Wed., July 22, 1903
Magpie House
Guess who's in Derry Pond for the summer, Diary.
Guess.
You won't, and I'm sworn never to mention his name again anyway, but it was terribly funny to see him all the same. I guess Malcolm Shaw is having some extra help out to help with preparing the land around Poor Almira's House, and he's hired on with some of the others from around Hardscrabble. I mean Marshall Orde, of course. And didn't we both get a shock when he swung that door open to find me seated at the kitchen table, scribbling away at a letter? There was a second or two of awful silence during which time "my heart skipped a beat," as they say. The funny thing about clichés is that you can go for years thinking, "What a silly old phrase. That makes no sense at all." Then one day it happens, and you wonder how on earth else you would say it.
As for M., I think he was a little disappointed when he realized I wasn't Poor Almira's ghost.
A little over a week ago, I had a brainstorm. I'd been worrying about futures and livings and whether Father would go on supporting me and whether he ought to, and I decided to give up fretting and do something. After breakfast I had Bill John drive me into Shrewsbury on the pretext of getting a few patterns for the fall. While I was there, I walked right over to the Times offices and asked to see Mr. Towers. He and Father were old school friends, and one would expect him to humour Kenneth Blake's only begotten daughter, wouldn't one?
I said, "What the paper needs is a local fashion reporter. Father keeps me subscribed to the Vancouver, New York and Boston magazines, and I have a better eye than most."
He said, "Is that why you boiled his present?"
I'm certain I went red to the ears, Di, but I held my ground. I said, "Mr. Towers, I don't believe that's at all germane to the issue. Besides," I added, with a fraction of a smile, "true artists are always a little impulsive, don't you think? Just think of all the vases dear Miss Burnley has broken since coming to Shrewsbury. Yet she's the jewel of all our concerts, and still only a Junior."
"If I thought you were a true artist, Miss Blake, I would send you away," said Mr. Towers irritably. "We've no time for that here."
"You're right," I said. Even though it was only a joke in the first place, I nearly turned icicle and walked out. I didn't, though! I thought, 'It doesn't matter what Mr. Towers thinks. I'm not here for anything but to make a little money.' "I'm not an artist of any kind. But I can write a little and I do know about fashion."
He made that stiltedly exasperated face such men always seem to have perpetually in waiting behind all other expressions. "Mrs. Black does the women's pages," he said, as if that settled it.
"Mrs. Black is over forty years old," I countered. "Young people have other perspectives."
At last he told me to post three columns to him by Friday and we'd see. I suspect he was merely humoring Father from afar, but then, there must have been something he liked about my columns after all—or else he doesn't care one way or the other what goes into the women's pages; it's all the same to me. This morning I found on the kitchen table the women's page of the Times, with my columns (under the name "Cynthia") and one twenty-five cent note! The note from Mr. Towers' secretary said simply, "Fewer words next time." I could have shaken my head off dancing round the kitchen in my stockings. Was it only because he feels sorry for Father? No, no, I don't care! I put the note away very carefully in my lock-box and I shan't tell anyone what it's for yet- not even you, Diary, for I'm too superstitious. But it is encouraging news!
I know quite enough to know that twenty-five cents isn't much for three columns, either- but it's a start, isn't it?
I've one other plan for making some dollars, and I will tell you that, for it's a funny one. The Gulf Mercenary is a four-page rag in dense blurry print that covers balls, society dinners, claims of the paranormal, and thinly-veiled gossip. It's terribly popular, though, as the notes come in from all over the Maritimes and as far up the coast as Newfoundland, any one of its readers is going to be unfamiliar with 95 to 99 per cent of the parties mentioned. I've sent them two items of interest, one concerning the alleged indiscretions of a certain romantical Vice-Principal, and one a bit of recycled nonsense about one of the red-headed Murray heirs having fathered a cherubic little boy in Stovepipe Town. As per Mercenary policy, initials and epithets only. If they print both, I'll have twenty cents for my troubles, and if they're not too picky about verifiable claims, I might become a regular informant. May is already helping me cook up stories of varying kind and location, some more or less based on truth, others pure invention. Thus far, we've attributed scandalous doings and/or successful séances to "a brash young preacher of D.P., North Shore," "a certain well-rounded widow of respectable family." "an otherwise prim young schoolmistress in Bedeque" and "an intrepid coven of sprightly young girls, possibly including the promising golden-haired actress Miss B." I promised May she'd have half the profit of anything she helped to come up with. . . but it remains to be seen whether they'll take the first two. We had a grand old time trying, though, and perhaps I'll poke a few dollars into my unacceptably sylph-like purse yet.