Matthew enjoyed the drive after
his own fashion, except during
the moments when he met women and
had to nod to them-- for in Prince
Edward island you are supposed
to nod to all and sundry you meet
on the road whether you know them
or not.
Matthew dreaded all women except
Marilla and Mrs. Rachel; he had
an uncomfortable feeling that
the mysterious creatures were
secretly laughing at him. He
may have been quite right in
thinking so, for he was an odd-looking
personage, with an ungainly figure
and long iron-gray hair that
touched his stooping shoulders,
and a full, soft brown beard
which he had worn ever since
he was twenty. In fact, he had
looked at twenty very much as
he looked at sixty, lacking a
little of the grayness.
When he reached Bright River
there was no sign of any train;
he thought he was too early,
so he tied his horse in the yard
of the small Bright River hotel
and went over to the station
house. The long platform was
almost deserted; the only living
creature in sight being a girl
who was sitting on a pile of
shingles at the extreme end.
Matthew, barely noting that it
WAS a girl, sidled past her as
quickly as possible without looking
at her. Had he looked he could
hardly have failed to notice
the tense rigidity and expectation
of her attitude and expression.
She was sitting there waiting
for something or somebody and,
since sitting and waiting was
the only thing to do just then,
she sat and waited with all her
might and main.
Matthew encountered the stationmaster
locking up the ticket office
preparatory to going home for
supper, and asked him if the
five-thirty train would soon
be along.
"The five-thirty train has
been in and gone half an hour
ago," answered that brisk official. "But
there was a passenger dropped
off for you--a little girl. She's
sitting out there on the shingles.
I asked her to go into the ladies'
waiting room, but she informed
me gravely that she preferred
to stay outside. `There was more
scope for imagination,' she said.
She's a case, I should say."
"I'm not expecting a girl," said
Matthew blankly. "It's a boy
I've come for. He should be here.
Mrs. Alexander Spencer was to
bring him over from Nova Scotia
for me."
The stationmaster whistled.
"Guess there's some mistake," he
said. "Mrs. Spencer came off
the train with that girl and
gave her into my charge. Said
you and your sister were adopting
her from an orphan asylum and
that you would be along for her
presently. That's all I know
about it--and I haven't got any
more orphans concealed hereabouts."
"I don't understand," said
Matthew helplessly, wishing that
Marilla was at hand to cope with
the situation.
"Well, you'd better question
the girl," said the station-
master carelessly. "I dare say
she'll be able to explain-- she's
got a tongue of her own, that's
certain. Maybe they were out
of boys of the brand you wanted."
He walked jauntily away, being
hungry, and the unfortunate Matthew
was left to do that which was
harder for him than bearding
a lion in its den--walk up to
a girl--a strange girl--an orphan
girl--and demand of her why she
wasn't a boy. Matthew groaned
in spirit as he turned about
and shuffled gently down the
platform towards her.
She had been watching him ever
since he had passed her and she
had her eyes on him now. Matthew
was not looking at her and would
not have seen what she was really
like if he had been, but an ordinary
observer would have seen this:
A child of about eleven, garbed
in a very short, very tight,
very ugly dress of yellowish-gray
wincey. She wore a faded brown
sailor hat and beneath the hat,
extending down her back, were
two braids of very thick, decidedly
red hair. Her face was small,
white and thin, also much freckled;
her mouth was large and so were
her eyes, which looked green
in some lights and moods and
gray in others.
So far, the ordinary observer;
an extraordinary observer might
have seen that the chin was very
pointed and pronounced; that
the big eyes were full of spirit
and vivacity; that the mouth
was sweet-lipped and expressive;
that the forehead was broad and
full; in short, our discerning
extraordinary observer might
have concluded that no commonplace
soul inhabited the body of this
stray woman- child of whom shy
Matthew Cuthbert was so ludicrously
afraid.
Matthew, however, was spared
the ordeal of speaking first,
for as soon as she concluded
that he was coming to her she
stood up, grasping with one 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 in a peculiarly clear, sweet
voice. "I'm very glad to see
you. I was beginning to be afraid
you weren't coming for me and
I was imagining all the things
that might have happened to prevent
you. I had made up my mind that
if you didn't come for me to-night
I'd go down the track to that
big wild cherry-tree at the bend,
and climb up into it to stay
all night. I wouldn't be a bit
afraid, and it would be lovely
to sleep in a wild 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? And I was quite
sure you would come for me in
the morning, if you didn't to-night."
Matthew had taken the scrawny
little hand awkwardly in his;
then and there he decided what
to do. He could not tell this
child with the glowing eyes that
there had been a mistake; he
would take her home and let Marilla
do that. She couldn't be left
at Bright River anyhow, no matter
what mistake had been made, so
all questions and explanations
might 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 in the 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't carried in just
a certain way the handle pulls
out--so I'd better keep it because
I know the exact knack of it.
