"No, I don't. I don't mind you a bit ... any more than if you were
Dad."
"Then you mustn't consider yourself an exile from Stillwater. The
woods are yours to roam in at will, and if you want to roam them alone
you may, and if you'd like a companion once in a while command me.
Let's be good friends, little lass. Shake hands on it."
I slipped down from the fence and shook hands with him. I did like him
very much ... he was so nice and unaffected and brotherly ... just as
if I'd known him all my life. We walked down the long white avenue,
where everything was growing dusky, and I had told him all my troubles
before we got to the end of it. He was so sympathetic and agreed with
me that it was a pity people had to grow up. He promised to come over
tomorrow and look at Don's leg. Don is one of my dogs, and he has got
a bad leg. I've been doctoring it myself, but it doesn't get any
better. Sidney thinks he can cure it. He says I must call him Sidney
if I want him to call me Nic.
When we got to the lake, there it lay all gleaming and smooth as glass
... the most tempting thing.
"What a glorious possible slide," he said. "Let us have it, little
lass."
He took my hand and we ran down the slope and went skimming over the
ice. It _was_ glorious. The house came in sight as we reached the
other side. It was big and dark and silent.
"So the old place is still standing," said Sidney, looking up at it.
In the dusk I thought his face had a tender, reverent look instead of
the rather mocking expression it had worn all along.
"Haven't you been there yet?" I asked quickly.
"No. I'm stopping at the hotel over in Croyden. The house will need
some fixing up before it's fit to live in. I just came down tonight to
look at it and took a short cut through the woods. I'm glad I did. It
was worth while to see you come tramping down that long white avenue
when you thought yourself alone with the silence. I thought I had
never seen a child so full of the pure joy of existence. Hold fast to
that, little lass, as long as you can. You'll never find anything to
take its place after it goes. You jolly little child!"
"I'm eighteen," I said suddenly. I don't know what made me say it.
He laughed and pulled his coat collar up around his ears.
"Never," he mocked. "You're about twelve ... stay twelve, and always
wear red caps and jackets, you vivid thing: Good night."
He was off across the lake, and I came home. Yes, I do like him, even
if he is a man.
* * * * *
February Twentieth.
I've found out what diaries are for ... to work off blue moods in,
moods that come on without any reason whatever and therefore can't be
confided to any fellow creature. You scribble away for a while ... and
then it's all gone ... and your soul feels clear as crystal once more.
I always go to Sidney now in a blue mood that has a real cause. He can
cheer me up in five minutes. But in such a one as this, which is quite
unaccountable, there's nothing for it but a diary.
Sidney has been living at Stillwater for a month. It seems as if he
must have lived there always.
He came to our place the next day after I met him in the woods.
Everybody made a fuss over him, but he shook them off with an ease I
envied and whisked me out to see Don's leg. He has fixed it up so that
it is as good as new now, and the dogs like him almost better than
they like me.
We have had splendid times since then. We are just the jolliest chums
and we tramp about everywhere together and go skating and snowshoeing
and riding. We read a lot of books together too, and Sidney always
explains everything I don't understand. I'm not a bit shy and I can
always find plenty to say to him. He isn't at all like any other man I
know.
Everybody likes him, but the women seem to be a little afraid of him.
They say he is so terribly cynical and satirical. He goes into society
a good bit, although he says it bores him. He says he only goes
because it would bore him worse to stay home alone.
There's only one thing about Sidney that I hardly like. I think he
rather overdoes it in the matter of treating me as if I were a little
girl. Of course, I don't want him to look upon me as grown up. But
there is a medium in all things, and he really needn't talk as if he
thought I was a child of ten and had no earthly interest in anything
but sports and dogs. These _are_ the best things ... I suppose ... but
I understand lots of other things too, only I can't convince Sidney
that I do. I know he is laughing at me when I try to show him I'm not
so childish as he thinks me. He's indulgent and whimsical, just as he
would be with a little girl who was making believe to be grown up.
