I think if the person which remarked, "It is not always May," had said
April he would have come nearer hitting it, for I think it is the most
beautiful time of all. There's something in the very feelings at this
time of the year that makes you want to write pretty things, whether
you know what you want to say or not. So I have got out my diary and
dusted it off, it being laid away in the drawer ever since last fall,
when I told about me getting Miss Wilburn's affairs so mixed up
because there hasn't been anything happening.
One time not long ago I did get out my diary, for I got very excited
over the news that a _widow_ was here, and I sharpened seventeen
pencils so as to be ready for her. But she had the misfortune to
marry, before I could get introduced to her, a man from her same city
which had got on the train and followed her down here. She was a
lovely, high-heeled, fluffy-petticoated kind of a widow and I could
have written _chapters_ out of her I know; because all the time she
was down here the ladies' sewing circle met three times a week and
talked so that father said he heard they had to pass around potash
tablets instead of refreshments for the sake of their sore throats.
Mammy Lou made fun of me when I told her how disappointed I was over
not getting to meet such a pretty lady and write her experiences.
"Looks like you'd a knew better than to expect a widow to waste time
a-cou'tin'," she told me with that proud look coming over her face
that always does when she begins to brag on herself. "_They_ don't
cou't; they marries! Thar ain't nobody able to dispute with _me_ over
the ways o' widows, for ain't I done been _six_ of them _myself_?"
This ain't exactly so, it's just five, for she never has got that
divorce from Bill Williams yet; and she says now that she's going to
spend the money that the divorce would cost in beautifying herself so
she can marry again. She says she wants to buy her a stylish set of
bangs and a pair of kid gloves to go with them, then she is going to
let the next man make her a present of the divorce for a bridal gift.
"And you needn't be settin' it down in that little dairy book o'
yourn, neither, for your gran'chillen to be makin' spo't o' _me_ about
after I'm done dead an' gone."
I told her it was diary, not dairy, but she wouldn't listen to me.
"Go 'long with that stuck-up talk," she told me, "ain't I been knowin'
about dairies all my life? An' I never even heered tell of a _di_-ry
till I learned to my sorrow of that pesky little book that's always
gettin' lost and me havin' to find it." And I couldn't blame her very
much for this, me being a great hand myself to get words mixed up in
my childhood, especially such words as epistle and apostle. I always
thought that ignorant people said "epistle" and smart ones "apostle."
But as I was saying, a sweetheart is the proper thing to get in the
spring if you _can_ get one; but if you're too little for such a thing
a kindred spirit is the next best thing a girl can have. A kindred
spirit is a girl you lay awake till twelve o'clock of a night telling
secrets to. Of course _men_ never tell secrets, but they often need a
kindred spirit, that is, a close friend, especially when they get so
sick they think they're about to die they want the friend to run quick
to their private office and burn up some letters in their desk that it
wouldn't be healthy for them to let their wife know about, even if
they were dead. So it is a convenient thing to have, male or female.
The first night I laid awake with mine I told her all about stuffing
my insteps to make them look aristocratic and kissing Lord Byron's
picture good night every night, which I _never_ would have done in
the daylight. At night things just seem to tell _themselves_, although
you are very sorry for it the next day. Men mostly propose at night; I
guess one excuse is that the girls form such beautiful optical
illusions under a pink lamp shade.
Well, I told her all I knew and she told me the story of her life,
which is as follows: Her name is Jean Everett, her mother's name is
Mrs. Everett and her young lady aunt is named Miss Merle Arnold on her
mother's side. They are down here to spend the summer and are boarding
close to our house. There is another boarder in the house for the
summer which is named Mr. St. John, and Jean says if they had named
him Angel instead of just Saint it wouldn't be any too good for him.
And, if I do say it myself, he is as beautiful as a mermaid. Mammy Lou
says he's got a "consumpted look," but to other people it is the
height of poetry.
Jean is so full of poetical thoughts herself that her stomach is very
much upset and nothing but chocolate candy will agree with her. She
has promised the next time she stays all night with me she will tell
me the one great secret of her life (as if I hadn't guessed it the
minute she called Mr. St. John's name.) She hasn't got much appetite
and the smell of honeysuckle fills her with strange longings. She says
she either wants to write a great book or live in a marble palace or
marry a duke, she can't tell exactly which. But the poor girl is
cruelly misunderstood by her family, because her mother is giving her
rhubarb to break it out on her.
