Part 35 (1/2)
”Oh, mother rampaged. But I stood rockfirm--even I, Philippa Gordon, who never before could hold fast to anything. Father was calmer. Father's own daddy was a minister, so you see he has a soft spot in his heart for the cloth. I had Jo up to Mount Holly, after mother grew calm, and they both loved him. But mother gave him some frightful hints in every conversation regarding what she had hoped for me. Oh, my vacation pathway hasn't been exactly strewn with roses, girls dear. But--I've won out and I've got Jo. Nothing else matters.”
”To you,” said Aunt Jamesina darkly.
”Nor to Jo, either,” retorted Phil. ”You keep on pitying him. Why, pray?
I think he's to be envied. He's getting brains, beauty, and a heart of gold in ME.”
”It's well we know how to take your speeches,” said Aunt Jamesina patiently. ”I hope you don't talk like that before strangers. What would they think?”
”Oh, I don't want to know what they think. I don't want to see myself as others see me. I'm sure it would be horribly uncomfortable most of the time. I don't believe Burns was really sincere in that prayer, either.”
”Oh, I daresay we all pray for some things that we really don't want, if we were only honest enough to look into our hearts,” owned Aunt Jamesina candidly. ”I've a notion that such prayers don't rise very far. _I_ used to pray that I might be enabled to forgive a certain person, but I know now I really didn't want to forgive her. When I finally got that I DID want to I forgave her without having to pray about it.”
”I can't picture you as being unforgiving for long,” said Stella.
”Oh, I used to be. But holding spite doesn't seem worth while when you get along in years.”
”That reminds me,” said Anne, and told the tale of John and Janet.
”And now tell us about that romantic scene you hinted so darkly at in one of your letters,” demanded Phil.
Anne acted out Samuel's proposal with great spirit. The girls shrieked with laughter and Aunt Jamesina smiled.
”It isn't in good taste to make fun of your beaux,” she said severely; ”but,” she added calmly, ”I always did it myself.”
”Tell us about your beaux, Aunty,” entreated Phil. ”You must have had any number of them.”
”They're not in the past tense,” retorted Aunt Jamesina. ”I've got them yet. There are three old widowers at home who have been casting sheep's eyes at me for some time. You children needn't think you own all the romance in the world.”
”Widowers and sheep's eyes don't sound very romantic, Aunty.”
”Well, no; but young folks aren't always romantic either. Some of my beaux certainly weren't. I used to laugh at them scandalous, poor boys.
There was Jim Elwood--he was always in a sort of day-dream--never seemed to sense what was going on. He didn't wake up to the fact that I'd said 'no' till a year after I'd said it. When he did get married his wife fell out of the sleigh one night when they were driving home from church and he never missed her. Then there was Dan Winston. He knew too much.
He knew everything in this world and most of what is in the next. He could give you an answer to any question, even if you asked him when the Judgment Day was to be. Milton Edwards was real nice and I liked him but I didn't marry him. For one thing, he took a week to get a joke through his head, and for another he never asked me. Horatio Reeve was the most interesting beau I ever had. But when he told a story he dressed it up so that you couldn't see it for frills. I never could decide whether he was lying or just letting his imagination run loose.”
”And what about the others, Aunty?”
”Go away and unpack,” said Aunt Jamesina, waving Joseph at them by mistake for a needle. ”The others were too nice to make fun of. I shall respect their memory. There's a box of flowers in your room, Anne. They came about an hour ago.”
After the first week the girls of Patty's Place settled down to a steady grind of study; for this was their last year at Redmond and graduation honors must be fought for persistently. Anne devoted herself to English, Priscilla pored over cla.s.sics, and Philippa pounded away at Mathematics.
Sometimes they grew tired, sometimes they felt discouraged, sometimes nothing seemed worth the struggle for it. In one such mood Stella wandered up to the blue room one rainy November evening. Anne sat on the floor in a little circle of light cast by the lamp beside her, amid a surrounding snow of crumpled ma.n.u.script.
”What in the world are you doing?”
”Just looking over some old Story Club yarns. I wanted something to cheer AND inebriate. I'd studied until the world seemed azure. So I came up here and dug these out of my trunk. They are so drenched in tears and tragedy that they are excruciatingly funny.”
”I'm blue and discouraged myself,” said Stella, throwing herself on the couch. ”Nothing seems worthwhile. My very thoughts are old. I've thought them all before. What is the use of living after all, Anne?”
”Honey, it's just brain f.a.g that makes us feel that way, and the weather. A pouring rainy night like this, coming after a hard day's grind, would squelch any one but a Mark Tapley. You know it IS worthwhile to live.”