Previously in Bride of Adventure: Johnny ran away to sea after he nearly killed his little brother, Jacob. Matthew & Anne with Goliath went to rescue him and miraculously (grins) manage to catch up with him. John is out on the prairies recovering from TB with Gilbert, leaving Marilla home alone caring for the farm and what's left of her family.


One of Marilla's first memories was the freedom of drawing. Left alone momentarily one morning she picked up a stray ember that had fallen out of the previous night's fire and scratched out a line on the hearthstone. It felt so satisfying in her hand and the resultant mark upon the stone pleased her mightily. They had no pencils or crayons in the house; they were too expensive, so this was the first time Marilla was able to draw. Settling down crossed legged on the hearthstone she made another mark next to the first but swirling it this time. Her charcoal crumbled against her fingers, and she found another to replace it. Next, she drew a squiggle enjoying the gritty sensation of the charcoal as it dragged across the stone, and the soft scratching sound it made.

A feeling of deep contentment overcame her, but it did not occur to her to draw anything at first. She was just pleased to see the marks that she made. So engrossed was she that she did not notice the way it made her fingers black or the dust that got into her hair and cheeks or onto her pinafore and stockings.

Having told Marilla to behave her mother, Constance, had popped out for a moment to fetch some more water from the well. She paused for a moment relishing the spring sun on her face, such a relief after the long winter. Absentmindedly she noticed the tightness around her rotund belly and realised she'd need to change dresses soon as this one would soon be too small. "Your father teases me," she whispered to the baby within. "Says I'm getting fat." She could feel the way her centre of gravity was shifting, and she pumped the handle one last time. No longer able to lug whole bucket she called for young Michael to lend her a hand. He appeared from the side of the barn, a sturdy eight-year-old he was already strong for his age.

All seemed well this bright sunny morning. Constance congratulated herself on her two, healthy children with another on the way, but a surprise waited within. The sight of Marilla on the floor drawing shocked Constance but it was not the smeared charcoal on her face or markings on the floor that drew a gasp from her mouth, rather it was that Marilla held the stick so easily in her left hand.

There had been a left-handed child in the congregation when Constance was growing up, it was common knowledge where the fault lay. The left-handed were led astray by Satan and now Constance fancied she could see evidence of his work in her kitchen. She rushed forward spilling the water in her haste and plucked the charcoal out of Marilla's hand. "You mustn't," she told her astonished daughter. "You must never use that hand for writing, Marilla sweetheart." Marilla burst into tears also when her delightful interlude was so violently cut short, and she watched from her mother's arms as her good work was rubbed out by her mother's shoe.

Constance dug into the housekeeping and sent away for some chalk. When the box arrived, she pressed a stick into Marilla's right hand explaining this was so much better. Without thinking Marilla swapped hands enjoying the way the dusty, smooth chalk fit against her fingers. This joy was cut abruptly short when her mother pressed the chalk into the right hand. How to explain to her how very wrong it felt?

School was no better. Marilla had got used to hiding her workings by then, but the teacher had other ideas. Strapping her left hand to the side of the chair cut off that ruse and Marilla was forced to laboriously write out her lessons with her alien right hand. Her script was never as neat as her friends, and she received many beatings for messy work as the teacher paraded her poor work in front of the class to make an example of her. Writing with her right hand felt wrong and though she grew accustomed to it so that eventually even writing with her left felt odd too, she never again experienced that smooth freedom that the charcoal made across the stone. In some deep recess of her soul she felt perpetually unhinged.

And this feeling returned to her in some part when she watched Matthew leave. Like her left hand he had been a familiar foundation. Even when she had departed for foreign parts the knowledge that he had stayed at home grounded her. She expressed it when she sewed it into the sampler she gifted him, they circle makes my firmness just. * John had left and now Matthew the two bedrocks of her life; leaving her bereft, unsteady, unbalanced with no one to catch her if she fell. Strengthening her resolve she thought if I can't rely on the men, I'll just have to do it myself.

