good night," she
said, a little awkwardly, but
not unkindly.
Anne's white face and big eyes
appeared over the bedclothes
with a startling suddenness.
"How can you call it a GOOD
night when you know it must be
the very worst night I've ever
had?" she said reproachfully.
Then she dived down into invisibility
again.
Marilla went slowly down to
the kitchen and proceeded to
wash the supper dishes. Matthew
was smoking--a sure sign of perturbation
of mind. He seldom smoked, for
Marilla set her face against
it as a filthy habit; but at
certain times and seasons he
felt driven to it and them Marilla
winked at the practice, realizing
that a mere man must have some
vent for his emotions.
"Well, this is a pretty kettle
of fish," she said wrathfully. "This
is what comes of sending word
instead of going ourselves. Richard
Spencer's folks have twisted
that message somehow. One of
us will have to drive over and
see Mrs. Spencer tomorrow, that's
certain. This girl will have
to be sent back to the asylum."
"Yes, I suppose so," said
Matthew reluctantly.
"You SUPPOSE
so! Don't you know it?"
"Well now,
she's a real nice little thing,
Marilla. It's kind
of a pity to send her back when
she's so set on staying here."
"Matthew Cuthbert,
you don't mean to say you think
we ought
to keep her!"
Marilla's astonishment could
not have been greater if Matthew
had expressed a predilection
for standing on his head.
"Well, now, no, I suppose not--not
exactly," stammered Matthew,
uncomfortably driven into a corner
for his precise meaning. "I suppose--we
could hardly be expected to keep
her."
"I should say
not. What good would she be
to us?"
"We might be some good to her," said
Matthew suddenly and unexpectedly.
"Matthew Cuthbert,
I believe that child has bewitched
you!
I can see as plain as plain that
you want to keep her."
"Well now, she's a real interesting
little thing," persisted Matthew. "You
should have heard her talk coming
from the station."
"Oh, she can
talk fast enough. I saw that
at once. It's nothing
in her favour, either. I don't
like children who have so much
to say. I don't want an orphan
girl and if I did she isn't the
style I'd pick out. There's something
I don't understand about her.
No, she's got to be despatched
straight-way back to where she
came from."
"I could hire a French boy
to help me," said Matthew, "and
she'd be company for you."
"I'm not suffering for company," said
Marilla shortly. "And I'm not
going to keep her."
"Well now, it's just as you
say, of course, Marilla," said
Matthew rising and putting his
pipe away. "I'm going to bed."
To bed went Matthew. And to
bed, when she had put her dishes
away, went Marilla, frowning
most resolutely. And up-stairs,
in the east gable, a lonely,
heart-hungry, friendless child
cried herself to sleep.
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