Anne of Windy Poplars - L. M. Montgomery [80]
‘I can think things like that, but I can never express them so beautifully,’ moaned Hazel, in an anguish of rapture. ‘You talk in the language of the violets, Miss Shirley.’
Hazel couldn’t have explained in the least what she meant by that, but it didn’t matter. It sounded so poetic.
The tower room was the only peaceful room in the house. Rebecca Dew had said that morning, with a hunted look, ‘We must get the parlour and spare room papered before the Ladies Aid meets here,’ and had forthwith removed all the furniture from both to make way for a paper-hanger, who then refused to come until the next day. Windy Willows was a wilderness of confusion, with one sole oasis in the tower room.
Hazel Marr had a notorious ‘crush’ on Anne. The Marrs were newcomers in Summerside, having moved there from Charlottetown during the winter. Hazel was an ‘October blonde’, as she liked to describe herself, with hair of golden bronze and brown eyes, and, so Rebecca Dew declared, had never been much good in the world since she found out she was pretty. But Hazel was popular, especially among the boys, who found her eyes and curls a quite irresistible combination.
Anne liked her. Earlier in the evening she had been tired and a trifle pessimistic with the fag that comes with late afternoon in a schoolroom; but she felt rested now, whether as a result of the May breeze, sweet with apple-blossom, blowing in at the window, or of Hazel’s chatter she could not have told. Perhaps both. Somehow, to Anne, Hazel recalled her own early youth, with all its raptures and ideals and romantic visions.
Hazel caught Anne’s hand and pressed her lips to it reverently. ‘I hate all the people you have loved before me, Miss Shirley. I hate all the other people you love now. I want to possess you exclusively.’
‘Aren’t you a bit unreasonable, honey? You love other people besides me. How about Terry, for example?’
‘Oh, Miss Shirley, it’s that I want to talk to you about. I can’t endure it in silence any longer. I cannot! I must talk to someone about it – someone who understands. I went out the night before last and walked round and round the pond all night – well, nearly, till twelve, anyhow. I’ve suffered everything, everything.’
Hazel looked as tragic as a round pink-and-white face, long-lashed eyes, and a halo of curls would let her.
‘Why, Hazel dear, I thought you and Terry were so happy, that everything was settled.’
Anne could not be blamed for thinking so. During the preceding three weeks Hazel had raved to her about Terry Garland, for Hazel’s attitude was, what was the use of having a beau if you couldn’t talk to someone about him?
‘Everybody thinks that,’ retorted Hazel, with great bitterness. ‘Oh, Miss Shirley, life seems so full of perplexing problems. I feel sometimes as if I wanted to lie down somewhere – anywhere – and fold my hands and never think again.’
‘My dear girl, what has gone wrong?’
‘Nothing – and everything. Oh, Miss Shirley, can I tell you all about it? Can I pour out my whole soul to you?’
‘Of course, dear.’
‘I have really no place to pour out my soul,’ said Hazel pathetically. ‘Except in my journal, of course. Will you let me show you my journal some day, Miss Shirley? It is a self-revelation. And yet I cannot write what burns in my soul. It – it stifles me!’
Hazel clutched dramatically at her throat.
‘Of course I’d like to see it if you want me to. But what is this trouble between you and Terry?’
‘Oh, Terry! Miss Shirley, will you believe me when I tell you that Terry seems like a stranger to me? A stranger! Someone I’d never seen before,’ added Hazel, so that there might be no mistake.
‘But, Hazel, I thought you loved him. You said –’
‘Oh, I know. I thought I loved him too. But now I know it was all a terrible mistake. Oh, Miss Shirley, you can’t dream how difficult my life is – how impossible.’
‘I know something about it,’ said Anne sympathetically, remembering