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diff --git a/544-0.txt b/544-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8cf0af3 --- /dev/null +++ b/544-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8925 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 544 *** +Anne’s House of Dreams + + +by + +Lucy Maud Montgomery + + +“To Laura, in memory of the olden time.” + + + + +CONTENTS + + +Chapter + + 1 IN THE GARRET OF GREEN GABLES + 2 THE HOUSE OF DREAMS + 3 THE LAND OF DREAMS AMONG + 4 THE FIRST BRIDE OF GREEN GABLES + 5 THE HOME COMING + 6 CAPTAIN JIM + 7 THE SCHOOLMASTER’S BRIDE + 8 MISS CORNELIA BRYANT COMES TO CALL + 9 AN EVENING AT FOUR WINDS POINT + 10 LESLIE MOORE + 11 THE STORY OF LESLIE MOORE + 12 LESLIE COMES OVER + 13 A GHOSTLY EVENING + 14 NOVEMBER DAYS + 15 CHRISTMAS AT FOUR WINDS + 16 NEW YEAR’S EVE AT THE LIGHT + 17 A FOUR WINDS WINTER + 18 SPRING DAYS + 19 DAWN AND DUSK + 20 LOST MARGARET + 21 BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY + 22 MISS CORNELIA ARRANGES MATTERS + 23 OWEN FORD COMES + 24 THE LIFE-BOOK OF CAPTAIN JIM + 25 THE WRITING OF THE BOOK + 26 OWEN FORD’S CONFESSION + 27 ON THE SAND BAR + 28 ODDS AND ENDS + 29 GILBERT AND ANNE DISAGREE + 30 LESLIE DECIDES + 31 THE TRUTH MAKES FREE + 32 MISS CORNELIA DISCUSSES THE AFFAIR + 33 LESLIE RETURNS + 34 THE SHIP O’DREAMS COMES TO HARBOR + 35 POLITICS AT FOUR WINDS + 36 BEAUTY FOR ASHES + 37 MISS CORNELIA MAKES A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT + 38 RED ROSES + 39 CAPTAIN JIM CROSSES THE BAR + 40 FAREWELL TO THE HOUSE OF DREAMS + + + + +CHAPTER 1 + +IN THE GARRET OF GREEN GABLES + +“Thanks be, I’m done with geometry, learning or teaching it,” said Anne +Shirley, a trifle vindictively, as she thumped a somewhat battered +volume of Euclid into a big chest of books, banged the lid in triumph, +and sat down upon it, looking at Diana Wright across the Green Gables +garret, with gray eyes that were like a morning sky. + +The garret was a shadowy, suggestive, delightful place, as all garrets +should be. Through the open window, by which Anne sat, blew the sweet, +scented, sun-warm air of the August afternoon; outside, poplar boughs +rustled and tossed in the wind; beyond them were the woods, where +Lover’s Lane wound its enchanted path, and the old apple orchard which +still bore its rosy harvests munificently. And, over all, was a great +mountain range of snowy clouds in the blue southern sky. Through the +other window was glimpsed a distant, white-capped, blue sea--the +beautiful St. Lawrence Gulf, on which floats, like a jewel, Abegweit, +whose softer, sweeter Indian name has long been forsaken for the more +prosaic one of Prince Edward Island. + +Diana Wright, three years older than when we last saw her, had grown +somewhat matronly in the intervening time. But her eyes were as black +and brilliant, her cheeks as rosy, and her dimples as enchanting, as in +the long-ago days when she and Anne Shirley had vowed eternal +friendship in the garden at Orchard Slope. In her arms she held a +small, sleeping, black-curled creature, who for two happy years had +been known to the world of Avonlea as “Small Anne Cordelia.” Avonlea +folks knew why Diana had called her Anne, of course, but Avonlea folks +were puzzled by the Cordelia. There had never been a Cordelia in the +Wright or Barry connections. Mrs. Harmon Andrews said she supposed +Diana had found the name in some trashy novel, and wondered that Fred +hadn’t more sense than to allow it. But Diana and Anne smiled at each +other. They knew how Small Anne Cordelia had come by her name. + +“You always hated geometry,” said Diana with a retrospective smile. “I +should think you’d be real glad to be through with teaching, anyhow.” + +“Oh, I’ve always liked teaching, apart from geometry. These past three +years in Summerside have been very pleasant ones. Mrs. Harmon Andrews +told me when I came home that I wouldn’t likely find married life as +much better than teaching as I expected. Evidently Mrs. Harmon is of +Hamlet’s opinion that it may be better to bear the ills that we have +than fly to others that we know not of.” + +Anne’s laugh, as blithe and irresistible as of yore, with an added note +of sweetness and maturity, rang through the garret. Marilla in the +kitchen below, compounding blue plum preserve, heard it and smiled; +then sighed to think how seldom that dear laugh would echo through +Green Gables in the years to come. Nothing in her life had ever given +Marilla so much happiness as the knowledge that Anne was going to marry +Gilbert Blythe; but every joy must bring with it its little shadow of +sorrow. During the three Summerside years Anne had been home often for +vacations and weekends; but, after this, a bi-annual visit would be as +much as could be hoped for. + +“You needn’t let what Mrs. Harmon says worry you,” said Diana, with the +calm assurance of the four-years matron. “Married life has its ups and +downs, of course. You mustn’t expect that everything will always go +smoothly. But I can assure you, Anne, that it’s a happy life, when +you’re married to the right man.” + +Anne smothered a smile. Diana’s airs of vast experience always amused +her a little. + +“I daresay I’ll be putting them on too, when I’ve been married four +years,” she thought. “Surely my sense of humor will preserve me from +it, though.” + +“Is it settled yet where you are going to live?” asked Diana, cuddling +Small Anne Cordelia with the inimitable gesture of motherhood which +always sent through Anne’s heart, filled with sweet, unuttered dreams +and hopes, a thrill that was half pure pleasure and half a strange, +ethereal pain. + +“Yes. That was what I wanted to tell you when I ’phoned to you to come +down today. By the way, I can’t realize that we really have telephones +in Avonlea now. It sounds so preposterously up-to-date and modernish +for this darling, leisurely old place.” + +“We can thank the A. V. I. S. for them,” said Diana. “We should never +have got the line if they hadn’t taken the matter up and carried it +through. There was enough cold water thrown to discourage any society. +But they stuck to it, nevertheless. You did a splendid thing for +Avonlea when you founded that society, Anne. What fun we did have at +our meetings! Will you ever forget the blue hall and Judson Parker’s +scheme for painting medicine advertisements on his fence?” + +“I don’t know that I’m wholly grateful to the A. V. I. S. in the +matter of the telephone,” said Anne. “Oh, I know it’s most +convenient--even more so than our old device of signalling to each +other by flashes of candlelight! And, as Mrs. Rachel says, ‘Avonlea +must keep up with the procession, that’s what.’ But somehow I feel as +if I didn’t want Avonlea spoiled by what Mr. Harrison, when he wants to +be witty, calls ‘modern inconveniences.’ I should like to have it kept +always just as it was in the dear old years. That’s foolish--and +sentimental--and impossible. So I shall immediately become wise and +practical and possible. The telephone, as Mr. Harrison concedes, is ‘a +buster of a good thing’--even if you do know that probably half a dozen +interested people are listening along the line.” + +“That’s the worst of it,” sighed Diana. “It’s so annoying to hear the +receivers going down whenever you ring anyone up. They say Mrs. Harmon +Andrews insisted that their ’phone should be put in their kitchen just +so that she could listen whenever it rang and keep an eye on the dinner +at the same time. Today, when you called me, I distinctly heard that +queer clock of the Pyes’ striking. So no doubt Josie or Gertie was +listening.” + +“Oh, so that is why you said, ‘You’ve got a new clock at Green Gables, +haven’t you?’ I couldn’t imagine what you meant. I heard a vicious +click as soon as you had spoken. I suppose it was the Pye receiver +being hung up with profane energy. Well, never mind the Pyes. As Mrs. +Rachel says, ‘Pyes they always were and Pyes they always will be, world +without end, amen.’ I want to talk of pleasanter things. It’s all +settled as to where my new home shall be.” + +“Oh, Anne, where? I do hope it’s near here.” + +“No-o-o, that’s the drawback. Gilbert is going to settle at Four Winds +Harbor--sixty miles from here.” + +“Sixty! It might as well be six hundred,” sighed Diana. “I never can +get further from home now than Charlottetown.” + +“You’ll have to come to Four Winds. It’s the most beautiful harbor on +the Island. There’s a little village called Glen St. Mary at its head, +and Dr. David Blythe has been practicing there for fifty years. He is +Gilbert’s great-uncle, you know. He is going to retire, and Gilbert is +to take over his practice. Dr. Blythe is going to keep his house, +though, so we shall have to find a habitation for ourselves. I don’t +know yet what it is, or where it will be in reality, but I have a +little house o’dreams all furnished in my imagination--a tiny, +delightful castle in Spain.” + +“Where are you going for your wedding tour?” asked Diana. + +“Nowhere. Don’t look horrified, Diana dearest. You suggest Mrs. +Harmon Andrews. She, no doubt, will remark condescendingly that people +who can’t afford wedding ‘towers’ are real sensible not to take them; +and then she’ll remind me that Jane went to Europe for hers. I want to +spend MY honeymoon at Four Winds in my own dear house of dreams.” + +“And you’ve decided not to have any bridesmaid?” + +“There isn’t any one to have. You and Phil and Priscilla and Jane all +stole a march on me in the matter of marriage; and Stella is teaching +in Vancouver. I have no other ‘kindred soul’ and I won’t have a +bridesmaid who isn’t.” + +“But you are going to wear a veil, aren’t you?” asked Diana, anxiously. + +“Yes, indeedy. I shouldn’t feel like a bride without one. I remember +telling Matthew, that evening when he brought me to Green Gables, that +I never expected to be a bride because I was so homely no one would +ever want to marry me--unless some foreign missionary did. I had an +idea then that foreign missionaries couldn’t afford to be finicky in +the matter of looks if they wanted a girl to risk her life among +cannibals. You should have seen the foreign missionary Priscilla +married. He was as handsome and inscrutable as those daydreams we once +planned to marry ourselves, Diana; he was the best dressed man I ever +met, and he raved over Priscilla’s ‘ethereal, golden beauty.’ But of +course there are no cannibals in Japan.” + +“Your wedding dress is a dream, anyhow,” sighed Diana rapturously. +“You’ll look like a perfect queen in it--you’re so tall and slender. +How DO you keep so slim, Anne? I’m fatter than ever--I’ll soon have no +waist at all.” + +“Stoutness and slimness seem to be matters of predestination,” said +Anne. “At all events, Mrs. Harmon Andrews can’t say to you what she +said to me when I came home from Summerside, ‘Well, Anne, you’re just +about as skinny as ever.’ It sounds quite romantic to be ‘slender,’ +but ‘skinny’ has a very different tang.” + +“Mrs. Harmon has been talking about your trousseau. She admits it’s as +nice as Jane’s, although she says Jane married a millionaire and you +are only marrying a ‘poor young doctor without a cent to his name.’” + +Anne laughed. + +“My dresses ARE nice. I love pretty things. I remember the first +pretty dress I ever had--the brown gloria Matthew gave me for our +school concert. Before that everything I had was so ugly. It seemed +to me that I stepped into a new world that night.” + +“That was the night Gilbert recited ‘Bingen on the Rhine,’ and looked +at you when he said, ‘There’s another, NOT a sister.’ And you were so +furious because he put your pink tissue rose in his breast pocket! You +didn’t much imagine then that you would ever marry him.” + +“Oh, well, that’s another instance of predestination,” laughed Anne, as +they went down the garret stairs. + + + + +CHAPTER 2 + +THE HOUSE OF DREAMS + +There was more excitement in the air of Green Gables than there had +ever been before in all its history. Even Marilla was so excited that +she couldn’t help showing it--which was little short of being +phenomenal. + +“There’s never been a wedding in this house,” she said, half +apologetically, to Mrs. Rachel Lynde. “When I was a child I heard an +old minister say that a house was not a real home until it had been +consecrated by a birth, a wedding and a death. We’ve had deaths +here--my father and mother died here as well as Matthew; and we’ve even +had a birth here. Long ago, just after we moved into this house, we +had a married hired man for a little while, and his wife had a baby +here. But there’s never been a wedding before. It does seem so +strange to think of Anne being married. In a way she just seems to me +the little girl Matthew brought home here fourteen years ago. I can’t +realize that she’s grown up. I shall never forget what I felt when I +saw Matthew bringing in a GIRL. I wonder what became of the boy we +would have got if there hadn’t been a mistake. I wonder what HIS fate +was.” + +“Well, it was a fortunate mistake,” said Mrs. Rachel Lynde, “though, +mind you, there was a time I didn’t think so--that evening I came up to +see Anne and she treated us to such a scene. Many things have changed +since then, that’s what.” + +Mrs. Rachel sighed, and then brisked up again. When weddings were in +order Mrs. Rachel was ready to let the dead past bury its dead. + +“I’m going to give Anne two of my cotton warp spreads,” she resumed. +“A tobacco-stripe one and an apple-leaf one. She tells me they’re +getting to be real fashionable again. Well, fashion or no fashion, I +don’t believe there’s anything prettier for a spare-room bed than a +nice apple-leaf spread, that’s what. I must see about getting them +bleached. I’ve had them sewed up in cotton bags ever since Thomas +died, and no doubt they’re an awful color. But there’s a month yet, +and dew-bleaching will work wonders.” + +Only a month! Marilla sighed and then said proudly: + +“I’m giving Anne that half dozen braided rugs I have in the garret. I +never supposed she’d want them--they’re so old-fashioned, and nobody +seems to want anything but hooked mats now. But she asked me for +them--said she’d rather have them than anything else for her floors. +They ARE pretty. I made them of the nicest rags, and braided them in +stripes. It was such company these last few winters. And I’ll make +her enough blue plum preserve to stock her jam closet for a year. It +seems real strange. Those blue plum trees hadn’t even a blossom for +three years, and I thought they might as well be cut down. And this +last spring they were white, and such a crop of plums I never remember +at Green Gables.” + +“Well, thank goodness that Anne and Gilbert really are going to be +married after all. It’s what I’ve always prayed for,” said Mrs. +Rachel, in the tone of one who is comfortably sure that her prayers +have availed much. “It was a great relief to find out that she really +didn’t mean to take the Kingsport man. He was rich, to be sure, and +Gilbert is poor--at least, to begin with; but then he’s an Island boy.” + +“He’s Gilbert Blythe,” said Marilla contentedly. Marilla would have +died the death before she would have put into words the thought that +was always in the background of her mind whenever she had looked at +Gilbert from his childhood up--the thought that, had it not been for +her own wilful pride long, long ago, he might have been HER son. +Marilla felt that, in some strange way, his marriage with Anne would +put right that old mistake. Good had come out of the evil of the +ancient bitterness. + +As for Anne herself, she was so happy that she almost felt frightened. +The gods, so says the old superstition, do not like to behold too happy +mortals. It is certain, at least, that some human beings do not. Two +of that ilk descended upon Anne one violet dusk and proceeded to do +what in them lay to prick the rainbow bubble of her satisfaction. If +she thought she was getting any particular prize in young Dr. Blythe, +or if she imagined that he was still as infatuated with her as he might +have been in his salad days, it was surely their duty to put the matter +before her in another light. Yet these two worthy ladies were not +enemies of Anne; on the contrary, they were really quite fond of her, +and would have defended her as their own young had anyone else attacked +her. Human nature is not obliged to be consistent. + +Mrs. Inglis--nee Jane Andrews, to quote from the Daily Enterprise--came +with her mother and Mrs. Jasper Bell. But in Jane the milk of human +kindness had not been curdled by years of matrimonial bickerings. Her +lines had fallen in pleasant places. In spite of the fact--as Mrs. +Rachel Lynde would say--that she had married a millionaire, her +marriage had been happy. Wealth had not spoiled her. She was still +the placid, amiable, pink-cheeked Jane of the old quartette, +sympathising with her old chum’s happiness and as keenly interested in +all the dainty details of Anne’s trousseau as if it could rival her own +silken and bejewelled splendors. Jane was not brilliant, and had +probably never made a remark worth listening to in her life; but she +never said anything that would hurt anyone’s feelings--which may be a +negative talent but is likewise a rare and enviable one. + +“So Gilbert didn’t go back on you after all,” said Mrs. Harmon Andrews, +contriving to convey an expression of surprise in her tone. “Well, the +Blythes generally keep their word when they’ve once passed it, no +matter what happens. Let me see--you’re twenty-five, aren’t you, Anne? +When I was a girl twenty-five was the first corner. But you look quite +young. Red-headed people always do.” + +“Red hair is very fashionable now,” said Anne, trying to smile, but +speaking rather coldly. Life had developed in her a sense of humor +which helped her over many difficulties; but as yet nothing had availed +to steel her against a reference to her hair. + +“So it is--so it is,” conceded Mrs. Harmon. “There’s no telling what +queer freaks fashion will take. Well, Anne, your things are very +pretty, and very suitable to your position in life, aren’t they, Jane? +I hope you’ll be very happy. You have my best wishes, I’m sure. A +long engagement doesn’t often turn out well. But, of course, in your +case it couldn’t be helped.” + +“Gilbert looks very young for a doctor. I’m afraid people won’t have +much confidence in him,” said Mrs. Jasper Bell gloomily. Then she shut +her mouth tightly, as if she had said what she considered it her duty +to say and held her conscience clear. She belonged to the type which +always has a stringy black feather in its hat and straggling locks of +hair on its neck. + +Anne’s surface pleasure in her pretty bridal things was temporarily +shadowed; but the deeps of happiness below could not thus be disturbed; +and the little stings of Mesdames Bell and Andrews were forgotten when +Gilbert came later, and they wandered down to the birches of the brook, +which had been saplings when Anne had come to Green Gables, but were +now tall, ivory columns in a fairy palace of twilight and stars. In +their shadows Anne and Gilbert talked in lover-fashion of their new +home and their new life together. + +“I’ve found a nest for us, Anne.” + +“Oh, where? Not right in the village, I hope. I wouldn’t like that +altogether.” + +“No. There was no house to be had in the village. This is a little +white house on the harbor shore, half way between Glen St. Mary and +Four Winds Point. It’s a little out of the way, but when we get a +’phone in that won’t matter so much. The situation is beautiful. It +looks to the sunset and has the great blue harbor before it. The +sand-dunes aren’t very far away--the sea winds blow over them and the +sea spray drenches them.” + +“But the house itself, Gilbert,--OUR first home? What is it like?” + +“Not very large, but large enough for us. There’s a splendid living +room with a fireplace in it downstairs, and a dining room that looks +out on the harbor, and a little room that will do for my office. It is +about sixty years old--the oldest house in Four Winds. But it has been +kept in pretty good repair, and was all done over about fifteen years +ago--shingled, plastered and re-floored. It was well built to begin +with. I understand that there was some romantic story connected with +its building, but the man I rented it from didn’t know it.” + +“He said Captain Jim was the only one who could spin that old yarn now.” + +“Who is Captain Jim?” + +“The keeper of the lighthouse on Four Winds Point. You’ll love that +Four Winds light, Anne. It’s a revolving one, and it flashes like a +magnificent star through the twilights. We can see it from our living +room windows and our front door.” + +“Who owns the house?” + +“Well, it’s the property of the Glen St. Mary Presbyterian Church now, +and I rented it from the trustees. But it belonged until lately to a +very old lady, Miss Elizabeth Russell. She died last spring, and as +she had no near relatives she left her property to the Glen St. Mary +Church. Her furniture is still in the house, and I bought most of +it--for a mere song you might say, because it was all so old-fashioned +that the trustees despaired of selling it. Glen St. Mary folks prefer +plush brocade and sideboards with mirrors and ornamentations, I fancy. +But Miss Russell’s furniture is very good and I feel sure you’ll like +it, Anne.” + +“So far, good,” said Anne, nodding cautious approval. “But, Gilbert, +people cannot live by furniture alone. You haven’t yet mentioned one +very important thing. Are there TREES about this house?” + +“Heaps of them, oh, dryad! There is a big grove of fir trees behind +it, two rows of Lombardy poplars down the lane, and a ring of white +birches around a very delightful garden. Our front door opens right +into the garden, but there is another entrance--a little gate hung +between two firs. The hinges are on one trunk and the catch on the +other. Their boughs form an arch overhead.” + +“Oh, I’m so glad! I couldn’t live where there were no trees--something +vital in me would starve. Well, after that, there’s no use asking you +if there’s a brook anywhere near. THAT would be expecting too much.” + +“But there IS a brook--and it actually cuts across one corner of the +garden.” + +“Then,” said Anne, with a long sigh of supreme satisfaction, “this +house you have found IS my house of dreams and none other.” + + + + +CHAPTER 3 + +THE LAND OF DREAMS AMONG + +“Have you made up your mind who you’re going to have to the wedding, +Anne?” asked Mrs. Rachel Lynde, as she hemstitched table napkins +industriously. “It’s time your invitations were sent, even if they are +to be only informal ones.” + +“I don’t mean to have very many,” said Anne. “We just want those we +love best to see us married. Gilbert’s people, and Mr. and Mrs. Allan, +and Mr. and Mrs. Harrison.” + +“There was a time when you’d hardly have numbered Mr. Harrison among +your dearest friends,” said Marilla drily. + +“Well, I wasn’t VERY strongly attracted to him at our first meeting,” +acknowledged Anne, with a laugh over the recollection. “But Mr. +Harrison has improved on acquaintance, and Mrs. Harrison is really a +dear. Then, of course, there are Miss Lavendar and Paul.” + +“Have they decided to come to the Island this summer? I thought they +were going to Europe.” + +“They changed their minds when I wrote them I was going to be married. +I had a letter from Paul today. He says he MUST come to my wedding, no +matter what happens to Europe.” + +“That child always idolised you,” remarked Mrs. Rachel. + +“That ‘child’ is a young man of nineteen now, Mrs. Lynde.” + +“How time does fly!” was Mrs. Lynde’s brilliant and original response. + +“Charlotta the Fourth may come with them. She sent word by Paul that +she would come if her husband would let her. I wonder if she still +wears those enormous blue bows, and whether her husband calls her +Charlotta or Leonora. I should love to have Charlotta at my wedding. +Charlotta and I were at a wedding long syne. They expect to be at Echo +Lodge next week. Then there are Phil and the Reverend Jo----” + +“It sounds awful to hear you speaking of a minister like that, Anne,” +said Mrs. Rachel severely. + +“His wife calls him that.” + +“She should have more respect for his holy office, then,” retorted Mrs. +Rachel. + +“I’ve heard you criticise ministers pretty sharply yourself,” teased +Anne. + +“Yes, but I do it reverently,” protested Mrs. Lynde. “You never heard +me NICKNAME a minister.” + +Anne smothered a smile. + +“Well, there are Diana and Fred and little Fred and Small Anne +Cordelia--and Jane Andrews. I wish I could have Miss Stacey and Aunt +Jamesina and Priscilla and Stella. But Stella is in Vancouver, and +Pris is in Japan, and Miss Stacey is married in California, and Aunt +Jamesina has gone to India to explore her daughter’s mission field, in +spite of her horror of snakes. It’s really dreadful--the way people +get scattered over the globe.” + +“The Lord never intended it, that’s what,” said Mrs. Rachel +authoritatively. “In my young days people grew up and married and +settled down where they were born, or pretty near it. Thank goodness +you’ve stuck to the Island, Anne. I was afraid Gilbert would insist on +rushing off to the ends of the earth when he got through college, and +dragging you with him.” + +“If everybody stayed where he was born places would soon be filled up, +Mrs. Lynde.” + +“Oh, I’m not going to argue with you, Anne. _I_ am not a B.A. What +time of the day is the ceremony to be?” + +“We have decided on noon--high noon, as the society reporters say. +That will give us time to catch the evening train to Glen St. Mary.” + +“And you’ll be married in the parlor?” + +“No--not unless it rains. We mean to be married in the orchard--with +the blue sky over us and the sunshine around us. Do you know when and +where I’d like to be married, if I could? It would be at dawn--a June +dawn, with a glorious sunrise, and roses blooming in the gardens; and I +would slip down and meet Gilbert and we would go together to the heart +of the beech woods,--and there, under the green arches that would be +like a splendid cathedral, we would be married.” + +Marilla sniffed scornfully and Mrs. Lynde looked shocked. + +“But that would be terrible queer, Anne. Why, it wouldn’t really seem +legal. And what would Mrs. Harmon Andrews say?” + +“Ah, there’s the rub,” sighed Anne. “There are so many things in life +we cannot do because of the fear of what Mrs. Harmon Andrews would say. +‘’Tis true, ’tis pity, and pity ’tis, ’tis true.’ What delightful +things we might do were it not for Mrs. Harmon Andrews!” + +“By times, Anne, I don’t feel quite sure that I understand you +altogether,” complained Mrs. Lynde. + +“Anne was always romantic, you know,” said Marilla apologetically. + +“Well, married life will most likely cure her of that,” Mrs. Rachel +responded comfortingly. + +Anne laughed and slipped away to Lover’s Lane, where Gilbert found her; +and neither of them seemed to entertain much fear, or hope, that their +married life would cure them of romance. + +The Echo Lodge people came over the next week, and Green Gables buzzed +with the delight of them. Miss Lavendar had changed so little that the +three years since her last Island visit might have been a watch in the +night; but Anne gasped with amazement over Paul. Could this splendid +six feet of manhood be the little Paul of Avonlea schooldays? + +“You really make me feel old, Paul,” said Anne. “Why, I have to look +up to you!” + +“You’ll never grow old, Teacher,” said Paul. “You are one of the +fortunate mortals who have found and drunk from the Fountain of +Youth,--you and Mother Lavendar. See here! When you’re married I +WON’T call you Mrs. Blythe. To me you’ll always be ‘Teacher’--the +teacher of the best lessons I ever learned. I want to show you +something.” + +The “something” was a pocketbook full of poems. Paul had put some of +his beautiful fancies into verse, and magazine editors had not been as +unappreciative as they are sometimes supposed to be. Anne read Paul’s +poems with real delight. They were full of charm and promise. + +“You’ll be famous yet, Paul. I always dreamed of having one famous +pupil. He was to be a college president--but a great poet would be +even better. Some day I’ll be able to boast that I whipped the +distinguished Paul Irving. But then I never did whip you, did I, Paul? +What an opportunity lost! I think I kept you in at recess, however.” + +“You may be famous yourself, Teacher. I’ve seen a good deal of your +work these last three years.” + +“No. I know what I can do. I can write pretty, fanciful little +sketches that children love and editors send welcome cheques for. But +I can do nothing big. My only chance for earthly immortality is a +corner in your Memoirs.” + +Charlotta the Fourth had discarded the blue bows but her freckles were +not noticeably less. + +“I never did think I’d come down to marrying a Yankee, Miss Shirley, +ma’am,” she said. “But you never know what’s before you, and it isn’t +his fault. He was born that way.” + +“You’re a Yankee yourself, Charlotta, since you’ve married one.” + +“Miss Shirley, ma’am, I’m NOT! And I wouldn’t be if I was to marry a +dozen Yankees! Tom’s kind of nice. And besides, I thought I’d better +not be too hard to please, for I mightn’t get another chance. Tom +don’t drink and he don’t growl because he has to work between meals, +and when all’s said and done I’m satisfied, Miss Shirley, ma’am.” + +“Does he call you Leonora?” asked Anne. + +“Goodness, no, Miss Shirley, ma’am. I wouldn’t know who he meant if he +did. Of course, when we got married he had to say, ‘I take thee, +Leonora,’ and I declare to you, Miss Shirley, ma’am, I’ve had the most +dreadful feeling ever since that it wasn’t me he was talking to and I +haven’t been rightly married at all. And so you’re going to be married +yourself, Miss Shirley, ma’am? I always thought I’d like to marry a +doctor. It would be so handy when the children had measles and croup. +Tom is only a bricklayer, but he’s real good-tempered. When I said to +him, says I, ‘Tom, can I go to Miss Shirley’s wedding? I mean to go +anyhow, but I’d like to have your consent,’ he just says, ‘Suit +yourself, Charlotta, and you’ll suit me.’ That’s a real pleasant kind +of husband to have, Miss Shirley, ma’am.” + +Philippa and her Reverend Jo arrived at Green Gables the day before the +wedding. Anne and Phil had a rapturous meeting which presently +simmered down to a cosy, confidential chat over all that had been and +was about to be. + +“Queen Anne, you’re as queenly as ever. I’ve got fearfully thin since +the babies came. I’m not half so good-looking; but I think Jo likes +it. There’s not such a contrast between us, you see. And oh, it’s +perfectly magnificent that you’re going to marry Gilbert. Roy Gardner +wouldn’t have done at all, at all. I can see that now, though I was +horribly disappointed at the time. You know, Anne, you did treat Roy +very badly.” + +“He has recovered, I understand,” smiled Anne. + +“Oh, yes. He is married and his wife is a sweet little thing and +they’re perfectly happy. Everything works together for good. Jo and +the Bible say that, and they are pretty good authorities.” + +“Are Alec and Alonzo married yet?” + +“Alec is, but Alonzo isn’t. How those dear old days at Patty’s Place +come back when I’m talking to you, Anne! What fun we had!” + +“Have you been to Patty’s Place lately?” + +“Oh, yes, I go often. Miss Patty and Miss Maria still sit by the +fireplace and knit. And that reminds me--we’ve brought you a wedding +gift from them, Anne. Guess what it is.” + +“I never could. How did they know I was going to be married?” + +“Oh, I told them. I was there last week. And they were so interested. +Two days ago Miss Patty wrote me a note asking me to call; and then she +asked if I would take her gift to you. What would you wish most from +Patty’s Place, Anne?” + +“You can’t mean that Miss Patty has sent me her china dogs?” + +“Go up head. They’re in my trunk this very moment. And I’ve a letter +for you. Wait a moment and I’ll get it.” + +“Dear Miss Shirley,” Miss Patty had written, “Maria and I were very +much interested in hearing of your approaching nuptials. We send you +our best wishes. Maria and I have never married, but we have no +objection to other people doing so. We are sending you the china dogs. +I intended to leave them to you in my will, because you seemed to have +sincere affection for them. But Maria and I expect to live a good +while yet (D.V.), so I have decided to give you the dogs while you are +young. You will not have forgotten that Gog looks to the right and +Magog to the left.” + +“Just fancy those lovely old dogs sitting by the fireplace in my house +of dreams,” said Anne rapturously. “I never expected anything so +delightful.” + +That evening Green Gables hummed with preparations for the following +day; but in the twilight Anne slipped away. She had a little +pilgrimage to make on this last day of her girlhood and she must make +it alone. She went to Matthew’s grave, in the little poplar-shaded +Avonlea graveyard, and there kept a silent tryst with old memories and +immortal loves. + +“How glad Matthew would be tomorrow if he were here,” she whispered. +“But I believe he does know and is glad of it--somewhere else. I’ve +read somewhere that ‘our dead are never dead until we have forgotten +them.’ Matthew will never be dead to me, for I can never forget him.” + +She left on his grave the flowers she had brought and walked slowly +down the long hill. It was a gracious evening, full of delectable +lights and shadows. In the west was a sky of mackerel clouds--crimson +and amber-tinted, with long strips of apple-green sky between. Beyond +was the glimmering radiance of a sunset sea, and the ceaseless voice of +many waters came up from the tawny shore. All around her, lying in the +fine, beautiful country silence, were the hills and fields and woods +she had known and loved so long. + +“History repeats itself,” said Gilbert, joining her as she passed the +Blythe gate. “Do you remember our first walk down this hill, Anne--our +first walk together anywhere, for that matter?” + +“I was coming home in the twilight from Matthew’s grave--and you came +out of the gate; and I swallowed the pride of years and spoke to you.” + +“And all heaven opened before me,” supplemented Gilbert. “From that +moment I looked forward to tomorrow. When I left you at your gate that +night and walked home I was the happiest boy in the world. Anne had +forgiven me.” + +“I think you had the most to forgive. I was an ungrateful little +wretch--and after you had really saved my life that day on the pond, +too. How I loathed that load of obligation at first! I don’t deserve +the happiness that has come to me.” + +Gilbert laughed and clasped tighter the girlish hand that wore his +ring. Anne’s engagement ring was a circlet of pearls. She had refused +to wear a diamond. + +“I’ve never really liked diamonds since I found out they weren’t the +lovely purple I had dreamed. They will always suggest my old +disappointment.” + +“But pearls are for tears, the old legend says,” Gilbert had objected. + +“I’m not afraid of that. And tears can be happy as well as sad. My +very happiest moments have been when I had tears in my eyes--when +Marilla told me I might stay at Green Gables--when Matthew gave me the +first pretty dress I ever had--when I heard that you were going to +recover from the fever. So give me pearls for our troth ring, Gilbert, +and I’ll willingly accept the sorrow of life with its joy.” + +But tonight our lovers thought only of joy and never of sorrow. For +the morrow was their wedding day, and their house of dreams awaited +them on the misty, purple shore of Four Winds Harbor. + + + + +CHAPTER 4 + +THE FIRST BRIDE OF GREEN GABLES + +Anne wakened on the morning of her wedding day to find the sunshine +winking in at the window of the little porch gable and a September +breeze frolicking with her curtains. + +“I’m so glad the sun will shine on me,” she thought happily. + +She recalled the first morning she had wakened in that little porch +room, when the sunshine had crept in on her through the blossom-drift +of the old Snow Queen. That had not been a happy wakening, for it +brought with it the bitter disappointment of the preceding night. But +since then the little room had been endeared and consecrated by years +of happy childhood dreams and maiden visions. To it she had come back +joyfully after all her absences; at its window she had knelt through +that night of bitter agony when she believed Gilbert dying, and by it +she had sat in speechless happiness the night of her betrothal. Many +vigils of joy and some of sorrow had been kept there; and today she +must leave it forever. Henceforth it would be hers no more; +fifteen-year-old Dora was to inherit it when she had gone. Nor did +Anne wish it otherwise; the little room was sacred to youth and +girlhood--to the past that was to close today before the chapter of +wifehood opened. + +Green Gables was a busy and joyous house that forenoon. Diana arrived +early, with little Fred and Small Anne Cordelia, to lend a hand. Davy +and Dora, the Green Gables twins, whisked the babies off to the garden. + +“Don’t let Small Anne Cordelia spoil her clothes,” warned Diana +anxiously. + +“You needn’t be afraid to trust her with Dora,” said Marilla. “That +child is more sensible and careful than most of the mothers I’ve known. +She’s really a wonder in some ways. Not much like that other +harum-scarum I brought up.” + +Marilla smiled across her chicken salad at Anne. It might even be +suspected that she liked the harum-scarum best after all. + +“Those twins are real nice children,” said Mrs. Rachel, when she was +sure they were out of earshot. “Dora is so womanly and helpful, and +Davy is developing into a very smart boy. He isn’t the holy terror for +mischief he used to be.” + +“I never was so distracted in my life as I was the first six months he +was here,” acknowledged Marilla. “After that I suppose I got used to +him. He’s taken a great notion to farming lately, and wants me to let +him try running the farm next year. I may, for Mr. Barry doesn’t think +he’ll want to rent it much longer, and some new arrangement will have +to be made.” + +“Well, you certainly have a lovely day for your wedding, Anne,” said +Diana, as she slipped a voluminous apron over her silken array. “You +couldn’t have had a finer one if you’d ordered it from Eaton’s.” + +“Indeed, there’s too much money going out of this Island to that same +Eaton’s,” said Mrs. Lynde indignantly. She had strong views on the +subject of octopus-like department stores, and never lost an +opportunity of airing them. “And as for those catalogues of theirs, +they’re the Avonlea girls’ Bible now, that’s what. They pore over them +on Sundays instead of studying the Holy Scriptures.” + +“Well, they’re splendid to amuse children with,” said Diana. “Fred and +Small Anne look at the pictures by the hour.” + +“_I_ amused ten children without the aid of Eaton’s catalogue,” said +Mrs. Rachel severely. + +“Come, you two, don’t quarrel over Eaton’s catalogue,” said Anne gaily. +“This is my day of days, you know. I’m so happy I want every one else +to be happy, too.” + +“I’m sure I hope your happiness will last, child,” sighed Mrs. Rachel. +She did hope it truly, and believed it, but she was afraid it was in +the nature of a challenge to Providence to flaunt your happiness too +openly. Anne, for her own good, must be toned down a trifle. + +But it was a happy and beautiful bride who came down the old, +homespun-carpeted stairs that September noon--the first bride of Green +Gables, slender and shining-eyed, in the mist of her maiden veil, with +her arms full of roses. Gilbert, waiting for her in the hall below, +looked up at her with adoring eyes. She was his at last, this evasive, +long-sought Anne, won after years of patient waiting. It was to him +she was coming in the sweet surrender of the bride. Was he worthy of +her? Could he make her as happy as he hoped? If he failed her--if he +could not measure up to her standard of manhood--then, as she held out +her hand, their eyes met and all doubt was swept away in a glad +certainty. They belonged to each other; and, no matter what life might +hold for them, it could never alter that. Their happiness was in each +other’s keeping and both were unafraid. + +They were married in the sunshine of the old orchard, circled by the +loving and kindly faces of long-familiar friends. Mr. Allan married +them, and the Reverend Jo made what Mrs. Rachel Lynde afterwards +pronounced to be the “most beautiful wedding prayer” she had ever +heard. Birds do not often sing in September, but one sang sweetly from +some hidden bough while Gilbert and Anne repeated their deathless vows. +Anne heard it and thrilled to it; Gilbert heard it, and wondered only +that all the birds in the world had not burst into jubilant song; Paul +heard it and later wrote a lyric about it which was one of the most +admired in his first volume of verse; Charlotta the Fourth heard it and +was blissfully sure it meant good luck for her adored Miss Shirley. +The bird sang until the ceremony was ended and then it wound up with +one mad little, glad little trill. Never had the old gray-green house +among its enfolding orchards known a blither, merrier afternoon. All +the old jests and quips that must have done duty at weddings since Eden +were served up, and seemed as new and brilliant and mirth-provoking as +if they had never been uttered before. Laughter and joy had their way; +and when Anne and Gilbert left to catch the Carmody train, with Paul as +driver, the twins were ready with rice and old shoes, in the throwing +of which Charlotta the Fourth and Mr. Harrison bore a valiant part. +Marilla stood at the gate and watched the carriage out of sight down +the long lane with its banks of goldenrod. Anne turned at its end to +wave her last good-bye. She was gone--Green Gables was her home no +more; Marilla’s face looked very gray and old as she turned to the +house which Anne had filled for fourteen years, and even in her +absence, with light and life. + +But Diana and her small fry, the Echo Lodge people and the Allans, had +stayed to help the two old ladies over the loneliness of the first +evening; and they contrived to have a quietly pleasant little supper +time, sitting long around the table and chatting over all the details +of the day. While they were sitting there Anne and Gilbert were +alighting from the train at Glen St. Mary. + + + + +CHAPTER 5 + +THE HOME COMING + +Dr. David Blythe had sent his horse and buggy to meet them, and the +urchin who had brought it slipped away with a sympathetic grin, leaving +them to the delight of driving alone to their new home through the +radiant evening. + +Anne never forgot the loveliness of the view that broke upon them when +they had driven over the hill behind the village. Her new home could +not yet be seen; but before her lay Four Winds Harbor like a great, +shining mirror of rose and silver. Far down, she saw its entrance +between the bar of sand dunes on one side and a steep, high, grim, red +sandstone cliff on the other. Beyond the bar the sea, calm and +austere, dreamed in the afterlight. The little fishing village, +nestled in the cove where the sand-dunes met the harbor shore, looked +like a great opal in the haze. The sky over them was like a jewelled +cup from which the dusk was pouring; the air was crisp with the +compelling tang of the sea, and the whole landscape was infused with +the subtleties of a sea evening. A few dim sails drifted along the +darkening, fir-clad harbor shores. A bell was ringing from the tower +of a little white church on the far side; mellowly and dreamily sweet, +the chime floated across the water blent with the moan of the sea. The +great revolving light on the cliff at the channel flashed warm and +golden against the clear northern sky, a trembling, quivering star of +good hope. Far out along the horizon was the crinkled gray ribbon of a +passing steamer’s smoke. + +“Oh, beautiful, beautiful,” murmured Anne. “I shall love Four Winds, +Gilbert. Where is our house?” + +“We can’t see it yet--the belt of birch running up from that little +cove hides it. It’s about two miles from Glen St. Mary, and there’s +another mile between it and the light-house. We won’t have many +neighbors, Anne. There’s only one house near us and I don’t know who +lives in it. Shall you be lonely when I’m away?” + +“Not with that light and that loveliness for company. Who lives in +that house, Gilbert?” + +“I don’t know. It doesn’t look--exactly--as if the occupants would be +kindred spirits, Anne, does it?” + +The house was a large, substantial affair, painted such a vivid green +that the landscape seemed quite faded by contrast. There was an +orchard behind it, and a nicely kept lawn before it, but, somehow, +there was a certain bareness about it. Perhaps its neatness was +responsible for this; the whole establishment, house, barns, orchard, +garden, lawn and lane, was so starkly neat. + +“It doesn’t seem probable that anyone with that taste in paint could be +VERY kindred,” acknowledged Anne, “unless it were an accident--like our +blue hall. I feel certain there are no children there, at least. It’s +even neater than the old Copp place on the Tory road, and I never +expected to see anything neater than that.” + +They had not met anybody on the moist, red road that wound along the +harbor shore. But just before they came to the belt of birch which hid +their home, Anne saw a girl who was driving a flock of snow-white geese +along the crest of a velvety green hill on the right. Great, scattered +firs grew along it. Between their trunks one saw glimpses of yellow +harvest fields, gleams of golden sand-hills, and bits of blue sea. The +girl was tall and wore a dress of pale blue print. She walked with a +certain springiness of step and erectness of bearing. She and her +geese came out of the gate at the foot of the hill as Anne and Gilbert +passed. She stood with her hand on the fastening of the gate, and +looked steadily at them, with an expression that hardly attained to +interest, but did not descend to curiosity. It seemed to Anne, for a +fleeting moment, that there was even a veiled hint of hostility in it. +But it was the girl’s beauty which made Anne give a little gasp--a +beauty so marked that it must have attracted attention anywhere. She +was hatless, but heavy braids of burnished hair, the hue of ripe wheat, +were twisted about her head like a coronet; her eyes were blue and +star-like; her figure, in its plain print gown, was magnificent; and +her lips were as crimson as the bunch of blood-red poppies she wore at +her belt. + +“Gilbert, who is the girl we have just passed?” asked Anne, in a low +voice. + +“I didn’t notice any girl,” said Gilbert, who had eyes only for his +bride. + +“She was standing by that gate--no, don’t look back. She is still +watching us. I never saw such a beautiful face.” + +“I don’t remember seeing any very handsome girls while I was here. +There are some pretty girls up at the Glen, but I hardly think they +could be called beautiful.” + +“This girl is. You can’t have seen her, or you would remember her. +Nobody could forget her. I never saw such a face except in pictures. +And her hair! It made me think of Browning’s ‘cord of gold’ and +‘gorgeous snake’!” + +“Probably she’s some visitor in Four Winds--likely some one from that +big summer hotel over the harbor.” + +“She wore a white apron and she was driving geese.” + +“She might do that for amusement. Look, Anne--there’s our house.” + +Anne looked and forgot for a time the girl with the splendid, resentful +eyes. The first glimpse of her new home was a delight to eye and +spirit--it looked so like a big, creamy seashell stranded on the harbor +shore. The rows of tall Lombardy poplars down its lane stood out in +stately, purple silhouette against the sky. Behind it, sheltering its +garden from the too keen breath of sea winds, was a cloudy fir wood, in +which the winds might make all kinds of weird and haunting music. Like +all woods, it seemed to be holding and enfolding secrets in its +recesses,--secrets whose charm is only to be won by entering in and +patiently seeking. Outwardly, dark green arms keep them inviolate from +curious or indifferent eyes. + +The night winds were beginning their wild dances beyond the bar and the +fishing hamlet across the harbor was gemmed with lights as Anne and +Gilbert drove up the poplar lane. The door of the little house opened, +and a warm glow of firelight flickered out into the dusk. Gilbert +lifted Anne from the buggy and led her into the garden, through the +little gate between the ruddy-tipped firs, up the trim, red path to the +sandstone step. + +“Welcome home,” he whispered, and hand in hand they stepped over the +threshold of their house of dreams. + + + + +CHAPTER 6 + +CAPTAIN JIM + +“Old Doctor Dave” and “Mrs. Doctor Dave” had come down to the little +house to greet the bride and groom. Doctor Dave was a big, jolly, +white-whiskered old fellow, and Mrs. Doctor was a trim rosy-cheeked, +silver-haired little lady who took Anne at once to her heart, literally +and figuratively. + +“I’m so glad to see you, dear. You must be real tired. We’ve got a +bite of supper ready, and Captain Jim brought up some trout for you. +Captain Jim--where are you? Oh, he’s slipped out to see to the horse, +I suppose. Come upstairs and take your things off.” + +Anne looked about her with bright, appreciative eyes as she followed +Mrs. Doctor Dave upstairs. She liked the appearance of her new home +very much. It seemed to have the atmosphere of Green Gables and the +flavor of her old traditions. + +“I think I would have found Miss Elizabeth Russell a ‘kindred spirit,’” +she murmured when she was alone in her room. There were two windows in +it; the dormer one looked out on the lower harbor and the sand-bar and +the Four Winds light. + + “A magic casement opening on the foam + Of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn,” + +quoted Anne softly. The gable window gave a view of a little +harvest-hued valley through which a brook ran. Half a mile up the +brook was the only house in sight--an old, rambling, gray one +surrounded by huge willows through which its windows peered, like shy, +seeking eyes, into the dusk. Anne wondered who lived there; they would +be her nearest neighbors and she hoped they would be nice. She +suddenly found herself thinking of the beautiful girl with the white +geese. + +“Gilbert thought she didn’t belong here,” mused Anne, “but I feel sure +she does. There was something about her that made her part of the sea +and the sky and the harbor. Four Winds is in her blood.” + +When Anne went downstairs Gilbert was standing before the fireplace +talking to a stranger. Both turned as Anne entered. + +“Anne, this is Captain Boyd. Captain Boyd, my wife.” + +It was the first time Gilbert had said “my wife” to anybody but Anne, +and he narrowly escaped bursting with the pride of it. The old captain +held out a sinewy hand to Anne; they smiled at each other and were +friends from that moment. Kindred spirit flashed recognition to +kindred spirit. + +“I’m right down pleased to meet you, Mistress Blythe; and I hope you’ll +be as happy as the first bride was who came here. I can’t wish you no +better than THAT. But your husband doesn’t introduce me jest exactly +right. ‘Captain Jim’ is my week-a-day name and you might as well begin +as you’re sartain to end up--calling me that. You sartainly are a nice +little bride, Mistress Blythe. Looking at you sorter makes me feel +that I’ve jest been married myself.” + +Amid the laughter that followed Mrs. Doctor Dave urged Captain Jim to +stay and have supper with them. + +“Thank you kindly. ’Twill be a real treat, Mistress Doctor. I mostly +has to eat my meals alone, with the reflection of my ugly old phiz in a +looking-glass opposite for company. ’Tisn’t often I have a chance to +sit down with two such sweet, purty ladies.” + +Captain Jim’s compliments may look very bald on paper, but he paid them +with such a gracious, gentle deference of tone and look that the woman +upon whom they were bestowed felt that she was being offered a queen’s +tribute in a kingly fashion. + +Captain Jim was a high-souled, simple-minded old man, with eternal +youth in his eyes and heart. He had a tall, rather ungainly figure, +somewhat stooped, yet suggestive of great strength and endurance; a +clean-shaven face deeply lined and bronzed; a thick mane of iron-gray +hair falling quite to his shoulders, and a pair of remarkably blue, +deep-set eyes, which sometimes twinkled and sometimes dreamed, and +sometimes looked out seaward with a wistful quest in them, as of one +seeking something precious and lost. Anne was to learn one day what it +was for which Captain Jim looked. + +It could not be denied that Captain Jim was a homely man. His spare +jaws, rugged mouth, and square brow were not fashioned on the lines of +beauty; and he had passed through many hardships and sorrows which had +marked his body as well as his soul; but though at first sight Anne +thought him plain she never thought anything more about it--the spirit +shining through that rugged tenement beautified it so wholly. + +They gathered gaily around the supper table. The hearth fire banished +the chill of the September evening, but the window of the dining room +was open and sea breezes entered at their own sweet will. The view was +magnificent, taking in the harbor and the sweep of low, purple hills +beyond. The table was heaped with Mrs. Doctor’s delicacies but the +piece de resistance was undoubtedly the big platter of sea trout. + +“Thought they’d be sorter tasty after travelling,” said Captain Jim. +“They’re fresh as trout can be, Mistress Blythe. Two hours ago they +were swimming in the Glen Pond.” + +“Who is attending to the light tonight, Captain Jim?” asked Doctor Dave. + +“Nephew Alec. He understands it as well as I do. Well, now, I’m real +glad you asked me to stay to supper. I’m proper hungry--didn’t have +much of a dinner today.” + +“I believe you half starve yourself most of the time down at that +light,” said Mrs. Doctor Dave severely. “You won’t take the trouble to +get up a decent meal.” + +“Oh, I do, Mistress Doctor, I do,” protested Captain Jim. “Why, I live +like a king gen’rally. Last night I was up to the Glen and took home +two pounds of steak. I meant to have a spanking good dinner today.” + +“And what happened to the steak?” asked Mrs. Doctor Dave. “Did you +lose it on the way home?” + +“No.” Captain Jim looked sheepish. “Just at bedtime a poor, ornery +sort of dog came along and asked for a night’s lodging. Guess he +belonged to some of the fishermen ’long shore. I couldn’t turn the +poor cur out--he had a sore foot. So I shut him in the porch, with an +old bag to lie on, and went to bed. But somehow I couldn’t sleep. +Come to think it over, I sorter remembered that the dog looked hungry.” + +“And you got up and gave him that steak--ALL that steak,” said Mrs. +Doctor Dave, with a kind of triumphant reproof. + +“Well, there wasn’t anything else TO give him,” said Captain Jim +deprecatingly. “Nothing a dog’d care for, that is. I reckon he WAS +hungry, for he made about two bites of it. I had a fine sleep the rest +of the night but my dinner had to be sorter scanty--potatoes and point, +as you might say. The dog, he lit out for home this morning. I reckon +HE weren’t a vegetarian.” + +“The idea of starving yourself for a worthless dog!” sniffed Mrs. +Doctor. + +“You don’t know but he may be worth a lot to somebody,” protested +Captain Jim. “He didn’t LOOK of much account, but you can’t go by +looks in jedging a dog. Like meself, he might be a real beauty inside. +The First Mate didn’t approve of him, I’ll allow. His language was +right down forcible. But the First Mate is prejudiced. No use in +taking a cat’s opinion of a dog. ‘Tennyrate, I lost my dinner, so this +nice spread in this dee-lightful company is real pleasant. It’s a great +thing to have good neighbors.” + +“Who lives in the house among the willows up the brook?” asked Anne. + +“Mrs. Dick Moore,” said Captain Jim--“and her husband,” he added, as if +by way of an afterthought. + +Anne smiled, and deduced a mental picture of Mrs. Dick Moore from +Captain Jim’s way of putting it; evidently a second Mrs. Rachel Lynde. + +“You haven’t many neighbors, Mistress Blythe,” Captain Jim went on. +“This side of the harbor is mighty thinly settled. Most of the land +belongs to Mr. Howard up yander past the Glen, and he rents it out for +pasture. The other side of the harbor, now, is thick with +folks--’specially MacAllisters. There’s a whole colony of MacAllisters +you can’t throw a stone but you hit one. I was talking to old Leon +Blacquiere the other day. He’s been working on the harbor all summer. +‘Dey’re nearly all MacAllisters over thar,’ he told me. ‘Dare’s Neil +MacAllister and Sandy MacAllister and William MacAllister and Alec +MacAllister and Angus MacAllister--and I believe dare’s de Devil +MacAllister.’” + +“There are nearly as many Elliotts and Crawfords,” said Doctor Dave, +after the laughter had subsided. “You know, Gilbert, we folk on this +side of Four Winds have an old saying--‘From the conceit of the +Elliotts, the pride of the MacAllisters, and the vainglory of the +Crawfords, good Lord deliver us.’” + +“There’s a plenty of fine people among them, though,” said Captain Jim. +“I sailed with William Crawford for many a year, and for courage and +endurance and truth that man hadn’t an equal. They’ve got brains over +on that side of Four Winds. Mebbe that’s why this side is sorter +inclined to pick on ’em. Strange, ain’t it, how folks seem to resent +anyone being born a mite cleverer than they be.” + +Doctor Dave, who had a forty years’ feud with the over-harbor people, +laughed and subsided. + +“Who lives in that brilliant emerald house about half a mile up the +road?” asked Gilbert. + +Captain Jim smiled delightedly. + +“Miss Cornelia Bryant. She’ll likely be over to see you soon, seeing +you’re Presbyterians. If you were Methodists she wouldn’t come at all. +Cornelia has a holy horror of Methodists.” + +“She’s quite a character,” chuckled Doctor Dave. “A most inveterate +man-hater!” + +“Sour grapes?” queried Gilbert, laughing. + +“No, ’tisn’t sour grapes,” answered Captain Jim seriously. “Cornelia +could have had her pick when she was young. Even yet she’s only to say +the word to see the old widowers jump. She jest seems to have been +born with a sort of chronic spite agin men and Methodists. She’s got +the bitterest tongue and the kindest heart in Four Winds. Wherever +there’s any trouble, that woman is there, doing everything to help in +the tenderest way. She never says a harsh word about another woman, +and if she likes to card us poor scalawags of men down I reckon our +tough old hides can stand it.” + +“She always speaks well of you, Captain Jim,” said Mrs. Doctor. + +“Yes, I’m afraid so. I don’t half like it. It makes me feel as if +there must be something sorter unnateral about me.” + + + + +CHAPTER 7 + +THE SCHOOLMASTER’S BRIDE + +“Who was the first bride who came to this house, Captain Jim?” Anne +asked, as they sat around the fireplace after supper. + +“Was she a part of the story I’ve heard was connected with this house?” +asked Gilbert. “Somebody told me you could tell it, Captain Jim.” + +“Well, yes, I know it. I reckon I’m the only person living in Four +Winds now that can remember the schoolmaster’s bride as she was when +she come to the Island. She’s been dead this thirty year, but she was +one of them women you never forget.” + +“Tell us the story,” pleaded Anne. “I want to find out all about the +women who have lived in this house before me.” + +“Well, there’s jest been three--Elizabeth Russell, and Mrs. Ned +Russell, and the schoolmaster’s bride. Elizabeth Russell was a nice, +clever little critter, and Mrs. Ned was a nice woman, too. But they +weren’t ever like the schoolmaster’s bride. + +“The schoolmaster’s name was John Selwyn. He came out from the Old +Country to teach school at the Glen when I was a boy of sixteen. He +wasn’t much like the usual run of derelicts who used to come out to +P.E.I. to teach school in them days. Most of them were clever, drunken +critters who taught the children the three R’s when they were sober, +and lambasted them when they wasn’t. But John Selwyn was a fine, +handsome young fellow. He boarded at my father’s, and he and me were +cronies, though he was ten years older’n me. We read and walked and +talked a heap together. He knew about all the poetry that was ever +written, I reckon, and he used to quote it to me along shore in the +evenings. Dad thought it an awful waste of time, but he sorter endured +it, hoping it’d put me off the notion of going to sea. Well, nothing +could do THAT--mother come of a race of sea-going folk and it was born +in me. But I loved to hear John read and recite. It’s almost sixty +years ago, but I could repeat yards of poetry I learned from him. +Nearly sixty years!” + +Captain Jim was silent for a space, gazing into the glowing fire in a +quest of the bygones. Then, with a sigh, he resumed his story. + +“I remember one spring evening I met him on the sand-hills. He looked +sorter uplifted--jest like you did, Dr. Blythe, when you brought +Mistress Blythe in tonight. I thought of him the minute I seen you. +And he told me that he had a sweetheart back home and that she was +coming out to him. I wasn’t more’n half pleased, ornery young lump of +selfishness that I was; I thought he wouldn’t be as much my friend +after she came. But I’d enough decency not to let him see it. He told +me all about her. Her name was Persis Leigh, and she would have come +out with him if it hadn’t been for her old uncle. He was sick, and +he’d looked after her when her parents died and she wouldn’t leave him. +And now he was dead and she was coming out to marry John Selwyn. +’Twasn’t no easy journey for a woman in them days. There weren’t no +steamers, you must ricollect. + +“‘When do you expect her?’ says I. + +“‘She sails on the Royal William, the 20th of June,’ says he, ‘and so +she should be here by mid-July. I must set Carpenter Johnson to +building me a home for her. Her letter come today. I know before I +opened it that it had good news for me. I saw her a few nights ago.’ + +“I didn’t understand him, and then he explained--though I didn’t +understand THAT much better. He said he had a gift--or a curse. Them +was his words, Mistress Blythe--a gift or a curse. He didn’t know +which it was. He said a great-great-grandmother of his had had it, and +they burned her for a witch on account of it. He said queer +spells--trances, I think was the name he give ’em--come over him now +and again. Are there such things, Doctor?” + +“There are people who are certainly subject to trances,” answered +Gilbert. “The matter is more in the line of psychical research than +medical. What were the trances of this John Selwyn like?” + +“Like dreams,” said the old Doctor skeptically. + +“He said he could see things in them,” said Captain Jim slowly. + +“Mind you, I’m telling you jest what HE said--things that were +happening--things that were GOING to happen. He said they were +sometimes a comfort to him and sometimes a horror. Four nights before +this he’d been in one--went into it while he was sitting looking at the +fire. And he saw an old room he knew well in England, and Persis Leigh +in it, holding out her hands to him and looking glad and happy. So he +knew he was going to hear good news of her.” + +“A dream--a dream,” scoffed the old Doctor. + +“Likely--likely,” conceded Captain Jim. “That’s what _I_ said to him +at the time. It was a vast more comfortable to think so. I didn’t +like the idea of him seeing things like that--it was real uncanny. + +“‘No,’ says he, ‘I didn’t dream it. But we won’t talk of this again. +You won’t be so much my friend if you think much about it.’ + +“I told him nothing could make me any less his friend. But he jest +shook his head and says, says he: + +“‘Lad, I know. I’ve lost friends before because of this. I don’t +blame them. There are times when I feel hardly friendly to myself +because of it. Such a power has a bit of divinity in it--whether of a +good or an evil divinity who shall say? And we mortals all shrink from +too close contact with God or devil.’ + +“Them was his words. I remember them as if ’twas yesterday, though I +didn’t know jest what he meant. What do you s’pose he DID mean, +doctor?” + +“I doubt if he knew what he meant himself,” said Doctor Dave testily. + +“I think I understand,” whispered Anne. She was listening in her old +attitude of clasped lips and shining eyes. Captain Jim treated himself +to an admiring smile before he went on with his story. + +“Well, purty soon all the Glen and Four Winds people knew the +schoolmaster’s bride was coming, and they were all glad because they +thought so much of him. And everybody took an interest in his new +house--THIS house. He picked this site for it, because you could see +the harbor and hear the sea from it. He made the garden out there for +his bride, but he didn’t plant the Lombardies. Mrs. Ned Russell +planted THEM. But there’s a double row of rose-bushes in the garden +that the little girls who went to the Glen school set out there for the +schoolmaster’s bride. He said they were pink for her cheeks and white +for her brow and red for her lips. He’d quoted poetry so much that he +sorter got into the habit of talking it, too, I reckon. + +“Almost everybody sent him some little present to help out the +furnishing of the house. When the Russells came into it they were +well-to-do and furnished it real handsome, as you can see; but the +first furniture that went into it was plain enough. This little house +was rich in love, though. The women sent in quilts and tablecloths and +towels, and one man made a chest for her, and another a table and so +on. Even blind old Aunt Margaret Boyd wove a little basket for her out +of the sweet-scented sand-hill grass. The schoolmaster’s wife used it +for years to keep her handkerchiefs in. + +“Well, at last everything was ready--even to the logs in the big +fireplace ready for lighting. ’Twasn’t exactly THIS fireplace, though +’twas in the same place. Miss Elizabeth had this put in when she made +the house over fifteen years ago. It was a big, old-fashioned +fireplace where you could have roasted an ox. Many’s the time I’ve sat +here and spun yarns, same’s I’m doing tonight.” + +Again there was a silence, while Captain Jim kept a passing tryst with +visitants Anne and Gilbert could not see--the folks who had sat with +him around that fireplace in the vanished years, with mirth and bridal +joy shining in eyes long since closed forever under churchyard sod or +heaving leagues of sea. Here on olden nights children had tossed +laughter lightly to and fro. Here on winter evenings friends had +gathered. Dance and music and jest had been here. Here youths and +maidens had dreamed. For Captain Jim the little house was tenanted +with shapes entreating remembrance. + +“It was the first of July when the house was finished. The +schoolmaster began to count the days then. We used to see him walking +along the shore, and we’d say to each other, ‘She’ll soon be with him +now.’ + +“She was expected the middle of July, but she didn’t come then. Nobody +felt anxious. Vessels were often delayed for days and mebbe weeks. +The Royal William was a week overdue--and then two--and then three. +And at last we began to be frightened, and it got worse and worse. +Fin’lly I couldn’t bear to look into John Selwyn’s eyes. D’ye know, +Mistress Blythe”--Captain Jim lowered his voice--“I used to think that +they looked just like what his old great-great-grandmother’s must have +been when they were burning her to death. He never said much but he +taught school like a man in a dream and then hurried to the shore. +Many a night he walked there from dark to dawn. People said he was +losing his mind. Everybody had given up hope--the Royal William was +eight weeks overdue. It was the middle of September and the +schoolmaster’s bride hadn’t come--never would come, we thought. + +“There was a big storm then that lasted three days, and on the evening +after it died away I went to the shore. I found the schoolmaster +there, leaning with his arms folded against a big rock, gazing out to +sea. + +“I spoke to him but he didn’t answer. His eyes seemed to be looking at +something I couldn’t see. His face was set, like a dead man’s. + +“‘John--John,’ I called out--jest like that--jest like a frightened +child, ‘wake up--wake up.’ + +“That strange, awful look seemed to sorter fade out of his eyes. + +“He turned his head and looked at me. I’ve never forgot his +face--never will forget it till I ships for my last voyage. + +“‘All is well, lad,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen the Royal William coming +around East Point. She will be here by dawn. Tomorrow night I shall +sit with my bride by my own hearth-fire.’ + +“Do you think he did see it?” demanded Captain Jim abruptly. + +“God knows,” said Gilbert softly. “Great love and great pain might +compass we know not what marvels.” + +“I am sure he did see it,” said Anne earnestly. + +“Fol-de-rol,” said Doctor Dave, but he spoke with less conviction than +usual. + +“Because, you know,” said Captain Jim solemnly, “the Royal William came +into Four Winds Harbor at daylight the next morning. + +“Every soul in the Glen and along the shore was at the old wharf to +meet her. The schoolmaster had been watching there all night. How we +cheered as she sailed up the channel.” + +Captain Jim’s eyes were shining. They were looking at the Four Winds +Harbor of sixty years agone, with a battered old ship sailing through +the sunrise splendor. + +“And Persis Leigh was on board?” asked Anne. + +“Yes--her and the captain’s wife. They’d had an awful passage--storm +after storm--and their provisions give out, too. But there they were +at last. When Persis Leigh stepped onto the old wharf John Selwyn took +her in his arms--and folks stopped cheering and begun to cry. I cried +myself, though ’twas years, mind you, afore I’d admit it. Ain’t it +funny how ashamed boys are of tears?” + +“Was Persis Leigh beautiful?” asked Anne. + +“Well, I don’t know that you’d call her beautiful +exactly--I--don’t--know,” said Captain Jim slowly. “Somehow, you never +got so far along as to wonder if she was handsome or not. It jest +didn’t matter. There was something so sweet and winsome about her that +you had to love her, that was all. But she was pleasant to look +at--big, clear, hazel eyes and heaps of glossy brown hair, and an +English skin. John and her were married at our house that night at +early candle-lighting; everybody from far and near was there to see it +and we all brought them down here afterwards. Mistress Selwyn lighted +the fire, and we went away and left them sitting here, jest as John had +seen in that vision of his. A strange thing--a strange thing! But +I’ve seen a turrible lot of strange things in my time.” + +Captain Jim shook his head sagely. + +“It’s a dear story,” said Anne, feeling that for once she had got +enough romance to satisfy her. “How long did they live here?” + +“Fifteen years. I ran off to sea soon after they were married, like +the young scalawag I was. But every time I come back from a voyage I’d +head for here, even before I went home, and tell Mistress Selwyn all +about it. Fifteen happy years! They had a sort of talent for +happiness, them two. Some folks are like that, if you’ve noticed. +They COULDN’T be unhappy for long, no matter what happened. They +quarrelled once or twice, for they was both high-sperrited. But +Mistress Selwyn says to me once, says she, laughing in that pretty way +of hers, ‘I felt dreadful when John and I quarrelled, but underneath it +all I was very happy because I had such a nice husband to quarrel with +and make it up with.’ Then they moved to Charlottetown, and Ned +Russell bought this house and brought his bride here. They were a gay +young pair, as I remember them. Miss Elizabeth Russell was Alec’s +sister. She came to live with them a year or so later, and she was a +creature of mirth, too. The walls of this house must be sorter SOAKED +with laughing and good times. You’re the third bride I’ve seen come +here, Mistress Blythe--and the handsomest.” + +Captain Jim contrived to give his sunflower compliment the delicacy of +a violet, and Anne wore it proudly. She was looking her best that +night, with the bridal rose on her cheeks and the love-light in her +eyes; even gruff old Doctor Dave gave her an approving glance, and told +his wife, as they drove home together, that that red-headed wife of the +boy’s was something of a beauty. + +“I must be getting back to the light,” announced Captain Jim. “I’ve +enj’yed this evening something tremenjus.” + +“You must come often to see us,” said Anne. + +“I wonder if you’d give that invitation if you knew how likely I’ll be +to accept it,” Captain Jim remarked whimsically. + +“Which is another way of saying you wonder if I mean it,” smiled Anne. +“I do, ‘cross my heart,’ as we used to say at school.” + +“Then I’ll come. You’re likely to be pestered with me at any hour. +And I’ll be proud to have you drop down and visit me now and then, too. +Gin’rally I haven’t anyone to talk to but the First Mate, bless his +sociable heart. He’s a mighty good listener, and has forgot more’n any +MacAllister of them all ever knew, but he isn’t much of a +conversationalist. You’re young and I’m old, but our souls are about +the same age, I reckon. We both belong to the race that knows Joseph, +as Cornelia Bryant would say.” + +“The race that knows Joseph?” puzzled Anne. + +“Yes. Cornelia divides all the folks in the world into two kinds--the +race that knows Joseph and the race that don’t. If a person sorter +sees eye to eye with you, and has pretty much the same ideas about +things, and the same taste in jokes--why, then he belongs to the race +that knows Joseph.” + +“Oh, I understand,” exclaimed Anne, light breaking in upon her. + +“It’s what I used to call--and still call in quotation marks ‘kindred +spirits.’” + +“Jest so--jest so,” agreed Captain Jim. “We’re it, whatever IT is. +When you come in tonight, Mistress Blythe, I says to myself, says I, +‘Yes, she’s of the race that knows Joseph.’ And mighty glad I was, for +if it wasn’t so we couldn’t have had any real satisfaction in each +other’s company. The race that knows Joseph is the salt of the airth, +I reckon.” + +The moon had just risen when Anne and Gilbert went to the door with +their guests. Four Winds Harbor was beginning to be a thing of dream +and glamour and enchantment--a spellbound haven where no tempest might +ever ravin. The Lombardies down the lane, tall and sombre as the +priestly forms of some mystic band, were tipped with silver. + +“Always liked Lombardies,” said Captain Jim, waving a long arm at them. +“They’re the trees of princesses. They’re out of fashion now. Folks +complain that they die at the top and get ragged-looking. So they +do--so they do, if you don’t risk your neck every spring climbing up a +light ladder to trim them out. I always did it for Miss Elizabeth, so +her Lombardies never got out-at-elbows. She was especially fond of +them. She liked their dignity and stand-offishness. THEY don’t hobnob +with every Tom, Dick and Harry. If it’s maples for company, Mistress +Blythe, it’s Lombardies for society.” + +“What a beautiful night,” said Mrs. Doctor Dave, as she climbed into +the Doctor’s buggy. + +“Most nights are beautiful,” said Captain Jim. “But I ’low that +moonlight over Four Winds makes me sorter wonder what’s left for +heaven. The moon’s a great friend of mine, Mistress Blythe. I’ve +loved her ever since I can remember. When I was a little chap of eight +I fell asleep in the garden one evening and wasn’t missed. I woke up +along in the night and I was most scared to death. What shadows and +queer noises there was! I dursn’t move. Jest crouched there quaking, +poor small mite. Seemed ’s if there weren’t anyone in the world but +meself and it was mighty big. Then all at once I saw the moon looking +down at me through the apple boughs, jest like an old friend. I was +comforted right off. Got up and walked to the house as brave as a +lion, looking at her. Many’s the night I’ve watched her from the deck +of my vessel, on seas far away from here. Why don’t you folks tell me +to take in the slack of my jaw and go home?” + +The laughter of the goodnights died away. Anne and Gilbert walked hand +in hand around their garden. The brook that ran across the corner +dimpled pellucidly in the shadows of the birches. The poppies along +its banks were like shallow cups of moonlight. Flowers that had been +planted by the hands of the schoolmaster’s bride flung their sweetness +on the shadowy air, like the beauty and blessing of sacred yesterdays. +Anne paused in the gloom to gather a spray. + +“I love to smell flowers in the dark,” she said. “You get hold of +their soul then. Oh, Gilbert, this little house is all I’ve dreamed +it. And I’m so glad that we are not the first who have kept bridal +tryst here!” + + + + +CHAPTER 8 + +MISS CORNELIA BRYANT COMES TO CALL + +That September was a month of golden mists and purple hazes at Four +Winds Harbor--a month of sun-steeped days and of nights that were +swimming in moonlight, or pulsating with stars. No storm marred it, no +rough wind blew. Anne and Gilbert put their nest in order, rambled on +the shores, sailed on the harbor, drove about Four Winds and the Glen, +or through the ferny, sequestered roads of the woods around the harbor +head; in short, had such a honeymoon as any lovers in the world might +have envied them. + +“If life were to stop short just now it would still have been richly +worth while, just for the sake of these past four weeks, wouldn’t it?” +said Anne. “I don’t suppose we will ever have four such perfect weeks +again--but we’ve HAD them. Everything--wind, weather, folks, house of +dreams--has conspired to make our honeymoon delightful. There hasn’t +even been a rainy day since we came here.” + +“And we haven’t quarrelled once,” teased Gilbert. + +“Well, ‘that’s a pleasure all the greater for being deferred,’” quoted +Anne. “I’m so glad we decided to spend our honeymoon here. Our +memories of it will always belong here, in our house of dreams, instead +of being scattered about in strange places.” + +There was a certain tang of romance and adventure in the atmosphere of +their new home which Anne had never found in Avonlea. There, although +she had lived in sight of the sea, it had not entered intimately into +her life. In Four Winds it surrounded her and called to her +constantly. From every window of her new home she saw some varying +aspect of it. Its haunting murmur was ever in her ears. Vessels +sailed up the harbor every day to the wharf at the Glen, or sailed out +again through the sunset, bound for ports that might be half way round +the globe. Fishing boats went white-winged down the channel in the +mornings, and returned laden in the evenings. Sailors and fisher-folk +travelled the red, winding harbor roads, light-hearted and content. +There was always a certain sense of things going to happen--of +adventures and farings-forth. The ways of Four Winds were less staid +and settled and grooved than those of Avonlea; winds of change blew +over them; the sea called ever to the dwellers on shore, and even those +who might not answer its call felt the thrill and unrest and mystery +and possibilities of it. + +“I understand now why some men must go to sea,” said Anne. “That +desire which comes to us all at times--‘to sail beyond the bourne of +sunset’--must be very imperious when it is born in you. I don’t wonder +Captain Jim ran away because of it. I never see a ship sailing out of +the channel, or a gull soaring over the sand-bar, without wishing I +were on board the ship or had wings, not like a dove ‘to fly away and +be at rest,’ but like a gull, to sweep out into the very heart of a +storm.” + +“You’ll stay right here with me, Anne-girl,” said Gilbert lazily. “I +won’t have you flying away from me into the hearts of storms.” + +They were sitting on their red sand-stone doorstep in the late +afternoon. Great tranquillities were all about them in land and sea +and sky. Silvery gulls were soaring over them. The horizons were +laced with long trails of frail, pinkish clouds. The hushed air was +threaded with a murmurous refrain of minstrel winds and waves. Pale +asters were blowing in the sere and misty meadows between them and the +harbor. + +“Doctors who have to be up all night waiting on sick folk don’t feel +very adventurous, I suppose,” Anne said indulgently. “If you had had a +good sleep last night, Gilbert, you’d be as ready as I am for a flight +of imagination.” + +“I did good work last night, Anne,” said Gilbert quietly. “Under God, +I saved a life. This is the first time I could ever really claim that. +In other cases I may have helped; but, Anne, if I had not stayed at +Allonby’s last night and fought death hand to hand, that woman would +have died before morning. I tried an experiment that was certainly +never tried in Four Winds before. I doubt if it was ever tried +anywhere before outside of a hospital. It was a new thing in Kingsport +hospital last winter. I could never have dared try it here if I had +not been absolutely certain that there was no other chance. I risked +it--and it succeeded. As a result, a good wife and mother is saved for +long years of happiness and usefulness. As I drove home this morning, +while the sun was rising over the harbor, I thanked God that I had +chosen the profession I did. I had fought a good fight and won--think +of it, Anne, WON, against the Great Destroyer. It’s what I dreamed of +doing long ago when we talked together of what we wanted to do in life. +That dream of mine came true this morning.” + +“Was that the only one of your dreams that has come true?” asked Anne, +who knew perfectly well what the substance of his answer would be, but +wanted to hear it again. + +“YOU know, Anne-girl,” said Gilbert, smiling into her eyes. At that +moment there were certainly two perfectly happy people sitting on the +doorstep of a little white house on the Four Winds Harbor shore. + +Presently Gilbert said, with a change of tone, “Do I or do I not see a +full-rigged ship sailing up our lane?” + +Anne looked and sprang up. + +“That must be either Miss Cornelia Bryant or Mrs. Moore coming to +call,” she said. + +“I’m going into the office, and if it is Miss Cornelia I warn you that +I’ll eavesdrop,” said Gilbert. “From all I’ve heard regarding Miss +Cornelia I conclude that her conversation will not be dull, to say the +least.” + +“It may be Mrs. Moore.” + +“I don’t think Mrs. Moore is built on those lines. I saw her working +in her garden the other day, and, though I was too far away to see +clearly, I thought she was rather slender. She doesn’t seem very +socially inclined when she has never called on you yet, although she’s +your nearest neighbor.” + +“She can’t be like Mrs. Lynde, after all, or curiosity would have +brought her,” said Anne. “This caller is, I think, Miss Cornelia.” + +Miss Cornelia it was; moreover, Miss Cornelia had not come to make any +brief and fashionable wedding call. She had her work under her arm in +a substantial parcel, and when Anne asked her to stay she promptly took +off her capacious sun-hat, which had been held on her head, despite +irreverent September breezes, by a tight elastic band under her hard +little knob of fair hair. No hat pins for Miss Cornelia, an it please +ye! Elastic bands had been good enough for her mother and they were +good enough for HER. She had a fresh, round, pink-and-white face, and +jolly brown eyes. She did not look in the least like the traditional +old maid, and there was something in her expression which won Anne +instantly. With her old instinctive quickness to discern kindred +spirits she knew she was going to like Miss Cornelia, in spite of +uncertain oddities of opinion, and certain oddities of attire. + +Nobody but Miss Cornelia would have come to make a call arrayed in a +striped blue-and-white apron and a wrapper of chocolate print, with a +design of huge, pink roses scattered over it. And nobody but Miss +Cornelia could have looked dignified and suitably garbed in it. Had +Miss Cornelia been entering a palace to call on a prince’s bride, she +would have been just as dignified and just as wholly mistress of the +situation. She would have trailed her rose-spattered flounce over the +marble floors just as unconcernedly, and she would have proceeded just +as calmly to disabuse the mind of the princess of any idea that the +possession of a mere man, be he prince or peasant, was anything to brag +of. + +“I’ve brought my work, Mrs. Blythe, dearie,” she remarked, unrolling +some dainty material. “I’m in a hurry to get this done, and there +isn’t any time to lose.” + +Anne looked in some surprise at the white garment spread over Miss +Cornelia’s ample lap. It was certainly a baby’s dress, and it was most +beautifully made, with tiny frills and tucks. Miss Cornelia adjusted +her glasses and fell to embroidering with exquisite stitches. + +“This is for Mrs. Fred Proctor up at the Glen,” she announced. “She’s +expecting her eighth baby any day now, and not a stitch has she ready +for it. The other seven have wore out all she made for the first, and +she’s never had time or strength or spirit to make any more. That +woman is a martyr, Mrs. Blythe, believe ME. When she married Fred +Proctor _I_ knew how it would turn out. He was one of your wicked, +fascinating men. After he got married he left off being fascinating +and just kept on being wicked. He drinks and he neglects his family. +Isn’t that like a man? I don’t know how Mrs. Proctor would ever keep +her children decently clothed if her neighbors didn’t help her out.” + +As Anne was afterwards to learn, Miss Cornelia was the only neighbor +who troubled herself much about the decency of the young Proctors. + +“When I heard this eighth baby was coming I decided to make some things +for it,” Miss Cornelia went on. “This is the last and I want to finish +it today.” + +“It’s certainly very pretty,” said Anne. “I’ll get my sewing and we’ll +have a little thimble party of two. You are a beautiful sewer, Miss +Bryant.” + +“Yes, I’m the best sewer in these parts,” said Miss Cornelia in a +matter-of-fact tone. “I ought to be! Lord, I’ve done more of it than +if I’d had a hundred children of my own, believe ME! I s’pose I’m a +fool, to be putting hand embroidery on this dress for an eighth baby. +But, Lord, Mrs. Blythe, dearie, it isn’t to blame for being the eighth, +and I kind of wished it to have one real pretty dress, just as if it +WAS wanted. Nobody’s wanting the poor mite--so I put some extra fuss +on its little things just on that account.” + +“Any baby might be proud of that dress,” said Anne, feeling still more +strongly that she was going to like Miss Cornelia. + +“I s’pose you’ve been thinking I was never coming to call on you,” +resumed Miss Cornelia. “But this is harvest month, you know, and I’ve +been busy--and a lot of extra hands hanging round, eating more’n they +work, just like the men. I’d have come yesterday, but I went to Mrs. +Roderick MacAllister’s funeral. At first I thought my head was aching +so badly I couldn’t enjoy myself if I did go. But she was a hundred +years old, and I’d always promised myself that I’d go to her funeral.” + +“Was it a successful function?” asked Anne, noticing that the office +door was ajar. + +“What’s that? Oh, yes, it was a tremendous funeral. She had a very +large connection. There was over one hundred and twenty carriages in +the procession. There was one or two funny things happened. I thought +that die I would to see old Joe Bradshaw, who is an infidel and never +darkens the door of a church, singing ‘Safe in the Arms of Jesus’ with +great gusto and fervor. He glories in singing--that’s why he never +misses a funeral. Poor Mrs. Bradshaw didn’t look much like +singing--all wore out slaving. Old Joe starts out once in a while to +buy her a present and brings home some new kind of farm machinery. +Isn’t that like a man? But what else would you expect of a man who +never goes to church, even a Methodist one? I was real thankful to see +you and the young Doctor in the Presbyterian church your first Sunday. +No doctor for me who isn’t a Presbyterian.” + +“We were in the Methodist church last Sunday evening,” said Anne +wickedly. + +“Oh, I s’pose Dr. Blythe has to go to the Methodist church once in a +while or he wouldn’t get the Methodist practice.” + +“We liked the sermon very much,” declared Anne boldly. “And I thought +the Methodist minister’s prayer was one of the most beautiful I ever +heard.” + +“Oh, I’ve no doubt he can pray. I never heard anyone make more +beautiful prayers than old Simon Bentley, who was always drunk, or +hoping to be, and the drunker he was the better he prayed.” + +“The Methodist minister is very fine looking,” said Anne, for the +benefit of the office door. + +“Yes, he’s quite ornamental,” agreed Miss Cornelia. “Oh, and VERY +ladylike. And he thinks that every girl who looks at him falls in love +with him--as if a Methodist minister, wandering about like any Jew, was +such a prize! If you and the young doctor take MY advice, you won’t +have much to do with the Methodists. My motto is--if you ARE a +Presbyterian, BE a Presbyterian.” + +“Don’t you think that Methodists go to heaven as well as +Presbyterians?” asked Anne smilelessly. + +“That isn’t for US to decide. It’s in higher hands than ours,” said +Miss Cornelia solemnly. “But I ain’t going to associate with them on +earth whatever I may have to do in heaven. THIS Methodist minister +isn’t married. The last one they had was, and his wife was the +silliest, flightiest little thing I ever saw. I told her husband once +that he should have waited till she was grown up before he married her. +He said he wanted to have the training of her. Wasn’t that like a man?” + +“It’s rather hard to decide just when people ARE grown up,” laughed +Anne. + +“That’s a true word, dearie. Some are grown up when they’re born, and +others ain’t grown up when they’re eighty, believe ME. That same Mrs. +Roderick I was speaking of never grew up. She was as foolish when she +was a hundred as when she was ten.” + +“Perhaps that was why she lived so long,” suggested Anne. + +“Maybe ’twas. _I_’d rather live fifty sensible years than a hundred +foolish ones.” + +“But just think what a dull world it would be if everyone was +sensible,” pleaded Anne. + +Miss Cornelia disdained any skirmish of flippant epigram. + +“Mrs. Roderick was a Milgrave, and the Milgraves never had much sense. +Her nephew, Ebenezer Milgrave, used to be insane for years. He +believed he was dead and used to rage at his wife because she wouldn’t +bury him. _I_’d a-done it.” + +Miss Cornelia looked so grimly determined that Anne could almost see +her with a spade in her hand. + +“Don’t you know ANY good husbands, Miss Bryant?” + +“Oh, yes, lots of them--over yonder,” said Miss Cornelia, waving her +hand through the open window towards the little graveyard of the church +across the harbor. + +“But living--going about in the flesh?” persisted Anne. + +“Oh, there’s a few, just to show that with God all things are +possible,” acknowledged Miss Cornelia reluctantly. “I don’t deny that +an odd man here and there, if he’s caught young and trained up proper, +and if his mother has spanked him well beforehand, may turn out a +decent being. YOUR husband, now, isn’t so bad, as men go, from all I +hear. I s’pose”--Miss Cornelia looked sharply at Anne over her +glasses--“you think there’s nobody like him in the world.” + +“There isn’t,” said Anne promptly. + +“Ah, well, I heard another bride say that once,” sighed Miss Cornelia. +“Jennie Dean thought when she married that there wasn’t anybody like +HER husband in the world. And she was right--there wasn’t! And a good +thing, too, believe ME! He led her an awful life--and he was courting +his second wife while Jennie was dying. + +“Wasn’t that like a man? However, I hope YOUR confidence will be +better justified, dearie. The young doctor is taking real well. I was +afraid at first he mightn’t, for folks hereabouts have always thought +old Doctor Dave the only doctor in the world. Doctor Dave hadn’t much +tact, to be sure--he was always talking of ropes in houses where +someone had hanged himself. But folks forgot their hurt feelings when +they had a pain in their stomachs. If he’d been a minister instead of +a doctor they’d never have forgiven him. Soul-ache doesn’t worry folks +near as much as stomach-ache. Seeing as we’re both Presbyterians and +no Methodists around, will you tell me your candid opinion of OUR +minister?” + +“Why--really--I--well,” hesitated Anne. + +Miss Cornelia nodded. + +“Exactly. I agree with you, dearie. We made a mistake when we called +HIM. His face just looks like one of those long, narrow stones in the +graveyard, doesn’t it? ‘Sacred to the memory’ ought to be written on +his forehead. I shall never forget the first sermon he preached after +he came. It was on the subject of everyone doing what they were best +fitted for--a very good subject, of course; but such illustrations as +he used! He said, ‘If you had a cow and an apple tree, and if you tied +the apple tree in your stable and planted the cow in your orchard, with +her legs up, how much milk would you get from the apple tree, or how +many apples from the cow?’ Did you ever hear the like in your born +days, dearie? I was so thankful there were no Methodists there that +day--they’d never have been done hooting over it. But what I dislike +most in him is his habit of agreeing with everybody, no matter what is +said. If you said to him, ‘You’re a scoundrel,’ he’d say, with that +smooth smile of his, ‘Yes, that’s so.’ A minister should have more +backbone. The long and the short of it is, I consider him a reverend +jackass. But, of course, this is just between you and me. When there +are Methodists in hearing I praise him to the skies. Some folks think +his wife dresses too gay, but _I_ say when she has to live with a face +like that she needs something to cheer her up. You’ll never hear ME +condemning a woman for her dress. I’m only too thankful when her +husband isn’t too mean and miserly to allow it. Not that I bother much +with dress myself. Women just dress to please the men, and I’d never +stoop to THAT. I have had a real placid, comfortable life, dearie, and +it’s just because I never cared a cent what the men thought.” + +“Why do you hate the men so, Miss Bryant?” + +“Lord, dearie, I don’t hate them. They aren’t worth it. I just sort +of despise them. I think I’ll like YOUR husband if he keeps on as he +has begun. But apart from him about the only men in the world I’ve +much use for are the old doctor and Captain Jim.” + +“Captain Jim is certainly splendid,” agreed Anne cordially. + +“Captain Jim is a good man, but he’s kind of vexing in one way. You +CAN’T make him mad. I’ve tried for twenty years and he just keeps on +being placid. It does sort of rile me. And I s’pose the woman he +should have married got a man who went into tantrums twice a day.” + +“Who was she?” + +“Oh, I don’t know, dearie. I never remember of Captain Jim making up +to anybody. He was edging on old as far as my memory goes. He’s +seventy-six, you know. I never heard any reason for his staying a +bachelor, but there must be one, believe ME. He sailed all his life +till five years ago, and there’s no corner of the earth he hasn’t poked +his nose into. He and Elizabeth Russell were great cronies, all their +lives, but they never had any notion of sweet-hearting. Elizabeth +never married, though she had plenty of chances. She was a great +beauty when she was young. The year the Prince of Wales came to the +Island she was visiting her uncle in Charlottetown and he was a +Government official, and so she got invited to the great ball. She was +the prettiest girl there, and the Prince danced with her, and all the +other women he didn’t dance with were furious about it, because their +social standing was higher than hers and they said he shouldn’t have +passed them over. Elizabeth was always very proud of that dance. Mean +folks said that was why she never married--she couldn’t put up with an +ordinary man after dancing with a prince. But that wasn’t so. She +told me the reason once--it was because she had such a temper that she +was afraid she couldn’t live peaceably with any man. She HAD an awful +temper--she used to have to go upstairs and bite pieces out of her +bureau to keep it down by times. But I told her that wasn’t any reason +for not marrying if she wanted to. There’s no reason why we should let +the men have a monopoly of temper, is there, Mrs. Blythe, dearie?” + +“I’ve a bit of temper myself,” sighed Anne. + +“It’s well you have, dearie. You won’t be half so likely to be trodden +on, believe ME! My, how that golden glow of yours is blooming! Your +garden looks fine. Poor Elizabeth always took such care of it.” + +“I love it,” said Anne. “I’m glad it’s so full of old-fashioned +flowers. Speaking of gardening, we want to get a man to dig up that +little lot beyond the fir grove and set it out with strawberry plants +for us. Gilbert is so busy he will never get time for it this fall. +Do you know anyone we can get?” + +“Well, Henry Hammond up at the Glen goes out doing jobs like that. +He’ll do, maybe. He’s always a heap more interested in his wages than +in his work, just like a man, and he’s so slow in the uptake that he +stands still for five minutes before it dawns on him that he’s stopped. +His father threw a stump at him when he was small. + +“Nice gentle missile, wasn’t it? So like a man! Course, the boy never +got over it. But he’s the only one I can recommend at all. He painted +my house for me last spring. It looks real nice now, don’t you think?” + +Anne was saved by the clock striking five. + +“Lord, is it that late?” exclaimed Miss Cornelia. “How time does slip +by when you’re enjoying yourself! Well, I must betake myself home.” + +“No, indeed! You are going to stay and have tea with us,” said Anne +eagerly. + +“Are you asking me because you think you ought to, or because you +really want to?” demanded Miss Cornelia. + +“Because I really want to.” + +“Then I’ll stay. YOU belong to the race that knows Joseph.” + +“I know we are going to be friends,” said Anne, with the smile that +only they of the household of faith ever saw. + +“Yes, we are, dearie. Thank goodness, we can choose our friends. We +have to take our relatives as they are, and be thankful if there are no +penitentiary birds among them. Not that I’ve many--none nearer than +second cousins. I’m a kind of lonely soul, Mrs. Blythe.” + +There was a wistful note in Miss Cornelia’s voice. + +“I wish you would call me Anne,” exclaimed Anne impulsively. “It would +seem more HOMEY. Everyone in Four Winds, except my husband, calls me +Mrs. Blythe, and it makes me feel like a stranger. Do you know that +your name is very near being the one I yearned after when I was a +child. I hated ‘Anne’ and I called myself ‘Cordelia’ in imagination.” + +“I like Anne. It was my mother’s name. Old-fashioned names are the +best and sweetest in my opinion. If you’re going to get tea you might +send the young doctor to talk to me. He’s been lying on the sofa in +that office ever since I came, laughing fit to kill over what I’ve been +saying.” + +“How did you know?” cried Anne, too aghast at this instance of Miss +Cornelia’s uncanny prescience to make a polite denial. + +“I saw him sitting beside you when I came up the lane, and I know men’s +tricks,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “There, I’ve finished my little +dress, dearie, and the eighth baby can come as soon as it pleases.” + + + + +CHAPTER 9 + +AN EVENING AT FOUR WINDS POINT + +It was late September when Anne and Gilbert were able to pay Four Winds +light their promised visit. They had often planned to go, but +something always occurred to prevent them. Captain Jim had “dropped +in” several times at the little house. + +“I don’t stand on ceremony, Mistress Blythe,” he told Anne. “It’s a +real pleasure to me to come here, and I’m not going to deny myself jest +because you haven’t got down to see me. There oughtn’t to be no +bargaining like that among the race that knows Joseph. I’ll come when +I can, and you come when you can, and so long’s we have our pleasant +little chat it don’t matter a mite what roof’s over us.” + +Captain Jim took a great fancy to Gog and Magog, who were presiding +over the destinies of the hearth in the little house with as much +dignity and aplomb as they had done at Patty’s Place. + +“Aren’t they the cutest little cusses?” he would say delightedly; and +he bade them greeting and farewell as gravely and invariably as he did +his host and hostess. Captain Jim was not going to offend household +deities by any lack of reverence and ceremony. + +“You’ve made this little house just about perfect,” he told Anne. “It +never was so nice before. Mistress Selwyn had your taste and she did +wonders; but folks in those days didn’t have the pretty little curtains +and pictures and nicknacks you have. As for Elizabeth, she lived in +the past. You’ve kinder brought the future into it, so to speak. I’d +be real happy even if we couldn’t talk at all, when I come here--jest +to sit and look at you and your pictures and your flowers would be +enough of a treat. It’s beautiful--beautiful.” + +Captain Jim was a passionate worshipper of beauty. Every lovely thing +heard or seen gave him a deep, subtle, inner joy that irradiated his +life. He was quite keenly aware of his own lack of outward comeliness +and lamented it. + +“Folks say I’m good,” he remarked whimsically upon one occasion, “but I +sometimes wish the Lord had made me only half as good and put the rest +of it into looks. But there, I reckon He knew what He was about, as a +good Captain should. Some of us have to be homely, or the purty +ones--like Mistress Blythe here--wouldn’t show up so well.” + +One evening Anne and Gilbert finally walked down to the Four Winds +light. The day had begun sombrely in gray cloud and mist, but it had +ended in a pomp of scarlet and gold. Over the western hills beyond the +harbor were amber deeps and crystalline shallows, with the fire of +sunset below. The north was a mackerel sky of little, fiery golden +clouds. The red light flamed on the white sails of a vessel gliding +down the channel, bound to a southern port in a land of palms. Beyond +her, it smote upon and incarnadined the shining, white, grassless faces +of the sand dunes. To the right, it fell on the old house among the +willows up the brook, and gave it for a fleeting space casements more +splendid than those of an old cathedral. They glowed out of its quiet +and grayness like the throbbing, blood-red thoughts of a vivid soul +imprisoned in a dull husk of environment. + +“That old house up the brook always seems so lonely,” said Anne. “I +never see visitors there. Of course, its lane opens on the upper +road--but I don’t think there’s much coming and going. It seems odd +we’ve never met the Moores yet, when they live within fifteen minutes’ +walk of us. I may have seen them in church, of course, but if so I +didn’t know them. I’m sorry they are so unsociable, when they are our +only near neighbors.” + +“Evidently they don’t belong to the race that knows Joseph,” laughed +Gilbert. “Have you ever found out who that girl was whom you thought +so beautiful?” + +“No. Somehow I have never remembered to ask about her. But I’ve never +seen her anywhere, so I suppose she must have been a stranger. Oh, the +sun has just vanished--and there’s the light.” + +As the dusk deepened, the great beacon cut swathes of light through it, +sweeping in a circle over the fields and the harbor, the sandbar and +the gulf. + +“I feel as if it might catch me and whisk me leagues out to sea,” said +Anne, as one drenched them with radiance; and she felt rather relieved +when they got so near the Point that they were inside the range of +those dazzling, recurrent flashes. + +As they turned into the little lane that led across the fields to the +Point they met a man coming out of it--a man of such extraordinary +appearance that for a moment they both frankly stared. He was a +decidedly fine-looking person-tall, broad-shouldered, well-featured, +with a Roman nose and frank gray eyes; he was dressed in a prosperous +farmer’s Sunday best; in so far he might have been any inhabitant of +Four Winds or the Glen. But, flowing over his breast nearly to his +knees, was a river of crinkly brown beard; and adown his back, beneath +his commonplace felt hat, was a corresponding cascade of thick, wavy, +brown hair. + +“Anne,” murmured Gilbert, when they were out of earshot, “you didn’t +put what Uncle Dave calls ‘a little of the Scott Act’ in that lemonade +you gave me just before we left home, did you?” + +“No, I didn’t,” said Anne, stifling her laughter, lest the retreating +enigma should hear here. “Who in the world can he be?” + +“I don’t know; but if Captain Jim keeps apparitions like that down at +this Point I’m going to carry cold iron in my pocket when I come here. +He wasn’t a sailor, or one might pardon his eccentricity of appearance; +he must belong to the over-harbor clans. Uncle Dave says they have +several freaks over there.” + +“Uncle Dave is a little prejudiced, I think. You know all the +over-harbor people who come to the Glen Church seem very nice. Oh, +Gilbert, isn’t this beautiful?” + +The Four Winds light was built on a spur of red sand-stone cliff +jutting out into the gulf. On one side, across the channel, stretched +the silvery sand shore of the bar; on the other, extended a long, +curving beach of red cliffs, rising steeply from the pebbled coves. It +was a shore that knew the magic and mystery of storm and star. There +is a great solitude about such a shore. The woods are never +solitary--they are full of whispering, beckoning, friendly life. But +the sea is a mighty soul, forever moaning of some great, unshareable +sorrow, which shuts it up into itself for all eternity. We can never +pierce its infinite mystery--we may only wander, awed and spellbound, +on the outer fringe of it. The woods call to us with a hundred voices, +but the sea has one only--a mighty voice that drowns our souls in its +majestic music. The woods are human, but the sea is of the company of +the archangels. + +Anne and Gilbert found Uncle Jim sitting on a bench outside the +lighthouse, putting the finishing touches to a wonderful, full-rigged, +toy schooner. He rose and welcomed them to his abode with the gentle, +unconscious courtesy that became him so well. + +“This has been a purty nice day all through, Mistress Blythe, and now, +right at the last, it’s brought its best. Would you like to sit down +here outside a bit, while the light lasts? I’ve just finished this bit +of a plaything for my little grand nephew, Joe, up at the Glen. After +I promised to make it for him I was kinder sorry, for his mother was +vexed. She’s afraid he’ll be wanting to go to sea later on and she +doesn’t want the notion encouraged in him. But what could I do, +Mistress Blythe? I’d PROMISED him, and I think it’s sorter real +dastardly to break a promise you make to a child. Come, sit down. It +won’t take long to stay an hour.” + +The wind was off shore, and only broke the sea’s surface into long, +silvery ripples, and sent sheeny shadows flying out across it, from +every point and headland, like transparent wings. The dusk was hanging +a curtain of violet gloom over the sand dunes and the headlands where +gulls were huddling. The sky was faintly filmed over with scarfs of +silken vapor. Cloud fleets rode at anchor along the horizons. An +evening star was watching over the bar. + +“Isn’t that a view worth looking at?” said Captain Jim, with a loving, +proprietary pride. “Nice and far from the market-place, ain’t it? No +buying and selling and getting gain. You don’t have to pay +anything--all that sea and sky free--‘without money and without price.’ +There’s going to be a moonrise purty soon, too--I’m never tired of +finding out what a moonrise can be over them rocks and sea and harbor. +There’s a surprise in it every time.” + +They had their moonrise, and watched its marvel and magic in a silence +that asked nothing of the world or each other. Then they went up into +the tower, and Captain Jim showed and explained the mechanism of the +great light. Finally they found themselves in the dining room, where a +fire of driftwood was weaving flames of wavering, elusive, sea-born +hues in the open fireplace. + +“I put this fireplace in myself,” remarked Captain Jim. “The +Government don’t give lighthouse keepers such luxuries. Look at the +colors that wood makes. If you’d like some driftwood for your fire, +Mistress Blythe, I’ll bring you up a load some day. Sit down. I’m +going to make you a cup of tea.” + +Captain Jim placed a chair for Anne, having first removed therefrom a +huge, orange-colored cat and a newspaper. + +“Get down, Matey. The sofa is your place. I must put this paper away +safe till I can find time to finish the story in it. It’s called A Mad +Love. ’Tisn’t my favorite brand of fiction, but I’m reading it jest to +see how long she can spin it out. It’s at the sixty-second chapter +now, and the wedding ain’t any nearer than when it begun, far’s I can +see. When little Joe comes I have to read him pirate yarns. Ain’t it +strange how innocent little creatures like children like the +blood-thirstiest stories?” + +“Like my lad Davy at home,” said Anne. “He wants tales that reek with +gore.” + +Captain Jim’s tea proved to be nectar. He was pleased as a child with +Anne’s compliments, but he affected a fine indifference. + +“The secret is I don’t skimp the cream,” he remarked airily. Captain +Jim had never heard of Oliver Wendell Holmes, but he evidently agreed +with that writer’s dictum that “big heart never liked little cream pot.” + +“We met an odd-looking personage coming out of your lane,” said Gilbert +as they sipped. “Who was he?” + +Captain Jim grinned. + +“That’s Marshall Elliott--a mighty fine man with jest one streak of +foolishness in him. I s’pose you wondered what his object was in +turning himself into a sort of dime museum freak.” + +“Is he a modern Nazarite or a Hebrew prophet left over from olden +times?” asked Anne. + +“Neither of them. It’s politics that’s at the bottom of his freak. +All those Elliotts and Crawfords and MacAllisters are dyed-in-the-wool +politicians. They’re born Grit or Tory, as the case may be, and they +live Grit or Tory, and they die Grit or Tory; and what they’re going to +do in heaven, where there’s probably no politics, is more than I can +fathom. This Marshall Elliott was born a Grit. I’m a Grit myself in +moderation, but there’s no moderation about Marshall. Fifteen years +ago there was a specially bitter general election. Marshall fought for +his party tooth and nail. He was dead sure the Liberals would win--so +sure that he got up at a public meeting and vowed that he wouldn’t +shave his face or cut his hair until the Grits were in power. Well, +they didn’t go in--and they’ve never got in yet--and you saw the result +today for yourselves. Marshall stuck to his word.” + +“What does his wife think of it?” asked Anne. + +“He’s a bachelor. But if he had a wife I reckon she couldn’t make him +break that vow. That family of Elliotts has always been more stubborn +than natteral. Marshall’s brother Alexander had a dog he set great +store by, and when it died the man actilly wanted to have it buried in +the graveyard, ‘along with the other Christians,’ he said. Course, he +wasn’t allowed to; so he buried it just outside the graveyard fence, +and never darkened the church door again. But Sundays he’d drive his +family to church and sit by that dog’s grave and read his Bible all the +time service was going on. They say when he was dying he asked his +wife to bury him beside the dog; she was a meek little soul but she +fired up at THAT. She said SHE wasn’t going to be buried beside no +dog, and if he’d rather have his last resting place beside the dog than +beside her, jest to say so. Alexander Elliott was a stubborn mule, but +he was fond of his wife, so he give in and said, ‘Well, durn it, bury +me where you please. But when Gabriel’s trump blows I expect my dog to +rise with the rest of us, for he had as much soul as any durned Elliott +or Crawford or MacAllister that ever strutted.’ Them was HIS parting +words. As for Marshall, we’re all used to him, but he must strike +strangers as right down peculiar-looking. I’ve known him ever since he +was ten--he’s about fifty now--and I like him. Him and me was out +cod-fishing today. That’s about all I’m good for now--catching trout +and cod occasional. But ’tweren’t always so--not by no manner of +means. I used to do other things, as you’d admit if you saw my +life-book.” + +Anne was just going to ask what his life-book was when the First Mate +created a diversion by springing upon Captain Jim’s knee. He was a +gorgeous beastie, with a face as round as a full moon, vivid green +eyes, and immense, white, double paws. Captain Jim stroked his velvet +back gently. + +“I never fancied cats much till I found the First Mate,” he remarked, +to the accompaniment of the Mate’s tremendous purrs. “I saved his +life, and when you’ve saved a creature’s life you’re bound to love it. +It’s next thing to giving life. There’s some turrible thoughtless +people in the world, Mistress Blythe. Some of them city folks who have +summer homes over the harbor are so thoughtless that they’re cruel. +It’s the worst kind of cruelty--the thoughtless kind. You can’t cope +with it. They keep cats there in the summer, and feed and pet ’em, and +doll ’em up with ribbons and collars. And then in the fall they go off +and leave ’em to starve or freeze. It makes my blood boil, Mistress +Blythe. One day last winter I found a poor old mother cat dead on the +shore, lying against the skin-and-bone bodies of her three little +kittens. She’d died trying to shelter ’em. She had her poor stiff +paws around ’em. Master, I cried. Then I swore. Then I carried them +poor little kittens home and fed ’em up and found good homes for ’em. +I knew the woman who left the cat and when she come back this summer I +jest went over the harbor and told her my opinion of her. It was rank +meddling, but I do love meddling in a good cause.” + +“How did she take it?” asked Gilbert. + +“Cried and said she ‘didn’t think.’ I says to her, says I, ‘Do you +s’pose that’ll be held for a good excuse in the day of Jedgment, when +you’ll have to account for that poor old mother’s life? The Lord’ll +ask you what He give you your brains for if it wasn’t to think, I +reckon.’ I don’t fancy she’ll leave cats to starve another time.” + +“Was the First Mate one of the forsaken?” asked Anne, making advances +to him which were responded to graciously, if condescendingly. + +“Yes. I found HIM one bitter cold day in winter, caught in the +branches of a tree by his durn-fool ribbon collar. He was almost +starving. If you could have seen his eyes, Mistress Blythe! He was +nothing but a kitten, and he’d got his living somehow since he’d been +left until he got hung up. When I loosed him he gave my hand a pitiful +swipe with his little red tongue. He wasn’t the able seaman you see +now. He was meek as Moses. That was nine years ago. His life has +been long in the land for a cat. He’s a good old pal, the First Mate +is.” + +“I should have expected you to have a dog,” said Gilbert. + +Captain Jim shook his head. + +“I had a dog once. I thought so much of him that when he died I +couldn’t bear the thought of getting another in his place. He was a +FRIEND--you understand, Mistress Blythe? Matey’s only a pal. I’m fond +of Matey--all the fonder on account of the spice of devilment that’s in +him--like there is in all cats. But I LOVED my dog. I always had a +sneaking sympathy for Alexander Elliott about HIS dog. There isn’t any +devil in a good dog. That’s why they’re more lovable than cats, I +reckon. But I’m darned if they’re as interesting. Here I am, talking +too much. Why don’t you check me? When I do get a chance to talk to +anyone I run on turrible. If you’ve done your tea I’ve a few little +things you might like to look at--picked ’em up in the queer corners I +used to be poking my nose into.” + +Captain Jim’s “few little things” turned out to be a most interesting +collection of curios, hideous, quaint and beautiful. And almost every +one had some striking story attached to it. + +Anne never forgot the delight with which she listened to those old +tales that moonlit evening by that enchanted driftwood fire, while the +silver sea called to them through the open window and sobbed against +the rocks below them. + +Captain Jim never said a boastful word, but it was impossible to help +seeing what a hero the man had been--brave, true, resourceful, +unselfish. He sat there in his little room and made those things live +again for his hearers. By a lift of the eyebrow, a twist of the lip, a +gesture, a word, he painted a whole scene or character so that they saw +it as it was. + +Some of Captain Jim’s adventures had such a marvellous edge that Anne +and Gilbert secretly wondered if he were not drawing a rather long bow +at their credulous expense. But in this, as they found later, they did +him injustice. His tales were all literally true. Captain Jim had the +gift of the born storyteller, whereby “unhappy, far-off things” can be +brought vividly before the hearer in all their pristine poignancy. + +Anne and Gilbert laughed and shivered over his tales, and once Anne +found herself crying. Captain Jim surveyed her tears with pleasure +shining from his face. + +“I like to see folks cry that way,” he remarked. “It’s a compliment. +But I can’t do justice to the things I’ve seen or helped to do. I’ve +’em all jotted down in my life-book, but I haven’t got the knack of +writing them out properly. If I could hit on jest the right words and +string ’em together proper on paper I could make a great book. It +would beat A Mad Love holler, and I believe Joe’d like it as well as +the pirate yarns. Yes, I’ve had some adventures in my time; and, do +you know, Mistress Blythe, I still lust after ’em. Yes, old and +useless as I be, there’s an awful longing sweeps over me at times to +sail out--out--out there--forever and ever.” + +“Like Ulysses, you would + + ‘Sail beyond the sunset and the baths + Of all the western stars until you die,’” + +said Anne dreamily. + +“Ulysses? I’ve read of him. Yes, that’s just how I feel--jest how all +us old sailors feel, I reckon. I’ll die on land after all, I s’pose. +Well, what is to be will be. There was old William Ford at the Glen +who never went on the water in his life, ’cause he was afraid of being +drowned. A fortune-teller had predicted he would be. And one day he +fainted and fell with his face in the barn trough and was drowned. +Must you go? Well, come soon and come often. The doctor is to do the +talking next time. He knows a heap of things I want to find out. I’m +sorter lonesome here by times. It’s been worse since Elizabeth Russell +died. Her and me was such cronies.” + +Captain Jim spoke with the pathos of the aged, who see their old +friends slipping from them one by one--friends whose place can never be +quite filled by those of a younger generation, even of the race that +knows Joseph. Anne and Gilbert promised to come soon and often. + +“He’s a rare old fellow, isn’t he?” said Gilbert, as they walked home. + +“Somehow, I can’t reconcile his simple, kindly personality with the +wild, adventurous life he has lived,” mused Anne. + +“You wouldn’t find it so hard if you had seen him the other day down at +the fishing village. One of the men of Peter Gautier’s boat made a +nasty remark about some girl along the shore. Captain Jim fairly +scorched the wretched fellow with the lightning of his eyes. He seemed +a man transformed. He didn’t say much--but the way he said it! You’d +have thought it would strip the flesh from the fellow’s bones. I +understand that Captain Jim will never allow a word against any woman +to be said in his presence.” + +“I wonder why he never married,” said Anne. “He should have sons with +their ships at sea now, and grandchildren climbing over him to hear his +stories--he’s that kind of a man. Instead, he has nothing but a +magnificent cat.” + +But Anne was mistaken. Captain Jim had more than that. He had a +memory. + + + + +CHAPTER 10 + +LESLIE MOORE + +“I’m going for a walk to the outside shore tonight,” Anne told Gog and +Magog one October evening. There was no one else to tell, for Gilbert +had gone over the harbor. Anne had her little domain in the speckless +order one would expect of anyone brought up by Marilla Cuthbert, and +felt that she could gad shoreward with a clear conscience. Many and +delightful had been her shore rambles, sometimes with Gilbert, +sometimes with Captain Jim, sometimes alone with her own thoughts and +new, poignantly-sweet dreams that were beginning to span life with +their rainbows. She loved the gentle, misty harbor shore and the +silvery, wind-haunted sand shore, but best of all she loved the rock +shore, with its cliffs and caves and piles of surf-worn boulders, and +its coves where the pebbles glittered under the pools; and it was to +this shore she hied herself tonight. + +There had been an autumn storm of wind and rain, lasting for three +days. Thunderous had been the crash of billows on the rocks, wild the +white spray and spume that blew over the bar, troubled and misty and +tempest-torn the erstwhile blue peace of Four Winds Harbor. Now it was +over, and the shore lay clean-washed after the storm; not a wind +stirred, but there was still a fine surf on, dashing on sand and rock +in a splendid white turmoil--the only restless thing in the great, +pervading stillness and peace. + +“Oh, this is a moment worth living through weeks of storm and stress +for,” Anne exclaimed, delightedly sending her far gaze across the +tossing waters from the top of the cliff where she stood. Presently +she scrambled down the steep path to the little cove below, where she +seemed shut in with rocks and sea and sky. + +“I’m going to dance and sing,” she said. “There’s no one here to see +me--the seagulls won’t carry tales of the matter. I may be as crazy as +I like.” + +She caught up her skirt and pirouetted along the hard strip of sand +just out of reach of the waves that almost lapped her feet with their +spent foam. Whirling round and round, laughing like a child, she +reached the little headland that ran out to the east of the cove; then +she stopped suddenly, blushing crimson; she was not alone; there had +been a witness to her dance and laughter. + +The girl of the golden hair and sea-blue eyes was sitting on a boulder +of the headland, half-hidden by a jutting rock. She was looking +straight at Anne with a strange expression--part wonder, part sympathy, +part--could it be?