Anne of Windy Poplars - L. M. Montgomery [8]
Myra Pringle, Jen’s cousin, is the beauty of the school – and appallingly stupid. She does perpetrate some amusing howlers; as, for instance, when she said today in history class that the Indians thought Champlain and his men were gods or ‘something inhuman’.
Socially the Pringles are what Rebecca Dew calls ‘the e-light’ of Summerside. Already I have been invited to two Pringle homes for supper, because it is the proper thing to invite a new teacher to supper, and the Pringles are not going to omit the required gestures. Last night I was at James Pringle’s, the father of the aforesaid Jen. He looks like a college professor, but is in reality stupid and ignorant. He talked a great deal about ‘discipline’, tapping the tablecloth with a finger the nail of which was not impeccable, and occasionally doing dreadful things to grammar. The Summerside High had always required a firm hand – an experienced teacher, male preferred. He was afraid I was a leetle too young, ‘a fault which time will cure all too soon,’ he said sorrowfully. I didn’t say anything, because if I had said anything I might have said too much. So I was as smooth and creamy as any Pringle of them all could have been, and contented myself with looking limpidly at him and saying inside of myself, ‘You cantankerous, prejudiced old creature!’
Jen must have got her brains from her mother, whom I found myself liking. Jen, in her parents’ presence, was a model of decorum. But though her words were polite her tone was insolent. Every time she said ‘Miss Shirley’ she contrived to make it sound like an insult. And every time she looked at my hair I felt that it was just plain carroty red. No Pringle, I am certain, would ever admit it was auburn.
I liked the Morton Pringles much better, though Morton Pringle never really listens to anything you say. He says something to you, and then while you’re replying he is busy thinking out his next remark.
Mrs Stephen Pringle, the Widow Pringle – Summerside abounds in widows – wrote me a letter yesterday, a nice, polite, poisonous letter. Millie has too much homework. Millie is a delicate child, and must not be overworked. Mr Bell never gave her homework. She is sensitive, a child that must be understood. Mr Bell understood her so well! Mrs Stephen is sure I will too, if I try!
I do not doubt Mrs Stephen thinks I made Adam Pringle’s nose bleed in class today, by reason of which he had to go home. And I woke up last night and couldn’t go to sleep again because I remembered an i I hadn’t dotted in a question I wrote on the board. I’m certain Jen Pringle would notice it, and a whisper will go round the clan about it.
Rebecca Dew says that all the Pringles will invite me to supper, except the old ladies at Maplehurst, and then ignore me for ever afterwards. As they are the ‘e-light’ this may mean that socially I may be banned in Summerside. Well, we’ll see. The battle is on, but it is not yet either won or lost. Still, I feel rather unhappy over it all. You can’t reason with prejudice. I’m still just as I used to be in my childhood: I can’t bear to have people not liking me. It isn’t pleasant to think that the families of half my pupils hate me. And for no fault of my own. It is the injustice that stings me. There go more italics! But a few italics really do relieve your feelings.
Apart from the Pringles, I like my pupils very much. There are some clever, ambitious, hard-working ones who are really interested in getting an education. Lewis Allen is paying for his board by doing housework at his boarding-house, and isn’t a bit ashamed of it. And Sophy Sinclair rides bareback on her father’s old grey mare six miles in and six miles out every day. There’s pluck for you! If I can help a girl like that am I to mind the Pringles?
The trouble is, if I can’t win the Pringles I won’t have much chance of helping anybody.
But I love Windy Willows. It isn’t a boarding-house; it’s a home! And they like me. Even Dusty Miller likes me,