Anne of Green Gables
woman without an ounce of superfluous flesh on her bones. But she had
heard of her. “A terrible worker and driver,” Mrs. Peter was said to
be; and discharged servant girls told fearsome tales of her temper and
stinginess, and her family of pert, quarrelsome children. Marilla felt
a qualm of conscience at the thought of handing Anne over to her tender
mercies.
“Well, I’ll go in and we’ll talk the matter over,” she said.
“And if there isn’t Mrs. Peter coming up the lane this blessed minute!”
exclaimed Mrs. Spencer, bustling her guests through the hall into the
parlor, where a deadly chill struck on them as if the air had been
strained so long through dark green, closely drawn blinds that it had
lost every particle of warmth it had ever possessed. “That is real
lucky, for we can settle the matter right away. Take the armchair,
Miss Cuthbert. Anne, you sit here on the ottoman and don’t wriggle.
Let me take your hats. Flora Jane, go out and put the kettle on. Good
afternoon, Mrs. Blewett. We were just saying how fortunate it was you
happened along. Let me introduce you two ladies. Mrs. Blewett, Miss
Cuthbert. Please excuse me for just a moment. I forgot to tell Flora
Jane to take the buns out of the oven.”
Mrs. Spencer whisked away, after pulling up the blinds. Anne, sitting
mutely on the ottoman, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap,
stared at Mrs. Blewett as one fascinated. Was she to be given into the
keeping of this sharp-faced, sharp-eyed woman? She felt a lump coming
up in her throat and her eyes smarted painfully. She was beginning to
be afraid she couldn’t keep the tears back when Mrs. Spencer returned,
flushed and beaming, quite capable of taking any and every difficulty,
physical, mental or spiritual, into consideration and settling it out
of hand.
“It seems there’s been a mistake about this little girl, Mrs. Blewett,”
she said. “I was under the impression that Mr. and Miss Cuthbert wanted
a little girl to adopt. I was certainly told so. But it seems it was a
boy they wanted. So if you’re still of the same mind you were yesterday,
I think she’ll be just the thing for you.”
Mrs. Blewett darted her eyes over Anne from head to foot.
“How old are you and what’s your name?” she demanded.
“Anne Shirley,” faltered the shrinking child, not daring to make any
stipulations regarding the spelling thereof, “and I’m eleven years old.”
“Humph! You don’t look as if there was much to you. But you’re wiry. I
don’t know but the wiry ones are the best after all. Well, if I take you
you’ll have to be a good girl, you know--good and smart and respectful.
I’ll expect you to earn your keep, and no mistake about that. Yes, I
suppose I might as well take her off your hands, Miss Cuthbert. The
baby’s awful fractious, and I’m clean worn out attending to him. If you
like I can take her right home now.”
Marilla looked at Anne and softened at sight of the child’s pale face
with its look of mute misery--the misery of a helpless little creature
who finds itself once more caught in the trap from which it had escaped.
Marilla felt an uncomfortable conviction that, if she denied the appeal
of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. Moreover, she did
not fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive, “highstrung” child over to
such a woman! No, she could not take the responsibility of doing that!
“Well, I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I didn’t say that Matthew and
I had absolutely decided that we wouldn’t keep her. In fact, I may say
that Matthew is disposed to keep her. I just came over to find out how
the mistake had occurred. I think I’d better take her home again and
talk it over with Matthew. I feel that I oughtn’t to decide on anything
without consulting him. If we make up our mind not to keep her we’ll
bring or send her over to you tomorrow night. If we don’t you may know
that she is going to stay with us. Will that suit you, Mrs. Blewett?”
“I suppose it’ll have to,” said Mrs. Blewett ungraciously.
During Marilla’s speech a sunrise had been dawning on Anne’s face. First
the look of despair faded out; then came a faint flush of hope;
her eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite
transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Blewett
went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow, she sprang
up and flew across the room to Marilla.
“Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that perhaps you would let me
stay at Green Gables?” she said, in a breathless whisper, as if speaking
aloud might shatter the glorious possibility. “Did you really say it? Or
did I only imagine that you did?”
“I think you’d better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne,
if you can’t distinguish between what is real and what isn’t,” said
Marilla crossly. “Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. It
isn’t decided yet and perhaps we will conclude to let Mrs. Blewett take
you after all. She certainly needs you much more than I do.”
“I’d rather go back to the asylum than go to live with her,” said Anne
passionately. “She looks exactly like a--like a gimlet.”
Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be
reproved for such a speech.
“A little girl like you should be ashamed of talking so about a lady and
a stranger,” she said severely. “Go back and sit down quietly and hold
your tongue and behave as a good girl should.”
