by Sarah McCoy
The Reverend Mother lifted the bank check. “I tell you the truth because I must be forthright about where this money goes. It allows us to expeditiously move the orphans, even the ones with no family waiting, to other provinces. God’s doves outwitting the serpents’ guile, so to say. The Ladies’ Aid Society of Avonlea is providing more than silver here. Because of this gift, we are able to help the poor, weary, and burdened. ‘The stranger who resides among you, shall be to you as native-born. You shall love them.’ So says the Lord our God. Love spinning life spinning love.”
“Is there no more to be done, though?”
She gripped Marilla’s hand warmly. “If we could multiply our safe houses, we would. But as it stands, we each can only work within our limits.”
Marilla respected the Reverend Mother’s caution. She understood what Marilla appeared to be from the outside: a young woman from a small town on a small island. And yet she burned with a desire to be more—to do more—within her life’s parameters. An idea came to her, but before she could discuss it with the Reverend Mother, Sister Catherine cracked open the door.
“The roads are clear now, and Miss White is much improved. I’ve called for a fly carriage.”
“Good. You girls should be going before it’s dark. The daylight hours are few in the cold months.”
Marilla stood. “Reverend Mother, I wish you to know that your words will remain in my strictest confidence. Though I wonder if you might allow me to share this matter with my aunt, Miss Elizabeth Johnson, in St. Catharines. I trust her implicitly, and she may have thoughts on how we could be of greater service . . . in addition to Mrs. White’s shawls and caps.”
The Reverend Mother turned to Sister Catherine. “It seems the goodly women of Avonlea are making every orphan a knitted cap for next winter.”
Sister Catherine clapped her hands. “The children will be so pleased. Many of the sisters are near to blind from the amount of darning alone! We are eternally grateful.”
“Indeed, we are thankful to all who aid our cause.” The Reverend Mother bowed.
Marilla took that as a permissive yes. They led her back down the orphanage hall to Rachel. A sprinkling of shortbread crumbs dotted her coat, but she still looked green around the gills.
“Take them straight to Mrs. Lydia Jane’s home,” the Reverend Mother instructed the driver, then kissed both of their cheeks. “I pray your next visit will be in more peaceable times.”
“I’ll write to you,” Marilla promised.
“I’ll keep my eye on the carrier sparrow.” She winked.
Inside the cab, Rachel nestled close. “Thank goodness we don’t have to walk back. I don’t think I could bear seeing any of Hopetown again.”
“Mind the copper warmer under the seat,” said the driver. “Be careful not to kick it over and set the coals loose.”
Rachel gasped dramatically. “We didn’t get the bed warmer for tonight! All for naught!”
Marilla pulled the carriage blanket over their laps. Her mind was too preoccupied to coddle despair over cold feet.
“I wish we were home,” said Rachel.
“Tomorrow. It’s already on its way.”
* * *
Back at Lydia Jane’s, they said nothing of rebel hangings, street crowds, orphans, or the Sisters of Charity. Lydia Jane explained herself to be a resolute Protestant and suspicious of everything about the Catholic Church. She argued that she couldn’t believe in a religion with so much obscured behind cloistered walls, confessionals, and nuns’ habits . . . even if the concealment was for a good cause. She didn’t abide by talk of religion, politics, money, or destitution at supper. It gave her indigestion. So instead, they complimented Cookie’s mutton mawmenny and sweet butter pound cake and listened to Lydia Jane talk of her grandchildren’s every tumble and cough that day.
They excused themselves early to bed, where Rachel didn’t bother taking off her underskirts before getting in.
“I’ll be ready to go faster in the morning, and they’ll keep me warm.”
With flannel petticoats on, Rachel left scant space for Marilla. She didn’t argue. Wide awake anyhow, she took her candle to the chaise longue, along with paper and pen.
“Dear Aunt Izzy,” she wrote, then explained as prudently as possible the truth of the orphanage’s calling. “The Reverend Mother says they need more safe houses in the border cities. I understand it is asking you to shoulder a great responsibility with much personal hazard, but you’ve always been one to live beyond limitations. Might there be anything you can do in St. Catharines?”
