Fir Cottage, Plover Sands.
July Sixth.
We arrived here late last night, and all day Aunt Martha has kept her
room to rest. So I had to keep mine also, although I felt as fresh as
a morning lark, and just in the mood for enjoyment.
My name is Marguerite Forrester--an absurdly long name for so small a
girl. Aunt Martha always calls me Marguer_ite_, with an accent of
strong disapproval. She does not like my name, but she gives me the
full benefit of it. Connie Shelmardine used to call me Rita. Connie
was my roommate last year at the Seminary. We correspond occasionally,
but Aunt Martha frowns on it.
I have always lived with Aunt Martha--my parents died when I was a
baby. Aunt Martha says I am to be her heiress if I please her--which
means--but, oh, you do not know what "pleasing" Aunt Martha means.
Aunt is a determined and inveterate man-hater. She has no particular
love for women, indeed, and trusts nobody but Mrs. Saxby, her maid. I
rather like Mrs. Saxby. She is not quite so far gone in petrifaction
as Aunt, although she gets a little stonier every year. I expect the
process will soon begin on me, but it hasn't yet. My flesh and blood
are still unreasonably warm and pulsing and rebellious.
Aunt Martha would be in danger of taking a fit if she ever saw me
talking to a man. She watches me jealously, firmly determined to guard
me from any possible attack of a roaring and ravening lion in the
disguise of nineteenth-century masculine attire. So I have to walk
demurely and assume a virtue, if I have it not, while I pine after the
untested flesh-pots of Egypt in secret.
We have come down to spend a few weeks at Fir Cottage. Our good
landlady is a capacious, kindly-souled creature, and I think she has
rather a liking for me. I have been chattering to her all day, for
there are times when I absolutely must talk to someone or go mad.
July Tenth.
This sort of life is decidedly dull. The program of every day is the
same. I go to the sandshore with Aunt Martha and Mrs. Saxby in the
morning, read to Aunt in the afternoons, and mope around by my
disconsolate self in the evenings. Mrs. Blake has lent me, for shore
use, a very fine spyglass which she owns. She says her "man" brought
it home from "furrin' parts" before he died. While Aunt and Mrs. Saxby
meander up and down the shore, leaving me free to a certain extent, I
amuse myself by examining distant seas and coasts through it, thus
getting a few peeps into a forbidden world. We see few people,
although there is a large summer hotel about a mile up the beach. Our
shore haunts do not seem to be popular with its guests. They prefer
the rocks. This suits Aunt Martha admirably. I may also add that it
doesn't suit her niece--but that is a matter of small importance.
The first morning I noticed a white object on the rocks, about half a
mile away, and turned my glass on it. There--apparently within a
stone's throw of me--was a young man. He was lounging on a rock,
looking dreamily out to sea. There was something about his face that
reminded me of someone I know, but I cannot remember whom.
Every morning he has reappeared on the same spot. He seems to be a
solitary individual, given to prowling by himself. I wonder what Aunt
would say if she knew what I am so earnestly watching through my glass
at times.
July Eleventh.