It was really dreadful to be so different from other people . . .
and yet rather wonderful, too, as if you were a being strayed from
another star. Hazel would not have been one of the common herd for
anything . . . no matter what she suffered by reason of her
differentness.
"Everybody is different," said Anne amusedly.
"You are smiling." Hazel clasped a pair of very white, very dimpled
hands and gazed adoringly at Anne. She emphasized at least one
syllable in every word she uttered. "You have such a fascinating
smile . . . such a haunting smile. I knew the moment I first saw
you that you would understand everything. We are on the same plane.
Sometimes I think I must be psychic, Miss Shirley. I always know so
instinctively the moment I meet any one whether I'm going to like
them or not. I felt at once that you were sympathetic . . . that
you would understand. It's so sweet to be understood. Nobody
understands me, Miss Shirley . . . nobody. But when I saw you, some
inner voice whispered to me, 'She will understand . . . with her you
can be your real self.' Oh, Miss Shirley, let's be real .
. . let's
always be real. Oh, Miss Shirley, do you love me the leastest,
tiniest bit?"
"I think you're a dear," said Anne, laughing a little and ruffling
Hazel's golden curls with her slender fingers. It was quite easy
to be fond of Hazel.
Hazel had been pouring out her soul to Anne in the tower room, from
which they could see a young moon hanging over the harbor and the
twilight of a late May evening filling the crimson cups of the
tulips below the windows.
"Don't let's have any light yet," Hazel had begged, and Anne had
responded,
"No . . . it's lovely here when the dark is your friend, isn't it?
When you turn on the light, it makes the dark your enemy . . . and
it glowers in at you resentfully."
"I can think things like that but I can never express them so
beautifully," moaned Hazel in an anguish of rapture. "You talk in
the language of the violets, Miss Shirley."
Hazel couldn't have explained in the least what she meant by that,
but it didn't matter. It sounded so poetic.
The tower room was the only peaceful room in the house. Rebecca
Dew had said that morning, with a hunted look, "We must get the
parlor and spare-room papered before the Ladies' Aid meets here,"
and had forthwith removed all the furniture from both to make way
for a paper-hanger who then refused to come until the next day.
Windy Poplars was a wilderness of confusion, with one sole oasis in
the tower room.
Hazel Marr had a notorious "crush" on Anne. The Marrs were new-
comers in Summerside, having moved there from Charlottetown during
the winter. Hazel was an "October blonde," as she liked to
describe herself, with hair of golden bronze and brown eyes, and,
so Rebecca Dew declared, had never been much good in the world
since she found out she was pretty. But Hazel was popular,
especially among the boys, who found her eyes and curls a quite
irresistible combination.
Anne liked her. Earlier in the evening she had been tired and a
trifle pessimistic, with the fag that comes with late afternoon in
a schoolroom, but she felt rested now; whether as a result of the
May breeze, sweet with apple blossom, blowing in at the window,
or of Hazel's chatter, she could not have told. Perhaps both.
Somehow, to Anne, Hazel recalled her own early youth, with all its
raptures and ideals and romantic visions.
Hazel caught Anne's hand and pressed her lips to it reverently.
"I hate all the people you have loved before me, Miss Shirley.
I
hate all the other people you love now. I want to possess you
exclusively."
"Aren't you a bit unreasonable, honey? You love other people
besides me. How about Terry, for example?"
"Oh, Miss Shirley! It's that I want to talk to you about. I can't
endure it in silence any longer . . . I cannot. I must talk
to
some one about it . . . some one who understands. I went out the
night before last and walked round and round the pond all night
. . . well, nearly . . . till twelve, anyhow. I've suffered
everything . . . everything."
Hazel looked as tragic as a round, pink-and-white face, long-lashed
eyes and a halo of curls would let her.
"Why, Hazel dear, I thought you and Terry were so happy . . . that
everything was settled."
Anne could not be blamed for thinking so. During the preceding
three weeks, Hazel had raved to her about Terry Garland, for
Hazel's attitude was, what was the use of having a beau if you
couldn't talk to some one about him?
"Everybody thinks that," retorted Hazel with great bitterness.
"
Oh, Miss Shirley, life seems so full of perplexing problems. I
feel sometimes as if I wanted to lie down somewhere . . . anywhere
. . . and fold my hands and never think again."
"My dear girl, what has gone wrong?"
