September 17, 1915
Helena, my dear confidante, I could not feel more ecstatic confiding in you this wonderful night. My last entry was quite a while ago and I do apologize! I think this may be the first time I have sat down alone in weeks. I feel as if I would shatter the world of perfect bliss that I am in now should I ever calm down and think. It’s like that odd state of dreaming when you know you are in a dream and are already half awake but still, you aren’t able to move a muscle or simply don’t because the dream is disturbed. It is an inconvenience with nightmares but lovely dreams are all the sweeter when you can remember every detail after you have awaken. Oh, I’m just rambling now!
You see, I hardly know express anything such as this, I’ve had so little experience; but I think I have met Prince Charming in the form of a Royal Gardner. I would love to describe him but I’m afraid I will sound irrefutably trite! Roy is tall, dark and handsome in every sense of those words and our first meeting was particularly romantic!
The clouds were billowing, grey and heavy; the breeze grew colder as they whispered warnings about the cloudburst that shall soon pour over the graveyard’s tranquil afternoon. Suddenly, a flash of lightning flares from the sky and before I could hasten to the boarding house, I found myself in the midst of an angry rainfall. But, alas, a raincoated white knight appears from the ivory mist, bearing his great sword of stretched, waterproof silk and shelters me from the wrathful storm. There, he led me to the nearby pavilion where our names were exchanged and perhaps our hearts too (alright, alright THAT last phrase was much too theatrical---even for me; although, it does sound little bit nice...).
Now, wasn’t that meeting exactly how I have always wanted? And isn’t Roy simply beyond compare? I can hardly contain myself, I can’t even sit still to write a few lines for Diana or Marilla back home! I am certain they would adore him. Roy is...Roy. Not a morning has passed by since then when I had not been greeted with a new bouquet of flowers at the door with a card saying “To dear Anne” and beside it, little compositions of his. Let me tell you, three weeks pass quicker than ever when you have poetry for breakfast.
He’s from Nova Scotia too, Phil tells me, and is “the richest, bluest of Bluenoses”. He did have a distinguished air about him when we met at Old St. John’s. And his eyes...they were so gloriously dark and profound.
Roy is great.
Anne
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