Before the coach came in the morning, she gave Cookie the letter to mail. She didn’t want to risk losing it on the journey home.
A week later, Izzy sent her reply to Green Gables:
Dearest Marilla,
I’m glad to hear your visit to Hopetown was successful. I assume you are home to your father and brother by now. Please give them my love and a good head scratch to Skunk too. I miss you all most earnestly.
As to the pertinent subject of your letter. I have heard much about the absconding slaves. The newspapers in St. Catharines report of Africans coming north and narrowly escaping their American captors. I’ve just recently read an article by Mr. Jermain Loguen, an African abolitionist who has given a number of rousing speeches at Bethel Chapel here. He is quite respected in the community. Mr. Loguen has spoken mostly of the enslaved men and women. I’m ashamed to admit that I hadn’t stopped to take into account the many children!
You are right. We cannot sit idly by in comfort while others suffer unjustly. I have thought of little else since your letter arrived.
It is a controversial mission to enter given the conflicting laws of our nations, but as you wrote, I have never been one to conform for fear of the unknown. If anyone arrived at my doorstep seeking refuge, I would not turn them out. The same offer I made you, I give to all: welcome and shelter. I’m sure I could make a safe place in the attic of my dress shop. I am at the Reverend Mother’s disposal and yours, foremost, darling girl.
Lovingly,
Aunt Izzy
Marilla kissed the letter and immediately sent word to the Reverend Mother.
Ask and ye shall receive. A miracle of multiplicity.
XXV.
Apologetic Unforgiveness
Marilla was thankful that she’d written the Reverend Mother when she had. At the beginning of March, word of Lord Durham’s published Report on the Affairs of British North America reached Canada, and it seemed a wrench had been thrown in the nation’s gears. The post office closed for three weeks following. The Blairs took no customers. The town hall remained dark. It was rumored that Councilor Cromie bolted the front doors of his house with Mrs. Cromie and the entire staff locked within. Even old Mr. Fletcher and his chestnut grate were absent from the heart of Avonlea. It felt like a national apocalypse.
The only wheel that continued to turn faster and faster was the almighty printing press. Newspapers bubbled like boiling stewpots, reporting from Charlottetown, Hopetown, Montreal, Quebec City, and even London. Instead of morning bread, men and women lined the main street ravenous for the breaking news.
Lord Durham had collected all of the township proclamations from across the Canadian provinces and compiled them into his royal report, wherein he declared that the only way to quell future rebellions was to unify the British colonies in Upper and Lower Canada, Prince Edward Island being a British colony of the Lower. Lord Durham argued that this integration would produce a more harmonious union. Peace was contingent on the removal of racial divides. The people needed to feel they were one, no matter their language, religion, creed, or color. Proclaiming one Canadian nation, blessed by the Crown, would allow equal representation in Parliament, consolidation of debt, and uniform application of the law across the land.
“The United Province of Canada Sanctioned by the Queen,” the headlines declared. Avonlea took time to digest the news. People were tired of peeping out their windows waiting for
bedlam to arrive. “The end times are upon us!” Reverend Patterson had been preaching for years anyhow. So the post office reopened; Councilor Cromie unlocked his doors; and Mr. Fletcher returned to roasting nuts.
In Marilla’s mind, it was a draw. The liberals had lobbied for reform. So here it was, conservatively applied. But it seemed that not everyone shared her perspective. The Agora had grown even more popular among the younger set. Matthew did not attend, but that didn’t stop John from bringing him daily news of the deliberations.
The only good part of the early winter was the begetting of an early spring. It was the first warm March day. Marilla went round the house opening all the windows to let in the sweet breeze. The boughs of the lilac trees were freckled green, their tips whispering the lightest shade of purple. A couple of house sparrows had made a nest in one of the branch forks. Marilla watched them for signs of life spinning, as the Reverend Mother had said.
