Chapter 2: The Decision to Send the Girl Back

"Next you'll be saying she oughtn't be punished at all!" Marilla strode off willfully towards the pasture and left Matthew to account for the detritus left in the wake of Anne's outburst at Rachel Lynde just a few moments ago. She could feel his eyes fixed on her as she walked away, but she strode on, feet set on reaching the patch of woods far ahead in the distance. From there, she would follow the edge of the property line around a wide bend, taking a northeastern course that, in a mile or two, would bring her within earshot of the ocean. Destination set, she soon became occupied with the thrush, thrush, thrush, sound of spring grasses under her boots. She walked, steadily, rhythmically, unwaveringly, to that sound, thrush, thrush, thrush, thrush; for the time being, she could ignore the nagging sensation in her chest and the odd warmth coursing through her veins. She did not understand what feeling it was; whether it was anger or sympathy, rage or sorrow, she did not know.

Finally, Marilla rounded the bend, and she was safely enveloped within the thickness of the woods on her right and the steady blowing northwestern sea wind on her left. Her pace slowed, and she walked more thoughtfully in the direction of the island cliffs. The time for reflection had come; too soon, Marilla thought, for in the past forty-eight hours alone, Providence had tasked her with carrying an immeasurably heavy load; a challenge that she had not expected nor was entirely confident she could manage. An error in communication had delayed their hopes of having a boy to help Matthew on the farm, and now a girl whose emotions ranged in the extremes was pleading with them to keep her. Deep breaths calmed her busy mind, and she settled into reflection.

This time two days ago, she'd been waiting in anticipation for a farm boy. Matthew's farm boy. At tea that day, she had listened to Rachel's hyperbolic reservations with a sense of calmness and fatigue; why must Rachel constantly try to talk her out of well thought out plans with unconvincing, implausible, and scandalous gossip, she had wondered. Strychnine in the well? Midnight arson and murder? These sounded like stories from one of those papers Rachel's son sent her from Boston; full of nonsense, they were. American newspapers had a habit of stirring up scandal in the minds of otherwise sound and decent Islanders. Marilla didn't believe them for a minute, but besides their irritating sense of intrigue, it had been a girl who had supposedly put strychnine in the well and it was a girl that Matthew had brought home to Green Gables.

Yesterday, an austere Marilla had been totally fixed on correcting the error, loading Anne into the carriage first thing in the morning and prying her childlike affection for Green Gables from Matthew's ridiculously bewitched gaze before traveling to Mrs. Spencer's house in an attempt to unload Anne so their lives could return to normal. At Mrs. Spencer's house, she had demanded to know how the mistake had occurred and asked the lady if she thought the orphanage would take Anne back. Mrs. Spencer, an amicable gentlewoman with a predilection for people-pleasing first and consequence second, had ignored Marilla's question and straightaway plunged into the role of matchmaker for overwhelmed Avonlea mothers. Her neighbor, Mrs. Blewett, was the first woman she thought of. Matilda Blewett was a harsh lady with a firm hand whose husband was known to be afflicted with the drink; the gentlefolk of the town didn't speak of this in public company, but it was widely known. Rarely seen in church, Mrs. Blewett had been struggling to care for her children, her farm, and her wayward husband for several years now, and Mrs. Spencer thought her matchmaking plan a marvelous solution for all women concerned.

As if she had been eavesdropping, Mrs. Blewett quickly strode up the path to her neighbor's house and inserted herself into the conversation. She immediately began questioning Anne, demanding to know her age and her experience in caring for children, and then snapping at the two other women, "Alright, I'll take her." She spoke directly and quickly, with no desire for a response from Anne. Her voice was distant and cold, and her sharp eyes stared through Anne like a knife. When she made Anne promise to "act smart and be respectful," Marilla noticed the girl shrink back, eyes wide and scared, her voice uncharacteristically silenced by this other woman. Marilla looked at the girl and felt a sense of pity and a need to protect. Whomever this girl supposedly is, wherever she came from, and whatever she has seen, Marilla didn't fully understand. But her heart rested on the fact that Anne was a young girl with all the innocence of a child, and that this innocence included the right to be given a chance; the unfortunate circumstance of being an orphan was not Anne's choice. Marilla couldn't bear to hear Mrs. Blewett measuring Anne's worth based on her capacity to work, and she didn't like hearing the ladies confer as if they were conducting an exchange of farm equipment or livestock.

