by Sarah McCoy
“Mr. Murdock! There’s a lady at the window!”
Mr. Murdock’s bearded face popped up, an inch of glass between their noses. He narrowed his gaze like a stingy elf.
“Miss Cuthbert, may I help you?” His voice muffled through the glass and left a puff of frost on the pane.
“I—I’ve come about my studies,” she replied.
“Then I would presume you’d properly arrive through the door, not the window.”
Marilla’s cheeks went hot. “Yes, sir,” she said and made her way round to the front, where she paused, unsure if she was supposed to knock before entering. She decided to err on the side of etiquette given that Mr. Murdock was already piqued.
It took three raps before he answered, “Please come in.”
He stood at the front holding his cane pointer. Little Spurgeon MacPherson was in the dunce’s corner with the cone cap forcing his flappy ears to stick out.
“Miss Cuthbert, come to the front so you may tell us the purpose of your visit?”
Her knees buckled momentarily, but she obeyed, walking down the long aisle while the entire schoolhouse looked on.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Murdock. I thought you’d be at recess by now.”
“Did you not know the time?” He pulled his watch from his pocket. “We have five entire minutes before recess. Five entire minutes in which my diligent students should have been learning the topography of Upper Canada, but instead you have distracted them. They will just have to make up these five minutes by concluding their recess early.”
The class moaned. A little girl in the front row put her head down on her desk pitifully and cried, “Toad warts!”
Marilla’s hands shook so badly that she had to ball them into fists at her side.
“Mr. Murdock, I pray you do not punish the class on my account.” She prayed he would not punish her either. “You see, I’ve come to ask if I might sit for the exit exams early—this spring.”
“The exit exams? Well, Miss Cuthbert, those are only for our most advanced students who have faithfully and successfully mastered a Christian education through grade eight, as specified by the Lancastrian System of our Queen and country.” He cleared his throat. “As you can see, my back-row pupils are small in number, and only they are prepared for the exits.”
She turned to the back row; she vaguely recalled the five seated there from the Agora, only now they wore suspenders and innocent expressions. John was the last in the row. He spun his short chalk stick between his fingers, watching her. She was determined not to falter in her mission.
“I understand, Mr. Murdock, but I’ve spoken with Rachel White, who has been on home study for a number of years. She says you are allowing her to take the exit exam when she pleases.”
Mr. Murdock gave a huff. “Miss White’s mother has assured me that she is under direct tutelage. That is why I consented for her to sit despite not having completed her work at Avonlea School.”
“As you know, I haven’t a mother anymore to make assurances for me.” Her voice bent to crack, but she wrenched it steady. “But you have my word that I will study as hard as I can so that I do you credit and exit properly.”
Mr. Murdock softened at the mention of Clara and set down the pointer. “As true as that may be, I must adhere to the rules. The uneducated can’t educate themselves based on what they do not know. You need a tutor.”
Marilla didn’t know any tutors, nor did her family have the finances to afford one like the Whites. It was an impasse for which she had no solution.
“I’m sorry, Miss Cuthbert,” said Mr. Murdock. “For this and your loss.” The gentleness of it cut her to the quick.
She’d rather him be curmudgeonly. She knew how to hold herself up against that, but his empathy loosened her fortitude.
“I’ll do it, Mr. Murdock!” John stood from his desk chair.
Some of the younger children began to giggle. Mr. Murdock gave a menacing warning point to Spurgeon in the corner, and they all shushed.
“Students, you may orderly and silently file out for lunch. Remember not to take your sleds too far into the woods. Be back five minutes early. Tardy pupils will earn extra homework. Mr. MacPherson, you are relieved from your punishment, but you must bring in the firewood for the afternoon. Mr. Blythe, come here.”
John made his way to the front against the current of departing students. Marilla and John waited, side by side, in front of Mr. Murdock until the last student closed the door behind him.
“Mr. Blythe, I do not condone outbursts from my pupils.”