Jean came over early this morning and said she just had to talk to
somebody about how spiritual Mr. St. John looked last night with his
fair hair and white vest on.
"He looked just like a _lily_, Ann," she said, with almost tears in
her eyes, and me remembering Doctor Gordon didn't laugh at her. Then,
before I could comfort her, she had dropped down by the iris bed and
was telling me the one great secret of her life, without waiting to
stay all night and tell it in the moonlight.
"_Love_ him," she said, gathering up a handful of the purple irises,
"love _him_? I'd _cook_ for that man."
I didn't hardly know what to say in answer to this secret, which
wasn't much of a secret to me; but she didn't wait for me to say
anything for she went on telling me what big pearl buttons the white
vest had on it and how Mr. St. John said "i-ther and ni-ther," and how
broken her heart was. She said she was the most sinful girl on earth,
for she believed Mr. St. John was about to get struck on her Aunt
Merle, and here she was winning him away from her!
I asked her if he had ever said anything about loving her and she said
why, no; no well-behaved girl would let a man say such a thing to her
until they had been acquainted at least a month, and they hadn't been
knowing each other but twenty-two days. I then asked her if he had
made any sign that he would like to say things to her when the month
was out, but she said that was just where the trouble came in. She
_knew_ she could win his love if she once got a _chance_ at him; but
no matter how early she got up of a morning to go and sit with him on
the porch before breakfast, which was a habit of his, he would just
ask her how far along she was in geography and if she didn't think
algebra was easier than arithmetic, and such insulting questions as
that. Then he would pace up and down the floor until her Aunt Merle
came out of the front door, acting like a _caged bridegroom_! She
said, oh, it would put her in her grave if she didn't get her mind off
of it for a little while! Then she asked me if we were going to have
strawberries for dinner and said she would run over and ask her mother
if she could stay.
This morning Jean asked me if I remembered what Hamlet in Shakespeare
said about _words_. I told her I had just got as far as _The Merchant
of Venice_ and was getting ready to start on Hamlet when Miss Wilburn
left. She said well, he remarked "words, words, words," but he didn't
know what he was talking about. She said he meant that there wasn't
anything in mere words, but he was badly fooled, for there was a heap
in them.
I told her yes, there was something in words, for I had read of a
beautiful Irish poet once that just couldn't think of a word that he
wanted to finish up a song with. He studied over it for about three
months, when all of a sudden one day his carriage upset and bumped his
head so hard that he thought of it.
Jean said that was a _beautiful_ story and she would be willing to
have her head bumped once for _every_ word, if she could just write
poetry that would touch one cold heart that she knew of.
I said well, how on earth did all this talk about words come up, and
she told me that all her future happiness depended upon the meaning
of just one word. Then she went on to tell me that this morning she
had seen her Aunt Merle on the porch talking to Mr. St. John; so she
slipped around to the end of the porch like I showed her how to do
when there was anything interesting going on; and she had heard him
tell Miss Merle that she mustn't "condemn the precipitation, but
rather consider how he _could_ do otherwise." Then he had made use of
a word that she never heard of before in her life. It was
_pro-pin-qui-ty_; and Miss Merle's face had turned as red as tomatoes
when he said it. She said if it was a love word she was ready to
commit suicide of a broken heart, but if it was a _hateful_ word and
they were quarreling, then there was great hopes for her. We looked it
up, but the dictionary man didn't explain it hardly a bit. Finally I
told Jean as it was spelled so much like _In-i-qui-ty_ maybe they
meant the same thing, and she went home feeling much easier in her
mind.
I'm in such a writable mood to-night that I don't know what to begin
on, and I reckon I'll know less about where to stop. Mammy Lou started
us at it, for her mind never runs on a thing except loving and
marrying. She asked me early this morning if we wasn't going to try
our fortunes to-day by looking down into a well at noon, this being
May Day. Me, being of an affectionate nature, of course liked the
idea, so I ran right over to tell Jean, who was simply carried away.
She said it would be such a relief to her to see the face of her
beloved reflected in the well; but I told her that to see _any_ face
would mean that she was going to get a husband, which a girl ought to
be thankful for, and not get her heart set on any particular one.