“I’ll try to do and be anything you want me, if you’ll only keep me,”
said Anne, returning meekly to her ottoman.
When they arrived back at Green Gables that evening Matthew met them in
the lane. Marilla from afar had noted him prowling along it and guessed
his motive. She was prepared for the relief she read in his face when
he saw that she had at least brought Anne back with her. But she said
nothing, to him, relative to the affair, until they were both out in
the yard behind the barn milking the cows. Then she briefly told him
Anne’s history and the result of the interview with Mrs. Spencer.
“I wouldn’t give a dog I liked to that Blewett woman,” said Matthew with
unusual vim.
“I don’t fancy her style myself,” admitted Marilla, “but it’s that
or keeping her ourselves, Matthew. And, since you seem to want her, I
suppose I’m willing--or have to be. I’ve been thinking over the idea
until I’ve got kind of used to it. It seems a sort of duty. I’ve never
brought up a child, especially a girl, and I dare say I’ll make a
terrible mess of it. But I’ll do my best. So far as I’m concerned,
Matthew, she may stay.”
Matthew’s shy face was a glow of delight.
“Well now, I reckoned you’d come to see it in that light, Marilla,” he
said. “She’s such an interesting little thing.”
“It’d be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little
thing,” retorted Marilla, “but I’ll make it my business to see she’s
trained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you’re not to go interfering with
my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn’t know much about bringing up
a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just
leave me to manage her. When I fail it’ll be time enough to put your oar
in.”
“There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way,” said Matthew
reassuringly. “Only be as good and kind to her as you can without
spoiling her. I kind of think she’s one of the sort you can do anything
with if you only get her to love you.”
Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew’s opinions
concerning anything feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the
pails.
“I won’t tell her tonight that she can stay,” she reflected, as she
strained the milk into the creamers. “She’d be so excited that she
wouldn’t sleep a wink. Marilla Cuthbert, you’re fairly in for it. Did
you ever suppose you’d see the day when you’d be adopting an orphan
girl? It’s surprising enough; but not so surprising as that Matthew
should be at the bottom of it, him that always seemed to have such a
mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we’ve decided on the experiment
and goodness only knows what will come of it.”
CHAPTER VII. Anne Says Her Prayers
WHEN Marilla took Anne up to bed that night she said stiffly:
“Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about
the floor when you took them off. That is a very untidy habit, and I
can’t allow it at all. As soon as you take off any article of clothing
fold it neatly and place it on the chair. I haven’t any use at all for
little girls who aren’t neat.”
“I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn’t think about my
clothes at all,” said Anne. “I’ll fold them nicely tonight. They always
made us do that at the asylum. Half the time, though, I’d forget, I’d be
in such a hurry to get into bed nice and quiet and imagine things.”
“You’ll have to remember a little better if you stay here,” admonished
Marilla. “There, that looks something like. Say your prayers now and get
into bed.”
“I never say any prayers,” announced Anne.
Marilla looked horrified astonishment.
“Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers?
God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don’t you know who
God is, Anne?”
“‘God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being,
wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,’” responded Anne
promptly and glibly.
Marilla looked rather relieved.
“So you do know something then, thank goodness! You’re not quite a
heathen. Where did you learn that?”
“Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the whole
catechism. I liked it pretty well. There’s something splendid about some
of the words. ‘Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.’ Isn’t that grand? It
has such a roll to it--just like a big organ playing. You couldn’t quite
call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn’t it?”
“We’re not talking about poetry, Anne--we are talking about saying your
prayers. Don’t you know it’s a terrible wicked thing not to say your
prayers every night? I’m afraid you are a very bad little girl.”
“You’d find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair,” said
Anne reproachfully. “People who haven’t red hair don’t know what trouble
is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red _on purpose_, and I’ve
never cared about Him since. And anyhow I’d always be too tired at night
to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can’t be
expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?”
Marilla decided that Anne’s religious training must be begun at once.
Plainly there was no time to be lost.
“You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne.”
“Why, of course, if you want me to,” assented Anne cheerfully. “I’d do
anything to oblige you. But you’ll have to tell me what to say for this
once. After I get into bed I’ll imagine out a real nice prayer to say
always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to
think of it.”
“You must kneel down,” said Marilla in embarrassment.
Anne knelt at Marilla’s knee and looked up gravely.
“Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray
I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d go out into a great big field all
alone or into the deep, deep woods, and I’d look up into the
sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was
no end to its blueness. And then I’d just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I’m
ready. What am I to say?”
Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne
the childish classic, “Now I lay me down to sleep.” But she had, as I
have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply
another name for a sense of the fitness of things; and it suddenly
occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed
childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this