“I apologize for my lack of restraint but not for what I said, Mr. Murdock.”
Mr. Murdock screwed up his nose.
John continued. “I would be willing to tutor Marilla in all subjects. You recently told my father that I was ahead of the rest of my grade and could probably sit for the exam tomorrow and pass with flying colors.”
Mr. Murdock smacked his gums. “That was a conversation between your father and me.”
“If you be a man of knowledge and truth, then your assessment would stand as good authority on my ability to successfully tutor Marilla.”
Mr. Murdock pushed around a handful of papers on his desk, then let out a loud exhale that sent the chalk dust swirling.
“Fine. You may tutor Marilla with the stipulation that it be daily and after you complete your full studies in my classroom. This will significantly impact your work for your father’s farm, you know?”
John nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Marilla’s heart leapt around like a jackrabbit.
“Miss Cuthbert, you will report to me before the exit exam date so that I may evaluate whether or not you are ready to sit with the others.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I promise I won’t fail you!”
“Don’t worry that you’ll fail me—worry that you’ll have wasted all of young Mr. Blythe’s time and talents.” He turned to John and held out his hand in a handshake of agreement. “Mr. Blythe, her failure is your failure.”
John shook his hand without batting an eyelash.
Outside, the younger students raced around Jericho, who hoofed the ground, perturbed.
“Thank you, John.”
“Like I said, you’re smart. Smarter than any other girl I know.”
It flattered her more than other compliments she’d received. Her mother had been virtuous. Izzy was beautiful. She, Marilla, would be smart.
“When do we start?” she asked.
“Now. Today!”
“Today?” She laughed. “John, you are positively the most impulsive person I know.”
“Carpe diem! Do you know what that means?”
“It’s Latin.” Marilla raised her chin to the sunshine. “‘To seize the day.’”
“Very good, pupil.” He cleared his throat and affected Mr. Murdock’s tone. “And where does this Latin phrase originate?”
“The Roman poet Horace.”
He clapped. “Well done. Let’s show that old Mr. Murdock.”
XVII.
John Blythe Suggests a Walk
Every day John took the back way from Avonlea School, over the meadow that bloomed a purple sea, through the spruce woods made sappy by the sunshine, and down the lane leading to Green Gables. The arch of maples had put forth their spring pomp. Furry pink blossoms adorned the boughs, and winnowed by the breeze, they dusted all who walked beneath in pollen. John would arrive at the back door sneezing and haloed in gold.
They studied at the kitchen table so Marilla could keep an eye on the supper pot. Though she offered him a meal, John never took it. He said his mother wouldn’t rest until after she’d fed him and his father had smoked a pipe. It was the Blythes’ routine, and he honored it. Marilla understood. Family came first.
John brought over Mr. Murdock’s lessons and shared them with Marilla. Math came easiest, but it took nearly two weeks to study through history, geography, and civics. Then they began on grammar and composition.
“But I’ve never been anywhere except Nova Scotia.”
“That counts,” said John. “Write about that.”
He pulled out the bronze pocket watch his father had given him on his last birthday. It was inscribed: To my one and only son. He habitually rubbed the face shiny.
“The exam’s written portion is timed. So I suggest we practice.” He eyed the second hand of his watch. “On the count of three, two, one—begin!”
The kitchen filled with the quick click of chalk sticks against slate.
“Time!” called John.
Marilla smiled. She’d finished with a minute left to double-check her spelling.
“Let’s read them aloud,” said John.
“That’s not part of the exam.” Rhetoric was her least favorite of the school curriculum.
“How else are we to review each other’s compositions?”
Marilla saw his point. Reluctantly, she cleared her throat and held up her slate to shield her face from John’s stare.