While we were planning about it Miss Merle came in and asked what it
was. When we told her she smiled and asked if she was too old and
grown-up to join in the game, but I told her no indeed, she didn't act
at all like a grown person. I really think Miss Merle is very
fascinating. Even her name, Merle, sounds soft and sweet to me, like
a right fresh marshmallow.
Now, naturally anybody would be excited to think that they were going
to see their husband's face at twelve o'clock in the bottom of a well,
and it seemed to us that the time never would come. There is a very
old well down in our pasture close by the fence which ain't covered
over, and a lot of lilac bushes right around it in bloom, so you
couldn't well pick a prettier spot for your future husband's face.
Mammy Lou said we better all wear white sunbonnets, because they
become you so, and Miss Merle looked awful pretty in hers, with her
dark, curly hair.
I don't know how the news that we were going to do such a thing ever
got spread, for we didn't tell hardly a soul--just mother and mammy
and Mrs. Everett and the lady they board with and her married
daughter, which all promised that they wouldn't ever tell, but
somebody else found out about it, as you shall see.
We collected at the pasture gate at exactly a quarter to twelve and
the minute the first whistle blew we raced to the well, for we were
all anxious to see our husband if he was there. They said for me to go
first as it was my well, but I said no, they must go first, because
they were company, but Miss Merle said for me to look first, then she
and Jean would look at the same time, as their husbands wouldn't mind
reflecting together, being that they were kin.
My heart was beating so that I was about to smother, but I pulled my
bonnet down low over my eyes to shut out any view except what was in
the well, like mammy told us to do, and leaned 'way over and looked.
Now, up to this time, my diary, whenever I have mentioned Sir Reginald
I was kinder half joking, and never really thought he would come to
pass, as so many things in this life don't; but now I believe it's
_so_. While I couldn't make out his face very well and don't know
whether his eyes are blue or brown, and his nose Roman or not, still
there was something glittering and shining in that well which I firmly
believe was meant to be Sir Reginald de Beverley and his _coat of
mail_!
They were punching me and saying, "Ann, do you see anything?" till I
couldn't tell whether he smiled at me or not; but I remembered my
manners even on such a critical occasion, so I got up and let them
look.
They commenced pulling down their bonnets like I did and leaned over
the well. I was on the other side, facing the lilac bushes--and in
less time than it takes me to write it, me being in a hurry and my
pencil short, there was something happening that made me feel like I
was in a fairy tale. I saw those lilac bushes move and the next thing
I knew there was Mr. St. John. Not in a white vest, it's true, but
looking beautiful enough, even in the daylight. He motioned to me not
either to speak or move, though I couldn't have done either one, being
almost paralyzed between seeing him and Sir Reginald at the same
time. He tipped up right easy and leaned over the well, opposite to
Miss Merle.
When Jean saw his image in the well she gave one overjoyed scream and
leaned farther over to see more.
"Oh, it's Mr. St. John," she called out to her Aunt Merle, her voice
sounding very deep and hollow, but joyful. "It's _Mr._ St. John!
_He's_ going to be my future husband!"
He and Miss Merle were about to kill themselves laughing, for Miss
Merle had seen him from the first; but when Jean looked up and saw him
he looked at her so sweet that you felt like you could forgive him
anything he was to do, even the "i-ther and ni-ther."
"I'd like to accommodate you, Jean," he said, laughing and catching
her hand with an affectionate look, although he is usually very timid
and dignified, "but the fact is--may I tell, Merle?" And the way _he_
said "Merle" sounded like a whole _box_ of marshmallows.
Miss Merle smiled at him and then he told Jean if she would every
_bit_ as soon have it that way, he would be her uncle instead of her
future husband.
I was so afraid that she would faint or die right there in the pasture
that I told them I heard mother calling me and ran as hard as I could
tear.
She came over this afternoon to tell me all about it and was feeling
strong enough to eat a small basket of wild goose plums.
"Oh, it was a terrible shock at first," she said, stopping long enough
to spit out a seed, "but the _minute_ he said _uncle_ my love changed.
Why, Ann, an uncle is an _old_ person, almost like a grandpa! Anyway,
they've promised that I shall be in the wedding, dressed in a pair of
beautiful white silk stockings."