--envy. She was bare-headed, and her splendid hair, +more than ever like Browning’s “gorgeous snake,” was bound about her +head with a crimson ribbon. She wore a dress of some dark material, +very plainly made; but swathed about her waist, outlining its fine +curves, was a vivid girdle of red silk. Her hands, clasped over her +knee, were brown and somewhat work-hardened; but the skin of her throat +and cheeks was as white as cream. A flying gleam of sunset broke +through a low-lying western cloud and fell across her hair. For a +moment she seemed the spirit of the sea personified--all its mystery, +all its passion, all its elusive charm. + +“You--you must think me crazy,” stammered Anne, trying to recover her +self-possession. To be seen by this stately girl in such an abandon of +childishness--she, Mrs. Dr. Blythe, with all the dignity of the matron +to keep up--it was too bad! + +“No,” said the girl, “I don’t.” + +She said nothing more; her voice was expressionless; her manner +slightly repellent; but there was something in her eyes--eager yet shy, +defiant yet pleading--which turned Anne from her purpose of walking +away. Instead, she sat down on the boulder beside the girl. + +“Let’s introduce ourselves,” she said, with the smile that had never +yet failed to win confidence and friendliness. “I am Mrs. Blythe--and +I live in that little white house up the harbor shore.” + +“Yes, I know,” said the girl. “I am Leslie Moore--Mrs. Dick Moore,” +she added stiffly. + +Anne was silent for a moment from sheer amazement. It had not occurred +to her that this girl was married--there seemed nothing of the wife +about her. And that she should be the neighbor whom Anne had pictured +as a commonplace Four Winds housewife! Anne could not quickly adjust +her mental focus to this astonishing change. + +“Then--then you live in that gray house up the brook,” she stammered. + +“Yes. I should have gone over to call on you long ago,” said the +other. She did not offer any explanation or excuse for not having gone. + +“I wish you WOULD come,” said Anne, recovering herself somewhat. +“We’re such near neighbors we ought to be friends. That is the sole +fault of Four Winds--there aren’t quite enough neighbors. Otherwise it +is perfection.” + +“You like it?” + +“LIKE it! I love it. It is the most beautiful place I ever saw.” + +“I’ve never seen many places,” said Leslie Moore, slowly, “but I’ve +always thought it was very lovely here. I--I love it, too.” + +She spoke, as she looked, shyly, yet eagerly. Anne had an odd +impression that this strange girl--the word “girl” would persist--could +say a good deal if she chose. + +“I often come to the shore,” she added. + +“So do I,” said Anne. “It’s a wonder we haven’t met here before.” + +“Probably you come earlier in the evening than I do. It is generally +late--almost dark--when I come. And I love to come just after a +storm--like this. I don’t like the sea so well when it’s calm and +quiet. I like the struggle--and the crash--and the noise.” + +“I love it in all its moods,” declared Anne. “The sea at Four Winds is +to me what Lover’s Lane was at home. Tonight it seemed so free--so +untamed--something broke loose in me, too, out of sympathy. That was +why I danced along the shore in that wild way. I didn’t suppose +anybody was looking, of course. If Miss Cornelia Bryant had seen me +she would have forboded a gloomy prospect for poor young Dr. Blythe.” + +“You know Miss Cornelia?” said Leslie, laughing. She had an exquisite +laugh; it bubbled up suddenly and unexpectedly with something of the +delicious quality of a baby’s. Anne laughed, too. + +“Oh, yes. She has been down to my house of dreams several times.” + +“Your house of dreams?” + +“Oh, that’s a dear, foolish little name Gilbert and I have for our +home. We just call it that between ourselves. It slipped out before I +thought.” + +“So Miss Russell’s little white house is YOUR house of dreams,” said +Leslie wonderingly. “_I_ had a house of dreams once--but it was a +palace,” she added, with a laugh, the sweetness of which was marred by +a little note of derision. + +“Oh, I once dreamed of a palace, too,” said Anne. “I suppose all girls +do. And then we settle down contentedly in eight-room houses that seem +to fulfill all the desires of our hearts--because our prince is there. +YOU should have had your palace really, though--you are so beautiful. +You MUST let me say it--it has to be said--I’m nearly bursting with +admiration. You are the loveliest thing I ever saw, Mrs. Moore.” + +“If we are to be friends you must call me Leslie,” said the other with +an odd passion. + +“Of course I will. And MY friends call me Anne.” + +“I suppose I am beautiful,” Leslie went on, looking stormily out to +sea. “I hate my beauty. I wish I had always been as brown and plain +as the brownest and plainest girl at the fishing village over there. +Well, what do you think of Miss Cornelia?” + +The abrupt change of subject shut the door on any further confidences. + +“Miss Cornelia is a darling, isn’t she?” said Anne. “Gilbert and I +were invited to her house to a state tea last week. You’ve heard of +groaning tables.” + +“I seem to recall seeing the expression in the newspaper reports of +weddings,” said Leslie, smiling. + +“Well, Miss Cornelia’s groaned--at least, it creaked--positively. You +couldn’t have believed she would have cooked so much for two ordinary +people. She had every kind of pie you could name, I think--except +lemon pie. She said she had taken the prize for lemon pies at the +Charlottetown Exhibition ten years ago and had never made any since for +fear of losing her reputation for them.” + +“Were you able to eat enough pie to please her?” + +“_I_ wasn’t. Gilbert won her heart by eating--I won’t tell you how +much. She said she never knew a man who didn’t like pie better than +his Bible. Do you know, I love Miss Cornelia.” + +“So do I,” said Leslie. “She is the best friend I have in the world.” + +Anne wondered secretly why, if this were so, Miss Cornelia had never +mentioned Mrs. Dick Moore to her. Miss Cornelia had certainly talked +freely about every other individual in or near Four Winds. + +“Isn’t that beautiful?” said Leslie, after a brief silence, pointing to +the exquisite effect of a shaft of light falling through a cleft in the +rock behind them, across a dark green pool at its base. “If I had come +here--and seen nothing but just that--I would go home satisfied.” + +“The effects of light and shadow all along these shores are wonderful,” +agreed Anne. “My little sewing room looks out on the harbor, and I sit +at its window and feast my eyes. The colors and shadows are never the +same two minutes together.” + +“And you are never lonely?” asked Leslie abruptly. “Never--when you +are alone?” + +“No. I don’t think I’ve ever been really lonely in my life,” answered +Anne. “Even when I’m alone I have real good company--dreams and +imaginations and pretendings. I LIKE to be alone now and then, just to +think over things and TASTE them. But I love friendship--and nice, +jolly little times with people. Oh, WON’T you come to see me--often? +Please do. I believe,” Anne added, laughing, “that you’d like me if +you knew me.” + +“I wonder if YOU would like ME,” said Leslie seriously. She was not +fishing for a compliment. She looked out across the waves that were +beginning to be garlanded with blossoms of moonlit foam, and her eyes +filled with shadows. + +“I’m sure I would,” said Anne. “And please don’t think I’m utterly +irresponsible because you saw me dancing on the shore at sunset. No +doubt I shall be dignified after a time. You see, I haven’t been +married very long. I feel like a girl, and sometimes like a child, +yet.” + +“I have been married twelve years,” said Leslie. + +Here was another unbelievable thing. + +“Why, you can’t be as old as I am!” exclaimed Anne. “You must have +been a child when you were married.” + +“I was sixteen,” said Leslie, rising, and picking up the cap and jacket +lying beside her. “I am twenty-eight now. Well, I must go back.” + +“So must I. Gilbert will probably be home. But I’m so glad we both +came to the shore tonight and met each other.” + +Leslie said nothing, and Anne was a little chilled. She had offered +friendship frankly but it had not been accepted very graciously, if it +had not been absolutely repelled. In silence they climbed the cliffs +and walked across a pasture-field of which the feathery, bleached, wild +grasses were like a carpet of creamy velvet in the moonlight. When +they reached the shore lane Leslie turned. + +“I go this way, Mrs. Blythe. You will come over and see me some time, +won’t you?” + +Anne felt as if the invitation had been thrown at her. She got the +impression that Leslie Moore gave it reluctantly. + +“I will come if you really want me to,” she said a little coldly. + +“Oh, I do--I do,” exclaimed Leslie, with an eagerness which seemed to +burst forth and beat down some restraint that had been imposed on it. + +“Then I’ll come. Good-night--Leslie.” + +“Good-night, Mrs. Blythe.” + +Anne walked home in a brown study and poured out her tale to Gilbert. + +“So Mrs. Dick Moore isn’t one of the race that knows Joseph?” said +Gilbert teasingly. + +“No--o--o, not exactly. And yet--I think she WAS one of them once, but +has gone or got into exile,” said Anne musingly. “She is certainly +very different from the other women about here. You can’t talk about +eggs and butter to HER. To think I’ve been imagining her a second Mrs. +Rachel Lynde! Have you ever seen Dick Moore, Gilbert?” + +“No. I’ve seen several men working about the fields of the farm, but I +don’t know which was Moore.” + +“She never mentioned him. I KNOW she isn’t happy.” + +“From what you tell me I suppose she was married before she was old +enough to know her own mind or heart, and found out too late that she +had made a mistake. It’s a common tragedy enough, Anne. + +“A fine woman would have made the best of it. Mrs. Moore has evidently +let it make her bitter and resentful.” + +“Don’t let us judge her till we know,” pleaded Anne. “I don’t believe +her case is so ordinary. You will understand her fascination when you +meet her, Gilbert. It is a thing quite apart from her beauty. I feel +that she possesses a rich nature, into which a friend might enter as +into a kingdom; but for some reason she bars every one out and shuts +all her possibilities up in herself, so that they cannot develop and +blossom. There, I’ve been struggling to define her to myself ever +since I left her, and that is the nearest I can get to it. I’m going +to ask Miss Cornelia about her.” + + + + +CHAPTER 11 + +THE STORY OF LESLIE MOORE + +“Yes, the eighth baby arrived a fortnight ago,” said Miss Cornelia, +from a rocker before the fire of the little house one chilly October +afternoon. “It’s a girl. Fred was ranting mad--said he wanted a +boy--when the truth is he didn’t want it at all. If it had been a boy +he’d have ranted because it wasn’t a girl. They had four girls and +three boys before, so I can’t see that it made much difference what +this one was, but of course he’d have to be cantankerous, just like a +man. The baby is real pretty, dressed up in its nice little clothes. +It has black eyes and the dearest, tiny hands.” + +“I must go and see it. I just love babies,” said Anne, smiling to +herself over a thought too dear and sacred to be put into words. + +“I don’t say but what they’re nice,” admitted Miss Cornelia. “But some +folks seem to have more than they really need, believe ME. My poor +cousin Flora up at the Glen had eleven, and such a slave as she is! +Her husband suicided three years ago. Just like a man!” + +“What made him do that?” asked Anne, rather shocked. + +“Couldn’t get his way over something, so he jumped into the well. A +good riddance! He was a born tyrant. But of course it spoiled the +well. Flora could never abide the thought of using it again, poor +thing! So she had another dug and a frightful expense it was, and the +water as hard as nails. If he HAD to drown himself there was plenty of +water in the harbor, wasn’t there? I’ve no patience with a man like +that. We’ve only had two suicides in Four Winds in my recollection. +The other was Frank West--Leslie Moore’s father. By the way, has +Leslie ever been over to call on you yet?” + +“No, but I met her on the shore a few nights ago and we scraped an +acquaintance,” said Anne, pricking up her ears. + +Miss Cornelia nodded. + +“I’m glad, dearie. I was hoping you’d foregather with her. What do +you think of her?” + +“I thought her very beautiful.” + +“Oh, of course. There was never anybody about Four Winds could touch +her for looks. Did you ever see her hair? It reaches to her feet when +she lets it down. But I meant how did you like her?” + +“I think I could like her very much if she’d let me,” said Anne slowly. + +“But she wouldn’t let you--she pushed you off and kept you at arm’s +length. Poor Leslie! You wouldn’t be much surprised if you knew what +her life has been. It’s been a tragedy--a tragedy!” repeated Miss +Cornelia emphatically. + +“I wish you would tell me all about her--that is, if you can do so +without betraying any confidence.” + +“Lord, dearie, everybody in Four Winds knows poor Leslie’s story. It’s +no secret--the OUTSIDE, that is. Nobody knows the INSIDE but Leslie +herself, and she doesn’t take folks into her confidence. I’m about the +best friend she has on earth, I reckon, and she’s never uttered a word +of complaint to me. Have you ever seen Dick Moore?” + +“No.” + +“Well, I may as well begin at the beginning and tell you everything +straight through, so you’ll understand it. As I said, Leslie’s father +was Frank West. He was clever and shiftless--just like a man. Oh, he +had heaps of brains--and much good they did him! He started to go to +college, and he went for two years, and then his health broke down. +The Wests were all inclined to be consumptive. So Frank came home and +started farming. He married Rose Elliott from over harbor. Rose was +reckoned the beauty of Four Winds--Leslie takes her looks from her +mother, but she has ten times the spirit and go that Rose had, and a +far better figure. Now you know, Anne, I always take the ground that +us women ought to stand by each other. We’ve got enough to endure at +the hands of the men, the Lord knows, so I hold we hadn’t ought to +clapper-claw one another, and it isn’t often you’ll find me running +down another woman. But I never had much use for Rose Elliott. She +was spoiled to begin with, believe ME, and she was nothing but a lazy, +selfish, whining creature. Frank was no hand to work, so they were +poor as Job’s turkey. Poor! They lived on potatoes and point, believe +ME. They had two children--Leslie and Kenneth. Leslie had her +mother’s looks and her father’s brains, and something she didn’t get +from either of them. She took after her Grandmother West--a splendid +old lady. She was the brightest, friendliest, merriest thing when she +was a child, Anne. Everybody liked her. She was her father’s favorite +and she was awful fond of him. They were ‘chums,’ as she used to say. +She couldn’t see any of his faults--and he WAS a taking sort of man in +some ways. + +“Well, when Leslie was twelve years old, the first dreadful thing +happened. She worshipped little Kenneth--he was four years younger +than her, and he WAS a dear little chap. And he was killed one +day--fell off a big load of hay just as it was going into the barn, and +the wheel went right over his little body and crushed the life out of +it. And mind you, Anne, Leslie saw it. She was looking down from the +loft. She gave one screech--the hired man said he never heard such a +sound in all his life--he said it would ring in his ears till Gabriel’s +trump drove it out. But she never screeched or cried again about it. +She jumped from the loft onto the load and from the load to the floor, +and caught up the little bleeding, warm, dead body, Anne--they had to +tear it from her before she would let it go. They sent for me--I can’t +talk of it.” + +Miss Cornelia wiped the tears from her kindly brown eyes and sewed in +bitter silence for a few minutes. + +“Well,” she resumed, “it was all over--they buried little Kenneth in +that graveyard over the harbor, and after a while Leslie went back to +her school and her studies. She never mentioned Kenneth’s name--I’ve +never heard it cross her lips from that day to this. I reckon that old +hurt still aches and burns at times; but she was only a child and time +is real kind to children, Anne, dearie. After a while she began to +laugh again--she had the prettiest laugh. You don’t often hear it now.” + +“I heard it once the other night,” said Anne. “It IS a beautiful +laugh.” + +“Frank West began to go down after Kenneth’s death. He wasn’t strong +and it was a shock to him, because he was real fond of the child, +though, as I’ve said, Leslie was his favorite. He got mopy and +melancholy, and couldn’t or wouldn’t work. And one day, when Leslie +was fourteen years of age, he hanged himself--and in the parlor, too, +mind you, Anne, right in the middle of the parlor from the lamp hook in +the ceiling. Wasn’t that like a man? It was the anniversary of his +wedding day, too. Nice, tasty time to pick for it, wasn’t it? And, of +course, that poor Leslie had to be the one to find him. She went into +the parlor that morning, singing, with some fresh flowers for the +vases, and there she saw her father hanging from the ceiling, his face +as black as a coal. It was something awful, believe ME!” + +“Oh, how horrible!” said Anne, shuddering. “The poor, poor child!” + +“Leslie didn’t cry at her father’s funeral any more than she had cried +at Kenneth’s. Rose whooped and howled for two, however, and Leslie had +all she could do trying to calm and comfort her mother. I was +disgusted with Rose and so was everyone else, but Leslie never got out +of patience. She loved her mother. Leslie is clannish--her own could +never do wrong in her eyes. Well, they buried Frank West beside +Kenneth, and Rose put up a great big monument to him. It was bigger +than his character, believe ME! Anyhow, it was bigger than Rose could +afford, for the farm was mortgaged for more than its value. But not +long after Leslie’s old grandmother West died and she left Leslie a +little money--enough to give her a year at Queen’s Academy. Leslie had +made up her mind to pass for a teacher if she could, and then earn +enough to put herself through Redmond College. That had been her +father’s pet scheme--he wanted her to have what he had lost. Leslie +was full of ambition and her head was chock full of brains. She went +to Queen’s, and she took two years’ work in one year and got her First; +and when she came home she got the Glen school. She was so happy and +hopeful and full of life and eagerness. When I think of what she was +then and what she is now, I say--drat the men!” + +Miss Cornelia snipped her thread off as viciously as if, Nero-like, she +was severing the neck of mankind by the stroke. + +“Dick Moore came into her life that summer. His father, Abner Moore, +kept store at the Glen, but Dick had a sea-going streak in him from his +mother; he used to sail in summer and clerk in his father’s store in +winter. He was a big, handsome fellow, with a little ugly soul. He +was always wanting something till he got it, and then he stopped +wanting it--just like a man. Oh, he didn’t growl at the weather when +it was fine, and he was mostly real pleasant and agreeable when +everything went right. But he drank a good deal, and there were some +nasty stories told of him and a girl down at the fishing village. He +wasn’t fit for Leslie to wipe her feet on, that’s the long and short of +it. And he was a Methodist! But he was clean mad about her--because +of her good looks in the first place, and because she wouldn’t have +anything to say to him in the second. He vowed he’d have her--and he +got her!” + +“How did he bring it about?” + +“Oh, it was an iniquitous thing! I’ll never forgive Rose West. You +see, dearie, Abner Moore held the mortgage on the West farm, and the +interest was overdue some years, and Dick just went and told Mrs. West +that if Leslie wouldn’t marry him he’d get his father to foreclose the +mortgage. Rose carried on terrible--fainted and wept, and pleaded with +Leslie not to let her be turned out of her home. She said it would +break her heart to leave the home she’d come to as a bride. I wouldn’t +have blamed her for feeling dreadful bad over it--but you wouldn’t have +thought she’d be so selfish as to sacrifice her own flesh and blood +because of it, would you? Well, she was. + +“And Leslie gave in--she loved her mother so much she would have done +anything to save her pain. She married Dick Moore. None of us knew +why at the time. It wasn’t till long afterward that I found out how +her mother had worried her into it. I was sure there was something +wrong, though, because I knew how she had snubbed him time and again, +and it wasn’t like Leslie to turn face--about like that. Besides, I +knew that Dick Moore wasn’t the kind of man Leslie could ever fancy, in +spite of his good looks and dashing ways. Of course, there was no +wedding, but Rose asked me to go and see them married. I went, but I +was sorry I did. I’d seen Leslie’s face at her brother’s funeral and +at her father’s funeral--and now it seemed to me I was seeing it at her +own funeral. But Rose was smiling as a basket of chips, believe ME! + +“Leslie and Dick settled down on the West place--Rose couldn’t bear to +part with her dear daughter!--and lived there for the winter. In the +spring Rose took pneumonia and died--a year too late! Leslie was +heart-broken enough over it. Isn’t it terrible the way some unworthy +folks are loved, while others that deserve it far more, you’d think, +never get much affection? As for Dick, he’d had enough of quiet +married life--just like a man. He was for up and off. He went over to +Nova Scotia to visit his relations--his father had come from Nova +Scotia--and he wrote back to Leslie that his cousin, George Moore, was +going on a voyage to Havana and he was going too. The name of the +vessel was the Four Sisters and they were to be gone about nine weeks. + +“It must have been a relief to Leslie. But she never said anything. +From the day of her marriage she was just what she is now--cold and +proud, and keeping everyone but me at a distance. I won’t BE kept at a +distance, believe ME! I’ve just stuck to Leslie as close as I knew how +in spite of everything.” + +“She told me you were the best friend she had,” said Anne. + +“Did she?” exclaimed Miss Cornelia delightedly. “Well, I’m real +thankful to hear it. Sometimes I’ve wondered if she really did want me +around at all--she never let me think so. You must have thawed her out +more than you think, or she wouldn’t have said that much itself to you. +Oh, that poor, heart-broken girl! I never see Dick Moore but I want to +run a knife clean through him.” + +Miss Cornelia wiped her eyes again and having relieved her feelings by +her blood-thirsty wish, took up her tale. + +“Well, Leslie was left over there alone. Dick had put in the crop +before he went, and old Abner looked after it. The summer went by and +the Four Sisters didn’t come back. The Nova Scotia Moores +investigated, and found she had got to Havana and discharged her cargo +and took on another and left for home; and that was all they ever found +out about her. By degrees people began to talk of Dick Moore as one +that was dead. Almost everyone believed that he was, though no one +felt certain, for men have turned up here at the harbor after they’d +been gone for years. Leslie never thought he was dead--and she was +right. A thousand pities too! The next summer Captain Jim was in +Havana--that was before he gave up the sea, of course. He thought he’d +poke round a bit--Captain Jim was always meddlesome, just like a +man--and he went to inquiring round among the sailors’ boarding houses +and places like that, to see if he could find out anything about the +crew of the Four Sisters. He’d better have let sleeping dogs lie, in +my opinion! Well, he went to one out-of-the-way place, and there he +found a man he knew at first sight it was Dick Moore, though he had a +big beard. Captain Jim got it shaved off and then there was no +doubt--Dick Moore it was--his body at least. His mind wasn’t there--as +for his soul, in my opinion he never had one!” + +“What had happened to him?” + +“Nobody knows the rights of it. All the folks who kept the boarding +house could tell was that about a year before they had found him lying +on their doorstep one morning in an awful condition--his head battered +to a jelly almost. They supposed he’d got hurt in some drunken row, +and likely that’s the truth of it. They took him in, never thinking he +could live. But he did--and he was just like a child when he got well. +He hadn’t memory or intellect or reason. They tried to find out who he +was but they never could. He couldn’t even tell them his name--he +could only say a few simple words. He had a letter on him beginning +‘Dear Dick’ and signed ‘Leslie,’ but there was no address on it and the +envelope was gone. They let him stay on--he learned to do a few odd +jobs about the place--and there Captain Jim found him. He brought him +home--I’ve always said it was a bad day’s work, though I s’pose there +was nothing else he could do. He thought maybe when Dick got home and +saw his old surroundings and familiar faces his memory would wake up. +But it hadn’t any effect. There he’s been at the house up the brook +ever since. He’s just like a child, no more nor less. Takes fractious +spells occasionally, but mostly he’s just vacant and good humored and +harmless. He’s apt to run away if he isn’t watched. That’s the burden +Leslie has had to carry for eleven years--and all alone. Old Abner +Moore died soon after Dick was brought home and it was found he was +almost bankrupt. When things were settled up there was nothing for +Leslie and Dick but the old West farm. Leslie rented it to John Ward, +and the rent is all she has to live on. Sometimes in summer she takes +a boarder to help out. But most visitors prefer the other side of the +harbor where the hotels and summer cottages are. Leslie’s house is too +far from the bathing shore. She’s taken care of Dick and she’s never +been away from him for eleven years--she’s tied to that imbecile for +life. And after all the dreams and hopes she once had! You can +imagine what it has been like for her, Anne, dearie--with her beauty +and spirit and pride and cleverness. It’s just been a living death.” + +“Poor, poor girl!” said Anne again. Her own happiness seemed to +reproach her. What right had she to be so happy when another human +soul must be so miserable? + +“Will you tell me just what Leslie said and how she acted the night you +met her on the shore?” asked Miss Cornelia. + +She listened intently and nodded her satisfaction. + +“YOU thought she was stiff and cold, Anne, dearie, but I can tell you +she thawed out wonderful for her. She must have taken to you real +strong. I’m so glad. You may be able to help her a good deal. I was +thankful when I heard that a young couple was coming to this house, for +I hoped it would mean some friends for Leslie; especially if you +belonged to the race that knows Joseph. You WILL be her friend, won’t +you, Anne, dearie?” + +“Indeed I will, if she’ll let me,” said Anne, with all her own sweet, +impulsive earnestness. + +“No, you must be her friend, whether she’ll let you or not,” said Miss +Cornelia resolutely. “Don’t you mind if she’s stiff by times--don’t +notice it. Remember what her life has been--and is--and must always +be, I suppose, for creatures like Dick Moore live forever, I +understand. You should see how fat he’s got since he came home. He +used to be lean enough. Just MAKE her be friends--you can do +it--you’re one of those who have the knack. Only you mustn’t be +sensitive. And don’t mind if she doesn’t seem to want you to go over +there much. She knows that some women don’t like to be where Dick +is--they complain he gives them the creeps. Just get her to come over +here as often as she can. She can’t get away so very much--she can’t +leave Dick long, for the Lord knows what he’d do--burn the house down +most likely. At nights, after he’s in bed and asleep, is about the +only time she’s free. He always goes to bed early and sleeps like the +dead till next morning. That is how you came to meet her at the shore +likely. She wanders there considerable.” + +“I will do everything I can for her,” said Anne. Her interest in +Leslie Moore, which had been vivid ever since she had seen her driving +her geese down the hill, was intensified a thousand fold by Miss +Cornelia’s narration. The girl’s beauty and sorrow and loneliness drew +her with an irresistible fascination. She had never known anyone like +her; her friends had hitherto been wholesome, normal, merry girls like +herself, with only the average trials of human care and bereavement to +shadow their girlish dreams. Leslie Moore stood apart, a tragic, +appealing figure of thwarted womanhood. Anne resolved that she would +win entrance into the kingdom of that lonely soul and find there the +comradeship it could so richly give, were it not for the cruel fetters +that held it in a prison not of its own making. + +“And mind you this, Anne, dearie,” said Miss Cornelia, who had not yet +wholly relieved her mind, “You mustn’t think Leslie is an infidel +because she hardly ever goes to church--or even that she’s a Methodist. +She can’t take Dick to church, of course--not that he ever troubled +church much in his best days. But you just remember that she’s a real +strong Presbyterian at heart, Anne, dearie.” + + + + +CHAPTER 12 + +LESLIE COMES OVER + +Leslie came over to the house of dreams one frosty October night, when +moonlit mists were hanging over the harbor and curling like silver +ribbons along the seaward glens. She looked as if she repented coming +when Gilbert answered her knock; but Anne flew past him, pounced on +her, and drew her in. + +“I’m so glad you picked tonight for a call,” she said gaily. “I made +up a lot of extra good fudge this afternoon and we want someone to help +us eat it--before the fire--while we tell stories. Perhaps Captain Jim +will drop in, too. This is his night.” + +“No. Captain Jim is over home,” said Leslie. “He--he made me come +here,” she added, half defiantly. + +“I’ll say a thank-you to him for that when I see him,” said Anne, +pulling easy chairs before the fire. + +“Oh, I don’t mean that I didn’t want to come,” protested Leslie, +flushing a little. “I--I’ve been thinking of coming--but it isn’t +always easy for me to get away.” + +“Of course it must be hard for you to leave Mr. Moore,” said Anne, in a +matter-of-fact tone. She had decided that it would be best to mention +Dick Moore occasionally as an accepted fact, and not give undue +morbidness to the subject by avoiding it. She was right, for Leslie’s +air of constraint suddenly vanished. Evidently she had been wondering +how much Anne knew of the conditions of her life and was relieved that +no explanations were needed. She allowed her cap and jacket to be +taken, and sat down with a girlish snuggle in the big armchair by +Magog. She was dressed prettily and carefully, with the customary +touch of color in the scarlet geranium at her white throat. Her +beautiful hair gleamed like molten gold in the warm firelight. Her +sea-blue eyes were full of soft laughter and allurement. For the +moment, under the influence of the little house of dreams, she was a +girl again--a girl forgetful of the past and its bitterness. The +atmosphere of the many loves that had sanctified the little house was +all about her; the companionship of two healthy, happy, young folks of +her own generation encircled her; she felt and yielded to the magic of +her surroundings--Miss Cornelia and Captain Jim would scarcely have +recognized her; Anne found it hard to believe that this was the cold, +unresponsive woman she had met on the shore--this animated girl who +talked and listened with the eagerness of a starved soul. And how +hungrily Leslie’s eyes looked at the bookcases between the windows! + +“Our library isn’t very extensive,” said Anne, “but every book in it is +a FRIEND. We’ve picked our books up through the years, here and there, +never buying one until we had first read it and knew that it belonged +to the race of Joseph.” + +Leslie laughed--beautiful laughter that seemed akin to all the mirth +that had echoed through the little house in the vanished years. + +“I have a few books of father’s--not many,” she said. “I’ve read them +until I know them almost by heart. I don’t get many books. There’s a +circulating library at the Glen store--but I don’t think the committee +who pick the books for Mr. Parker know what books are of Joseph’s +race--or perhaps they don’t care. It was so seldom I got one I really +liked that I gave up getting any.” + +“I hope you’ll look on our bookshelves as your own,” said Anne. + +“You are entirely and wholeheartedly welcome to the loan of any book on +them.” + +“You are setting a feast of fat things before me,” said Leslie, +joyously. Then, as the clock struck ten, she rose, half unwillingly. + +“I must go. I didn’t realize it was so late. Captain Jim is always +saying it doesn’t take long to stay an hour. But I’ve stayed two--and +oh, but I’ve enjoyed them,” she added frankly. + +“Come often,” said Anne and Gilbert. They had risen and stood together +in the firelight’s glow. Leslie looked at them--youthful, hopeful, +happy, typifying all she had missed and must forever miss. The light +went out of her face and eyes; the girl vanished; it was the sorrowful, +cheated woman who answered the invitation almost coldly and got herself +away with a pitiful haste. + +Anne watched her until she was lost in the shadows of the chill and +misty night. Then she turned slowly back to the glow of her own +radiant hearthstone. + +“Isn’t she lovely, Gilbert? Her hair fascinates me. Miss Cornelia +says it reaches to her feet. Ruby Gillis had beautiful hair--but +Leslie’s is ALIVE--every thread of it is living gold.” + +“She is very beautiful,” agreed Gilbert, so heartily that Anne almost +wished he were a LITTLE less enthusiastic. + +“Gilbert, would you like my hair better if it were like Leslie’s?” she +asked wistfully. + +“I wouldn’t have your hair any color but just what it is for the +world,” said Gilbert, with one or two convincing accompaniments. + +You wouldn’t be ANNE if you had golden hair--or hair of any color but”-- + +“Red,” said Anne, with gloomy satisfaction. + +“Yes, red--to give warmth to that milk-white skin and those shining +gray-green eyes of yours. Golden hair wouldn’t suit you at all Queen +Anne--MY Queen Anne--queen of my heart and life and home.” + +“Then you may admire Leslie’s all you like,” said Anne magnanimously. + + + + +CHAPTER 13 + +A GHOSTLY EVENING + +One evening, a week later, Anne decided to run over the fields to the +house up the brook for an informal call. It was an evening of gray fog +that had crept in from the gulf, swathed the harbor, filled the glens +and valleys, and clung heavily to the autumnal meadows. Through it the +sea sobbed and shuddered. Anne saw Four Winds in a new aspect, and +found it weird and mysterious and fascinating; but it also gave her a +little feeling of loneliness. Gilbert was away and would be away until +the morrow, attending a medical pow-wow in Charlottetown. Anne longed +for an hour of fellowship with some girl friend. Captain Jim and Miss +Cornelia were “good fellows” each, in their own way; but youth yearned +to youth. + +“If only Diana or Phil or Pris or Stella could drop in for a chat,” she +said to herself, “how delightful it would be! This is such a GHOSTLY +night. I’m sure all the ships that ever sailed out of Four Winds to +their doom could be seen tonight sailing up the harbor with their +drowned crews on their decks, if that shrouding fog could suddenly be +drawn aside. I feel as if it concealed innumerable mysteries--as if I +were surrounded by the wraiths of old generations of Four Winds people +peering at me through that gray veil. If ever the dear dead ladies of +this little house came back to revisit it they would come on just such +a night as this. If I sit here any longer I’ll see one of them there +opposite me in Gilbert’s chair. This place isn’t exactly canny +tonight. Even Gog and