"Windy Poplars,
"
Spook's Lane,
"
May 30th.
"DEAREST-AND-THEN-MORE-DEAR:
"It's spring!
"Perhaps you, up to your eyes in a welter of exams in Kingsport,
don't know it. But I am aware of it from the crown of my head to
the tips of my toes. Summerside is aware of it. Even the most
unlovely streets are transfigured by arms of bloom reaching over
old board fences and a ribbon of dandelions in the grass that
borders the sidewalks. Even the china lady on my shelf is aware of
it and I know if I could only wake up suddenly enough some night
I'd catch her dancing a pas seul in her pink, gilt-heeled shoes.
"Everything is calling 'spring' to me . . . the little laughing
brooks, the blue hazes on the Storm King, the maples in the grove
when I go to read your letters, the white cherry trees along
Spook's Lane, the sleek and saucy robins hopping defiance to Dusty
Miller in the back yard, the creeper hanging greenly down over the
half-door to which little Elizabeth comes for milk, the fir trees
preening in new tassel tips around the old graveyard . . . even the
old graveyard itself, where all sorts of flowers planted at the
heads of the graves are budding into leaf and bloom, as if to say,
'Even here life is triumphant over death.' I had a really lovely
prowl about the graveyard the other night. (I'm sure Rebecca Dew
thinks my taste in walks frightfully morbid. 'I can't think why
you have such a hankering after that unchancy place,' she says.) I
roamed over it in the scented green cat's light and wondered if
Nathan Pringle's wife really had tried to poison him. Her grave
looked so innocent with its new grass and its June lilies that I
concluded she had been entirely maligned.
"Just another month and I'll be home for vacation! I keep thinking
of the old orchard at Green Gables with its trees now in full snow
. . . the old bridge over the Lake of Shining Waters . . . the
murmur of the sea in your ears . . . a summer afternoon in Lover's
Lane . . . and you!
"I have just the right kind of pen tonight, Gilbert, and so . . .
(Two pages omitted.)
"I was around at the Gibsons' this evening for a call. Marilla
asked me some time ago to look them up because she once knew them
when they lived in White Sands. Accordingly I looked them up and
have been looking them up weekly ever since because Pauline seems
to enjoy my visits and I'm so sorry for her. She is simply a slave
to her mother . . . who is a terrible old woman.
"Mrs. Adoniram Gibson is eighty and spends her days in a wheel-
chair. They moved to Summerside fifteen years ago. Pauline, who
is forty-five, is the youngest of the family, all her brothers and
sisters being married and all of them determined not to have Mrs.
Adoniram in their homes. She keeps the house and waits on her
mother hand and foot. She is a little pale, fawn-eyed thing with
golden-brown hair that is still glossy and pretty. They are quite
comfortably off and if it were not for her mother Pauline could
have a very pleasant easy life. She just loves church work and
would be perfectly happy attending Ladies' Aids and Missionary
Societies, planning for church suppers and Welcome socials, not to
speak of exulting proudly in being the possessor of the finest
wandering-jew in town. But she can hardly ever get away from the
house, even to go to church on Sundays. I can't see any way of
escape for her, for old Mrs. Gibson will probably live to be a
hundred. And, while she may not have the use of her legs, there is
certainly nothing the matter with her tongue. It always fills me
with helpless rage to sit there and hear her making poor Pauline
the target for her sarcasm. And yet Pauline has told me that her
mother 'thinks quite highly' of me and is much nicer to her when I
am around. If this be so I shiver to think what she must be when I
am not around.
"Pauline dares not do anything without asking her mother. She
can't even buy her own clothes . . . not so much as a pair of
stockings. Everything has to be sent up for Mrs. Gibson's
approval; everything has to be worn until it has been turned twice.
Pauline has worn the same hat for four years.
"Mrs. Gibson can't bear any noise in the house or a breath of fresh
air. It is said she never smiled in her life. . . . I've never
caught her at it, anyway, and when I look at her I find myself
wondering what would happen to her face if she did smile. Pauline
can't even have a room to herself. She has to sleep in the same
room with her mother and be up almost every hour of the night
rubbing Mrs. Gibson's back or giving her a pill or getting a hot-
water bottle for her . . . hot, not lukewarm! . . . or changing her
pillows or seeing what that mysterious noise is in the back yard.
Mrs. Gibson does her sleeping in the afternoons and spends her
nights devising tasks for Pauline.
"Yet nothing has ever made Pauline bitter. She is sweet and
unselfish and patient and I am glad she has a dog to love. The
only thing she has ever had her own way about is keeping that dog
. . . and then only because there was a burglary somewhere in town
and Mrs. Gibson thought it would be a protection. Pauline never
dares to let her mother see how much she loves the dog. Mrs.
Gibson hates him and complains of his bringing bones in but she
never actually says he must go, for her own selfish reason.