John had written as he always did, she could rely on his letters if not much else. …I long to run my lips along your collar bones… Marilla threw the letter aside. Much as she missed him it was his strength she needed right now not letters of lovemaking. After a pause she took the page up again, she supposed as she skimmed the words once more it was true to say she missed that as well. It had been a long time and would be a while yet 'til their next kiss, and more besides. She patted her burgeoning stomach and prayed that she could cope.


Out there on the endless prairie writing those words John felt more useless than ever. He longed to see Marilla. He often reflected on how it must have been for her to watch him sail away back when they were newly-weds. He had regretted it, but he'd been busy learning the sailing trade and having adventures. Guiltily he realised now what she had sacrificed. She'd left all that she knew to sit in a substandard home with a baby while he went to sea. It was only now, as he coughed and wheezed this small dwelling with only Gilbert for company that he gained an inkling of what she had gone through.

He felt awful too for his son. Gilbert had been on the brink of manhood with all that entailed and John knew he was missing Anne. He'd informed Gilbert that Anne and Matthew had been dispatched to fetch Johnny home and the look in the boy's eyes said it all. A longing to be out there with them as well as fear that they, and most particularly Anne, might not make it back.


"You a bit happier now, son?" Matthew asked Johnny as their ship sailed northwards. It had not been easy, but their original ship's master was persuaded to drop them off at the nearest port and after a few weeks hanging around the agent's office they managed to find a berth home. "Y'can've this cabin," the Mate had suggested. "Last occupant died of the fever, but I got the boys to clean it, so should be alright now." They peered in unsure. "Your alternative is a bunk in steerage."

"We'll take it," Anne said definitively remembering the fetid air below deck. It was small and cramped, not really suitable for all three of them, but it was better than the alternative.

Johnny was torn between being thankful they had rescued him and guilty that they'd needed to. It came out in waspishness, and he escaped their company as often as possible, running down the deck with the other boys laughing and rough housing, though he despised himself for doing it.

One morning he nearly tripped over a small boy sitting by a pile of rope. He nearly ran on chasing one of the other boys, but his compassion forced him to turn back. The boy was tiny, smaller even than he, more Jacob's size and his fingers were cracked and obviously bleeding. Johnny was pushed to one side by a sailor with a peg leg who gathered up the work the boy had completed and dumped another load to replace it, snarling, "get on if ya want food tonight, you're too slow." Once the man had left Johnny crouched down next to the boy. "Hard work?" he commented.

His tangled black hair getting in the way the boy was silently bent over his work, too afraid to speak to his betters for fear he'd lose what little dinner was owed him. Johnny reached out and picked up a hank of rope and settled down for a spell. His fingers had only just recovered from his past toil and if the younger boy had the time or inclination to notice he could have seen the scars for what they were, but of course he was too mired in his own misery. He barely acknowledged Johnny. Sometimes the boy passengers made fun of him or sat down for five minutes promising to help but they rarely stayed long, and their technique was terrible leaving the boy, Hugh in a worse position than when they started.

Hugh did notice that this boy knew what he was doing though, and he seemed to be faster at it than himself which was a nice surprise. Still, he was shocked why would this boy be helping him? "Can't share my beef," he muttered pulling the rope out of Johnny's hand.

"No, no, that's not what I mean," Johnny replied. "I don't need your dinner. It's just I was in your position not so long ago and I know," he dropped his rope and showed the boy his scarred hands. "I know how much it hurts. It's never ending, and everyone hates you, don't they?"

Hugh shrunk when he heard the familiar tapping of the peg leg approaching, "got a friend there, boy?" the sailor walked by. "You know how it works he can't help ya." He turned to Johnny, "what you doing, boy? Hugh here's got enough on his plate. He ain't got time to be your friend." Johnny was reminded of the deaf punka wallah, that little boy had no time to play either, forced to pull the ropes to keep the white man cool in far off Singapore. He shuddered. "I'll be back tomorrow, promise."

Ignoring the other boys running down the deck he made his way over to where Matthew was shading himself from the hot sun. "Johnny?" said his uncle. "Sit down lad." Matthew looked at his surly nephew unsure of his reaction. Johnny sat down contemplating his change of fortune. When he ran with the gang, he could almost forget his past transgressions and the way he'd been treated on the other ship but seeing the little boy with his pile of rope brought it all back. Silently he leant into his uncle's side and felt safe when the man put his arm around his shoulders. A stray tear tracked down his cheek. They had told him he had been lucky and although he appreciated it at the time it hadn't really sunk in.

