have a nice dress as white as the plum flowers. That is my highest ideal of earthly bliss. I love pretty clothes. And I never had a pretty dress in my life that I can remember. This morning when I left the asylum I felt so ashamed because I wore this horrid old dress. All the orphans wear them, you know. A merchant in Hopeton last winter donated three hundred yards of this cloth to the asylum. Some people said it was because he didn't sell it, but I believe that it was out of the kindness of his heart. Oh, there are many cherry-trees here! This Island is the bloomiest place. I love it already, and I'm so glad to live here. Prince Edward Island is the prettiest place in the world! Those red roads are so funny! And what makes the roads red?”
"Well, I don't know,” said Matthew.
"I feel glad to be alive – it's such an interesting world! But do I talk too much? People always tell me I do. If you don't like it I'll stop. I can stop, although it's difficult.”
Matthew, to his own surprise, was very glad. Like most quiet folks he liked talkative people. He enjoyed the society of this little girl. So he said as shyly as usual:
"You can talk as much as you like. I don't mind[7].”
"Oh, I'm so glad! It's such a relief to talk when one wants to. Mrs. Spencer said your place was named Green Gables. I asked her all about it. And she said there were trees all around it. I was very glad. I love trees. Is there a brook anywhere near Green Gables? I forgot to ask Mrs. Spencer that.”
"Well now, yes, there's one right below the house.”
"Great. It's my dream to live near a brook. I never expected it, though. Dreams don't often come true, do they? But just now I feel pretty nearly perfectly happy. I can't feel exactly perfectly happy because – well, what color do you call this?”
She twitched one of her long glossy braids over her thin shoulder and held it up before Matthew's eyes.
"It's red, isn't it?” he said.
"Yes, it's red,” she said resignedly. "Now you see why I can't be perfectly happy. Nobody can who has red hair. I hate that red hair. I think to myself, 'Now my hair is black, black as the raven's wing.' But it's not true, it is just plain red and it breaks my heart. Mrs. Spencer says – oh, Mr. Cuthbert! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!! Oh, Mr. Cuthbert!!!”
They rounded a curve in the road and found themselves in the "Avenue.” The "Avenue” was a stretch of road four or five hundred yards long, completely arched over with huge apple-trees, planted years ago by an eccentric old farmer. Overhead was one long canopy of snowy fragrant bloom.
The child leaned back in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white splendor above.
"I think you're tired and hungry,” Matthew said.
"Oh, Mr. Cuthbert,” she whispered, "that place, that white place – what was it?”
"Well, the Avenue,” said Matthew. "It is a pretty place.”
"Pretty? Oh, no! It was wonderful, wonderful! I felt it here,” she put one hand on her breast, "it made a queer funny ache. And yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?”
"Well, I just can't recollect.”
"I have it often – whenever I see anything royally beautiful. But you can't call that lovely place the Avenue. We will call it the White Way of Delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? When I don't like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the White Way of Delight! I'm glad to get home. You see, I never had a real home.”
They drove over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond. From the marsh they heard sweet chorus of the frogs.
"That's Barry's pond,” said Matthew.
"Oh, I don't like that name, either. I shall call it the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. But why do other people call it Barry's pond?”
"I reckon because Mr. Barry lives up there in that house.”
"Has Mr. Barry any little girls? Well, not very little – about my size.”
"He's got one about eleven. Her name is Diana.”
"Oh! What a perfectly lovely name!”
The girl looked about her. They were on the crest of a hill. The child relapsed into silence. Matthew stirred uneasily. Marilla and not he will tell this girl won't have that home. By the time they arrived at the house Matthew trembled. He thought of the child's disappointment.
The yard was quite dark as they turned into it.
"Listen to the trees! They talk in their sleep,” she whispered, as he lifted her to the ground. "What nice dreams they have!”
Then she followed him into the house.
Chapter III
Marilla Cuthbert is Surprised
When Marilla's eyes fell on the odd little figure in the stiff, ugly dress, with the long braids of red hair and the eager, luminous eyes, she stopped.
"Matthew Cuthbert, who's that?” she ejaculated. "Where is the boy?”
"There wasn't any boy,” said Matthew wretchedly. "There was only her.”
He nodded at the child.
"No boy! Where is he?” insisted Marilla. "We asked Mrs. Spencer to bring a boy.”
"Well, she didn't. She brought her. I asked the station-master. And I brought her home. She was alone there.”
"Well, well, well!” ejaculated Marilla.
During this dialogue the child remained silent. Her eyes roved from one to the other. Suddenly
she grasped the full meaning of Marilla's words. The girl dropped her precious carpet-bag and clasped her hands.
"You don't want me!” she cried. "You don't want me because I'm not a boy! I expected it. Nobody ever did want me! Oh, what shall I do? I'll burst into tears!”
She did it. She sat down on a chair by the table, and continued to cry stormily. Marilla and Matthew looked at each other. Neither of them knew what to say or do. Finally Marilla said,
"Well, well, there's no need to cry so about it.”
"Yes, there is need!” The child raised her head quickly. She revealed her trembling lips. "You will cry, too, if you are an orphan and come to a place where nobody wants to see you because you aren't a boy!”
Something like a reluctant smile mellowed Marilla's grim expression.
"Well, don't cry anymore. We won't turn you out-of-doors[8] tonight. You'll stay here until we investigate this affair. What's your name?”
The child hesitated for a moment.
"Will you please call me Cordelia?” she said eagerly.
"Call
I don't mind. – Я не против.
turn you out-of-doors – выгнать тебя
