CHAPTER I.
Mrs. Rachel Lynde is Surprised
Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladiesā eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lyndeās Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lyndeās door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof.
There are plenty of people in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend closely to their neighborās business by dint of neglecting their own; but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was one of those capable creatures who can manage their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain. She was a notable housewife; her work was always done and well done; she āranā the Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen window, knitting ācotton warpā quilts ā she had knitted sixteen of them, as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voices ā and keeping a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up the steep red hill beyond. Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence with water on two sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachelās all-seeing eye.
She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of bees. Thomas Lynde ā a meek little man whom Avonlea people called āRachel Lyndeās husbandā ā was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on the big red brook field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew that he ought because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening before in William J. Blairās store over at Carmody that he meant to sow his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course, for Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about anything in his whole life.
And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill; moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going there?
Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this and that together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both questions. But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the shyest man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where he might have to talk. Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and driving in a buggy, was something that didnāt happen often. Mrs. Rachel, ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoonās enjoyment was spoiled.
āIāll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla where heās gone and why,ā the worthy woman finally concluded. āHe doesnāt generally go to town this time of year and he NEVER visits; if heād run out of turnip seed he wouldnāt dress up and take the buggy to go for more; he wasnāt driving fast enough to be going for a doctor. Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. Iām clean puzzled, thatās what, and I wonāt know a minuteās peace of mind or conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea today.ā
Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lyndeās Hollow. To be sure, the long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbertās father, as shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place LIVING at all.
āItās just STAYING, thatās what,ā she said as she stepped along the deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. āItās no wonder Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by themselves. Trees arenāt much company, though dear knows if they were thereād be enough of them. Iād ruther look at people. To be sure, they seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, theyāre used to it. A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said.ā
With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green Gables. Very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one side with great patriarchal willows and the other with prim Lombardies. Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that Marilla Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house. One could have eaten a meal off the ground without overbrimming the proverbial peck of dirt.
Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in when bidden to do so. The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful apartment ā or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused parlor. Its windows looked east and west; through the west one, looking out on the back yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight; but the east one, whence you got a glimpse of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left orchard and nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the brook, was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously; and here she sat now, knitting, and the table behind her was laid for supper.
Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental note of everything that was on that table. There were three plates laid, so that Marilla must be expecting some one home with Matthew to tea; but the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crab-apple preserves and one kind of cake, so that the expected company could not be any particular company. Yet what of Matthewās white collar and the sorrel mare? Mrs. Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery about quiet, unmysterious Green Gables.
āGood evening, Rachel,ā Marilla said briskly. āThis is a real fine evening, isnāt it? Wonāt you sit down? How are all your folks?ā
Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of ā or perhaps because of ā their dissimilarity.
Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and without curves; her dark hair showed some gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little knot behind with two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it. She looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience, which she was; but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative of a sense of humor.
āWeāre all pretty well,ā said Mrs. Rachel. āI was kind of afraid YOU werenāt, though, when I saw Matthew starting off today. I thought maybe he was going to the doctorās.ā
Marillaās lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs. Rachel up; she had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so unaccountably would be too much for her neighborās curiosity.
āOh, no, Iām quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday,ā she said. āMatthew went to Bright River. Weāre getting a little boy from an orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and heās coming on the train tonight.ā
If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a kangaroo from Australia Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished. She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds. It was unsupposable that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to suppose it.
āAre you in earnest, Marilla?ā she demanded when voice returned to her.
āYes, of course,ā said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums in Nova Scotia were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated Avonlea farm instead of being an unheard of innovation.
Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought in exclamation points. A boy! Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people adopting a boy! From an orphan asylum! Well, the world was certainly turning upside down! She would be surprised at nothing after this! Nothing!
āWhat on earth put such a notion into your head?ā she demanded disapprovingly.
This had been done without her advice being asked, and must perforce be disapproved.