Now that the post was running again, a letter came from Hopetown. The Reverend Mother had been in touch with Izzy, who was already entertaining “houseguests.” It made Marilla’s heart quicken. For the first time, she considered taking Izzy up on her offer to visit. She could help care for the visitors and be part of the greater mission. But with only the one spare attic room, her presence would be at the cost of another. So Marilla put the letter away in her bureau drawer, gleaning private joy in simply knowing the work was under way.
Hugh had left for Carmody at dawn. After the long blackout of commerce, livestock and seed were being traded again, and most of the farmers had gone off to fill their empty storehouses for the sowing. Before supper, Matthew came up the yard from the barn in earnest conversation with John.
“That’s the problem, Matthew,” he said. “Too many like you are afraid to speak for fear of unsettling tradition. But it’s plain as day that we are in modern times and the old conservative ways can’t uphold a new nation.”
They reached the back porch, and through the open kitchen window Marilla heard the scrape of Matthew’s matches, the puff of his pipe. A disagreeable habit he’d taken to more and more after the supper hamper auction. They hadn’t spoken of Johanna Andrews in months, and Matthew made a point of leaving directly after each Sunday service.
“God don’t require me to rattle off at the mouth to be Christian,” he’d said.
Marilla agreed.
She thought about closing the window to keep out the smoke, but then they’d know she was there, and she hadn’t time to visit today. She still had to finish dipping her beeswax candles, fill up the kitchen water cistern from the well, and turn the pan of skim milk into the pig’s bucket before getting supper on the table. So she quietly went about her business while conversation and tobacco wafted through the window.
“I don’t disagree with you, John,” said Matthew. “I see that we need reform.”
“Then you are a Reformer!”
“It’s not as black and white as that.” Matthew sucked the stem of his pipe. “I have ties. Going all the way back to Scotland. Everyone in my family has been Presbyterian. You can’t turn your back on where you come from. So while I may agree with the Reformers’ convictions, I must side with the Tories by religion. They are God’s ordained governance, and as Reverend Patterson preaches, we must be faithful to the Crown.”
“I must’ve missed that sermon. Where does the scripture say that the British Crown is God’s holy appointed? Couldn’t our French neighbors argue the same for King Louis Philippe? And the Americans for their President Van Buren? And the Dutch and Belgians and . . . tell me, who has God’s paramount favor? The world is too large and too diverse for us to stay rooted in social convention when it no longer strengthens the people for whom it was created.”
“Again, I can’t deny your claims.”
“Then why continue to back a political agenda that would see its citizens blind and dumb to the necessary changes for the greater good? The only solution is democracy, but we must have every man’s vote to make it happen.”
Matthew sighed, and it bothered Marilla to hear his frustration. “Change is happening. The Tories are for unification, and Lord Durham supports the responsible government.”
“After we nearly beat him over the head with it—and that’s the point, Matthew. Had we not rallied together with grit and clarity, we would have no foothold in demanding equality across the social classes. It’s men like you who are holding us back. Men like you who we need to pick a side—hot or cold, but not lukewarm!”
Marilla had heard enough. It infuriated her how John backed Matthew into a proverbial corner. Her brother was far too meek and good-natured to fight back. She wouldn’t listen to him being boxed about, especially not at Green Gables. Matthew had endured enough humiliation at the cold shoulder of Johanna Andrews. Marilla could do nothing to defend him then, but now she could.
“You’re so full of yourself, John Blythe!” she seethed through the window before coming out to the porch. “Why won’t you just let a thing be? I’ve seen exactly what this kind of talk does—makes men barbaric and bloodthirsty! I saw it in Hopetown. Innocent people—children—are being hunted and strung up while you’re busy doing what—talking? Debating war as a sport in your Agora. Making trouble for those who might be taking action, even if it isn’t the liberal action you deem adequate. Who are you to judge? Anarchy is never the solution. All I see from the liberal Reformers is rebellion and death.”