"Nothing . . . and everything. Oh, Miss Shirley, can I
tell you
all about it . . . can I pour out my whole soul to you?"
"Of course, dear."
"I have really no place to pour out my soul," said Hazel
pathetically. "Except in my journal, of course. Will you let me
show you my journal some day, Miss Shirley? It is a self-
revelation. And yet I cannot write out what burns in my soul. It
. . . it stifles me!" Hazel clutched dramatically at her throat.
"Of course I'd like to see it if you want me to. But what is this
trouble between you and Terry?"
"Oh, Terry!! Miss Shirley, will you believe me when I tell you
that Terry seems like a stranger to me? A stranger! Some one I'd
never seen before," added Hazel, so that there might be no mistake.
"But, Hazel . . . I thought you loved him . . . you said . . ."
"Oh, I know. I thought I loved him, too. But now I know it was
all a terrible mistake. Oh, Miss Shirley, you can't dream how
difficult my life is . . . how impossible."
"I know something about it," said Anne sympathetically, remembering
Roy Gardiner.
"Oh, Miss Shirley, I'm sure I don't love him enough to marry him.
I realize that now . . . now that it is too late. I was just
moonlighted into thinking I loved him. If it hadn't been for the
moon I'm sure I would have asked for time to think it over. But I
was swept off my feet . . . I can see that now. Oh, I'll run away
. . . I'll do something desperate!"
"But, Hazel dear, if you feel you've made a mistake, why not just
tell him . . ."
"Oh, Miss Shirley, I couldn't! It would kill him. He simply
adores me. There isn't any way out of it really. And Terry's
beginning to talk of getting married. Think of it . . . a child
like me . . . I'm only eighteen. All the friends I've told about
my engagement as a secret are congratulating me . . . and it's such
a farce. They think Terry is a great catch because he comes into
ten thousand dollars when he is twenty-five. His grandmother left
it to him. As if I cared about such a sordid thing as money! Oh,
Miss Shirley, why is it such a mercenary world . . . why?"
"I suppose it is mercenary in some respects, but not in all, Hazel.
And if you feel like this about Terry . . . we all make mistakes
. . . it's very hard to know our own minds sometimes. . . ."
"Oh, isn't it? I knew you'd understand. I did think
I cared for
him, Miss Shirley. The first time I saw him I just sat and gazed
at him the whole evening. Waves went over me when I met his eyes.
He was so handsome . . . though I thought even then that his hair
was too curly and his eyelashes too white. That should have
warned
me. But I always put my soul into everything, you know . . . I'm
so intense. I felt little shivers of ecstasy whenever he came near
me. And now I feel nothing . . . nothing! Oh, I've grown old
these past few weeks, Miss Shirley . . . old! I've hardly eaten
anything since I got engaged. Mother could tell you. I'm sure I
don't love him enough to marry him. Whatever else I may be in
doubt about, I know that."
"Then you shouldn't . . ."
"Even that moonlight night he proposed to me, I was thinking of
what dress I'd wear to Joan Pringle's fancy dress party. I thought
it would be lovely to go as Queen of the May in pale green, with a
sash of darker green and a cluster of pale pink roses in my hair.
And a May-pole decked with tiny roses and hung with pink and green
ribbons. Wouldn't it have been fetching? And then Joan's uncle
had to go and die and Joan couldn't have the party after all, so it
all went for nothing. But the point is . . . I really couldn't
have loved him when my thoughts were wandering like that, could I?"
"I don't know . . . our thoughts play us curious tricks some
times."
"I really don't think I ever want to get married at all, Miss
Shirley. Do you happen to have an orangewood stick handy? Thanks.
My half-moons are getting ragged. I might as well do them while
I'm talking. Isn't it just lovely to be exchanging confidences
like this? It's so seldom one gets the opportunity . . . the world
intrudes itself so. Well, what was I talking of . . . oh, yes,
Terry. What am I to do, Miss Shirley? I want your advice. Oh, I
feel like a trapped creature!"
"But, Hazel, it's so very simple . . ."
"Oh, it isn't simple at all, Miss Shirley! It's dreadfully
complicated. Mamma is so outrageously pleased, but Aunt Jean
isn't. She doesn't like Terry, and everybody says she has such
good judgment. I don't want to marry anybody. I'm ambitious . . .