It's an extremely old carpet-bag.
Oh, I'm very glad you've come,
even if it would have been nice
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 I love driving. Oh, it
seems so wonderful that I'm going
to live with you and belong to
you. I've never belonged to anybody--not
really. But the asylum was the
worst. I've only been in it four
months, but that was enough.
I don't suppose you ever were
an orphan in an asylum, so you
can't possibly understand what
it is like. It's worse than anything
you could imagine. Mrs. Spencer
said it was wicked of me to talk
like that, but I didn't mean
to be wicked. It's so easy to
be wicked without knowing it,
isn't it? They were good, you
know--the asylum people. But
there is so little scope for
the imagination in an asylum--only
just in the other orphans. It
was pretty interesting to imagine
things about them--to imagine
that perhaps the girl who sat
next to you was really the daughter
of a belted earl, who had been
stolen away from her parents
in her infancy by a cruel nurse
who died before she could confess.
I used to lie awake at nights
and imagine things like that,
because I 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 to imagine
I'm nice and plump, with dimples
in my elbows."
With this Matthew's companion
stopped talking, partly because
she was out of breath and partly
because they had reached the
buggy. Not another word did she
say until they had left the village
and were driving down a steep
little hill, the road part of
which had been cut so deeply
into the soft soil, that the
banks, fringed with blooming
wild cherry-trees and slim white
birches, were several feet above
their heads.
The child put out her hand
and broke off a branch of wild
plum that brushed 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't ever expect
to be a bride myself. I'm so
homely nobody will ever want
to marry me-- unless it might
be a foreign missionary. I
suppose a foreign missionary
mightn't
be very particular. But I do
hope that some day I shall
have a white dress. That is my
highest
ideal of earthly bliss. I just
love pretty clothes. And I've
never had a pretty dress in
my life that I can remember--but
of course it's all the more
to
look forward to, isn't it?
And then I can imagine that I'm
dressed
gorgeously. This morning when
I left the asylum I felt so
ashamed because I had to wear
this horrid
old wincey dress. All the orphans
had to wear them, you know.
A merchant in Hopeton last winter
donated three hundred yards
of
wincey to the asylum. Some
people said it was because he
couldn't
sell it, 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 be looking
at me and pitying me. But I
just went to work and imagined
that
I had on the most beautiful
pale blue silk dress--because
when
you ARE imagining you might
as well imagine something worth
while--and a big hat all flowers
and nodding plumes, and a gold
watch, and kid gloves and boots.
I felt cheered up right away
and I enjoyed my trip to the
Island with all my might. I
wasn't
a bit sick coming over in the
boat. Neither was Mrs. Spencer
although she generally is.
She said she hadn't time to get
sick,
watching to see that I didn't
fall overboard. She said she
never saw the beat of me for
prowling about. But if it kept
her from being seasick it's
a mercy I did prowl, isn't it?
And I wanted to see everything
that was to be seen on that
boat,
because I didn't know whether
I'd ever have another opportunity.
Oh, there are a lot more cherry-trees
all in bloom! This Island is
the bloomiest place. I just
love it already, and I'm so glad
I'm
going to live here. I've always
heard 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 I would. It's
delightful when your imaginations
come true, isn't it? But those
red roads are so funny. When
we got into the train at Charlottetown
and the red roads began to
flash
past I asked Mrs. Spencer what
made them red and she said
she didn't know and for pity's
sake
not to ask her any more questions.
She said I must have asked
her a thousand already. I suppose
I had, too, but how you going
to find out about things 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 splendid to think of all the
things there are to find out
about? It just makes me feel
glad to be alive-- it's such
an interesting world. It wouldn't
be half so interesting if we
know all about everything,
would
it? There'd be no scope for
imagination then, would there?
But am I talking
too much? People are always
telling me I do. Would you rather
I didn't
talk? 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
quiet folks he liked talkative
people when they were willing
to do the talking themselves
and did not expect him to keep
up his end of it. But he had
never expected to enjoy the society
of a little girl. Women were
bad enough in all conscience,
but little girls were worse.
He detested the way they had
of sidling past him timidly,
with sidewise glances, as if
they expected him to gobble them
up at a mouthful if they ventured
to say a word. That was the Avonlea
type of well-bred little girl.
But this freckled witch was very
different, and although he found
it rather difficult for his slower
intelligence to keep up with
her brisk mental processes he
thought that he "kind of liked
her chatter." So he said as shyly
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
together fine. It's such a
relief to talk when one wants
to and
not be told that children should
be seen and not heard. I've
had that said to me a million
times
if I have once. And people
laugh at me because I use big
words.