John’s eyes were wide with surprise and concern. “Marilla—”
She held up a stern finger for him to remain silent.
“What is most vexing to me is why it matters so very much to you if we are conservative. We don’t impose our political beliefs on you, so why must you change us?”
Fuming and perspiring, she heard the pot of tomato stew gurgling over. “And now you’re ruining my supper too!” She went back in, slamming the kitchen door behind her.
John followed her, with Matthew behind.
“Marilla, please calm down. No need to be in such a temper,” said John.
She pulled the pot off the stove and nearly threw it at him. How dare he come in here and tell her how to behave!
“You think you can enter a person’s home and take over? Matthew is a conservative, just like my father and mother, just like me. We don’t want to change. And if you don’t like it, you can go on and never come back.”
“Marilla . . .” Now it was Matthew who looked ill. “You don’t mean that.”
She raised her chin high. “On mother’s soul, I do.”
She scarcely believed she’d said it until the words hit their target.
John’s face went scarlet. The pockmark at his temple purpled. Silently, he nodded to Matthew, turned, and left.
Marilla’s head began to pound. Her vision tunneled. Red.
* * *
She spent the next day in bed, the headache amplifying every color too bright, every sound too loud, every movement a stab. When it abated on the second morning, she got up and found that Rachel had come by to bring the Sunday school quarterly. Since their Hopetown visit, she’d rededicated her life to the righteous cause of salvation and liberal reform. She claimed the church was the first step in that liberation. She’d seen doomsday with her own eyes and was determined not to be led to the gallows in the Last Judgment. They’d never spoken of the hangings. Marilla hadn’t forgotten, but the more time passed the fainter the memory grew, the less it pained her. Some things were best that way.
Matthew was in the kitchen helping himself to a breakfast plate of cold ham and cheese.
“Father back from Carmody?” she asked, tying on her apron.
Matthew nodded. “Already went out to the fields with the new seed.”
“You headed that way too?”
“Hoped I’d talk to you alone first.” He pushed his plate back and wiped his lips hidden beneath the beard he’d begun wearing.
“Talk—whatever about?” Her headaches acted much like a wet sponge across a schoo
l slate, erasing even the faintest reminder of the equations of yesterday.
He cleared his throat. “About the other day with John Blythe.”
“I don’t see what there is to talk about.”
“Then I suppose it’s up to me to do the talking.”
Matthew talk? It made her nervous to think about, let alone to listen to.
“You’ve grown up fast since we lost Mother. You’ve got strong opinions and a newfound tongue to voice them. I’m real proud of you, Marilla. But I wouldn’t be able to hold my head up as a man and your older brother if I didn’t tell you how I’m feeling. It’s time for me to speak my mind. You were wrong to say what you did to John Blythe. I was ashamed of you.”
It stung her afresh, and the quiet twitching at her temples commenced. She steadied herself against the sink.
“I was standing up for you and our family.”
“I don’t need anyone to speak for me. I have a voice just as much as you do. It’s a choice we make every minute. What truths are important enough to say aloud and what ones are important just to know. That’s the power. You’ve got to be discerning. You can change your mind anytime you want, but you can’t take words back. Not ever.”
Marilla bit her bottom lip and turned away so he wouldn’t see her eyes brimming. She believed what she’d said to John, but hadn’t stopped to ponder if she should say it, and how. Her pride had been the thing to lash out and yet, somehow, it was wounded now.
Matthew stood and put on his hat. “You should be telling John Blythe that you love him. That’s what ought to be said.”
She turned quickly to repudiate that, but he was out the back door without a good-bye, leaving her regretful. She’d meant to speak boldly not cruelly. Up until that moment, she hadn’t realized how similar the two could be.
A week went by, then two, and three. The cherry blossoms and narcissus burst into pomps of pink, yellow, and white, but Marilla hardly noticed. She hadn’t heard from John in all that time, and so he consumed her every thought. This was more than a cold shoulder. She’d argued with him in front of her brother. She’d sworn on her mother’s soul. She’d spoken immutable words.