I want a career. Sometimes I think I'd like to be a nun. Wouldn't
it be wonderful to be the bride of heaven? I think the Catholic
church is so picturesque, don't you? But of course I'm not a
Catholic . . . and anyway, I suppose you could hardly call it a
career. I've always felt I'd love to be a nurse. It's such a
romantic profession, don't you think? Smoothing fevered brows and
all that . . . and some handsome millionaire patient falling in
love with you and carrying you off to spend a honeymoon in a villa
on the Riviera, facing the morning sun and the blue Mediterranean.
I've seen myself in it. Foolish dreams, perhaps, but, oh, so
sweet. I can't give them up for the prosaic reality of marrying
Terry Garland and settling down in Summerside!"
Hazel shivered at the very idea and scrutinized a half-moon
critically.
"I suppose . . ." began Anne.
"We haven't anything in common, you know, Miss Shirley. He doesn't
care for poetry and romance, and they're my very life. Sometimes I
think I must be a reincarnation of Cleopatra . . . or would it be
Helen of Troy? . . . one of those languorous, seductive creatures,
anyhow. I have such wonderful thoughts and feelings . . . I don't
know where I get them if that isn't the explanation. And Terry is
so terribly matter-of-fact . . . he can't be a reincarnation of
anybody. What he said when I told him about Vera Fry's quill pen
proves that, doesn't it?"
"But I never heard of Vera Fry's quill pen," said Anne patiently.
"Oh, haven't you? I thought I'd told you. I've told you so much.
Vera's fiance gave her a quill pen he'd made out of a feather he'd
picked up that had fallen from a crow's wing. He said to her, 'Let
your spirit soar to heaven with it whenever you use it, like the
bird who once bore it.' Wasn't that just wonderful? But Terry
said the pen would wear out very soon, especially if Vera wrote as
much as she talked, and anyway he didn't think crows ever soared to
heaven. He just missed the meaning of the whole thing completely
. . . it's very essence."
"What was its meaning?"
"Oh . . . why . . . why . . . soaring, you know . . . getting
away
from the clods of earth. Did you notice Vera's ring? A sapphire.
I think sapphires are too dark for engagement rings. I'd rather
have your dear, romantic little hoop of pearls. Terry wanted to
give me my ring right away . . . but I said not yet a while . . .
it would seem like a fetter . . . so irrevocable, you know. I
wouldn't have felt like that if I'd really loved him, would I?"
"No, I'm afraid not . . ."
"It's been so wonderful to tell somebody what I really feel
like.
Oh, Miss Shirley, if I could only find myself free again . . . free
to seek the deeper meaning of life! Terry wouldn't understand what
I meant if I said that to him. And I know he has a temper . . .
all the Garlands have. Oh, Miss Shirley . . . if you would just
talk to him . . . tell him what I feel like . . . he thinks you're
wonderful . . . he'd be guided by what you say."
"Hazel, my dear little girl, how could I do that?"
"I don't see why not." Hazel finished the last new moon and laid
the orangewood stick down tragically. "If you can't, there isn't
any help anywhere. But I can never, Never, never marry Terry
Garland."
"If you don't love Terry, you ought to go to him and tell him so
. . . no matter how badly it will make him feel. Some day you'll
meet some one you can really love, Hazel dear . . . you won't have
any doubts then . . . you'll know."
"I shall never love anybody again," said Hazel, stonily
calm.
"
Love brings only sorrow. Young as I am I have learned that. This
would make a wonderful plot for one of your stories, wouldn't it,
Miss Shirley? I must be going . . . I'd no idea it was so late. I
feel so much better since I've confided in you . . . 'touched your
soul in shadowland,' as Shakespeare says."
"I think it was Pauline Johnson," said Anne gently.
"Well, I knew it was somebody . . . somebody who had lived.
I
think I shall sleep tonight, Miss Shirley. I've hardly slept since
I found myself engaged to Terry, without the least notion how it
had all come about."
Hazel fluffed out her hair and put on her hat, a hat with a rosy
lining to its brim and rosy blossoms around it. She looked so
distractingly pretty in it that Anne kissed her impulsively.
"
You're the prettiest thing, darling," she said admiringly.
Hazel stood very still.
Then she lifted her eyes and stared clear through the ceiling of
the tower room, clear through the attic above it, and sought the
stars.