Perhaps next winter, when I put on long dresses and come out, he'll
stop regarding me as a child. But next winter is so horribly far off.
The day we were fussing with Don's leg I told Sidney that Mother said
I'd have to be grown up next winter and how I hated it, and I made him
promise that when the time came he would use all his influence to beg
me off for another year. He said he would, because it was a shame to
worry children about society. But somehow I've concluded not to bother
making a fuss. I have to come out some time, and I might as well take
the plunge and get it over.
Mrs. Burnett was here this evening fixing up some arrangements for a
charity bazaar she and Jen are interested in, and she talked most of
the time about Sidney ... for Jen's benefit, I suppose, although Jen
and Sid don't get on at all. They fight every time they meet, so I
don't see why Mrs. Burnett should think things.
"I wonder what he'll do when Mrs. Rennie comes to the Glasgows' next
month," said Mrs. Burnett.
"Why should he do anything?" asked Jen.
"Oh, well, you know there was something between them ... an
understanding if not an engagement ... before she married Rennie. They
met abroad ... my sister told me all about it ... and Mr. Elliot was
quite infatuated with her. She was a very handsome and fascinating
girl. Then she threw him over and married old Jacob Rennie ... for his
millions, of course, for he certainly had nothing else to recommend
him. Amy says Mr. Elliot was never the same man again. But Jacob died
obligingly two years ago and Mrs. Rennie is free now; so I dare say
they'll make it up. No doubt that is why she is coming to Riverton.
Well, it would be a very suitable match."
I'm so glad I never liked Mrs. Burnett.
I wonder if it is true that Sidney did care for that horrid woman ...
of course she is horrid! Didn't she marry an old man for his money?...
and cares for her still. It is no business of mine, of course, and it
doesn't matter to me at all. But I rather hope he doesn't ... because
it would spoil everything if he got married. He wouldn't have time to
be chums with me then.
I don't know why I feel so dull tonight. Writing in this diary doesn't
seem to have helped me as much as I thought it would, either. I dare
say it's the weather. It must be the weather. It is a wet, windy night
and the rain is thudding against the window. I hate rainy nights.
I wonder if Mrs. Rennie is really as handsome as Mrs. Burnett says. I
wonder how old she is. I wonder if she ever cared for Sidney ... no,
she didn't. No woman who cared for Sidney could ever have thrown him
over for an old moneybag. I wonder if I shall like her. No, I won't.
I'm sure I shan't like her.
My head is aching and I'm going to bed.
* * * * *
March Tenth.
Mrs. Rennie was here to dinner tonight. My head was aching again, and
Mother said I needn't go down to dinner if I'd rather not; but a dozen
headaches could not have kept me back, or a dozen men either, even
supposing I'd have to talk to them all. I wanted to see Mrs. Rennie.
Nothing has been talked of in Riverton for the last fortnight but Mrs.
Rennie. I've heard of her beauty and charm and costumes until I'm sick
of the subject. Today I spoke to Sidney about her. Before I thought I
said right out, "Mrs. Rennie is to dine with us tonight."
"Yes?" he said in a quiet voice.
"I'm dying to see her," I went on recklessly. "I've heard so much
about her. They say she's so beautiful and fascinating. _Is_ she?
_You_ ought to know."
Sidney swung the sled around and put it in position for another coast.
"Yes, I know her," he admitted tranquilly. "She is a very handsome
woman, and I suppose most people would consider her fascinating. Come,
Nic, get on the sled. We have just time for one more coast, and then
you must go in."
"You were once a good friend ... a very good friend ... of Mrs.
Rennie's, weren't you, Sid?" I said.
A little mocking gleam crept into his eyes, and I instantly realized
that he was looking upon me as a rather impertinent child.
"You've been listening to gossip, Nic," he said. "It's a bad habit,
child. Don't let it grow on you. Come."