"But at last I have a chance to give Pauline something and I'm
going to do it. I'm going to give her a day, though it will mean
giving up my next week-end at Green Gables.
"Tonight when I went in I could see that Pauline had been crying.
Mrs. Gibson did not long leave me in doubt why.
"'Pauline wants to go and leave me, Miss Shirley,' she said.
'Nice, grateful daughter I've got, haven't I?'
"'Only for a day, Ma,' said Pauline, swallowing a sob and trying to
smile.
"'Only for a day,' says she! 'Well, you know what my days are
like, Miss Shirley . . . every one knows what my days are like.
But you don't know . . . yet . . . Miss Shirley, and I hope you
never will, how long a day can be when you are suffering.'
"I knew Mrs. Gibson didn't suffer at all now, so I didn't try to be
sympathetic.
"'I'd get some one to stay with you, of course, Ma,' said Pauline.
'You see,' she explained to me, 'my cousin Louisa is going to
celebrate her silver wedding at White Sands next Saturday week and
she wants me to go. I was her bridesmaid when she was married to
Maurice Hilton. I would like to go so much if Ma would give her
consent.'
"'If I must die alone I must,' said Mrs. Gibson. 'I leave it to
your conscience, Pauline.'
"I knew Pauline's battle was lost the moment Mrs. Gibson left it to
her conscience. Mrs. Gibson has got her way all her life by
leaving things to people's consciences. I've heard that years ago
somebody wanted to marry Pauline and Mrs. Gibson prevented it by
leaving it to her conscience.
"Pauline wiped her eyes, summoned up a piteous smile and picked up
a dress she was making over . . . a hideous green and black plaid.
"'Now don't sulk, Pauline,' said Mrs. Gibson. 'I can't abide
people who sulk. And mind you put a collar on that dress. Would
you believe it, Miss Shirley, she actually wanted to make the dress
without a collar? She'd wear a low-necked dress, that one, if I'd
let her.'
"I looked at poor Pauline with her slender little throat . . .
which is rather plump and pretty yet . . . enclosed in a high,
stiff-boned net collar.
"'Collarless dresses are coming in,' I said.
"'Collarless dresses,' said Mrs. Gibson, 'are indecent.'
"(Item:--I was wearing a collarless dress.)
"'Moreover,' went on Mrs. Gibson, as if it were all of a piece. 'I
never liked Maurice Hilton. His mother was a Crockett. He never
had any sense of decorum . . . always kissing his wife in the most
unsuitable places!'
"(Are you sure you kiss me in suitable places, Gilbert? I'm afraid
Mrs. Gibson would think the nape of the neck, for instance, most
unsuitable.)
"'But, Ma, you know that was the day she nearly escaped being
trampled by Harvey Wither's horse running amuck on the church
green. It was only natural Maurice should feel a little excited.'
"'Pauline, please don't contradict me. I still think the church
steps were an unsuitable place for any one to be kissed. But of
course my opinions don't matter to any one any longer. Of
course
every one wishes I was dead. Well, there'll be room for me in the
grave. I know what a burden I am to you. I might as well die.
Nobody wants me.'
"'Don't say that, Ma,' begged Pauline.
"'I will say it. Here you are, determined to go to that silver
wedding although you know I'm not willing.'
"'Ma dear. I'm not going . . . I'd never think of going if you
weren't willing. Don't excite yourself so. . . .'
"'Oh, I can't even have a little excitement, can't I, to brighten
my dull life? Surely you're not going so soon, Miss Shirley?'
"I felt that if I stayed any longer I'd either go crazy or slap
Mrs. Gibson's nut-cracker face. So I said I had exam papers to
correct.
"'Ah well, I suppose two old women like us are very poor company
for a young girl,' sighed Mrs. Gibson. 'Pauline isn't very
cheerful . . . are you, Pauline? Not very cheerful. I don't
wonder Miss Shirley doesn't want to stay long.'
"Pauline came out to the porch with me. The moon was shining
down on her little garden and sparkling on the harbor. A soft,
delightful wind was talking to a white apple tree. It was spring
. . . spring . . . spring! Even Mrs. Gibson can't stop plum trees
from blooming. And Pauline's soft gray-blue eyes were full of
tears.
"'I would like to go to Louie's wedding so much,' she said,
with a
long sigh of despairing resignation.
"'You are going,' I said.
"'Oh, no, dear, I can't go. Poor Ma will never consent. I'll just
put it out of my mind. Isn't the moon beautiful tonight?' she
added, in a loud, cheerful tone.
"'I've never heard of any good that came from moon gazing,' called
out Mrs. Gibson from the sitting-room. 'Stop chirruping there,
Pauline, and come in and get my red bedroom slippers with the fur
round the tops for me. These shoes pinch my feet something
terrible. But nobody cares how I suffer.'
"I felt that I didn't care how much she suffered. Poor darling
Pauline! But a day off is certainly coming to Pauline and she is
going to have her silver wedding. I, Anne Shirley, have spoken it.
