Nate gave her his note first, right before reading period. Maud got permission from Miss Gordon to go to the outhouse, and then threw on her wrap and scarf and ran down to the grove of maple trees in the Haunted Woods. It was one of those warmer days in February where faeries made mischief by tricking you into thinking spring was coming early.
Her hands shook as she read its contents. He had written it in red ink!
Well, Polly, it must be done. I at first intended to write quite a lengthy epistle, setting forth my poor opinion of myself, my very inferior personal endowments, my happiness, or rather ecstasy if your note proved favorable to my wishes etc. etc. etc. But I have altered my plan of arrangement and resolved to give you hard, dry, plain, facts, for they may possibly appear as such to you, but they are nevertheless as true as gospel. Here goes:—Of all my feminine friends the one whom I most admire—no I’m growing reckless—the one whom I love (if the authorities allow that word to come under the school boy’s scholarship vocabulary) is L.M. Montgomery, the girl I shook hands with, the girl after my own heart.
Yes, Polly, it is true. I always liked you better than any other girl and it has kept on increasing till it has obtained “prodigious” proportions. Oh, wouldn’t I like to see you reading this. But I must conclude or you will say it is very lengthy after all. Remember I am waiting for you to fulfill your part of the transaction with ever-increasing impatience.
from
Nate
P.S. I suppose you’ll say I’m very sentimental. Well, perhaps rather. However, it’s not much difference. I was just laughing over the tenacity with which we cling to our diverse manner of spelling Polly! (Pollie). I’m going to cling to my manner ad finem, because it’s right. I expect you’ll prove stubborn, too.
N.J.L.
In the unseasonably warm sun, Maud almost wept with joy. It surprised her how happy she was to receive the letter after so much uneasiness. But then she wondered if it was a good idea to encourage this now. She couldn’t have such entanglements. It was too complicated. Even if Clemmie had calmed down, there were the rest of the Baptist and Presbyterian congregations to consider—not to mention her grandparents, who could never know about this. They would certainly be ashamed of her.
In addition, once Maud handed Nate her note it would be done. He would know she liked him, liked him best.
What was it Reverend Mr. Carruthers had said about being an example? How was this being an example? Pensie would tease her and say, “I told you so.” She had been right; Nate had wanted more from Maud all along.
Icicles plunked against the snowbank.
He loved her. No one had ever told her that before. And she admired him. But was it love? She had made him a promise and she was going to have to give him her answer. Maud returned to school and avoided Nate for the rest of the morning.
At noon, Maud passed Nate the answer she had labored over the previous night in her French grammar book. The rest of the afternoon was one of the slowest Maud had ever experienced, even worse than when Nate hadn’t been speaking to her. Every once in a while, she was sure she heard him whistling quietly over his sums.
Finally, the long afternoon was over and Maud scooped up her books and ran home. She was sorry for the whole sordid mess. And yet, there was something exquisite—triumphant—about having a boy fall in love with her. Maud had never believed anyone would think of her in that way. Now here it was—in red ink.
Going over to her bureau, she unlocked it and copied the letter into her journal, carefully locking it back in the drawer when she was done.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
As the days passed, letters were found in schoolbooks and sheet music. Nate also carved her nickname in cipher above her school hook: ?δλλυη.
Maud found this letter after her organ lesson:
Dear Polly,
I hereby solemnly swear to you I would never show interest in any other girl than you. Don’t you know how I feel about you? Haven’t I shown you with my interest in your words and our conversation? It might be easier for everyone if we were of the same traditions, but as we’ve discussed in the past, our core feelings about Him are similar. Let the dogmatists fight among themselves while we prove to them that none of it matters.
We can be our own—dare I say it—Romeo and Juliet story, save the dreadful ending.
Yours,
N.
The next day, Nate discovered this under his French book:
Dear Snip,
It is hard to swear upon things we cannot know of.
Sincerely,
Pollie
Nate then smuggled his last plea during geography class.
Dear Polly,
I know we don’t believe in love at first sight, but I think of the first time I saw you and believe, maybe, that the poets know something we don’t yet understand.
There was also a certain way you turned your head that day at the prayer meeting, and I looked up from my hymnal and I became yours. Would you ever see me as anything other than a chum? You might even think this letter is too silly and you would be right. But, Polly…please, let me be yours.
N.
Each time she received one of Nate’s letters, Maud had a fluttery feeling she didn’t know where to put. It started at her toes and traveled up her spine. She wanted to simultaneously run from and embrace it. There were nights she ached to be held by him, imagining him kissing her forehead, and then her lips, whispering how dear she was to him.
On Valentine’s Day, Nate stuck a red paper heart inside her copy of Tennyson that said, Be My Valentine. Meet me under our favorite tree. The Tree Lovers, the one with two branches curved in on each other in a constant embrace, had become their special place. It was then that she finally admitted to herself that she was in love with Nate Lockhart and decided she would meet him.
As Maud turned down the path, she heard the familiar whistle.
He was waiting for her.
As she approached, Nate took off his glove and extended his hand for hers. In a daring move, she took off hers. They walked in silence. Now that she was alone with him, the giddiness had faded and was replaced with uncertainty over what would come next…what she wanted to come next.
“Did you submit your essay on the railroad for the Montreal Witness?” she said to fill the silence. It was a conversation they’d had many times.
“You know I did.” He squeezed her hand.