"Uncle Matthew," he whispered so that Matthew had to strain to hear him. "I'm sorry."

"There, there, everything' going to be all right now," Matthew said consolingly unaware of what might have changed the lad's demeanour but glad of it all the same.

"I doubt it, Mama must be so cross with me. I deserve it too," Johnny said. "The thought of his mother's look was almost bad enough to make him throw in his lot with the little boy. Almost but maybe not quite.

"No, no, you've got me. I won't let anything happen to you. It'll be fine. You can move on you know. We all make mistakes. God knows that. If you repent and change your ways redemption is possible."

"Hm, I dunno," Johnny said. "Uncle Matthew," he added changing the subject. "I met a boy today."

"Oh," replied Matthew looking up at a gang rushing past. He'd seen many of the boys on board. They seemed like a rowdy lot.

"Not them," Johnny said. "A boy like me."

One who'd tried to murder his little brother? Matthew thought but he drove that uncharitable thought down asking instead, "oh?"

"He's real little, and he's gotta pick oakum all day, like I did. His hands are all bloody, they look real sore Uncle Matthew."

"Some children have a tough start," Matthew replied. "Have you seen Anne around?"

Anne was looking for Goliath. Since they'd been on board, he'd been slipping his leash as often as he could. Not that Anne blamed him as such, but she'd been warned when they arrived that he would need to be kept close.

Goliath enjoyed being on a ship again. In the back of his small monkey brain, he could remember past conquests and there was a surprise on board this latest vessel. Another monkey, her scent entered his dreams. She was small and svelte, and she chittered and chattered at him in exasperation. Goliath fought to get free and did on occasion seeking out this monkey of his dreams. Together they chased and climbed and swung around the upper most spars and ropes. Goliath felt the joy of life course through him as he swung after her, hand over foot over tail and it was only with utmost reluctance that he returned to Anne's arms after a glorious play.

Johnny often spent an hour or two a day with Hugh helping him with his pile and slipping him part of his dinner. Hugh accepted it gratefully for his rations were limited. He eagerly anticipated the time he spent with Johnny though he still didn't quite understand why the boy was so generous. He'd asked but Johnny never went into much detail about his situation. All that Hugh knew was that Johnny had fled home and was lucky enough to be found. Such a fate would never be Hugh's lot. His destitute mother had sold him to the captain, dropping him at the wharf without a backward glance.

As they approached Canada Johnny grew increasingly concerned for Hugh's fate. They had become close during the time they spent together. Hugh was slipping he felt sure, and he worried how he would cope when they left. "He's got no one, Uncle Matthew," he said over dinner one night. "Wish we could rescue him." Matthew chewed his meat thoughtfully but said nothing.

Just before they disembarked at Charlottetown Johnny made one final plea, "please Uncle Matthew, why can't we bring Hugh home with us? He's just small he won't eat too much food. He's my friend, I can't leave him here, please."

"No. We're not a charity house. Your mother's having enough of a struggle without your father around as it is. The last thing she needs is another child to rear. Now you've asked for days, that's my final answer."

Johnny ceased talking for his usually mild uncle had a note in his voice reminiscent of his sister's. Johnny knew it only too well; it was the tone that brooked no argument. Casting his gaze back he waved at Hugh forlornly feeling terrible that his life would return to normal and that while his welcome home would have its challenges, he did have a family to return to. Hugh though? He had a lifetime of oakum picking and perhaps an early, lonely death at sea.

Matthew saw the young waif wave back. And no, he couldn't do it. Regardless of Marilla's expected response he knew that pinched little face would haunt him 'til the end of his days. Turning swiftly, he strode back to negotiate the boy's release with the Mate.


A/N Marilla's memory came to me after learning that Geraldine James is left-handed. The directors confuse us because sometimes she is shown writing with her right hand and sometimes with her left. It occurred to me that Marilla would never have been allowed to write with her left hand and then it was a matter of tying it into the story.