But if you have big ideas you
have to use big words to express
them, haven't you?"
"Well now, that seems reasonable," said
Matthew.
"Mrs. Spencer said that my
tongue must be hung in the
middle. But it isn't--it's firmly
fastened
at one end. Mrs. Spencer said
your place was named Green
Gables. I asked her all about
it. And
she said there were trees all
around it. I was gladder than
ever. I just love trees. And
there weren't any at all about
the asylum, only a few poor
weeny-teeny things out in front
with little
whitewashed cagey things about
them. They just looked like
orphans themselves, those trees
did.
It used to make 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 other
trees
all around you and little mosses
and Junebells growing over
your roots and a brook not far
away
and birds singing in you branches,
you could grow, couldn't you?
But you can't where you are.
I know just exactly how you
feel, little trees.' I felt sorry
to
leave them behind this morning.
You do get so attached to things
like that, don't you? Is there
a brook anywhere near Green
Gables? I forgot to ask Mrs.
Spencer
that."
"Well now, yes, there's one
right below the house."
"Fancy. It's always been one
of my dreams to live near a
brook. I never 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 nearly perfectly
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
and held it up before Matthew's
eyes. Matthew was not used to
deciding on the tints of ladies'
tresses, but in this case there
couldn't be much doubt.
"It's red, ain't it?" he said.
The girl let the braid drop
back with a sigh that seemed
to come from her 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 be perfectly
happy. Nobody could who has red
hair. I don't mind the other
things so much--the freckles
and the green eyes and my skinniness.
I can imagine them away. I can
imagine that I have a beautiful
rose-leaf complexion and lovely
starry violet eyes. But I CANNOT
imagine that red hair away. I
do my best. I think to myself,
`Now my hair is a glorious black,
black as the raven's wing.' But
all the time I KNOW it is 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't red 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 little
dizzy. He felt as he had once
felt in his rash youth when another
boy had enticed him on the merry-go-
round at a picnic.
"Well, whatever it was it must
have been something nice because
she was divinely beautiful.
Have you ever imagined what it
must
feel like to be divinely beautiful?"
"Well now, no, I haven't," confessed
Matthew ingenuously.
"I have, often. Which would
you rather be if you had the
choice--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 real difference for it isn't
likely I'll ever be either.
It's
certain I'll never 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
tumbled out of the buggy nor
had Matthew done anything astonishing.
They had simply rounded a curve
in the road and found themselves
in the "Avenue."
The "Avenue," so called by
the Newbridge people, was a stretch
of road four or five hundred
yards long, completely arched
over with huge, wide-spreading
apple-trees, planted years ago
by an eccentric old farmer. Overhead
was one long canopy of snowy
fragrant bloom. Below the boughs
the air was full of a purple
twilight and far ahead a glimpse
of painted sunset sky shone like
a great rose window at the end
of a cathedral aisle.
Its beauty seemed to strike
the child dumb. She leaned back
in the buggy, her thin hands
clasped before her, her face
lifted rapturously to the white
splendor above. Even when they
had passed out and were driving
down the long slope to Newbridge
she never moved or spoke. Still
with rapt face she gazed afar
into the sunset west, with eyes
that saw visions trooping splendidly
across that glowing background.
Through Newbridge, a bustling
little village where dogs barked
at them and small boys hooted
and curious faces peered from
the windows, they drove, still
in silence. When three more miles
had dropped away behind them
the child had not spoken. She
could keep silence, it was evident,
as energetically as she could
talk.
"I guess you're feeling pretty
tired and hungry," Matthew ventured
to say at last, accounting for
her long visitation of dumbness
with the only reason he could
think of. "But we haven't very
far to go now--only another mile."
She came out of her reverie
with a deep sigh and looked at
him with the dreamy gaze of a
soul that had been wondering
afar, star-led.
"Oh, Mr. Cuthbert," she whispered, "that
place we came through--that white
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
by imagination. It just satisfies
me here"--she put one hand on
her breast--"it made a queer
funny ache and yet it was a pleasant
ache. Did you 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.
But they shouldn't call that
lovely place the Avenue. There
is no meaning in a name like
that. They should call it--let
me see--the White Way of Delight.
Isn't that a nice imaginative
name? When I don't like the
name of a place or a person I
always
imagine a new one and always
think of them 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 that
place 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 and I'm sorry. I'm sorry
because this drive has been
so pleasant and I'm always sorry
when pleasant things end. Something
still pleasanter may come after,
but you can never be sure.
And
it's so often the case that
it isn't pleasanter. That has
been
my experience anyhow. But I'm
glad to think of getting home.
You see, I've never had a real
home since I can remember.
It gives me that pleasant ache
again
just to think of coming to
a really truly home. Oh, isn't
that pretty!"