The world goes unsteady when you’re standing aboard a steamship crossing the Northumberland Strait. To the south, the beaches of Nova Scotia are rocky gray and rimmed with boats. Their sails flutter like ruffles on a dress. To the north, our island glows at sunset. The sand shines like red fires. My mother said that far before our British prince namesake, the Micmac natives called it Abegweit. It means “cradle on the waves.” A land of new birth where all colors of men and beast are free to live their brightest. A more fitting name, I believe. An island born from the sea should be red at its bedrock. So very red . . .
Marilla’s throat tightened as the memory of Clara’s last hour came to her, sharp as a hatpin.
“My mother liked to hear that story, but I never told her all of it. I never told her about Madame Stéphanie’s hat shop or about Junie, the slave orphan. Reverend Patterson says secrets can be as sinful as blatant acts of deception. If I had known my mother would . . .” She gulped to steady her voice. “I wish I would’ve told her everything.”
John put his hand on hers.
“You might not have told her, but she knew your aim was for good—then and now. This is a composition to be proud of, Marilla.”
He pressed his thumb into the back of her hand, and she didn’t pull away.
“It’s your turn.”
“Mine is not nearly as well done.”
“Then you’ll just have to be satisfied placing second.”
He gave a lopsided grin and dropped her hand to pick up his slate. “‘I spent a year in Rupert’s Land visiting my mother’s kin . . .’”
Marilla hadn’t known he’d gone to Rupert’s Land as a boy. John read of his Uncle Nick, his mother’s boisterous younger brother; of gallivanting through the woods with his seven cousins; of fishing in glacial lakes, climbing mountains, and air so clean it made him feel twice as alive. Marilla relished the descriptions. It seemed a fantastical land made ever more daring by John’s retelling.
“I couldn’t say who won. That was very good,” she conceded. “You made me see a place I’ve never been.”
“You made me see the place I’ve always been like I never knew it. That takes greater skill.”
“Then it’s a tie.” She smiled.
Outside, Matthew stomped his boots clean on the porch.
“I better get food on the table,” said Marilla.
“Maybe one day you’ll go to Rupert’s Land and see it for yourself.”
She laughed. “Fancy that. A woman traveling by herself like a buccaneer.” But even as she said it, she thought of Izzy and wondered, Perhaps so—and why not?
“Maybe I’ll take you.”
Her heart lit up. The pea soup on the stove bubbled. Matthew came in.
“Hello, John. How’s studying?”
“Learn a new thing every day.” He winked at Marilla, collected his books, and pulled on his cap. “Please give Mr. Cuthbert my best. Tomorrow I’ll bring back the hoof nippers we borrowed.”
“No rush,” said Matthew. “What’s ours is yours, neighbor.”
John left with a nod.
“He’s a good friend,” Matthew said. “You’re lucky to have him.”
“Me?” Marilla served out a bowl with a side biscuit for sopping. “He’s just as much your friend.”
Matthew chuckled. “Fine, fine. A good friend to us all. Darn near family for as much time as he’s here.”
Hugh came in soon after, and she made up a bowl for him too but forgot the biscuit. Her mind was busy mulling over John’s story of Rupert’s Land and what Matthew had said about him. It felt nice . . . to think of him as family.
* * *
The warmer season finally arrived in full form. Gone were the night frosts and blustering winds. The mornings glistened with dewy blades of grass. The lupines plumed bold fingers to the sky. The afternoon fields fluttered with life stirred by the promise of longer days.
Izzy had faithfully written them. At first, the letters brought on such an aching that Marilla could hardly stand to look at the handwritten address on the envelope, but it dulled with time and routine. Izzy wrote about the shop, the ladies she dressed, the political rallies in St. Catharines’s streets, and the new influx of Americans to the city. Her last line to every letter was Give my love to my Marilla girl. I’m eager to hear from her when she’s ready. It made Marilla prickle oddly.
She’d once gone so far as to take up paper and pen to reply, but in pausing to think, her mind was quick to fasten on the latest newspaper sheet John had delivered. He had been unrelenting in his tutelage.
