I came to-day to spend a while with Aunt Margaret in
Charlottetown. It is so pretty here, where she lives--and
ever so much nicer than on the farm at home. I have no cows
to milk here or pigs to feed. Aunt Margaret has given me
such a lovely blue muslin dress, and I am to have it made to
wear at a garden party out at Brighton next week. I never
had a muslin dress before--nothing but ugly prints and dark
woolens. I wish we were rich, like Aunt Margaret. Aunt
Margaret laughed when I said this, and declared she would
give all her wealth for my youth and beauty and
light-heartedness. I am only eighteen and I know I am very
merry but I wonder if I am really pretty. It seems to me
that I am when I look in Aunt Margaret's beautiful mirrors.
They make me look very different from the old cracked one in
my room at home which always twisted my face and turned me
green. But Aunt Margaret spoiled her compliment by telling
me I look exactly as she did at my age. If I thought I'd
ever look as Aunt Margaret does now, I don't know what I'd
do. She is so fat and red.
June 29.
Last week I went to the garden party and I met a young man
called Paul Osborne. He is a young artist from Montreal who
is boarding over at Heppoch. He is the handsomest man I have
ever seen--very tall and slender, with dreamy, dark eyes and
a pale, clever face. I have not been able to keep from
thinking about him ever since, and to-day he came over here
and asked if he could paint me. I felt very much flattered
and so pleased when Aunt Margaret gave him permission. He
says he wants to paint me as "Spring," standing under the
poplars where a fine rain of sunshine falls through. I am to
wear my blue muslin gown and a wreath of flowers on my hair.
He says I have such beautiful hair. He has never seen any of
such a real pale gold. Somehow it seems even prettier than
ever to me since he praised it.
I had a letter from home to-day. Ma says the blue hen stole
her nest and came off with fourteen chickens, and that pa has
sold the little spotted calf. Somehow those things don't
interest me like they once did.
July 9.
The picture is coming on very well, Mr. Osborne says. I know
he is making me look far too pretty in it, although he
persists in saying he can't do me justice. He is going to
send it to some great exhibition when finished, but he says
he will make a little water-color copy for me.
He comes every day to paint and we talk a great deal and he
reads me lovely things out of his books. I don't understand
them all, but I try to, and he explains them so nicely and is
so patient with my stupidity. And he says any one with my
eyes and hair and coloring does not need to be clever. He
says I have the sweetest, merriest laugh in the world. But I
will not write down all the compliments he has paid me. I
dare say he does not mean them at all.
In the evening we stroll among the spruces or sit on the
bench under the acacia tree. Sometimes we don't talk at all,
but I never find the time long. Indeed, the minutes just
seem to fly--and then the moon will come up, round and red,
over the harbor and Mr. Osborne will sigh and say he supposes
it is time for him to go.
July 24.
I am so happy. I am frightened at my happiness. Oh, I
didn't think life could ever be so beautiful for me as it is!
Paul loves me! He told me so to-night as we walked by the
harbor and watched the sunset, and he asked me to be his
wife. I have cared for him ever since I met him, but I am
afraid I am not clever and well-educated enough for a wife
for Paul. Because, of course, I'm only an ignorant little
country girl and have lived all my life on a farm. Why, my
hands are quite rough yet from the work I've done. But Paul
just laughed when I said so, and took my hands and kissed
them. Then he looked into my eyes and laughed again, because
I couldn't hide from him how much I loved him.
We are to be married next spring and Paul says he will take
me to Europe. That will be very nice, but nothing matters so
long as I am with him.
Paul's people are very wealthy and his mother and sisters are
very fashionable. I am frightened of them, but I did not
tell Paul so because I think it would hurt him and oh, I
wouldn't do that for the world.
There is nothing I wouldn't suffer if it would do him any
good. I never thought any one could feel so. I used to
think if I loved anybody I would want him to do everything
for me and wait on me as if I were a princess. But that is
not the way at all. Love makes you very humble and you want
to do everything yourself for the one you love.
August 10.
Paul went home to-day. Oh, it is so terrible! I don't know
how I can bear to live even for a little while without him.
But this is silly of me, because I know he has to go and he
will write often and come to me often. But, still, it is so
lonesome. I didn't cry when he left me because I wanted him
to remember me smiling in the way he liked best, but I have
been crying ever since and I can't stop, no matter how hard I
try. We have had such a beautiful fortnight. Every day
seemed dearer and happier than the last, and now it is ended
and I feel as if it could never be the same again. Oh, I am
very foolish--but I love him so dearly and if I were to lose
his love I know I would die.
August 17.
I think my heart is dead. But no, it can't be, for it aches
too much.
Paul's mother came here to see me to-day. She was not angry
or disagreeable. I wouldn't have been so frightened of her
if she had been. As it was, I felt that I couldn't say a
word. She is very beautiful and stately and wonderful, with
a low, cold voice and proud, dark eyes. Her face is like
Paul's but without the loveableness of his.
She talked to me for a long time and she said terrible
things--terrible, because I knew they were all true. I
seemed to see everything through her eyes. She said that
Paul was infatuated with my youth and beauty but that it
would not last and what else had I to give him? She said Paul
must marry a woman of his own class, who could do honor to
his fame and position. She said that he was very talented
and had a great career before him, but that if he married me
it would ruin his life.
I saw it all, just as she explained it out, and I told her at
last that I would not marry Paul, and she might tell him so.
But she smiled and said I must tell him myself, because he
would not believe any one else. I could have begged her to
spare me that, but I knew it would be of no use. I do not
think she has any pity or mercy for any one. Besides, what
she said was quite true.
When she thanked me for being so REASONABLE I told her I was
not doing it to please her, but for Paul's sake, because I
would not spoil his life, and that I would always hate her.
She smiled again and went away.
Oh, how can I bear it? I did not know any one could suffer
like this!
August 18.
I have done it. I wrote to Paul to-day. I knew I must tell
him by letter, because I could never make him believe it face
to face. I was afraid I could not even do it by letter. I
suppose a clever woman easily could, but I am so stupid.
I wrote a great many letters and tore them up, because I felt
sure they wouldn't convince Paul. At last I got one that I
thought would do. I knew I must make it seem as if I were
very frivolous and heartless, or he would never believe. I
spelled some words wrong and put in some mistakes of grammar
on purpose. I told him I had just been flirting with him,
and that I had another fellow at home I liked better. I said
FELLOW because I knew it would disgust him. I said that it
was only because he was rich that I was tempted to marry him.
I thought my heart would break while I was writing
those dreadful falsehoods. But it was for his sake, because
I must not spoil his life. His mother told me I would be a
millstone around his neck. I love Paul so much that I would
do anything rather than be that. It would be easy to die for
him, but I don't see how I can go on living. I think my
letter will convince Paul.
I suppose it convinced Paul, because there was no further entry
in the little brown book. When we had finished it the tears were
running down both our faces.
"Oh, poor, dear Miss Emily," sobbed Diana. "I'm so sorry I ever
thought her funny and meddlesome."
"She was good and strong and brave," I said. "I could never have
been as unselfish as she was."