Anne of Windy Poplars - L. M. Montgomery [115]
And there is no longer a small neighbour on the other side of the vine-hung gate. Little Elizabeth has gone for ever from that sunshineless house – gone into her Tomorrow. If I were staying on in Summerside I would break my heart, missing her. But, as it is, I’m glad. Pierce Grayson took her away with him. He is not going back to Paris, but will be living in Boston. Elizabeth cried bitterly at our parting, but she is so happy with her father that I feel sure her tears will soon be dried. Mrs Campbell and the Woman were very dour over the whole affair, and put all the blame on me – which I accept cheerfully and unrepentantly.
‘She has had a good home here,’ said Mrs Campbell majestically.
‘Where she never heard a single word of affection,’ I thought, but did not say.
‘I think I’ll be Betty all the time now, darling Miss Shirley,’ were Elizabeth’s last words. ‘Except,’ she called back, ‘when I’m lonesome for you, and then I’ll be Lizzie.’
‘Don’t you ever dare to be Lizzie, no matter what happens!’ I said.
We threw kisses to each other as long as we could see, and I came up to my tower room with tears in my eyes. She’s been so sweet, the dear little golden thing. She always seemed to me like a little Aeolian harp, so responsive to the tiniest breath of affection that blew her way. It’s been an adventure to be her friend. I hope Pierce Grayson realizes what a daughter he has – and I think he does. He sounded very grateful and repentant.
‘I didn’t realize she was no longer a baby,’ he said, ‘nor how unsympathetic her environment was. Thank you a thousand times for all you have done for her.’
I had our map of fairyland framed and gave it to little Elizabeth for a farewell keepsake.
I’m sorry to leave Windy Willows. Of course, I’m really a bit tired of living in a trunk, but I’ve loved it here – loved my cool morning hours at my window, loved my bed into which I have veritably climbed every night, loved my blue doughnut cushion, loved all the winds that blew. I’m afraid I’ll never be quite so chummy with the winds again as I’ve been here. And will I ever have a room again from which I can see both the rising and the setting sun?
I’ve finished with Windy Willows and the years that have been linked with it. And I’ve kept the faith. I’ve never betrayed Aunt Chatty’s hidy-hole to Aunt Kate or the buttermilk secret of each to either of the others.
I think they are all sorry to see me go, and I’m glad of it. It would be terrible to think they were glad I am going, or that they would not miss me a little when I’m gone. Rebecca Dew has been making all my favourite dishes for a week now – she even devoted ten eggs to angel cake twice – and using the ‘company’ china. And Aunt Chatty’s soft brown eyes brim over whenever I mention my departure. Even Dusty Miller seems to gaze at me reproachfully as he sits about on his little haunches.
I had a long letter from Katherine last week. She has a gift for writing letters. She has got a position as private secretary to a globe-trotting M.P. What a fascinating phrase ‘globe-trotter’ is! A person who would say ‘Let’s go to Egypt’ as one might say ‘Let’s go to Charlottetown’ – and go! That life will just suit Katherine.
She persists in ascribing all her changed outlook and prospects to me. ‘I wish I could tell you what you’ve brought into my life,’ she wrote. I suppose I did help. And it wasn’t easy at first. She seldom said anything without a sting in it, and listened to any suggestion I made in regard to the school work with the air of disdainfully humouring a lunatic. But somehow I’ve forgotten it all. It was just born of her secret bitterness against life.
Everybody has been inviting me to supper, even Pauline Gibson. Old Mrs Gibson died a few months ago, so Pauline dared do it. And I’ve been