āWell, weāve been thinking about it for some time ā all winter in fact,ā returned Marilla. āMrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before Christmas and she said she was going to get a little girl from the asylum over in Hopeton in the spring. Her cousin lives there and Mrs. Spencer has visited here and knows all about it. So Matthew and I have talked it over off and on ever since. We thought weād get a boy. Matthew is getting up in years, you know ā heās sixty ā and he isnāt so spry as he once was. His heart troubles him a good deal. And you know how desperate hard itās got to be to get hired help. Thereās never anybody to be had but those stupid, half-grown little French boys; and as soon as you do get one broke into your ways and taught something heās up and off to the lobster canneries or the States. At first Matthew suggested getting a Home boy. But I said ānoā flat to that. āThey may be all right ā Iām not saying theyāre not ā but no London street Arabs for me,ā I said. āGive me a native born at least. Thereāll be a risk, no matter who we get. But Iāll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder at nights if we get a born Canadian.ā So in the end we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer to pick us out one when she went over to get her little girl. We heard last week she was going, so we sent her word by Richard Spencerās folks at Carmody to bring us a smart, likely boy of about ten or eleven. We decided that would be the best age ā old enough to be of some use in doing chores right off and young enough to be trained up proper. We mean to give him a good home and schooling. We had a telegram from Mrs. Alexander Spencer today ā the mail-man brought it from the station ā saying they were coming on the five-thirty train tonight. So Matthew went to Bright River to meet him. Mrs. Spencer will drop him off there. Of course she goes on to White Sands station herself.ā
Mrs. Rachel prided herself on always speaking her mind; she proceeded to speak it now, having adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece of news.
āWell, Marilla, Iāll just tell you plain that I think youāre doing a mighty foolish thing ā a risky thing, thatās what. You donāt know what youāre getting. Youāre bringing a strange child into your house and home and you donāt know a single thing about him nor what his disposition is like nor what sort of parents he had nor how heās likely to turn out. Why, it was only last week I read in the paper how a man and his wife up west of the Island took a boy out of an orphan asylum and he set fire to the house at night ā set it ON PURPOSE, Marilla ā and nearly burnt them to a crisp in their beds. And I know another case where an adopted boy used to suck the eggs ā they couldnāt break him of it. If you had asked my advice in the matter ā which you didnāt do, Marilla ā Iād have said for mercyās sake not to think of such a thing, thatās what.ā
This Jobās comforting seemed neither to offend nor to alarm Marilla. She knitted steadily on.
āI donāt deny thereās something in what you say, Rachel. Iāve had some qualms myself. But Matthew was terrible set on it. I could see that, so I gave in. Itās so seldom Matthew sets his mind on anything that when he does I always feel itās my duty to give in. And as for the risk, thereās risks in pretty near everything a body does in this world. Thereās risks in peopleās having children of their own if it comes to that ā they donāt always turn out well. And then Nova Scotia is right close to the Island. It isnāt as if we were getting him from England or the States. He canāt be much different from ourselves.ā
āWell, I hope it will turn out all right,ā said Mrs. Rachel in a tone that plainly indicated her painful doubts. āOnly donāt say I didnāt warn you if he burns Green Gables down or puts strychnine in the well ā I heard of a case over in New Brunswick where an orphan asylum child did that and the whole family died in fearful agonies. Only, it was a girl in that instance.ā
āWell, weāre not getting a girl,ā said Marilla, as if poisoning wells were a purely feminine accomplishment and not to be dreaded in the case of a boy. āIād never dream of taking a girl to bring up. I wonder at Mrs. Alexander Spencer for doing it. But there, SHE wouldnāt shrink from adopting a whole orphan asylum if she took it into her head.ā
Mrs. Rachel would have liked to stay until Matthew came home with his imported orphan. But reflecting that it would be a good two hours at least before his arrival she concluded to go up the road to Robert Bellās and tell the news. It would certainly make a sensation second to none, and Mrs. Rachel dearly loved to make a sensation. So she took herself away, somewhat to Marillaās relief, for the latter felt her doubts and fears reviving under the influence of Mrs. Rachelās pessimism.
āWell, of all things that ever were or will be!ā ejaculated Mrs. Rachel when she was safely out in the lane. āIt does really seem as if I must be dreaming. Well, Iām sorry for that poor young one and no mistake. Matthew and Marilla donāt know anything about children and theyāll expect him to be wiser and steadier that his own grandfather, if so beās he ever had a grandfather, which is doubtful. It seems uncanny to think of a child at Green Gables somehow; thereās never been one there, for Matthew and Marilla were grown up when the new house was built ā if they ever WERE children, which is hard to believe when one looks at them. I wouldnāt be in that orphanās shoes for anything. My, but I pity him, thatās what.ā
So said Mrs. Rachel to the wild rose bushes out of the fulness of her heart; but if she could have seen the child who was waiting patiently at the Bright River station at that very moment her pity would have been still deeper and more profound.
CHAPTER II.
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
āThe little birds sang as if it were
The one day of summer in all the year.ā
Matthew enjoyed the drive after his own fashion, except during the moments when he met women and had to nod to them ā 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 w...