Chapter One
Marilla asked no more questions. Anne gave herself up to a silent rapture over the shore road and Marilla guided the sorrel abstractly while she pondered deeply.
'She has simply too much to say," thought Marilla, "but what a pity she must be sent back. Matthew seems to like her. Suppose we kept her."
Marilla gasped – not out loud, though, just deep inside. Whatever was she thinking? The Cuthbert's needed a boy, not a girl. And if they were to have a girl, they would need a little girl who knew how to hold her tongue and didn't "pretend" or "imagine" so much, at least not out loud. Marilla knew what to do. She would take her to Mrs Spencer and give her back.
…
"I suppose we'll stay a little while to rest the mare," said Marilla, "but I promised Matthew I'd be home early. The fact is, Mrs Spencer, there's been a queer mistake somewhere, and I've come over to see where it is. We sent word, Matthew and I, for you to bring us a boy from the asylum. We told your brother Robert to tell you we wanted a boy ten or eleven years old.
"Marilla Cuthbert, you don't say so!" said Mrs Spencer in distress. "Why, Robert sent the word down by his daughter Nancy and she said you wanted a girl – didn't she, Flora Jane?" appealing to her daughter who had come out to the steps.
"She certainly did, Miss Cuthbert," corroborated Flora Jane earnestly.
"I'm dreadfully sorry," said Mrs Spencer. "It is too bad; but it certainly wasn't my fault, you see, Miss Cuthbert. I did the best I could and I thought I was following your instructions. Nancy is a terrible flighty thing. I've often had to scold her well for her heedlessness."
"It was our own fault," said Marilla resignedly. "We should have come to you ourselves and not left an important message to be passed along by word of mouth in that fashion. Anyhow, the mistake has been made and the only thing to do now is to set it right. Can we send the child back to the asylum? I suppose they'll take her back, won't they?"
"I suppose so," said Mrs Spencer thoughtfully, "but I don't think it will be necessary to send her back. Mrs Peter Blewett was up here yesterday, and she was saying to me how much she wished she'd sent by me for a little girl to help her. Mrs Peter has a large family, you know, and she finds it hard to get help. Anne will be the very girl for her. I call it positively providential."
Marilla let out a little sigh of relief. She had been dreading the moment she would have to keep Anne. Keep such a queer little girl! She did not know Mrs Peter Blewett at all, except seeing her every now and then whenever Mrs Blewett was in Avonlea.
"Well, I'll go in and we can talk the matter over," Marilla 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 parlour, where a deadly chill struck on them as if the air had been strained so long through the dark green, closely drawn blinds that it had lost ever 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 walked away, after quickly pulling the blinds up. Anne stared at Mrs Blewett in somewhat mingled fear and fascination. Was she to be given into the keeping of this shrewish-faced, sharp-eyed woman? Tears welled in her starry grey eyes and Anne worked hard to swallow the lump coming up in her throat. She was beginning to be afraid that the tears would overflow when Mrs Spencer returned, flushed soft red and beaming.
"There is a mistake about this little girl, Mrs Blewett," she said earnestly. "You see, I thought the Cuthbert's wanted a girl to adopt. I was most certainly told so – but it appears that it was a little boy they wanted. So if you still want a little girl like you said yesterday, you may most certainly have her."
Mrs Blewett eyed Anne warily.
"How old are you and what is your name?" she demanded.
"My name is Anne Shirley," the child faltered, shrinking back, "and I'm eleven years old."
"Humph! Well, you don't look as if there was much to you. But you're very wiry. I dunno but the wiry ones are the best ones. Well if I take you you'll have to be a good girl – good and smart and respectful. I'll expect you to earn your money – I won't just give it to you, no mistake about that. Yes, I suppose I will take her off your hands, Miss Cuthbert. The old servant girl is getting terrible cheeky. If you like I can take her right home now."
"Well – I suppose you might as well," agreed Marilla, not looking at Anne. "Her carpet bag is in the buggy. Anne, you can go get it."
Anne nodded mutely and ran out of the room. A few moments later she reappeared with the bag and red-rimmed eyes.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Mrs Blewett said abruptly. "Come along now."
Anne gave Marilla one last pleading look, before reluctantly shuffling after the briskly walking Mrs Blewett.
Anne could not believe it. As she climbed into the much grander carriage of Mrs Peter Blewett's, she spotted Marilla climbing into the wooden buggy. For a moment their eyes met. Then Mrs Blewett's carriage turned around the corner and Anne wondered glumly about her future.