"I was up to see
Mrs. Maxwell last night, and I met him."
"It--can't be--the same--Cecil Fenwick," I said faintly, because
I had to say something.
"Oh, yes, it is. He belongs in Blakely, New Brunswick, and he's
a lawyer, and he's been out West twenty-two years. He's oh! so
handsome, and just as you described him, except that his hair is
quite gray. He has never married--I asked Mrs. Maxwell--so you
see he has never forgotten you, Miss Holmes. And, oh, I believe
everything is going to come out all right."
I couldn't exactly share her cheerful belief. Everything seemed
to me to be coming out most horribly wrong. I was so mixed up I
didn't know what to do or say. I felt as if I were in a bad
dream--it MUST be a dream--there couldn't really be a Cecil
Fenwick! My feelings were simply indescribable. Fortunately
every one put my agitation down to quite a different cause, and
they very kindly left me alone to recover myself. I shall never
forget that awful afternoon. Right after tea I excused myself
and went home as fast as I could go. There I shut myself up in
my room, but NOT to write poetry in my blank book. No, indeed!
I felt in no poetical mood.
I tried to look the facts squarely in the face. There was a
Cecil Fenwick, extraordinary as the coincidence was, and he was
here in Avonlea. All my friends--and foes--believed that he was
the estranged lover of my youth.
Pages:
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44