They had driven over the crest
of a hill. Below them was a pond,
looking almost like a river so
long and winding was it. A bridge
spanned it midway and from there
to its lower end, where an amber-hued
belt of sand-hills shut it in
from the dark blue gulf beyond,
the water was a glory of many
shifting hues--the most spiritual
shadings of crocus and rose and
ethereal green, with other elusive
tintings for which no name has
ever been found. Above the bridge
the pond ran up into fringing
groves of fir and maple and lay
all darkly translucent in their
wavering shadows. Here and there
a wild plum leaned out from the
bank like a white-clad girl tip-toeing
to her own reflection. From the
marsh at the head of the pond
came the clear, mournfully-sweet
chorus of the frogs. There was
a little gray house peering around
a white apple orchard on a slope
beyond and, although it was not
yet quite dark, a light was shining
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--the Lake of Shining
Waters. Yes, that is the right
name for
it. I know because of the thrill.
When I hit on a name that suits
exactly it gives me 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 ugly white grubs that spade
up
in the cucumber beds. I hate
the look of them."
"Oh, I don't think that can
be exactly the same kind of
a thrill. Do you think it can?
There doesn't seem to be much
connection between grubs and
lakes of shining waters, does
there? But why do other people
call it Barry's pond?"
"I reckon because Mr. Barry
lives up there in that house.
Orchard Slope's the name of
his place. If it wasn't for that
big bush behind it you could
see Green Gables from here.
But
we have to go over the bridge
and round by the road, so it's
near half a mile further."
"Has Mr. Barry any little girls?
Well, not so very little either--about
my 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 they gave
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 that perhaps just
as
we get to the middle, they'll
crumple up like a jack-knife
and nip us. So I shut my eyes.
But I always have to open them
for all when I think we're
getting near the middle. Because,
you
see, if the bridge DID crumple
up I'd want to SEE it crumple.
What a jolly rumble it makes!
I always like the rumble part
of it. Isn't it splendid there
are so many things to like
in this world? There we're over.
Now I'll look back. Good night,
dear Lake of Shining Waters.
I always say good night to
the
things I love, just as I would
to people I think they like
it. That water looks as if it
was
smiling at me."
When they had driven up the
further hill and around a corner
Matthew said:
"We're pretty near home now.
That's Green Gables over--"
"Oh, don't tell me," she interrupted
breathlessly, catching at his
partially raised arm and shutting
her eyes that she might not see
his gesture. "Let me guess. I'm
sure I'll guess right."
She opened her eyes and looked
about her. They were on the crest
of a hill. The sun had set some
time since, but the landscape
was still clear in the mellow
afterlight. To the west a dark
church spire rose up against
a marigold sky. Below was a little
valley and beyond a long, gently-rising
slope with snug farmsteads scattered
along it. From one to another
the child's eyes darted, eager
and wistful. At last they lingered
on one away to the left, far
back from the road, dimly white
with blossoming trees in the
twilight of the surrounding woods.
Over it, in the stainless southwest
sky, a great crystal-white star
was shining like 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
it so's you could tell."
"No, she didn't--really she
didn't. All she said might
just as well have been about
most
of those other places. I hadn't
any real idea what it looked
like. But just as soon as I
saw it I felt it was home. Oh,
it
seems as if I must be in a
dream. Do you know, my arm must
be black
and blue from the elbow up,
for I've pinched myself so many
times
today. Every little while a
horrible sickening feeling would
come
over me and I'd be so afraid
it was all a dream. Then I'd
pinch myself to see if it was
real--until suddenly I remembered
that even supposing it was
only a dream I'd better go on
dreaming
as long as I could; so I stopped
pinching. But it IS real and
we're nearly home."
With a sigh of rapture she
relapsed into silence. Matthew
stirred uneasily. He felt glad
that it would be Marilla and
not he who would have to tell
this waif of the world that the
home she longed for was not to
be hers after all. They drove
over Lynde's Hollow, where it
was already quite dark, but not
so dark that Mrs. Rachel could
not see them from her window
vantage, and up the hill and
into the long lane of Green Gables.
By the time they arrived at the
house Matthew was shrinking from
the approaching revelation with
an energy he did not understand.
It was not of Marilla or himself
he was thinking of the trouble
this mistake was 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
had an uncomfortable feeling
that he was going to assist at
murdering something--much the
same feeling that came over him
when he had to kill a lamb or
calf or any other innocent little
creature.
The yard was quite dark as
they turned into it and the poplar
leaves were rustling silkily
all round it.
"Listen to the trees talking
in their sleep," she whispered,
as he lifted her to the ground. "What
nice dreams they must have!"
Then, holding tightly to the
carpet-bag which contained "all
her worldly goods," she followed
him into the house.