MATTHEW CUTHBERT IS SURPRISED
Matthew Cuthbert and the sorrel mare jogged comfortably over the eight
miles to Bright River. It was a pretty road, running along between snug
farmsteads, with now and again a bit of balsamy fir wood to drive
through or a hollow where wild plums hung out their filmy bloom. The
air was sweet with the breath of many apple orchards and the meadows
sloped away 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 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 station-master 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 station-master 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, that 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 are 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 knew 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 side-wise glances,
as if they expected him to gobble them up at a mouthful if they
ventured to say a word. This 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 your 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 colour 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 had 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 splendour 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 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 satisfied 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 times—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 tiptoeing 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 to-day.
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 or 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.