Chapter 1

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_Title:_ The Love Story of Daphne North
_Date of first publication:_ 1911
_Author:_ L. M. (Lucy Maud) Montgomery (1874-1942)
_Date first posted:_ Apr. 1, 2017
_Date last updated:_ Apr. 1, 2017
Faded Page eBook #20170406

This ebook was produced by: Alex White & the online Distributed
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The Love Story of Daphne North
L. M. Montgomery
First published _The Westminster_, March 1911.

Daphne North walked up the post-office lane, under the aspen poplars,
with her school books under her arm, apart from the other scholars. She
never walked with them now; the oldest of them was only fifteen, and
Daphne was eighteen. She resented having to go to school at all; but
since go she must, she would not associate with children, she said.

“Daphne North’s hanging back so that the master’ll catch up with her,”
said Maggie Bennett in a malicious undertone. Instantly two fourth grade
boys who heard her broke out into whoops.

“Daphne North and the schoolmaster,” shouted one at the top of his
voice. All the others laughed, as if he had said something exquisitely
witty.

Daphne colored over oval cheek and clear-cut brow. This, she told
herself vexedly, was what came of her mother’s insisting that she should
go to school this year and study for the entrance examination of
Thrasher Academy. Well, she would not have to put up with such
impertinence much longer. The term would be ended in three weeks.

Neil Burnham was in the post-office kitchen, talking to Carrie Bedloe,
when the school children huddled in, their exuberance toned down by awe
of Mrs. Bedloe. Maggie Bennett, who found herself standing next to
Daphne, nudged the latter meaningly. Daphne would not look at Neil,
although she knew he was there.

When the others had gone Neil came to her.

“I have a team outside, Daphne. If you like I can drive you home.”

“Thank you, I’d rather walk,” said Daphne coldly.

A shadow fell over the young man’s frank, brown face. He said nothing
more, but went out slowly.

“You should have gone with Neil, Daphne,” said Mrs. Bedloe, rebukingly.
Mrs. Bedloe had a self-appointed mission to look after everybody in West
Albion, from grandsires to babies. “It would be a great deal better than
loitering home from school with Francis Elliot. People are talking about
you, young lady.”

Daphne tossed her head pertly.

“West Albion folks have to be talking about somebody,” she said. “They’d
die if they couldn’t gossip. If I don’t choose to drive home from school
with Neil Burnham, it’s nobody’s business but my own.”

“Don’t get so mad, child, when a body speaks to you for your own good,”
said Mrs. Bedloe provokingly.

“I’m not mad,” flashed Daphne. “And as for the talk, it all comes from
jealousy. Don’t you think I know that?”

She snatched her mail from the postmistress’s hand and hastened out, her
starry eyes gleaming.

“I guess I gave her a slap there,” she thought triumphantly. “Carrie
Bedloe is just crazy over Francis, and he won’t even look at her. Not
much wonder—a big, fat thing like her.”

“What an awfully pretty girl! Who is she?” asked a woman who came out
through the sitting room door as Daphne left the kitchen. She was a city
cousin of Mrs. Bedloe’s.

“That’s Daphne North,” said Mrs. Bedloe impatiently. Daphne’s Parthian
shaft had penetrated even her armor of self-complacency. “Pretty?—yes,
far too pretty for her own good.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Baxter indulgently. “Good looks are all
right. I know some of our town girls who would give a good deal to have
hair and complexion like that. Why, I never saw such beauty.”

“It’ll not do her any good. She’s so vain now that there’s no getting on
with her. Not that it’s any wonder her head is turned. Strangers are
always asking who that beautiful girl is. Her mother is queer, too. Not
that you could put your finger on any one thing and say the woman wasn’t
right there. But she’s different from other folks. She had an awful life
of it with Will North. I guess it affected her intellecks a little. In
some things she’s too strict with Daphne and in others too slack. Daphne
is as good as engaged to Neil Burnham, and she’s flirting scandalous
with the schoolmaster. A worthless fellow he is, too, in every way. The
trustees are going to dismiss him at the end of the term. But he’s good
looking if you like his style.”

“Why does Neil Burnham allow this girl to flirt with him, then?” asked
Mrs. Baxter, who was always agog with curiosity over a love affair.

“Oh, Neil, he’s too soft for any use, that’s what’s the matter with him.
He thinks Daphne and everything she does perfection. Didn’t you see how
meek he took his snub to-day? I’d like to shake some sense into him.
Daphne’s pretty, but it is all outside. She is just as commonplace and
silly as she can be.”

As Daphne went down the lane, under its light-springing arch of emerald
aspens, she saw the schoolmaster waiting for her on the bridge outside
the Bedloe gate. Her dreamy face flushed with pleasure, and her heart
began to beat quickly. How handsome and polished he was, she thought.
How unlike that stout, sunburned Neil Burnham, with his big hands and
homely ways!

Francis Elliott took her books and they strolled slowly up the long hill
beyond the brook. Daphne’s golden head drooped like a flower beneath his
compliments and ardent glances. How romantically he talked! Just like
the heroes in her favorite novels! To the fascinated girl the walk home
seemed far too short. They lingered at her gate, talking together, and
when they parted he lifted his hat with what Daphne called courtly
grace.

“Au revoir, my princess,” he said meaningly.

Daphne hurried into the house with her head in a whirl. Her mother, a
gaunt, dark woman with vivid eyes, met her at the door. She looked
angrily at the girl.

“What do you mean by mooning half an hour on the public road with the
schoolmaster?” she asked harshly. “There has been too much of this,
Daphne. People are talking. Remember that you are to marry Neil
Burnham.”