"I told Rebecca Dew and the widows all about it when I came home
and we had such fun, thinking up all the lovely, insulting things I
might have said to Mrs. Gibson. Aunt Kate does not think I will
succeed in getting Mrs. Gibson to let Pauline go but Rebecca Dew
has faith in me. 'Anyhow, if you can't, nobody can,' she said.
"I was at supper recently with Mrs. Tom Pringle who wouldn't take
me to board. (Rebecca says I am the best paying boarder she ever
heard of because I am invited out to supper so often.) I'm very
glad she didn't. She's nice and purry and her pies praise her in
the gates, but her home isn't Windy Poplars and she doesn't live in
Spook's Lane and she isn't Aunt Kate and Aunt Chatty and Rebecca
Dew. I love them all three and I'm going to board here next year
and the year after. My chair is always called 'Miss Shirley's
chair' and Aunt Chatty tells me that when I'm not here Rebecca Dew
sets my place at the table just the same, so it won't seem so
lonesome.' Sometimes Aunt Chatty's feelings have complicated
matters a bit but she says she understands me now and knows I would
never hurt her intentionally.
"Little Elizabeth and I go out for a walk twice a week now. Mrs.
Campbell has agreed to that, but it must not be oftener and never
on Sundays. Things are better for little Elizabeth in spring.
Some sunshine gets into even that grim old house and outwardly it
is even beautiful because of the dancing shadows of tree tops.
Still, Elizabeth likes to escape from it whenever she can. Once in
a while we go up-town so that Elizabeth can see the lighted shop
windows. But mostly we go as far as we dare down the Road that
Leads to the End of the World, rounding every corner adventurously
and expectantly, as if we were going to find Tomorrow behind it,
while all the little green evening hills neatly nestle together in
the distance. One of the things Elizabeth is going to do in
Tomorrow is 'go to Philadelphia and see the angel in the church.'
I haven't told her . . . I never will tell her . . . that the
Philadelphia St. John was writing about was not Phila., Pa. We
lose our illusions soon enough. And anyhow, if we could get into
Tomorrow, who knows what we might find there? Angels everywhere,
perhaps.
"Sometimes we watch the ships coming up the harbor before a fair
wind, over a glistening pathway, through the transparent spring
air, and Elizabeth wonders if her father may be on board one of
them. She clings to the hope that he may come some day. I can't
imagine why he doesn't. I'm sure he would if he knew what a
darling little daughter he has here longing for him. I suppose he
never realizes she is quite a girl now . . . . I suppose he still
thinks of her as the little baby who cost his wife her life.
"I'll soon have finished my first year in Summerside High. The
first term was a nightmare, but the last two have been very
pleasant. The Pringles are delightful people. How could I ever
have compared them to the Pyes? Sid Pringle brought me a bunch of
trilliums today. Jen is going to lead her class and Miss Ellen is
reported to have said that I am the only teacher who ever really
understood the child! The only fly in my ointment is Katherine
Brooke, who continues unfriendly and distant. I'm going to give up
trying to be friends with her. After all, as Rebecca Dew says,
there are limits.
"Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you. . . . Sally Nelson has asked me
to be one of her bridesmaids. She is going to be married the last
of June at Bonnyview, Dr. Nelson's summer home down at the jumping-
off place. She is marrying Gordon Hill. Then Nora Nelson will be
the only one of Dr. Nelson's six girls left unmarried. Jim Wilcox
has been going with her for years . . . 'off and on' as Rebecca Dew
says . . . but it never seems to come to anything and nobody thinks
it will now. I'm very fond of Sally, but I've never made much
headway getting acquainted with Nora. She's a good deal older than
I am, of course, and rather reserved and proud. Yet I'd like to be
friends with her. She isn't pretty or clever or charming but
somehow she's got a tang. I've a feeling she'd be worth while.
"Speaking of weddings, Esme Taylor was married to her Ph.D. last
month. As it was on Wednesday afternoon I couldn't go to the
church to see her, but every one says she looked very beautiful and
happy and Lennox looked as if he knew he had done the right thing
and had the approval of his conscience. Cyrus Taylor and I are
great friends. He often refers to the dinner which he has come to
consider a great joke on everybody. 'I've never dared sulk since,'
he told me. 'Momma might accuse me of sewing patchwork next time.'
And then he tells me to be sure and give his love to 'the widows.'
Gilbert, people are delicious and life is delicious and I am
"Forevermore
"YOURS!
"P.S. Our old red cow down at Mr. Hamilton's has a spotted calf.
We've been buying our milk for three months from Lew Hunt. Rebecca
says we'll have cream again now . . . and that she has always heard
the Hunt well was inexhaustible and now she believes it. Rebecca
didn't want that calf to be born at all. Aunt Kate had to get Mr.
Hamilton to tell her that the cow was really too old to have a calf
before she would consent."