So they traveled home again, much to the happy bewilderment of Anne and the delight of Matthew. On the way home, Marilla learned more about Anne's past; that her parents had died when she was a baby, and that she had alternatively lived in orphanages and worked for families in exchange for room and board since she could talk. In the barn that evening, Matthew had agreed to Marilla's idea of a trial period. Marilla figured that if they kept Anne, they could still hire a boy, and they'd be helping Anne; giving her the chance in life that she surely wouldn't have if she'd stayed at the orphanage. Before bed that night, Marilla reflected on her Christian duty to serve the Lord and aid all of his creatures; Anne's voice echoed in her head, "Mrs. So-and-so said God made my hair red on purpose and I've never cared for him since!" Marilla chuckled silently and went to bed, making a plan for the next day to instruct Anne on her Christian obligation to be an obedient and well-behaved child.

The next morning after sending Anne off to memorize the Lord's Prayer, Marilla had felt confident with her plan and good about the decision for a trial period. A few hours later, it all felt confusing again. Mrs. Lynde was mad as the devil, Anne was having hysterics in her room, Matthew was likely smoking his pipe in her kitchen, and Marilla was striding out towards the sea cliffs of the Island doing nothing but walking and thinking.

Marilla's heart ached for the girl, whose little spirit had been minimized by the harsh words of Mrs. Blewett yesterday and Rachel today. "She's such a homely little thing, Marilla, couldn't you send her back? And with hair as red as carrots!" Rachel had admonished. Marilla's empathy for the girl swelled in that moment, as did anger towards Mrs. Lynde. What a horribly devastating thing to say to a child, let alone one who was forced to bear the burden of a mix-up totally out of her control. She felt bitterly toward Rachel and sorrowful towards Anne. Anne seemed like a decent girl, Marilla thought, and while there was still a lot she did not know about her background, she recognized in Anne an innocence and girlishness that felt familiar and good.

In her empathy, Marilla's mind drifted to the past as she recalled a time when she had stood next to her mother at around seven years old, shy near her mother's friends and hiding within her skirts. The ladies had been speaking about the goings-on of Avonlea when the subject sharply turned to their children. An acquaintance of her mother had remarked, "your girl is so tall and plain, far too bashful to make friends with the other girls and this behavior certainly won't net the eye of any young men in the future." Marilla recalled feeling her belly tighten and blood rush to her head. There was a piercing feeling of shame and embarrassment in her heart, and she gripped her mother's skirts tightly, staring into what felt like an infinite darkness. She had been made to feel small, vulnerable, and angry all at once. She remembered feeling frozen in time as the world went on around her for several moments, her spirit and her intelligence undermined by strangers. Back then, she was not allowed to have an opinion in the company of adults. She listened as they spoke about her as if she was not even there, or as if she was too young to understand.

No, Marilla thought indignantly, this young Anne-girl shouldn't be made to suffer as she had. But Anne's outburst at Rachel had shocked both ladies and would need to be made right. As much as she empathized with the girl for bearing the brunt of Rachel's unsocial remarks, Marilla was now in the position of guardian and teacher. Anne needed to learn to control her emotions; to put her feelings into something other than angry words and actions. If Anne could make an honest effort at doing that, if she was the truthful girl that she seemed to be, and if she could learn to love God, Marilla would allow Anne to stay with them. First, she would need to apologize to Rachel Lynde.

"Then you'll have to send me back!" The last words the girl had said to her before running off rang through Marilla's ears and her eyes moistened. She didn't like to engage in conflicts of will; however, she was a woman of her word, emotion rarely swayed her from her Christian duty, and now the decision was in the hands of Providence. She'd walk back to the house prepared to listen to Anne's decision and proceed thoughtfully forward from there. She secretly hoped Anne had sense enough to see how foolishly enamored Matthew was with her, and that this could convince her to make the apology to Mrs. Lynde. For all of his shyness, Matthew Cuthbert was a good judge of character.