Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just
where the Avonlea main road dipped
down into a little hollow, fringed
with alders and ladies' 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 Lynde's
Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted
little stream, for not even a
brook could run past Mrs. Rachel
Lynde's 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 neighbor's
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 "ran" 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 "cotton warp" quilts--she
had knitted sixteen of them,
as Avonlea housekeepers were
wont to tell in awed voices--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. Rachel's
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-- a meek little man whom
Avonlea people called "Rachel
Lynde's husband"--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. Blair's 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 didn't happen often. Mrs.
Rachel, ponder as she might,
could make nothing of it and
her afternoon's enjoyment was
spoiled.
"I'll just step over to Green
Gables after tea and find out
from Marilla where he's gone
and why," the worthy woman finally
concluded. "He doesn't generally
go to town this time of year
and he NEVER visits; if he'd
run out of turnip seed he wouldn't
dress up and take the buggy to
go for more; he wasn't driving
fast enough to be going for a
doctor. Yet something must have
happened since last night to
start him off. I'm clean puzzled,
that's what, and I won't know
a minute's peace of mind or conscience
until I know what has taken Matthew
Cuthbert out of Avonlea today."
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 Lynde's Hollow.
To be sure, the long lane made
it a good deal further. Matthew
Cuthbert's 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.
"It's just STAYING, that's
what," she said as she stepped
along the deep-rutted, grassy
lane bordered with wild rose
bushes. "It's no wonder Matthew
and Marilla are both a little
odd, living away back here by
themselves. Trees aren't much
company, though dear knows if
they were there'd be enough of
them. I'd ruther look at people.
To be sure, they seem contented
enough; but then, I suppose,
they're used to it. A body can
get used to anything, even to
being hanged, as the Irishman
said."
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--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 Matthew's white collar
and the sorrel mare? Mrs. Rachel
was getting fairly dizzy with
this unusual mystery about quiet,
unmysterious Green Gables.
"Good evening, Rachel," Marilla
said briskly. "This is a real
fine evening, isn't it" Won't
you sit down? How are all your
folks?"
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--or
perhaps because of--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.
"We're all pretty well," said
Mrs. Rachel. "I was kind of afraid
YOU weren't, though, when I saw
Matthew starting off today. I
thought maybe he was going to
the doctor's."
Marilla's 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 neighbor's
curiosity.
"Oh, no, I'm quite well although
I had a bad headache yesterday," she
said. "Matthew went to Bright
River. We're getting a little
boy from an orphan asylum in
Nova Scotia and he's coming on
the train tonight."
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.
"Are you in earnest, Marilla?" she
demanded when voice returned
to her.
"Yes, of course," 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!
"What on earth put such a notion
into your head?" she demanded
disapprovingly.
This had been done without
here advice being asked, and
must perforce be disapproved.
"Well, we've been thinking
about it for some time--all winter
in fact," returned Marilla. "Mrs.
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
we'd get a boy. Matthew is getting
up in years, you know--he's sixty--
and he isn't so spry as he once
was. His heart troubles him a
good deal. And you know how desperate
hard it's got to be to get hired
help. There's 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
he's up and off to the lobster
canneries or the States. At first
Matthew suggested getting a Home
boy. But I said `no' flat to
that. `They may be all right--I'm
not saying they're not--but no
London street Arabs for me,'
I said. `Give me a native born
at least. There'll be a risk,
no matter who we get. But I'll
feel easier in my mind and sleep
sounder at nights if we get a
born Canadian.' 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
Spencer's folks at Carmody to
bring us a smart, likely boy
of about ten or eleven. We decided
that would be the best age--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--the mail-man brought
it from the station-- 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"
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.
"Well, Marilla,
I'll just tell you plain that
I think you're
doing a mighty foolish thing--a
risky thing, that's what. You
don't know what you're getting.
You're bringing a strange child
into your house and home and
you don't know a single thing
about him nor what his disposition
is like nor what sort of parents
he had nor how he's 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--set it
ON PURPOSE, Marilla--and nearly
burnt them to a crisp in their
beds. And I know another case
where an adopted boy used to
suck the eggs--they couldn't
break him of it. If you had asked
my advice in the matter--which
you didn't do, Marilla--I'd have
said for mercy's sake not to
think of such a thing, that's
what."
This Job's comforting seemed
neither to offend nor to alarm
Marilla. She knitted steadily
on.
"I don't deny
there's something in what you
say, Rachel. I've
had some qualms myself. But Matthew
was terrible set on it. I could
see that, so I gave in. It's
so seldom Matthew sets his mind
on anything that when he does
I always feel it's my duty to
give in. And as for the risk,
there's risks in pretty near
everything a body does in this
world. There's risks in people's
having children of their own
if it comes to that--they don't
always turn out well. And then
Nova Scotia is right close to
the Island. It isn't as if we
were getting him from England
or the States. He can't be much
different from ourselves."
"Well, I hope it will turn
out all right," said Mrs. Rachel
in a tone that plainly indicated
her painful doubts. "Only don't
say I didn't warn you if he burns
Green Gables down or puts strychnine
in the well--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."
"Well, we're not getting a
girl," said Marilla, as if poisoning
wells were a purely feminine
accomplishment and not to be
dreaded in the case of a boy. "I'd
never dream of taking a girl
to bring up. I wonder at Mrs.
Alexander Spencer for doing it.
But there, SHE wouldn't shrink
from adopting a whole orphan
asylum if she took it into her
head."
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 Bell's
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 Marilla's
relief, for the latter felt her
doubts and fears reviving under
the influence of Mrs. Rachel's
pessimism.
"Well, of all things that ever
were or will be!" ejaculated
Mrs. Rachel when she was safely
out in the lane. "It does really
seem as if I must be dreaming.
Well, I'm sorry for that poor
young one and no mistake. Matthew
and Marilla don't know anything
about children and they'll expect
him to be wiser and steadier
that his own grandfather, if
so be's he ever had a grandfather,
which is doubtful. It seems uncanny
to think of a child at Green
Gables somehow; there's never
been one there, for Matthew and
Marilla were grown up when the
new house was built--if they
ever WERE children, which is
hard to believe when one looks
at them. I wouldn't be in that
orphan's shoes for anything.
My, but I pity him, that's what."
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.
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