"I shall never, never forget this wonderful moment,
Miss Shirley,"
she murmured rapturously. "I feel that my beauty . . . if I have
any . . . has been consecrated. Oh, Miss Shirley, you don't know
how really terrible it is to have a reputation for beauty and to be
always afraid that when people meet you they will not think you as
pretty as you were reported to be. It's torture. Sometimes I just
die of mortification because I fancy I can see they're disappointed.
Perhaps it's only my imagination . . . I'm so imaginative . . . too
much so for my own good, I fear. I imagined I was in love with
Terry, you see. Oh, Miss Shirley, can you smell the apple-blossom
fragrance?"
Having a nose, Anne could.
"Isn't it just divine? I hope heaven will be all flowers.
One
could be good if one lived in a lily, couldn't one?"
"I'm afraid it might be a little confining," said Anne perversely.
"Oh, Miss Shirley, don't . . . don't be sarcastic with your
little
adorer. Sarcasm just shrivels me up like a leaf."
"I see she hasn't talked you quite to death," said Rebecca Dew,
when Anne had come back after seeing Hazel to the end of Spook's
Lane. "I don't see how you put up with her."
"I like her, Rebecca, I really do. I was a dreadful little
chatterbox when I was a child. I wonder if I sounded as silly to
the people who had to listen to me as Hazel does sometimes."
"I didn't know you when you was a child but I'm sure you didn't,"
said Rebecca. "Because you would mean what you said no matter
how
you expressed it and Hazel Marr doesn't. She's nothing but skim
milk pretending to be cream."
"Oh, of course she dramatizes herself a bit as most girls do, but I
think she means some of the things she says," said Anne, thinking
of Terry. Perhaps it was because she had a rather poor opinion of
the said Terry that she believed Hazel was quite in earnest in all
she said about him. Anne thought Hazel was throwing herself away
on Terry in spite of the ten thousand he was "coming into." Anne
considered Terry a good-looking, rather weak youth who would fall
in love with the first pretty girl who made eyes at him and would,
with equal facility, fall in love with the next one if Number One
turned him down or left him alone too long.
Anne had seen a good deal of Terry that spring, for Hazel had
insisted on her playing gooseberry frequently; and she was destined
to see more of him, for Hazel went to visit friends in Kingsport
and during her absence Terry rather attached himself to Anne,
taking her out for rides and "seeing her home" from places. They
called each other "Anne" and "Terry," for they were about
the same
age, although Anne felt quite motherly towards him. Terry felt
immensely flattered that "the clever Miss Shirley" seemed to like
his companionship and he became so sentimental the night of May
Connelly's party, in a moonlit garden, where the shadows of the
acacias blew crazily about, that Anne amusedly reminded him of the
absent Hazel.
"Oh, Hazel!" said Terry. "That child!"
"You're engaged to 'that child,' aren't you?" said Anne severely.
"Not really engaged . . . nothing but some boy-and-girl nonsense.
I . . . I guess I was just swept off my feet by the moonlight."
Anne did a bit of rapid thinking. If Terry really cared so little
for Hazel as this, the child was far better freed from him.
Perhaps this was a heaven-sent opportunity to extricate them both
from the silly tangle they had got themselves into and from which
neither of them, taking things with all the deadly seriousness of
youth, knew how to escape.
"Of course," went on Terry, misinterpreting her silence. "I'm
in a
bit of a predicament, I'll own. I'm afraid Hazel has taken me a
little bit too seriously, and I don't just know the best way to
open her eyes to her mistake."
Impulsive Anne assumed her most maternal look.
"Terry, you are a couple of children playing at being grown up.
Hazel doesn't really care anything more for you than you do for
her. Apparently the moonlight affected both of you. She wants to
be free but is afraid to tell you so for fear of hurting your
feelings. She's just a bewildered, romantic girl and you're a boy
in love with love, and some day you'll both have a good laugh at
yourselves."
("I think I've put that very nicely," thought Anne complacently.)
Terry drew a long breath.
"You've taken a weight off my mind, Anne. Hazel's a sweet little
thing, of course, I hated to think of hurting her, but I've
realized my . . . our . . . mistake for some weeks. When one meets
a woman . . . the woman . . . you're not going in yet, Anne?
Is
all this good moonlight to be wasted? You look like a white rose
in the moonlight . . . Anne. . . ."
But Anne had flown.