It was the Prince Edward Island Times, a liberal Reformer publication that Hugh didn’t purchase. The article read: “Mr. Mingo Bass, African footman to Miss Elizabeth Smallwood of Charlottetown, has gone missing. Miss Smallwood believes her servant was taken unlawfully by slave hunters from America. He originated from Virginia.”
John had penciled to the side: “Can you locate Virginia?” But she knew that he’d singled out the article for more than her geography studies. John was the only one who knew of Junie and the Sisters of Charity’s work with escaping slaves, a secret she’d kept even from her mother and shared only with him. And so she’d been distracted from writing Izzy—what did she have to say anyhow?—and had taken up her maps instead. Geography was her weakest subject. She simply hadn’t the empirical evidence to draw from. The atlas mountains, rivers, and borders seemed little more than chicken scratch in dirt. But she would not let that be her undoing.
Marilla was on the back porch in her wicker chair so she could feel the fresh breeze while she studied. The exam was a week away, and John had just come from the schoolhouse.
“Mr. Murdock gave me this for you,” he said.
She opened the folded note:
Miss Cuthbert, please come to Avonlea School prepared to be evaluated this coming Wednesday before the Saturday exit exam.
—Mr. Murdock
Marilla turned the note so John could see. “Here it is. Judgment Day.”
“You’re ready. More than ready.”
She smoothed her hand over the open atlas. “I still can’t remember all the Danish colonies—they’re scattered everywhere!”
“I’m willing to bet ‘What are the Danish colonies?’ will not be a question on the exam.”
“It could.”
He cleared his throat authoritatively. “You’ve studied hard, Marilla. You’re more ready than anyone in Mr. Murdock’s class.”
“Including you?” She raised her eyebrow.
“Well now, the reflection of a great teacher is a student who equals his knowledge.” He smirked then continued in earnest. “Besides, schools can’t expect that they’ve taught us everything there is to know. Nobody knows everything, Marilla. Not even you. They just expect us to know enough to pass.” He snatched the book from under her and closed it with a gratifying thwack. “You want to study your geography? Come
on, let’s go.”
She crossed her arms. “Go?”
“No better way to learn the land than to explore it.”
“The most exasperating individual—this is because you want to beat me in the scores, isn’t it?”
“Aw, you’ve figured out my villainous scheme. Villainous: V-I-double-L-A-I-N-O-U-S. We can practice our spelling along the way.”
He could charm the devil.
“Biology too, I suppose. Exercising the body does improve the mind,” she relented.
And off they went, through the apple-cherry orchard blooming pink and white; down to the perimeter of the Cuthbert farm where their green field gave over to the tangle of forest ferns, tree bark, and wet moss. Under the wooded canopy, the air changed, thick with honeysuckle and pine tree sap. The winds of the island combed only the treetops so that the sky seemed to dance overhead while their feet remained planted. The brook had thawed and gurgled merrily through the creek bed. Marilla hadn’t been there for over a year, a lifetime ago, when she was a child who read frivolous magazine stories and had a mother.
Still, she instinctively knew the way.
“Follow me.”
Past the fern grove and around the tree with the hollow so large that she’d once been convinced a family of fairies lived within. The brook widened there and picked up current as it angled downhill. They had to remove their shoes to keep from slipping. She took John’s hand to steady herself.
“It’s just over here.”
“What is?”
She didn’t answer. Gravity pulled them forward, faster and faster. The brook cascaded over rocks and bare feet until reaching level ground, where it pooled around her island . . . so much smaller than she remembered. The slender maple clung to its islet, roots dripping off the sides like living lace. Sunshine fell through the open canopy, making the water twinkle blue-gold.
Marilla fought to catch her breath. Her heart thumped in her earlobes. Her toes tingled from the cold and her fingers from the heat of John’s hand. She was nearly delirious. How very long had it been since she’d felt so free? Not since her mother was still alive. Not since that May day when John put a cricket to her ear and told her to make a wish.