Magog have an air of pricking up their ears to +hear the footsteps of unseen guests. I’ll run over to see Leslie +before I frighten myself with my own fancies, as I did long ago in the +matter of the Haunted Wood. I’ll leave my house of dreams to welcome +back its old inhabitants. My fire will give them my good-will and +greeting--they will be gone before I come back, and my house will be +mine once more. Tonight I am sure it is keeping a tryst with the past.” + +Laughing a little over her fancy, yet with something of a creepy +sensation in the region of her spine, Anne kissed her hand to Gog and +Magog and slipped out into the fog, with some of the new magazines +under her arm for Leslie. + +“Leslie’s wild for books and magazines,” Miss Cornelia had told her, +“and she hardly ever sees one. She can’t afford to buy them or +subscribe for them. She’s really pitifully poor, Anne. I don’t see +how she makes out to live at all on the little rent the farm brings in. +She never even hints a complaint on the score of poverty, but I know +what it must be. She’s been handicapped by it all her life. She +didn’t mind it when she was free and ambitious, but it must gall now, +believe ME. I’m glad she seemed so bright and merry the evening she +spent with you. Captain Jim told me he had fairly to put her cap and +coat on and push her out of the door. Don’t be too long going to see +her either. If you are she’ll think it’s because you don’t like the +sight of Dick, and she’ll crawl into her shell again. Dick’s a great, +big, harmless baby, but that silly grin and chuckle of his do get on +some people’s nerves. Thank goodness, I’ve no nerves myself. I like +Dick Moore better now than I ever did when he was in his right +senses--though the Lord knows that isn’t saying much. I was down there +one day in housecleaning time helping Leslie a bit, and I was frying +doughnuts. Dick was hanging round to get one, as usual, and all at +once he picked up a scalding hot one I’d just fished out and dropped it +on the back of my neck when I was bending over. Then he laughed and +laughed. Believe ME, Anne, it took all the grace of God in my heart to +keep me from just whisking up that stew-pan of boiling fat and pouring +it over his head.” + +Anne laughed over Miss Cornelia’s wrath as she sped through the +darkness. But laughter accorded ill with that night. She was sober +enough when she reached the house among the willows. Everything was +very silent. The front part of the house seemed dark and deserted, so +Anne slipped round to the side door, which opened from the veranda into +a little sitting room. There she halted noiselessly. + +The door was open. Beyond, in the dimly lighted room, sat Leslie +Moore, with her arms flung out on the table and her head bent upon +them. She was weeping horribly--with low, fierce, choking sobs, as if +some agony in her soul were trying to tear itself out. An old black +dog was sitting by her, his nose resting on his lap, his big doggish +eyes full of mute, imploring sympathy and devotion. Anne drew back in +dismay. She felt that she could not intermeddle with this bitterness. +Her heart ached with a sympathy she might not utter. To go in now +would be to shut the door forever on any possible help or friendship. +Some instinct warned Anne that the proud, bitter girl would never +forgive the one who thus surprised her in her abandonment of despair. + +Anne slipped noiselessly from the veranda and found her way across the +yard. Beyond, she heard voices in the gloom and saw the dim glow of a +light. At the gate she met two men--Captain Jim with a lantern, and +another who she knew must be Dick Moore--a big man, badly gone to fat, +with a broad, round, red face, and vacant eyes. Even in the dull light +Anne got the impression that there was something unusual about his eyes. + +“Is this you, Mistress Blythe?” said Captain Jim. “Now, now, you +hadn’t oughter be roaming about alone on a night like this. You could +get lost in this fog easier than not. Jest you wait till I see Dick +safe inside the door and I’ll come back and light you over the fields. +I ain’t going to have Dr. Blythe coming home and finding that you +walked clean over Cape Leforce in the fog. A woman did that once, +forty years ago. + +“So you’ve been over to see Leslie,” he said, when he rejoined her. + +“I didn’t go in,” said Anne, and told what she had seen. Captain Jim +sighed. + +“Poor, poor, little girl! She don’t cry often, Mistress Blythe--she’s +too brave for that. She must feel terrible when she does cry. A night +like this is hard on poor women who have sorrows. There’s something +about it that kinder brings up all we’ve suffered--or feared.” + +“It’s full of ghosts,” said Anne, with a shiver. “That was why I came +over--I wanted to clasp a human hand and hear a human voice. + +“There seem to be so many INHUMAN presences about tonight. Even my own +dear house was full of them. They fairly elbowed me out. So I fled +over here for companionship of my kind.” + +“You were right not to go in, though, Mistress Blythe. Leslie wouldn’t +have liked it. She wouldn’t have liked me going in with Dick, as I’d +have done if I hadn’t met you. I had Dick down with me all day. I +keep him with me as much as I can to help Leslie a bit.” + +“Isn’t there something odd about his eyes?” asked Anne. + +“You noticed that? Yes, one is blue and t’other is hazel--his father +had the same. It’s a Moore peculiarity. That was what told me he was +Dick Moore when I saw him first down in Cuby. If it hadn’t a-bin for +his eyes I mightn’t a-known him, with his beard and fat. You know, I +reckon, that it was me found him and brought him home. Miss Cornelia +always says I shouldn’t have done it, but I can’t agree with her. It +was the RIGHT thing to do--and so ’twas the only thing. There ain’t no +question in my mind about THAT. But my old heart aches for Leslie. +She’s only twenty-eight and she’s eaten more bread with sorrow than +most women do in eighty years.” + +They walked on in silence for a little while. Presently Anne said, “Do +you know, Captain Jim, I never like walking with a lantern. I have +always the strangest feeling that just outside the circle of light, +just over its edge in the darkness, I am surrounded by a ring of +furtive, sinister things, watching me from the shadows with hostile +eyes. I’ve had that feeling from childhood. What is the reason? I +never feel like that when I’m really in the darkness--when it is close +all around me--I’m not the least frightened.” + +“I’ve something of that feeling myself,” admitted Captain Jim. “I +reckon when the darkness is close to us it is a friend. But when we +sorter push it away from us--divorce ourselves from it, so to speak, +with lantern light--it becomes an enemy. But the fog is lifting. + +“There’s a smart west wind rising, if you notice. The stars will be +out when you get home.” + +They were out; and when Anne re-entered her house of dreams the red +embers were still glowing on the hearth, and all the haunting presences +were gone. + + + + +CHAPTER 14 + +NOVEMBER DAYS + +The splendor of color which had glowed for weeks along the shores of +Four Winds Harbor had faded out into the soft gray-blue of late +autumnal hills. There came many days when fields and shores were dim +with misty rain, or shivering before the breath of a melancholy +sea-wind--nights, too, of storm and tempest, when Anne sometimes +wakened to pray that no ship might be beating up the grim north shore, +for if it were so not even the great, faithful light whirling through +the darkness unafraid, could avail to guide it into safe haven. + +“In November I sometimes feel as if spring could never come again,” she +sighed, grieving over the hopeless unsightliness of her frosted and +bedraggled flower-plots. The gay little garden of the schoolmaster’s +bride was rather a forlorn place now, and the Lombardies and birches +were under bare poles, as Captain Jim said. But the fir-wood behind +the little house was forever green and staunch; and even in November +and December there came gracious days of sunshine and purple hazes, +when the harbor danced and sparkled as blithely as in midsummer, and +the gulf was so softly blue and tender that the storm and the wild wind +seemed only things of a long-past dream. + +Anne and Gilbert spent many an autumn evening at the lighthouse. It +was always a cheery place. Even when the east wind sang in minor and +the sea was dead and gray, hints of sunshine seemed to be lurking all +about it. Perhaps this was because the First Mate always paraded it in +panoply of gold. He was so large and effulgent that one hardly missed +the sun, and his resounding purrs formed a pleasant accompaniment to +the laughter and conversation which went on around Captain Jim’s +fireplace. Captain Jim and Gilbert had many long discussions and high +converse on matters beyond the ken of cat or king. + +“I like to ponder on all kinds of problems, though I can’t solve ’em,” +said Captain Jim. “My father held that we should never talk of things +we couldn’t understand, but if we didn’t, doctor, the subjects for +conversation would be mighty few. I reckon the gods laugh many a time +to hear us, but what matters so long as we remember that we’re only men +and don’t take to fancying that we’re gods ourselves, really, knowing +good and evil. I reckon our pow-wows won’t do us or anyone much harm, +so let’s have another whack at the whence, why and whither this +evening, doctor.” + +While they “whacked,” Anne listened or dreamed. Sometimes Leslie went +to the lighthouse with them, and she and Anne wandered along the shore +in the eerie twilight, or sat on the rocks below the lighthouse until +the darkness drove them back to the cheer of the driftwood fire. Then +Captain Jim would brew them tea and tell them + + “tales of land and sea + And whatsoever might betide + The great forgotten world outside.” + +Leslie seemed always to enjoy those lighthouse carousals very much, and +bloomed out for the time being into ready wit and beautiful laughter, +or glowing-eyed silence. There was a certain tang and savor in the +conversation when Leslie was present which they missed when she was +absent. Even when she did not talk she seemed to inspire others to +brilliancy. Captain Jim told his stories better, Gilbert was quicker +in argument and repartee, Anne felt little gushes and trickles of fancy +and imagination bubbling to her lips under the influence of Leslie’s +personality. + +“That girl was born to be a leader in social and intellectual circles, +far away from Four Winds,” she said to Gilbert as they walked home one +night. “She’s just wasted here--wasted.” + +“Weren’t you listening to Captain Jim and yours truly the other night +when we discussed that subject generally? We came to the comforting +conclusion that the Creator probably knew how to run His universe quite +as well as we do, and that, after all, there are no such things as +‘wasted’ lives, saving and except when an individual wilfully squanders +and wastes his own life--which Leslie Moore certainly hasn’t done. And +some people might think that a Redmond B.A., whom editors were +beginning to honor, was ‘wasted’ as the wife of a struggling country +doctor in the rural community of Four Winds.” + +“Gilbert!” + +“If you had married Roy Gardner, now,” continued Gilbert mercilessly, +“YOU could have been ‘a leader in social and intellectual circles far +away from Four Winds.’” + +“Gilbert BLYTHE!” + +“You KNOW you were in love with him at one time, Anne.” + +“Gilbert, that’s mean--‘pisen mean, just like all the men,’ as Miss +Cornelia says. I NEVER was in love with him. I only imagined I was. +YOU know that. You KNOW I’d rather be your wife in our house of dreams +and fulfillment than a queen in a palace.” + +Gilbert’s answer was not in words; but I am afraid that both of them +forgot poor Leslie speeding her lonely way across the fields to a house +that was neither a palace nor the fulfillment of a dream. + +The moon was rising over the sad, dark sea behind them and +transfiguring it. Her light had not yet reached the harbor, the +further side of which was shadowy and suggestive, with dim coves and +rich glooms and jewelling lights. + +“How the home lights shine out tonight through the dark!” said Anne. +“That string of them over the harbor looks like a necklace. And what a +coruscation there is up at the Glen! Oh, look, Gilbert; there is ours. +I’m so glad we left it burning. I hate to come home to a dark house. +OUR homelight, Gilbert! Isn’t it lovely to see?” + +“Just one of earth’s many millions of homes, Anne--girl--but +ours--OURS--our beacon in ‘a naughty world.’ When a fellow has a home +and a dear, little, red-haired wife in it what more need he ask of +life?” + +“Well, he might ask ONE thing more,” whispered Anne happily. “Oh, +Gilbert, it seems as if I just COULDN’T wait for the spring.” + + + + +CHAPTER 15 + +CHRISTMAS AT FOUR WINDS + +At first Anne and Gilbert talked of going home to Avonlea for +Christmas; but eventually they decided to stay in Four Winds. “I want +to spend the first Christmas of our life together in our own home,” +decreed Anne. + +So it fell out that Marilla and Mrs. Rachel Lynde and the twins came to +Four Winds for Christmas. Marilla had the face of a woman who had +circumnavigated the globe. She had never been sixty miles away from +home before; and she had never eaten a Christmas dinner anywhere save +at Green Gables. + +Mrs. Rachel had made and brought with her an enormous plum pudding. +Nothing could have convinced Mrs. Rachel that a college graduate of the +younger generation could make a Christmas plum pudding properly; but +she bestowed approval on Anne’s house. + +“Anne’s a good housekeeper,” she said to Marilla in the spare room the +night of their arrival. “I’ve looked into her bread box and her scrap +pail. I always judge a housekeeper by those, that’s what. There’s +nothing in the pail that shouldn’t have been thrown away, and no stale +pieces in the bread box. Of course, she was trained up with you--but, +then, she went to college afterwards. I notice she’s got my tobacco +stripe quilt on the bed here, and that big round braided mat of yours +before her living-room fire. It makes me feel right at home.” + +Anne’s first Christmas in her own house was as delightful as she could +have wished. The day was fine and bright; the first skim of snow had +fallen on Christmas Eve and made the world beautiful; the harbor was +still open and glittering. + +Captain Jim and Miss Cornelia came to dinner. Leslie and Dick had been +invited, but Leslie made excuse; they always went to her Uncle Isaac +West’s for Christmas, she said. + +“She’d rather have it so,” Miss Cornelia told Anne. “She can’t bear +taking Dick where there are strangers. Christmas is always a hard time +for Leslie. She and her father used to make a lot of it.” + +Miss Cornelia and Mrs. Rachel did not take a very violent fancy to each +other. “Two suns hold not their courses in one sphere.” But they did +not clash at all, for Mrs. Rachel was in the kitchen helping Anne and +Marilla with the dinner, and it fell to Gilbert to entertain Captain +Jim and Miss Cornelia,--or rather to be entertained by them, for a +dialogue between those two old friends and antagonists was assuredly +never dull. + +“It’s many a year since there was a Christmas dinner here, Mistress +Blythe,” said Captain Jim. “Miss Russell always went to her friends in +town for Christmas. But I was here to the first Christmas dinner that +was ever eaten in this house--and the schoolmaster’s bride cooked it. +That was sixty years ago today, Mistress Blythe--and a day very like +this--just enough snow to make the hills white, and the harbor as blue +as June. I was only a lad, and I’d never been invited out to dinner +before, and I was too shy to eat enough. I’ve got all over THAT.” + +“Most men do,” said Miss Cornelia, sewing furiously. Miss Cornelia was +not going to sit with idle hands, even on Christmas. + +Babies come without any consideration for holidays, and there was one +expected in a poverty-stricken household at Glen St. Mary. Miss +Cornelia had sent that household a substantial dinner for its little +swarm, and so meant to eat her own with a comfortable conscience. + +“Well, you know, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, +Cornelia,” explained Captain Jim. + +“I believe you--when he HAS a heart,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “I +suppose that’s why so many women kill themselves cooking--just as poor +Amelia Baxter did. She died last Christmas morning, and she said it +was the first Christmas since she was married that she didn’t have to +cook a big, twenty-plate dinner. It must have been a real pleasant +change for her. Well, she’s been dead a year, so you’ll soon hear of +Horace Baxter taking notice.” + +“I heard he was taking notice already,” said Captain Jim, winking at +Gilbert. “Wasn’t he up to your place one Sunday lately, with his +funeral blacks on, and a boiled collar?” + +“No, he wasn’t. And he needn’t come neither. I could have had him +long ago when he was fresh. I don’t want any second-hand goods, +believe ME. As for Horace Baxter, he was in financial difficulties a +year ago last summer, and he prayed to the Lord for help; and when his +wife died and he got her life insurance he said he believed it was the +answer to his prayer. Wasn’t that like a man?” + +“Have you really proof that he said that, Cornelia?” + +“I have the Methodist minister’s word for it--if you call THAT proof. +Robert Baxter told me the same thing too, but I admit THAT isn’t +evidence. Robert Baxter isn’t often known to tell the truth.” + +“Come, come, Cornelia, I think he generally tells the truth, but he +changes his opinion so often it sometimes sounds as if he didn’t.” + +“It sounds like it mighty often, believe ME. But trust one man to +excuse another. I have no use for Robert Baxter. He turned Methodist +just because the Presbyterian choir happened to be singing ‘Behold the +bridegroom cometh’ for a collection piece when him and Margaret walked +up the aisle the Sunday after they were married. Served him right for +being late! He always insisted the choir did it on purpose to insult +him, as if he was of that much importance. But that family always +thought they were much bigger potatoes than they really were. His +brother Eliphalet imagined the devil was always at his elbow--but _I_ +never believed the devil wasted that much time on him.” + +“I--don’t--know,” said Captain Jim thoughtfully. “Eliphalet Baxter +lived too much alone--hadn’t even a cat or dog to keep him human. When +a man is alone he’s mighty apt to be with the devil--if he ain’t with +God. He has to choose which company he’ll keep, I reckon. If the +devil always was at Life Baxter’s elbow it must have been because Life +liked to have him there.” + +“Man-like,” said Miss Cornelia, and subsided into silence over a +complicated arrangement of tucks until Captain Jim deliberately stirred +her up again by remarking in a casual way: + +“I was up to the Methodist church last Sunday morning.” + +“You’d better have been home reading your Bible,” was Miss Cornelia’s +retort. + +“Come, now, Cornelia, _I_ can’t see any harm in going to the Methodist +church when there’s no preaching in your own. I’ve been a Presbyterian +for seventy-six years, and it isn’t likely my theology will hoist +anchor at this late day.” + +“It’s setting a bad example,” said Miss Cornelia grimly. + +“Besides,” continued wicked Captain Jim, “I wanted to hear some good +singing. The Methodists have a good choir; and you can’t deny, +Cornelia, that the singing in our church is awful since the split in +the choir.” + +“What if the singing isn’t good? They’re doing their best, and God +sees no difference between the voice of a crow and the voice of a +nightingale.” + +“Come, come, Cornelia,” said Captain Jim mildly, “I’ve a better opinion +of the Almighty’s ear for music than THAT.” + +“What caused the trouble in our choir?” asked Gilbert, who was +suffering from suppressed laughter. + +“It dates back to the new church, three years ago,” answered Captain +Jim. “We had a fearful time over the building of that church--fell out +over the question of a new site. The two sites wasn’t more’n two +hundred yards apart, but you’d have thought they was a thousand by the +bitterness of that fight. We was split up into three factions--one +wanted the east site and one the south, and one held to the old. It +was fought out in bed and at board, and in church and at market. All +the old scandals of three generations were dragged out of their graves +and aired. Three matches was broken up by it. And the meetings we had +to try to settle the question! Cornelia, will you ever forget the one +when old Luther Burns got up and made a speech? HE stated his opinions +forcibly.” + +“Call a spade a spade, Captain. You mean he got red-mad and raked them +all, fore and aft. They deserved it too--a pack of incapables. But +what would you expect of a committee of men? That building committee +held twenty-seven meetings, and at the end of the twenty-seventh +weren’t no nearer having a church than when they begun--not so near, +for a fact, for in one fit of hurrying things along they’d gone to work +and tore the old church down, so there we were, without a church, and +no place but the hall to worship in.” + +“The Methodists offered us their church, Cornelia.” + +“The Glen St. Mary church wouldn’t have been built to this day,” went +on Miss Cornelia, ignoring Captain Jim, “if we women hadn’t just +started in and took charge. We said WE meant to have a church, if the +men meant to quarrel till doomsday, and we were tired of being a +laughing-stock for the Methodists. We held ONE meeting and elected a +committee and canvassed for subscriptions. We got them, too. When any +of the men tried to sass us we told them they’d tried for two years to +build a church and it was our turn now. We shut them up close, believe +ME, and in six months we had our church. Of course, when the men saw +we were determined they stopped fighting and went to work, man-like, as +soon as they saw they had to, or quit bossing. Oh, women can’t preach +or be elders; but they can build churches and scare up the money for +them.” + +“The Methodists allow women to preach,” said Captain Jim. + +Miss Cornelia glared at him. + +“I never said the Methodists hadn’t common sense, Captain. What I say +is, I doubt if they have much religion.” + +“I suppose you are in favor of votes for women, Miss Cornelia,” said +Gilbert. + +“I’m not hankering after the vote, believe ME,” said Miss Cornelia +scornfully. “_I_ know what it is to clean up after the men. But some +of these days, when the men realize they’ve got the world into a mess +they can’t get it out of, they’ll be glad to give us the vote, and +shoulder their troubles over on us. That’s THEIR scheme. Oh, it’s +well that women are patient, believe ME!” + +“What about Job?” suggested Captain Jim. + +“Job! It was such a rare thing to find a patient man that when one was +really discovered they were determined he shouldn’t be forgotten,” +retorted Miss Cornelia triumphantly. “Anyhow, the virtue doesn’t go +with the name. There never was such an impatient man born as old Job +Taylor over harbor.” + +“Well, you know, he had a good deal to try him, Cornelia. Even you +can’t defend his wife. I always remember what old William MacAllister +said of her at her funeral, ‘There’s nae doot she was a Chreestian +wumman, but she had the de’il’s own temper.’” + +“I suppose she WAS trying,” admitted Miss Cornelia reluctantly, “but +that didn’t justify what Job said when she died. He rode home from the +graveyard the day of the funeral with my father. He never said a word +till they got near home. Then he heaved a big sigh and said, ‘You may +not believe it, Stephen, but this is the happiest day of my life!’ +Wasn’t that like a man?” + +“I s’pose poor old Mrs. Job did make life kinder uneasy for him,” +reflected Captain Jim. + +“Well, there’s such a thing as decency, isn’t there? Even if a man is +rejoicing in his heart over his wife being dead, he needn’t proclaim it +to the four winds of heaven. And happy day or not, Job Taylor wasn’t +long in marrying again, you might notice. His second wife could manage +him. She made him walk Spanish, believe me! The first thing she did +was to make him hustle round and put up a tombstone to the first Mrs. +Job--and she had a place left on it for her own name. She said there’d +be nobody to make Job put up a monument to HER.” + +“Speaking of Taylors, how is Mrs. Lewis Taylor up at the Glen, doctor?” +asked Captain Jim. + +“She’s getting better slowly--but she has to work too hard,” replied +Gilbert. + +“Her husband works hard too--raising prize pigs,” said Miss Cornelia. +“He’s noted for his beautiful pigs. He’s a heap prouder of his pigs +than of his children. But then, to be sure, his pigs are the best pigs +possible, while his children don’t amount to much. He picked a poor +mother for them, and starved her while she was bearing and rearing +them. His pigs got the cream and his children got the skim milk. + +“There are times, Cornelia, when I have to agree with you, though it +hurts me,” said Captain Jim. “That’s just exactly the truth about +Lewis Taylor. When I see those poor, miserable children of his, robbed +of all children ought to have, it p’isens my own bite and sup for days +afterwards.” + +Gilbert went out to the kitchen in response to Anne’s beckoning. Anne +shut the door and gave him a connubial lecture. + +“Gilbert, you and Captain Jim must stop baiting Miss Cornelia. Oh, +I’ve been listening to you--and I just won’t allow it.” + +‘Anne, Miss Cornelia is enjoying herself hugely. You know she is.’ + +“Well, never mind. You two needn’t egg her on like that. Dinner is +ready now, and, Gilbert, DON’T let Mrs. Rachel carve the geese. I know +she means to offer to do it because she doesn’t think you can do it +properly. Show her you can.” + +“I ought to be able to. I’ve been studying A-B-C-D diagrams of carving +for the past month,” said Gilbert. “Only don’t talk to me while I’m +doing it, Anne, for if you drive the letters out of my head I’ll be in +a worse predicament than you were in old geometry days when the teacher +changed them.” + +Gilbert carved the geese beautifully. Even Mrs. Rachel had to admit +that. And everybody ate of them and enjoyed them. Anne’s first +Christmas dinner was a great success and she beamed with housewifely +pride. Merry was the feast and long; and when it was over they +gathered around the cheer of the red hearth flame and Captain Jim told +them stories until the red sun swung low over Four Winds Harbor, and +the long blue shadows of the Lombardies fell across the snow in the +lane. + +“I must be getting back to the light,” he said finally. “I’ll jest +have time to walk home before sundown. Thank you for a beautiful +Christmas, Mistress Blythe. Bring Master Davy down to the light some +night before he goes home. + +“I want to see those stone gods,” said Davy with a relish. + + + + +CHAPTER 16 + +NEW YEAR’S EVE AT THE LIGHT + +The Green Gables folk went home after Christmas, Marilla under solemn +covenant to return for a month in the spring. More snow came before +New Year’s, and the harbor froze over, but the gulf still was free, +beyond the white, imprisoned fields. The last day of the old year was +one of those bright, cold, dazzling winter days, which bombard us with +their brilliancy, and command our admiration but never our love. The +sky was sharp and blue; the snow diamonds sparkled insistently; the +stark trees were bare and shameless, with a kind of brazen beauty; the +hills shot assaulting lances of crystal. Even the shadows were sharp +and stiff and clear-cut, as no proper shadows should be. Everything +that was handsome seemed ten times handsomer and less attractive in the +glaring splendor; and everything that was ugly seemed ten times uglier, +and everything was either handsome or ugly. There was no soft +blending, or kind obscurity, or elusive mistiness in that searching +glitter. The only things that held their own individuality were the +firs--for the fir is the tree of mystery and shadow, and yields never +to the encroachments of crude radiance. + +But finally the day began to realize that she was growing old. Then a +certain pensiveness fell over her beauty which dimmed yet intensified +it; sharp angles, glittering points, melted away into curves and +enticing gleams. The white harbor put on soft grays and pinks; the +far-away hills turned amethyst. + +“The old year is going away beautifully,” said Anne. + +She and Leslie and Gilbert were on their way to the Four Winds Point, +having plotted with Captain Jim to watch the New Year in at the light. +The sun had set and in the southwestern sky hung Venus, glorious and +golden, having drawn as near to her earth-sister as is possible for +her. For the first time Anne and Gilbert saw the shadow cast by that +brilliant star of evening, that faint, mysterious shadow, never seen +save when there is white snow to reveal it, and then only with averted +vision, vanishing when you gaze at it directly. + +“It’s like the spirit of a shadow, isn’t it?” whispered Anne. “You can +see it so plainly haunting your side when you look ahead; but when you +turn and look at it--it’s gone.” + +“I have heard that you can see the shadow of Venus only once in a +lifetime, and that within a year of seeing it your life’s most +wonderful gift will come to you,” said Leslie. But she spoke rather +hardly; perhaps she thought that even the shadow of Venus could bring +her no gift of life. Anne smiled in the soft twilight; she felt quite +sure what the mystic shadow promised her. + +They found Marshall Elliott at the lighthouse. At first Anne felt +inclined to resent the intrusion of this long-haired, long-bearded +eccentric into the familiar little circle. But Marshall Elliott soon +proved his legitimate claim to membership in the household of Joseph. +He was a witty, intelligent, well-read man, rivalling Captain Jim +himself in the knack of telling a good story. They were all glad when +he agreed to watch the old year out with them. + +Captain Jim’s small nephew Joe had come down to spend New Year’s with +his great-uncle, and had fallen asleep on the sofa with the First Mate +curled up in a huge golden ball at his feet. + +“Ain’t he a dear little man?” said Captain Jim gloatingly. “I do love +to watch a little child asleep, Mistress Blythe. It’s the most +beautiful sight in the world, I reckon. Joe does love to get down here +for a night, because I have him sleep with me. At home he has to sleep +with the other two boys, and he doesn’t like it. Why can’t I sleep +with father, Uncle Jim?” says he. ‘Everybody in the Bible slept with +their fathers.’ As for the questions he asks, the minister himself +couldn’t answer them. They fair swamp me. ‘Uncle Jim, if I wasn’t ME +who’d I be?’ and, ‘Uncle Jim, what would happen if God died?’ He fired +them two off at me tonight, afore he went to sleep. As for his +imagination, it sails away from everything. He makes up the most +remarkable yarns--and then his mother shuts him up in the closet for +telling stories. And he sits down and makes up another one, and has it +ready to relate to her when she lets him out. He had one for me when +he come down tonight. ‘Uncle Jim,’ says he, solemn as a tombstone, ‘I +had a ’venture in the Glen today.’ ‘Yes, what was it?’ says I, +expecting something quite startling, but nowise prepared for what I +really got. ‘I met a wolf in the street,’ says he, ‘a ’normous wolf +with a big, red mouf and AWFUL long teeth, Uncle Jim.’ ‘I didn’t know +there was any wolves up at the Glen,’ says I. ‘Oh, he comed there from +far, far away,’ says Joe, ‘and I fought he was going to eat me up, +Uncle Jim.’ ‘Were you scared?’ says I. ‘No, ’cause I had a big gun,’ +says Joe, ‘and I shot the wolf dead, Uncle Jim,--solid dead--and then +he went up to heaven and bit God,’ says he. Well, I was fair +staggered, Mistress Blythe.” + +The hours bloomed into mirth around the driftwood fire. Captain Jim +told tales, and Marshall Elliott sang old Scotch ballads in a fine +tenor voice; finally Captain Jim took down his old brown fiddle from +the wall and began to play. He had a tolerable knack of fiddling, +which all appreciated save the First Mate, who sprang from the sofa as +if he had been shot, emitted a shriek of protest, and fled wildly up +the stairs. + +“Can’t cultivate an ear for music in that cat nohow,” said Captain Jim. +“He won’t stay long enough to learn to like it. When we got the organ +up at the Glen church old Elder Richards bounced up from his seat the +minute the organist began to play and scuttled down the aisle and out +of the church at the rate of no-man’s-business. It reminded me so +strong of the First Mate tearing loose as soon as I begin to fiddle +that I come nearer to laughing out loud in church than I ever did +before or since.” + +There was something so infectious in the rollicking tunes which Captain +Jim played that very soon Marshall Elliott’s feet began to twitch. He +had been a noted dancer in his youth. Presently he started up and held +out his hands to Leslie. Instantly she responded. Round and round the +firelit room they circled with a rhythmic grace that was wonderful. +Leslie danced like one inspired; the wild, sweet abandon of the music +seemed to have entered into and possessed her. Anne watched her in +fascinated admiration. She had never seen her like this. All the +innate richness and color and charm of her nature seemed to have broken +loose and overflowed in crimson cheek and glowing eye and grace of +motion. Even the aspect of Marshall Elliott, with his long beard and +hair, could not spoil the picture. On the contrary, it seemed to +enhance it. Marshall Elliott looked like a Viking of elder days, +dancing with one of the blue-eyed, golden-haired daughters of the +Northland. + +“The purtiest dancing I ever saw, and I’ve seen some in my time,” +declared Captain Jim, when at last the bow fell from his tired hand. +Leslie dropped into her chair, laughing, breathless. + +“I love dancing,” she said apart to Anne. “I haven’t danced since I +was sixteen--but I love it. The music seems to run through my veins +like quicksilver and I forget everything--everything--except the +delight of keeping time to it. There isn’t any floor beneath me, or +walls about me, or roof over me--I’m floating amid the stars.” + +Captain Jim hung his fiddle up in its place, beside a large frame +enclosing several banknotes. + +“Is there anybody else of your acquaintance who can afford to hang his +walls with banknotes for pictures?” he asked. “There’s twenty +ten-dollar notes there, not worth the glass over them. They’re old +Bank of P. E. Island notes. Had them by me when the bank failed, and +I had ’em framed and hung up, partly as a reminder not to put your +trust in banks, and partly to give me a real luxurious, millionairy +feeling. Hullo, Matey, don’t be scared. You can come back now. The +music and revelry is over for tonight. The old year has just another +hour to stay with us. I’ve seen seventy-six New Years come in over +that gulf yonder, Mistress Blythe.” + +“You’ll see a hundred,” said Marshall Elliott. + +Captain Jim shook his head. + +“No; and I don’t want to--at least, I think I don’t. Death grows +friendlier as we grow older. Not that one of us really wants to die +though, Marshall. Tennyson spoke truth when he said that. There’s old +Mrs. Wallace up at the Glen. She’s had heaps of trouble all her life, +poor soul, and she’s lost almost everyone she cared about. She’s +always saying that she’ll be glad when her time comes, and she doesn’t +want to sojourn any longer in this vale of tears. But when she takes a +sick spell there’s a fuss! Doctors from town, and a trained nurse, and +enough medicine to kill a dog. Life may be a vale of tears, all right, +but there are some folks who enjoy weeping, I reckon.” + +They spent the old year’s last hour quietly around the fire. A few +minutes before twelve Captain Jim rose and opened the door. + +“We must let the New Year in,” he said. + +Outside was a fine blue night. A sparkling ribbon of moonlight +garlanded the gulf. Inside the bar the harbor shone like a pavement of +pearl. They stood before the door and waited--Captain Jim with his +ripe, full experience, Marshall Elliott in his vigorous but empty +middle life, Gilbert and Anne with their precious memories and +exquisite hopes, Leslie with her record of starved years and her +hopeless future. The clock on the little shelf above the fireplace +struck twelve. + +“Welcome, New Year,” said Captain Jim, bowing low as the last stroke +died away. “I wish you all the best year of your lives, mates. I +reckon that whatever the New Year brings us will be the best the Great +Captain has for us--and somehow or other we’ll all make port in a good +harbor.” + + + + +CHAPTER 17 + +A FOUR WINDS WINTER + +Winter set in vigorously after New Year’s. Big, white drifts heaped +themselves about the little house, and palms of frost covered its +windows. The harbor ice grew harder and thicker, until the Four Winds +people began their usual winter travelling over it. The safe ways were +“bushed” by a benevolent Government, and night and day the gay tinkle +of the sleigh-bells sounded on it. On moonlit nights Anne heard them +in her house of dreams like fairy chimes. The gulf froze over, and the +Four Winds light flashed no more. During the months when navigation +was closed Captain Jim’s office was a sinecure. + +“The First Mate and I will have nothing to do till spring except keep +warm and amuse ourselves. The last lighthouse keeper used always to +move up to the Glen in winter; but I’d rather stay at the Point. The +First Mate might get poisoned or chewed up by dogs at the Glen. It’s a +mite lonely, to be sure, with neither the light nor the water for +company, but if our friends come to see us often we’ll weather it +through.” + +Captain Jim had an ice boat, and many a wild, glorious spin Gilbert and +Anne and Leslie had over the glib harbor ice with him. Anne and Leslie +took long snowshoe tramps together, too, over the fields, or across the +harbor after storms, or through the woods beyond the Glen. They were +very good comrades in their rambles and their fireside communings. +Each had something to give the other--each felt life the richer for +friendly exchange of thought and friendly silence; each looked across +the white fields between their homes with a pleasant consciousness of a +friend beyond. But, in spite of all this, Anne felt that there was +always a barrier between Leslie and herself--a constraint that never +wholly vanished. + +“I don’t know why I can’t get closer to her,” Anne said one evening to +Captain Jim. “I like her so much--I admire her so much--I WANT to take +her right into my heart and creep right into hers. But I can never +cross the barrier.” + +“You’ve been too happy all your life, Mistress Blythe,” said Captain +Jim thoughtfully. “I reckon that’s why you and Leslie can’t get real +close together in your souls. The barrier between you is her +experience of sorrow and trouble. She ain’t responsible for it and you +ain’t; but it’s there and neither of you can cross it.” + +“My childhood wasn’t very happy before I came to Green Gables,” said +Anne, gazing soberly out of the window at the still, sad, dead beauty +of the leafless tree-shadows on the moonlit snow. + +“Mebbe not--but it was just the usual unhappiness of a child who hasn’t +anyone to look after it properly. There hasn’t been any TRAGEDY in +your life, Mistress Blythe. And poor Leslie’s has been almost ALL +tragedy. She feels, I reckon, though mebbe she hardly knows she feels +it, that there’s a vast deal in her life you can’t enter nor +understand--and so she has to keep you back from it--hold you off, so +to speak, from hurting her. You know if we’ve got anything about us +that hurts we shrink from anyone’s touch on or near it. It holds good +with our souls as well as our bodies, I reckon. Leslie’s soul must be +near raw--it’s no wonder she hides it away.” + +“If that were really all, I wouldn’t mind, Captain Jim. I would +understand. But there are times--not always, but now and again--when I +almost have to believe that Leslie doesn’t--doesn’t like me. Sometimes +I surprise a look in her eyes that seems to show resentment and +dislike--it goes so quickly--but I’ve seen it, I’m sure of that. And +it hurts me, Captain Jim. I’m not used to being disliked--and I’ve +tried so hard to win Leslie’s friendship.” + +“You have won it, Mistress Blythe. Don’t you go cherishing any foolish +notion that Leslie don’t like you. If she didn’t she wouldn’t have +anything to do with you, much less chumming with you as she does. I +know Leslie Moore too well not to be sure of that.” + +“The first time I ever saw her, driving her geese down the hill on the +day I came to Four Winds, she looked at me with the same expression,” +persisted Anne. “I felt it, even in the midst of my admiration of her +beauty. She looked at me resentfully--she did, indeed, Captain Jim.” + +“The resentment must have been about something else, Mistress Blythe, +and you jest come in for a share of it because you happened past. +Leslie DOES take sullen spells now and again, poor girl. I can’t blame +her, when I know what she has to put up with. I don’t know why it’s +permitted. The doctor and I have talked a lot abut the origin of evil, +but we haven’t quite found out all about it yet. There’s a vast of +onunderstandable things in life, ain’t there, Mistress Blythe? +Sometimes things seem to work out real proper-like, same as with you +and the doctor. And then again they all seem to go catawampus. +There’s Leslie, so clever and beautiful you’d think she was meant for a +queen, and instead she’s cooped up over there, robbed of almost +everything a woman’d value, with no prospect except waiting on Dick +Moore all her life. Though, mind you, Mistress Blythe, I daresay she’d +choose her life now, such as it is, rather than the life she lived with +Dick before he went away. THAT’S something a clumsy old sailor’s +tongue mustn’t meddle with. But you’ve helped Leslie a lot--she’s a +different creature since you come to Four Winds. Us old friends see +the difference in her, as you can’t. Miss Cornelia and me was talking +it over the other day, and it’s one of the mighty few p’ints that we +see eye to eye on. So jest you throw overboard any idea of her not +liking you.” + +Anne could hardly discard it completely, for there were undoubtedly +times when she felt, with an instinct that was not to be combated by +reason, that Leslie harbored a queer, indefinable resentment towards +her. At times, this secret consciousness marred the delight of their +comradeship; at others it was almost forgotten; but Anne always felt +the hidden thorn was there, and might prick her at any moment. She +felt a cruel sting from it on the day when she told Leslie of what she +hoped the spring would bring to the little house of dreams. Leslie +looked at her with hard, bitter, unfriendly eyes. + +“So you are to have THAT, too,” she said in a choked voice. And +without another word she had turned and gone across the fields +homeward. Anne was deeply hurt; for the moment she felt as if she +could never like Leslie again. But when Leslie came over a few +evenings later she was so pleasant, so friendly, so frank, and witty, +and winsome, that Anne was charmed into forgiveness and forgetfulness. +Only, she never mentioned her darling hope to Leslie again; nor did +Leslie ever refer to it. But one evening, when late winter was +listening for the word of spring, she came over to the little house for +a twilight chat; and when she went away she left a small, white box on +the table. Anne found it after she was gone and opened it wonderingly. +In it was a tiny white dress of exquisite workmanship--delicate +embroidery, wonderful tucking, sheer loveliness. Every stitch in it +was handwork; and the little frills of lace at neck and sleeves were of +real Valenciennes. Lying on it was a card--“with Leslie’s love.” + +“What hours of work she must have put on it,” said Anne. “And the +material must have cost more than she could really afford. It is very +sweet of her.” + +But Leslie was brusque and curt when Anne thanked her, and again the +latter felt thrown back upon herself. + +Leslie’s gift was not alone in the little house. Miss Cornelia had, +for the time being, given up sewing for unwanted, unwelcome eighth +babies, and fallen to sewing for a very much wanted first one, whose +welcome would leave nothing to be desired. Philippa Blake and Diana +Wright each sent a marvellous garment; and Mrs. Rachel Lynde sent +several, in which good material and honest stitches took the place of +embroidery and frills. Anne herself made many, desecrated by no touch +of machinery, spending over them the happiest hours of the happy winter. + +Captain Jim was the most frequent guest of the little house, and none +was more welcome. Every day Anne loved the simple-souled, true-hearted +old sailor more and more. He was as refreshing as a sea breeze, as +interesting as some ancient chronicle. She was never tired of +listening to his stories, and his quaint remarks and comments were a +continual delight to her. Captain Jim was one of those rare and +interesting people who “never speak but they say something.” The milk +of human kindness and the wisdom of the serpent were mingled in his +composition in delightful proportions. + +Nothing ever seemed to put Captain Jim out or depress him in any way. + +“I’ve kind of contracted a habit of enj’ying things,” he remarked once, +when Anne had commented on his invariable cheerfulness. “It’s got so +chronic that I believe I even enj’y the disagreeable things. It’s +great fun thinking they can’t last. ‘Old rheumatiz,’ says I, when it +grips me hard, ‘you’ve GOT to stop aching sometime. The worse you are +the sooner you’ll stop, mebbe. I’m bound to get the better of you in +the long run, whether in the body or out of the body.’” + +One night, by the fireside at the light Anne saw Captain Jim’s +“life-book.” He needed no coaxing to show it and proudly gave it to +her to read. + +“I writ it to leave to little Joe,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of +everything I’ve done and seen being clean forgot after I’ve shipped for +my last v’yage. Joe, he’ll remember it, and tell the yarns to his +children.” + +It was an old leather-bound book filled with the record of his voyages +and adventures. Anne thought what a treasure trove it would be to a +writer. Every sentence was a nugget. In itself the book had no +literary merit; Captain Jim’s charm of storytelling failed him when he +came to pen and ink; he could only jot roughly down the outline of his +famous tales, and both spelling and grammar were sadly askew. But Anne +felt that if anyone possessed of the gift could take that simple record +of a brave, adventurous life, reading between the bald lines the tales +of dangers staunchly faced and duty manfully done, a wonderful story +might be made from it. Rich comedy and thrilling tragedy were both +lying hidden in Captain Jim’s “life-book,” waiting for the touch of the +master hand to waken the laughter and grief and horror of thousands. + +Anne said something of this to Gilbert as they walked home. + +“Why don’t you try your hand at it yourself, Anne?” + +Anne shook her head. + +“No. I only wish I could. But it’s not in the power of my gift. You +know what my forte is, Gilbert--the fanciful, the fairylike, the +pretty. To write Captain Jim’s life-book as it should be written one +should be a master of vigorous yet subtle style, a keen psychologist, a +born humorist and a born tragedian. A rare combination of gifts is +needed. Paul might do it if he were older. Anyhow, I’m going to ask +him to come down next summer and meet Captain Jim.” + +“Come to this shore,” wrote Anne to Paul. “I am afraid you cannot find +here Nora or the Golden Lady or the Twin Sailors; but you will find one +old sailor who can tell you wonderful stories.” + +Paul, however wrote back, saying regretfully that he could not come +that year. He was going abroad for two years’ study. + +“When I return I’ll come to Four Winds, dear Teacher,” he wrote. + +“But meanwhile, Captain Jim is growing old,” said Anne, sorrowfully, +“and there is nobody to write his life-book.” + + + + +CHAPTER 18 + +SPRING DAYS + +The ice in the harbor grew black and rotten in the March suns; in April +there were blue waters and a windy, white-capped gulf again; and again +the Four Winds light begemmed the twilights. + +“I’m so glad to see it once more,” said Anne, on the first evening of +its reappearance. “I’ve missed it so all winter. The northwestern sky +has seemed blank and lonely without it.” + +The land was tender with brand-new, golden-green, baby leaves. There +was an emerald mist on the woods beyond the Glen. The seaward valleys +were full of fairy mists at dawn. + +Vibrant winds came and went with salt foam in their breath. The sea +laughed and flashed and preened and allured, like a beautiful, +coquettish woman. The herring schooled and the fishing village woke to +life. The harbor was alive with white sails making for the channel. +The ships began to sail outward and inward again. + +“On a spring day like this,” said Anne, “I know exactly what my soul +will feel like on the resurrection morning.” + +“There are times in spring when I sorter feel that I might have been a +poet if I’d been caught young,” remarked Captain Jim. “I catch myself +conning over old lines and verses I heard the schoolmaster reciting +sixty years ago. They don’t trouble me at other times. Now I feel as +if I had to get out on the rocks or the fields or the water and spout +them.” + +Captain Jim had come up that afternoon to bring Anne a load of shells +for her garden, and a little bunch of sweet-grass which he had found in +a ramble over the sand dunes. + +“It’s getting real scarce along this shore now,” he said. “When I was +a boy there was a-plenty of it. But now it’s only once in a while +you’ll find a plot--and never when you’re looking for it. You jest +have to stumble on it--you’re walking along on the sand hills, never +thinking of sweet-grass--and all at once the air is full of +sweetness--and there’s the grass under your feet. I favor the smell of +sweet-grass. It always makes me think of my mother.” + +“She was fond of it?” asked Anne. + +“Not that I knows on. Dunno’s she ever saw any sweet-grass. No, it’s +because it has a kind of motherly perfume--not too young, you +understand--something kind of seasoned and wholesome and +dependable--jest like a mother. The schoolmaster’s bride always kept +it among her handkerchiefs. You might put that little bunch among +yours, Mistress Blythe. I don’t like these boughten scents--but a +whiff of sweet-grass belongs anywhere a lady does.” + +Anne had not been especially enthusiastic over the idea of surrounding +her flower beds with quahog shells; as a decoration they did not appeal +to her on first thought. But she would not have hurt Captain Jim’s +feelings for anything; so she assumed a virtue she did not at first +feel, and thanked him heartily. And when Captain Jim had proudly +encircled every bed with a rim of the big, milk-white shells, Anne +found to her surprise that she liked the effect. On a town lawn, or +even up at the Glen, they would not have been in keeping, but here, in +the old-fashioned, sea-bound garden of the little house of dreams, they +BELONGED. + +“They DO look nice,” she said sincerely. + +“The schoolmaster’s bride always had cowhawks round her beds,” said +Captain Jim. “She was a master hand with flowers. She LOOKED at +’em--and touched ’em--SO--and they grew like mad. Some folks have that +knack--I reckon you have it, too, Mistress Blythe.” + +“Oh, I don’t know--but I love my garden, and I love working in it. To +potter with green, growing things, watching each day to see the dear, +new sprouts come up, is like taking a hand in creation, I think. Just +now my garden is like faith--the substance of things hoped for. But +bide a wee.” + +“It always amazes me to look at the little, wrinkled brown seeds and +think of the rainbows in ’em,” said Captain Jim. “When I ponder on +them seeds I don’t find it nowise hard to believe that we’ve got souls +that’ll live in other worlds. You couldn’t hardly believe there was +life in them tiny things, some no bigger than grains of dust, let alone +color and scent, if you hadn’t seen the miracle, could you?” + +Anne, who was counting her days like silver beads on a rosary, could +not now take the long walk to the lighthouse or up the Glen road. But +Miss Cornelia and Captain Jim came very often to the little house. +Miss Cornelia was the joy of Anne’s and Gilbert’s existence. They +laughed side-splittingly over her speeches after every visit. When +Captain Jim and she happened to visit the little house at the same time +there was much sport for the listening. They waged wordy warfare, she +attacking, he defending. Anne once reproached the Captain for his +baiting of Miss Cornelia. + +“Oh, I do love to set her going, Mistress Blythe,” chuckled the +unrepentant sinner. “It’s the greatest amusement I have in life. That +tongue of hers would blister a stone. And you and that young dog of a +doctor enj’y listening to her as much as I do.” + +Captain Jim came along another evening to bring Anne some mayflowers. +The garden was full of the moist, scented air of a maritime spring +evening. There was a milk-white mist on the edge of the sea, with a +young moon kissing it, and a silver gladness of stars over the Glen. +The bell of the church across the harbor was ringing dreamily sweet. +The mellow chime drifted through the dusk to mingle with the soft +spring-moan of the sea. Captain Jim’s mayflowers added the last +completing touch to the charm of the night. + +“I haven’t seen any this spring, and I’ve missed them,” said Anne, +burying her face in them. + +“They ain’t to be found around Four Winds, only in the barrens away +behind the Glen up yander. I took a little trip today to the +Land-of-nothing-to-do, and hunted these up for you. I reckon they’re +the last you’ll see this spring, for they’re nearly done.” + +“How kind and thoughtful you are, Captain Jim. Nobody else--not even +Gilbert”--with a shake of her head at him--“remembered that I always +long for mayflowers in spring.” + +“Well, I had another errand, too--I wanted to take Mr. Howard back +yander a mess of trout. He likes one occasional, and it’s all I can do +for a kindness he did me once. I stayed all the afternoon and talked +to him. He likes to talk to me, though he’s a highly eddicated man and +I’m only an ignorant old sailor, because he’s one of the folks that’s +GOT to talk or they’re miserable, and he finds listeners scarce around +here. The Glen folks fight shy of him because they think he’s an +infidel. He ain’t that far gone exactly--few men is, I reckon--but +he’s what you might call a heretic. Heretics are wicked, but they’re +mighty int’resting. It’s jest that they’ve got sorter lost looking for +God, being under the impression that He’s hard to find--which He ain’t +never. Most of ’em blunder to Him after awhile, I guess. I don’t +think listening to Mr. Howard’s arguments is likely to do me much harm. +Mind you, I believe what I was brought up to believe. It saves a vast +of bother--and back of it all, God is good. The trouble with Mr. +Howard is that he’s a leetle TOO clever. He thinks that he’s bound to +live up to his cleverness, and that it’s smarter to thrash out some new +way of getting to heaven than to go by the old track the common, +ignorant folks is travelling. But he’ll get there sometime all right, +and then he’ll laugh at himself.” + +“Mr. Howard was a Methodist to begin with,” said Miss Cornelia, as if +she thought he had not far to go from that to heresy. + +“Do you know, Cornelia,” said Captain Jim gravely, “I’ve often thought +that if I wasn’t a Presbyterian I’d be a Methodist.” + +“Oh, well,” conceded Miss Cornelia, “if you weren’t a Presbyterian it +wouldn’t matter much what you were. Speaking of heresy, reminds me, +doctor--I’ve brought back that book you lent me--that Natural Law in +the Spiritual World--I didn’t read more’n a third of it. I can read +sense, and I can read nonsense, but that book is neither the one nor +the other.” + +“It IS considered rather heretical in some quarters,” admitted Gilbert, +“but I told you that before you took it, Miss Cornelia.” + +“Oh, I wouldn’t have minded its being heretical. I can stand +wickedness, but I can’t stand foolishness,” said Miss Cornelia calmly, +and with the air of having said the last thing there was to say about +Natural Law. + +“Speaking of books, A Mad Love come to an end at last two weeks ago,” +remarked Captain Jim musingly. “It run to one hundred and three +chapters. When they got married the book stopped right off, so I +reckon their troubles were all over. It’s real nice that that’s the +way in books anyhow, isn’t it, even if ’tistn’t so anywhere else?” + +“I never read novels,” said Miss Cornelia. “Did you hear how Geordie +Russell was today, Captain Jim?” + +“Yes, I called in on my way home to see him. He’s getting round all +right--but stewing in a broth of trouble, as usual, poor man. + +“’Course he brews up most of it for himself, but I reckon that don’t +make it any easier to bear.” + +“He’s an awful pessimist,” said Miss Cornelia. + +“Well, no, he ain’t a pessimist exactly, Cornelia. He only jest never +finds anything that suits him.” + +“And isn’t that a pessimist?” + +“No, no. A pessimist is one who never expects to find anything to suit +him. Geordie hain’t got THAT far yet.” + +“You’d find something good to say of the devil himself, Jim Boyd.” + +“Well, you’ve heard the story of the old lady who said he was +persevering. But no, Cornelia, I’ve nothing good to say of the devil.” + +“Do you believe in him at all?” asked Miss Cornelia seriously. + +“How can you ask that when you know what a good Presbyterian I am, +Cornelia? How could a Presbyterian get along without a devil?” + +“DO you?” persisted Miss Cornelia. + +Captain Jim suddenly became grave. + +“I believe in what I heard a minister once call ‘a mighty and malignant +and INTELLIGENT power of evil working in the universe,’” he said +solemnly. “I do THAT, Cornelia. You can call it the devil, or the +‘principle of evil,’ or the Old Scratch, or any name you like. It’s +THERE, and all the infidels and heretics in the world can’t argue it +away, any more’n they can argue God away. It’s there, and it’s +working. But, mind you, Cornelia, I believe it’s going to get the +worst of it in the long run.” + +“I am sure I hope so,” said Miss Cornelia, none too hopefully. “But +speaking of the devil, I am positive that Billy Booth is possessed by +him now. Have you heard of Billy’s latest performance?” + +“No, what was that?” + +“He’s gone and burned up his wife’s new, brown broadcloth suit, that +she paid twenty-five dollars for in Charlottetown, because he declares +the men looked too admiring at her when she wore it to church the first +time. Wasn’t that like a man?” + +“Mistress Booth IS mighty pretty, and brown’s her color,” said Captain +Jim reflectively. + +“Is that any good reason why he should poke her new suit into the +kitchen stove? Billy Booth is a jealous fool, and he makes his wife’s +life miserable. She’s cried all the week about her suit. Oh, Anne, I +wish I could write like you, believe ME. Wouldn’t I score some of the +men round here!” + +“Those Booths are all a mite queer,” said Captain Jim. “Billy seemed +the sanest of the lot till he got married and then this queer jealous +streak cropped out in him. His brother Daniel, now, was always odd.” + +“Took tantrums every few days or so and wouldn’t get out of bed,” said +Miss Cornelia with a relish. “His wife would have to do all the barn +work till he got over his spell. When he died people wrote her letters +of condolence; if I’d written anything it would have been one of +congratulation. Their father, old Abram Booth, was a disgusting old +sot. He was drunk at his wife’s funeral, and kept reeling round and +hiccuping ‘I didn’t dri--i--i--nk much but I feel a--a--awfully +que--e--e--r.’ I gave him a good jab in the back with my umbrella when +he came near me, and it sobered him up until they got the casket out of +the house. Young Johnny Booth was to have been married yesterday, but +he couldn’t be because he’s gone and got the mumps. Wasn’t that like a +man?” + +“How could he help getting the mumps, poor fellow?” + +“I’d poor fellow him, believe ME, if I was Kate Sterns. I don’t know +how he could help getting the mumps, but I DO know the wedding supper +was all prepared and everything will be spoiled before he’s well again. +Such a waste! He should have had the mumps when he was a boy.” + +“Come, come, Cornelia, don’t you think you’re a mite unreasonable?” + +Miss Cornelia disdained to reply and turned instead to Susan Baker, a +grim-faced, kind-hearted elderly spinster of the Glen, who had been +installed as maid-of-all-work at the little house for some weeks. +Susan had been up to the Glen to make a sick call, and had just +returned. + +“How is poor old Aunt Mandy tonight?” asked Miss Cornelia. + +Susan sighed. + +“Very poorly--very poorly, Cornelia. I am afraid she will soon be in +heaven, poor thing!” + +“Oh, surely, it’s not so bad as that!” exclaimed Miss Cornelia, +sympathetically. + +Captain Jim and Gilbert looked at each other. Then they suddenly rose +and went out. + +“There are times,” said Captain Jim, between spasms, “when it would be +a sin NOT to laugh. Them two excellent women!” + + + + +CHAPTER 19 + +DAWN AND DUSK + +In early June, when the sand hills were a great glory of pink wild +roses, and the Glen was smothered in apple blossoms, Marilla arrived at +the little house, accompanied by a black horsehair trunk, patterned +with brass nails, which had reposed undisturbed in the Green Gables +garret for half a century. Susan Baker, who, during her few weeks’ +sojourn in the little house, had come to worship “young Mrs. Doctor,” +as she called Anne, with blind fervor, looked rather jealously askance +at Marilla at first. But as Marilla did not try to interfere in +kitchen matters, and showed no desire to interrupt Susan’s +ministrations to young Mrs. Doctor, the good handmaiden became +reconciled to her presence, and told her cronies at the Glen that Miss +Cuthbert was a fine old lady and knew her place. + +One evening, when the sky’s limpid bowl was filled with a red glory, +and the robins were thrilling the golden twilight with jubilant hymns +to the stars of evening, there was a sudden commotion in the little +house of dreams. Telephone messages were sent up to the Glen, Doctor +Dave and a white-capped nurse came hastily down, Marilla paced the +garden walks between the quahog shells, murmuring prayers between her +set lips, and Susan sat in the kitchen with cotton wool in her ears and +her apron over her head. + +Leslie, looking out from the house up the brook, saw that every window +of the little house was alight, and did not sleep that night. + +The June night was short; but it seemed an eternity to those who waited +and watched. + +“Oh, will it NEVER end?” said Marilla; then she saw how grave the nurse +and Doctor Dave looked, and she dared ask no more questions. Suppose +Anne--but Marilla could not suppose it. + +“Do not tell me,” said Susan fiercely, answering the anguish in +Marilla’s eyes, “that God could be so cruel as to take that darling +lamb from us when we all love her so much.” + +“He has taken others as well beloved,” said Marilla hoarsely. + +But at dawn, when the rising sun rent apart the mists hanging over the +sandbar, and made rainbows of them, joy came to the little house. Anne +was safe, and a wee, white lady, with her mother’s big eyes, was lying +beside her. Gilbert, his face gray and haggard from his night’s agony, +came down to tell Marilla and Susan. + +“Thank God,” shuddered Marilla. + +Susan got up and took the cotton wool out of her ears. + +“Now for breakfast,” she said briskly. “I am of the opinion that we +will all be glad of a bite and sup. You tell young Mrs. Doctor not to +worry about a single thing--Susan is at the helm. You tell her just to +think of her baby.” + +Gilbert smiled rather sadly as he went away. Anne, her pale face +blanched with its baptism of pain, her eyes aglow with the holy passion +of motherhood, did not need to be told to think of her baby. She +thought of nothing else. For a few hours she tasted of happiness so +rare and exquisite that she wondered if the angels in heaven did not +envy her. + +“Little Joyce,” she murmured, when Marilla came in to see the baby. +“We planned to call her that if she were a girlie. There were so many +we would have liked to name her for; we couldn’t choose between them, +so we decided on Joyce--we can call her Joy for short--Joy--it suits so +well. Oh, Marilla, I thought I was happy before. Now I know that I +just dreamed a pleasant dream of happiness. THIS is the reality.” + +“You mustn’t talk, Anne--wait till you’re stronger,” said Marilla +warningly. + +“You know how hard it is for me NOT to talk,” smiled Anne. + +At first she was too weak and too happy to notice that Gilbert and the +nurse looked grave and Marilla sorrowful. Then, as subtly, and coldly, +and remorselessly as a sea-fog stealing landward, fear crept into her +heart. Why was not Gilbert gladder? Why would he not talk about the +baby? Why would they not let her have it with her after that first +heavenly--happy hour? Was--was there anything wrong? + +“Gilbert,” whispered Anne imploringly, “the baby--is all right--isn’t +she? Tell me--tell me.” + +Gilbert was a long while in turning round; then he bent over Anne and +looked in her eyes. Marilla, listening fearfully outside the door, +heard a pitiful, heartbroken moan, and fled to the kitchen where Susan +was weeping. + +“Oh, the poor lamb--the poor lamb! How can she bear it, Miss Cuthbert? +I am afraid it will kill her. She has been that built up and happy, +longing for that baby, and planning for it. Cannot anything be done +nohow, Miss Cuthbert?” + +“I’m afraid not, Susan. Gilbert says there is no hope. He knew from +the first the little thing couldn’t live.” + +“And it is such a sweet baby,” sobbed Susan. “I never saw one so +white--they are mostly red or yallow. And it opened its big eyes as if +it was months old. The little, little thing! Oh, the poor, young Mrs. +Doctor!” + +At sunset the little soul that had come with the dawning went away, +leaving heartbreak behind it. Miss Cornelia took the wee, white lady +from the kindly but stranger hands of the nurse, and dressed the tiny +waxen form in the beautiful dress Leslie had made for it. Leslie had +asked her to do that. Then she took it back and laid it beside the +poor, broken, tear-blinded little mother. + +“The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away, dearie,” she said +through her own tears. “Blessed be the name of the Lord.” + +Then she went away, leaving Anne and Gilbert alone together with their +dead. + +The next day, the small white Joy was laid in a velvet casket which +Leslie had lined with apple-blossoms, and taken to the graveyard of the +church across the harbor. Miss Cornelia and Marilla put all the little +love-made garments away, together with the ruffled basket which had +been befrilled and belaced for dimpled limbs and downy head. Little +Joy was never to sleep there; she had found a colder, narrower bed. + +“This has been an awful disappointment to me,” sighed Miss Cornelia. +“I’ve looked forward to this baby--and I did want it to be a girl, too.” + +“I can only be thankful that Anne’s life was spared,” said Marilla, +with a shiver, recalling those hours of darkness when the girl she +loved was passing through the valley of the shadow. + +“Poor, poor lamb! Her heart is broken,” said Susan. + +“I ENVY Anne,” said Leslie suddenly and fiercely, “and I’d envy her +even if she had died! She was a mother for one beautiful day. I’d +gladly give my life for THAT!” + +“I wouldn’t talk like that, Leslie, dearie,” said Miss Cornelia +deprecatingly. She was afraid that the dignified Miss Cuthbert would +think Leslie quite terrible. + +Anne’s convalescence was long, and made bitter for her by many things. +The bloom and sunshine of the Four Winds world grated harshly on her; +and yet, when the rain fell heavily, she pictured it beating so +mercilessly down on that little grave across the harbor; and when the +wind blew around the eaves she heard sad voices in it she had never +heard before. + +Kindly callers hurt her, too, with the well-meant platitudes with which +they strove to cover the nakedness of bereavement. A letter from Phil +Blake was an added sting. Phil had heard of the baby’s birth, but not +of its death, and she wrote Anne a congratulatory letter of sweet mirth +which hurt her horribly. + +“I would have laughed over it so happily if I had my baby,” she sobbed +to Marilla. “But when I haven’t it just seems like wanton +cruelty--though I know Phil wouldn’t hurt me for the world. Oh, +Marilla, I don’t see how I can EVER be happy again--EVERYTHING will +hurt me all the rest of my life.” + +“Time will help you,” said Marilla, who was racked with sympathy but +could never learn to express it in other than age-worn formulas. + +“It doesn’t seem FAIR,” said Anne rebelliously. “Babies are born and +live where they are not wanted--where they will be neglected--where +they will have no chance. I would have loved my baby so--and cared for +it so tenderly--and tried to give her every chance for good. And yet I +wasn’t allowed to keep her.” + +“It was God’s will, Anne,” said Marilla, helpless before the riddle of +the universe--the WHY of undeserved pain. “And little Joy is better +off.” + +“I can’t believe THAT,” cried Anne bitterly. Then, seeing that Marilla +looked shocked, she added passionately, “Why should she be born at +all--why should any one be born at all--if she’s better off dead? I +DON’T believe it is better for a child to die at birth than to live its +life out--and love and be loved--and enjoy and suffer--and do its +work--and develop a character that would give it a personality in +eternity. And how do you know it was God’s will? Perhaps it was just +a thwarting of His purpose by the Power of Evil. We can’t be expected +to be resigned to THAT.” + +“Oh, Anne, don’t talk so,” said Marilla, genuinely alarmed lest Anne +were drifting into deep and dangerous waters. “We can’t +understand--but we must have faith--we MUST believe that all is for the +best. I know you find it hard to think so, just now. But try to be +brave--for Gilbert’s sake. He’s so worried about you. You aren’t +getting strong as fast as you should.” + +“Oh, I know I’ve been very selfish,” sighed Anne. “I love Gilbert more +than ever--and I want to live for his sake. But it seems as if part of +me was buried over there in that little harbor graveyard--and it hurts +so much that I’m afraid of life.” + +“It won’t hurt so much always, Anne.” + +“The thought that it may stop hurting sometimes hurts me worse than all +else, Marilla.” + +“Yes, I know, I’ve felt that too, about other things. But we all love +you, Anne. Captain Jim has been up every day to ask for you--and Mrs. +Moore haunts the place--and Miss Bryant spends most of her time, I +think, cooking up nice things for you. Susan doesn’t like it very +well. She thinks she can cook as well as Miss Bryant.” + +“Dear Susan! Oh, everybody has been so dear and good and lovely to me, +Marilla. I’m not ungrateful--and perhaps--when this horrible ache +grows a little less--I’ll find that I can go on living.” + + + + +CHAPTER 20 + +LOST MARGARET + +Anne found that she could go on living; the day came when she even +smiled again over one of Miss Cornelia’s speeches. But there was +something in the smile that had never been in Anne’s smile before and +would never be absent from it again. + +On the first day she was able to go for a drive Gilbert took her down +to Four Winds Point, and left her there while he rowed over the channel +to see a patient at the fishing village. A rollicking wind was +scudding across the harbor and the dunes, whipping the water into +white-caps and washing the sandshore with long lines of silvery +breakers. + +“I’m real proud to see you here again, Mistress Blythe,” said Captain +Jim. “Sit down--sit down. I’m afeared it’s mighty dusty here +today--but there’s no need of looking at dust when you can look at such +scenery, is there?” + +“I don’t mind the dust,” said Anne, “but Gilbert says I must keep in +the open air. I think I’ll go and sit on the rocks down there.” + +“Would you like company or would you rather be alone?” + +“If by company you mean yours I’d much rather have it than be alone,” +said Anne, smiling. Then she sighed. She had never before minded +being alone. Now she dreaded it. When she was alone now she felt so +dreadfully alone. + +“Here’s a nice little spot where the wind can’t get at you,” said +Captain Jim, when they reached the rocks. “I often sit here. It’s a +great place jest to sit and dream.” + +“Oh--dreams,” sighed Anne. “I can’t dream now, Captain Jim--I’m done +with dreams.” + +“Oh, no, you’re not, Mistress Blythe--oh, no, you’re not,” said Captain +Jim meditatively. “I know how you feel jest now--but if you keep on +living you’ll get glad again, and the first thing you know you’ll be +dreaming again--thank the good Lord for it! If it wasn’t for our +dreams they might as well bury us. How’d we stand living if it wasn’t +for our dream of immortality? And that’s a dream that’s BOUND to come +true, Mistress Blythe. You’ll see your little Joyce again some day.” + +“But she won’t be my baby,” said Anne, with trembling lips. “Oh, she +may be, as Longfellow says, ‘a fair maiden clothed with celestial +grace’--but she’ll be a stranger to me.” + +“God will manage better’n THAT, I believe,” said Captain Jim. + +They were both silent for a little time. Then Captain Jim said very +softly: + +“Mistress Blythe, may I tell you about lost Margaret?” + +“Of course,” said Anne gently. She did not know who “lost Margaret” +was, but she felt that she was going to hear the romance of Captain +Jim’s life. + +“I’ve often wanted to tell you about her,” Captain Jim went on. + +“Do you know why, Mistress Blythe? It’s because I want somebody to +remember and think of her sometime after I’m gone. I can’t bear that +her name should be forgotten by all living souls. And now nobody +remembers lost Margaret but me.” + +Then Captain Jim told the story--an old, old forgotten story, for it +was over fifty years since Margaret had fallen asleep one day in her +father’s dory and drifted--or so it was supposed, for nothing was ever +certainly known as to her fate--out of the channel, beyond the bar, to +perish in the black thundersquall which had come up so suddenly that +long-ago summer afternoon. But to Captain Jim those fifty years were +but as yesterday when it is past. + +“I walked the shore for months after that,” he said sadly, “looking to +find her dear, sweet little body; but the sea never give her back to +me. But I’ll find her sometime, Mistress Blythe--I’ll find her +sometime. She’s waiting for me. I wish I could tell you jest how she +looked, but I can’t. I’ve seen a fine, silvery mist hanging over the +bar at sunrise that seemed like her--and then again I’ve seen a white +birch in the woods back yander that made me think of her. She had +pale, brown hair and a little white, sweet face, and long slender +fingers like yours, Mistress Blythe, only browner, for she was a shore +girl. Sometimes I wake up in the night and hear the sea calling to me +in the old way, and it seems as if lost Margaret called in it. And +when there’s a storm and the waves are sobbing and moaning I hear her +lamenting among them. And when they laugh on a gay day it’s HER +laugh--lost Margaret’s sweet, roguish, little laugh. The sea took her +from me, but some day I’ll find her. Mistress Blythe. It can’t keep +us apart forever.” + +“I am glad you have told me about her,” said Anne. “I have often +wondered why you had lived all your life alone.” + +“I couldn’t ever care for anyone else. Lost Margaret took my heart +with her--out there,” said the old lover, who had been faithful for +fifty years to his drowned sweetheart. “You won’t mind if I talk a +good deal about her, will you, Mistress Blythe? It’s a pleasure to +me--for all the pain went out of her memory years ago and jest left its +blessing. I know you’ll never forget her, Mistress Blythe. And if the +years, as I hope, bring other little folks to your home, I want you to +promise me that you’ll tell THEM the story of lost Margaret, so that +her name won’t be forgotten among humankind.” + + + + +CHAPTER 21 + +BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY + + “Anne,” said Leslie, breaking abruptly a short +silence, “you don’t know how GOOD it is to be sitting here with you +again--working--and talking--and being silent together.” + +They were sitting among the blue-eyed grasses on the bank of the brook +in Anne’s garden. The water sparkled and crooned past them; the +birches threw dappled shadows over them; roses bloomed along the walks. +The sun was beginning to be low, and the air was full of woven music. +There was one music of the wind in the firs behind the house, and +another of the waves on the bar, and still another from the distant +bell of the church near which the wee, white lady slept. Anne loved +that bell, though it brought sorrowful thoughts now. + +She looked curiously at Leslie, who had thrown down her sewing and +spoken with a lack of restraint that was very unusual with her. + +“On that horrible night when you were so ill,” Leslie went on, “I kept +thinking that perhaps we’d have no more talks and walks and WORKS +together. And I realized just what your friendship had come to mean to +me--just what YOU meant--and just what a hateful little beast I had +been.” + +“Leslie! Leslie! I never allow anyone to call my friends names.” + +“It’s true. That’s exactly what I am--a hateful little beast. There’s +something I’ve GOT to tell you, Anne. I suppose it will make you +despise me, but I MUST confess it. Anne, there have been times this +past winter and spring when I have HATED you.” + +“I KNEW it,” said Anne calmly. + +“You KNEW it?” + +“Yes, I saw it in your eyes.” + +“And yet you went on liking me and being my friend.” + +“Well, it was only now and then you hated me, Leslie. Between times +you loved me, I think.” + +“I certainly did. But that other horrid feeling was always there, +spoiling it, back in my heart. I kept it down--sometimes I forgot +it--but sometimes it would surge up and take possession of me. I hated +you because I ENVIED you--oh, I was sick with envy of you at times. +You had a dear little home--and love--and happiness--and glad +dreams--everything I wanted--and never had--and never could have. Oh, +never could have! THAT was what stung. I wouldn’t have envied you, if +I had had any HOPE that life would ever be different for me. But I +hadn’t--I hadn’t--and it didn’t seem FAIR. It made me rebellious--and +it hurt me--and so I hated you at times. Oh, I was so ashamed of +it--I’m dying of shame now--but I couldn’t conquer it. + +“That night, when I was afraid you mightn’t live--I thought I was going +to be punished for my wickedness--and I loved you so then. Anne, Anne, +I never had anything to love since my mother died, except Dick’s old +dog--and it’s so dreadful to have nothing to love--life is so +EMPTY--and there’s NOTHING worse than emptiness--and I might have loved +you so much--and that horrible thing had spoiled it--” + +Leslie was trembling and growing almost incoherent with the violence of +her emotion. + +“Don’t, Leslie,” implored Anne, “oh, don’t. I understand--don’t talk +of it any more.” + +“I must--I must. When I knew you were going to live I vowed that I +would tell you as soon as you were well--that I wouldn’t go on +accepting your friendship and companionship without telling you how +unworthy I was of it. And I’ve been so afraid--it would turn you +against me.” + +“You needn’t fear that, Leslie.” + +“Oh, I’m so glad--so glad, Anne.” Leslie clasped her brown, +work-hardened hands tightly together to still their shaking. “But I +want to tell you everything, now I’ve begun. You don’t remember the +first time I saw you, I suppose--it wasn’t that night on the shore--” + +“No, it was the night Gilbert and I came home. You were driving your +geese down the hill. I should think I DO remember it! I thought you +were so beautiful--I longed for weeks after to find out who you were.” + +“I knew who YOU were, although I had never seen either of you before. +I had heard of the new doctor and his bride who were coming to live in +Miss Russell’s little house. I--I hated you that very moment, Anne.” + +“I felt the resentment in your eyes--then I doubted--I thought I must +be mistaken--because WHY should it be?” + +“It was because you looked so happy. Oh, you’ll agree with me now that +I AM a hateful beast--to hate another woman just because she was +happy,--and when her happiness didn’t take anything from me! That was +why I never went to see you. I knew quite well I ought to go--even our +simple Four Winds customs demanded that. But I couldn’t. I used to +watch you from my window--I could see you and your husband strolling +about your garden in the evening--or you running down the poplar lane +to meet him. And it hurt me. And yet in another way I wanted to go +over. I felt that, if I were not so miserable, I could have liked you +and found in you what I’ve never had in my life--an intimate, REAL +friend of my own age. And then you remember that night at the shore? +You were afraid I would think you crazy. You must have thought _I_ +was.” + +“No, but I couldn’t understand you, Leslie. One moment you drew me to +you--the next you pushed me back.” + +“I was very unhappy that evening. I had had a hard day. Dick had been +very--very hard to manage that day. Generally he is quite good-natured +and easily controlled, you know, Anne. But some days he is very +different. I was so heartsick--I ran away to the shore as soon as he +went to sleep. It was my only refuge. I sat there thinking of how my +poor father had ended his life, and wondering if I wouldn’t be driven +to it some day. Oh, my heart was full of black thoughts! And then you +came dancing along the cove like a glad, light-hearted child. I--I +hated you more then than I’ve ever done since. And yet I craved your +friendship. The one feeling swayed me one moment; the other feeling +the next. When I got home that night I cried for shame of what you +must think of me. But it’s always been just the same when I came over +here. Sometimes I’d be happy and enjoy my visit. And at other times +that hideous feeling would mar it all. There were times when +everything about you and your house hurt me. You had so many dear +little things I couldn’t have. Do you know--it’s ridiculous--but I had +an especial spite at those china dogs of yours. There were times when +I wanted to catch up Gog and Magog and bang their pert black noses +together! Oh, you smile, Anne--but it was never funny to me. I would +come here and see you and Gilbert with your books and your flowers, and +your household gods, and your little family jokes--and your love for +each other showing in every look and word, even when you didn’t know +it--and I would go home to--you know what I went home to! Oh, Anne, I +don’t believe I’m jealous and envious by nature. When I was a girl I +lacked many things my schoolmates had, but I never cared--I never +disliked them for it. But I seem to have grown so hateful--” + +“Leslie, dearest, stop blaming yourself. You are NOT hateful or +jealous or envious. The life you have to live has warped you a little, +perhaps-but it would have ruined a nature less fine and noble than +yours. I’m letting you tell me all this because I believe it’s better +for you to talk it out and rid your soul of it. But don’t blame +yourself any more.” + +“Well, I won’t. I just wanted you to know me as I am. That time you +told me of your darling hope for the spring was the worst of all, Anne. +I shall never forgive myself for the way I behaved then. I repented it +with tears. And I DID put many a tender and loving thought of you into +the little dress I made. But I might have known that anything I made +could only be a shroud in the end.” + +“Now, Leslie, that IS bitter and morbid--put such thoughts away. + +“I was so glad when you brought the little dress; and since I had to +lose little Joyce I like to think that the dress she wore was the one +you made for her when you let yourself love me.” + +“Anne, do you know, I believe I shall always love you after this. I +don’t think I’ll ever feel that dreadful way about you again. Talking +it all out seems to have done away with it, somehow. It’s very +strange--and I thought it so real and bitter. It’s like opening the +door of a dark room to show some hideous creature you’ve believed to be +there--and when the light streams in your monster turns out to have +been just a shadow, vanishing when the light comes. It will never come +between us again.” + +“No, we are real friends now, Leslie, and I am very glad.” + +“I hope you won’t misunderstand me if I say something else. Anne, I +was grieved to the core of my heart when you lost your baby; and if I +could have saved her for you by cutting off one of my hands I would +have done it. But your sorrow has brought us closer together. Your +perfect happiness isn’t a barrier any longer. Oh, don’t misunderstand, +dearest--I’m NOT glad that your happiness isn’t perfect any longer--I +can say that sincerely; but since it isn’t, there isn’t such a gulf +between us.” + +“I DO understand that, too, Leslie. Now, we’ll just shut up the past +and forget what was unpleasant in it. It’s all going to be different. +We’re both of the race of Joseph now. I think you’ve been +wonderful--wonderful. And, Leslie, I can’t help believing that life +has something good and beautiful for you yet.” + +Leslie shook her head. + +“No,” she said dully. “There isn’t any hope. Dick will never be +better--and even if his memory were to come back--oh, Anne, it would be +worse, even worse, than it is now. This is something you can’t +understand, you happy bride. Anne, did Miss Cornelia ever tell you how +I came to marry Dick?” + +“Yes.” + +“I’m glad--I wanted you to know--but I couldn’t bring myself to talk of +it if you hadn’t known. Anne, it seems to me that ever since I was +twelve years old life has been bitter. Before that I had a happy +childhood. We were very poor--but we didn’t mind. Father was so +splendid--so clever and loving and sympathetic. We were chums as far +back as I can remember. And mother was so sweet. She was very, very +beautiful. I look like her, but I am not so beautiful as she was.” + +“Miss Cornelia says you are far more beautiful.” + +“She is mistaken--or prejudiced. I think my figure IS better--mother +was slight and bent by hard work--but she had the face of an angel. I +used just to look up at her in worship. We all worshipped her,--father +and Kenneth and I.” + +Anne remembered that Miss Cornelia had given her a very different +impression of Leslie’s mother. But had not love the truer vision? +Still, it WAS selfish of Rose West to make her daughter marry Dick +Moore. + +“Kenneth was my brother,” went on Leslie. “Oh, I can’t tell you how I +loved him. And he was cruelly killed. Do you know how?” + +“Yes.” + +“Anne, I saw his little face as the wheel went over him. He fell on +his back. Anne--Anne--I can see it now. I shall always see it. Anne, +all I ask of heaven is that that recollection shall be blotted out of +my memory. O my God!” + +“Leslie, don’t speak of it. I know the story--don’t go into details +that only harrow your soul up unavailingly. It WILL be blotted out.” + +After a moment’s struggle, Leslie regained a measure of self-control. + +“Then father’s health got worse and he grew despondent--his mind became +unbalanced--you’ve heard all that, too?” + +“Yes.” + +“After that I had just mother to live for. But I was very ambitious. +I meant to teach and earn my way through college. I meant to climb to +the very top--oh, I won’t talk of that either. It’s no use. You know +what happened. I couldn’t see my dear little heart-broken mother, who +had been such a slave all her life, turned out of her home. Of course, +I could have earned enough for us to live on. But mother COULDN’T +leave her home. She had come there as a bride--and she had loved +father so--and all her memories were there. Even yet, Anne, when I +think that I made her last year happy I’m not sorry for what I did. As +for Dick--I didn’t hate him when I married him--I just felt for him the +indifferent, friendly feeling I had for most of my schoolmates. I knew +he drank some--but I had never heard the story of the girl down at the +fishing cove. If I had, I COULDN’T have married him, even for mother’s +sake. Afterwards--I DID hate him--but mother never knew. She +died--and then I was alone. I was only seventeen and I was alone. +Dick had gone off in the Four Sisters. I hoped he wouldn’t be home +very much more. The sea had always been in his blood. I had no other +hope. Well, Captain Jim brought him home, as you know--and that’s all +there is to say. You know me now, Anne--the worst of me--the barriers +are all down. And you still want to be my friend?” + +Anne looked up through the birches, at the white paper-lantern of a +half moon drifting downwards to the gulf of sunset. Her face was very +sweet. + +“I am your friend and you are mine, for always,” she said. “Such a +friend as I never had before. I have had many dear and beloved +friends--but there is a something in you, Leslie, that I never found in +anyone else. You have more to offer me in that rich nature of yours, +and I have more to give you than I had in my careless girlhood. We are +both women--and friends forever.” + +They clasped hands and smiled at each other through the tears that +filled the gray eyes and the blue. + + + + +CHAPTER 22 + +MISS CORNELIA ARRANGES MATTERS + +Gilbert insisted that Susan should be kept on at the little house for +the summer. Anne protested at first. + +“Life here with just the two of us is so sweet, Gilbert. It spoils it +a little to have anyone else. Susan is a dear soul, but she is an +outsider. It won’t hurt me to do the work here.” + +“You must take your doctor’s advice,” said Gilbert. “There’s an old +proverb to the effect that shoemakers’ wives go barefoot and doctors’ +wives die young. I don’t mean that it shall be true in my household. +You will keep Susan until the old spring comes back into your step, and +those little hollows on your cheeks fill out.” + +“You just take it easy, Mrs. Doctor, dear,” said Susan, coming abruptly +in. “Have a good time and do not worry about the pantry. Susan is at +the helm. There is no use in keeping a dog and doing your own barking. +I am going to take your breakfast up to you every morning.” + +“Indeed you are not,” laughed Anne. “I agree with Miss Cornelia that +it’s a scandal for a woman who isn’t sick to eat her breakfast in bed, +and almost justifies the men in any enormities.” + +“Oh, Cornelia!” said Susan, with ineffable contempt. “I think you have +better sense, Mrs. Doctor, dear, than to heed what Cornelia Bryant +says. I cannot see why she must be always running down the men, even +if she is an old maid. _I_ am an old maid, but you never hear ME +abusing the men. I like ’em. I would have married one if I could. Is +it not funny nobody ever asked me to marry him, Mrs. Doctor, dear? I +am no beauty, but I am as good-looking as most of the married women you +see. But I never had a beau. What do you suppose is the reason?” + +“It may be predestination,” suggested Anne, with unearthly solemnity. + +Susan nodded. + +“That is what I have often thought, Mrs. Doctor, dear, and a great +comfort it is. I do not mind nobody wanting me if the Almighty decreed +it so for His own wise purposes. But sometimes doubt creeps in, Mrs. +Doctor, dear, and I wonder if maybe the Old Scratch has not more to do +with it than anyone else. I cannot feel resigned THEN. But maybe,” +added Susan, brightening up, “I will have a chance to get married yet. +I often and often think of the old verse my aunt used to repeat: + + There never was a goose so gray but sometime soon or late + Some honest gander came her way and took her for his mate! + +A woman cannot ever be sure of not being married till she is buried, +Mrs. Doctor, dear, and meanwhile I will make a batch of cherry pies. I +notice the doctor favors ’em, and I DO like cooking for a man who +appreciates his victuals.” + +Miss Cornelia dropped in that afternoon, puffing a little. + +“I don’t mind the world or the devil much, but the flesh DOES rather +bother me,” she admitted. “You always look as cool as a cucumber, +Anne, dearie. Do I smell cherry pie? If I do, ask me to stay to tea. +Haven’t tasted a cherry pie this summer. My cherries have all been +stolen by those scamps of Gilman boys from the Glen.” + +“Now, now, Cornelia,” remonstrated Captain Jim, who had been reading a +sea novel in a corner of the living room, “you shouldn’t say that about +those two poor, motherless Gilman boys, unless you’ve got certain +proof. Jest because their father ain’t none too honest isn’t any +reason for calling them thieves. It’s more likely it’s been the robins +took your cherries. They’re turrible thick this year.” + +“Robins!” said Miss Cornelia disdainfully. “Humph! Two-legged robins, +believe ME!” + +“Well, most of the Four Winds robins ARE constructed on that +principle,” said Captain Jim gravely. + +Miss Cornelia stared at him for a moment. Then she leaned back in her +rocker and laughed long and ungrudgingly. + +“Well, you HAVE got one on me at last, Jim Boyd, I’ll admit. Just look +how pleased he is, Anne, dearie, grinning like a Chessy-cat. As for +the robins’ legs if robins have great, big, bare, sunburned legs, with +ragged trousers hanging on ’em, such as I saw up in my cherry tree one +morning at sunrise last week, I’ll beg the Gilman boys’ pardon. By the +time I got down they were gone. I couldn’t understand how they had +disappeared so quick, but Captain Jim has enlightened me. They flew +away, of course.” + +Captain Jim laughed and went away, regretfully declining an invitation +to stay to supper and partake of cherry pie. + +“I’m on my way to see Leslie and ask her if she’ll take a boarder,” +Miss Cornelia resumed. “I’d a letter yesterday from a Mrs. Daly in +Toronto, who boarded a spell with me two years ago. She wanted me to +take a friend of hers for the summer. His name is Owen Ford, and he’s +a newspaper man, and it seems he’s a grandson of the schoolmaster who +built this house. John Selwyn’s oldest daughter married an Ontario man +named Ford, and this is her son. He wants to see the old place his +grandparents lived in. He had a bad spell of typhoid in the spring and +hasn’t got rightly over it, so his doctor has ordered him to the sea. +He doesn’t want to go to the hotel--he just wants a quiet home place. +I can’t take him, for I have to be away in August. I’ve been appointed +a delegate to the W.F.M.S. convention in Kingsport and I’m going. I +don’t know whether Leslie’ll want to be bothered with him, either, but +there’s no one else. If she can’t take him he’ll have to go over the +harbor.” + +“When you’ve seen her come back and help us eat our cherry pies,” said +Anne. “Bring Leslie and Dick, too, if they can come. And so you’re +going to Kingsport? What a nice time you will have. I must give you a +letter to a friend of mine there--Mrs. Jonas Blake.” + +“I’ve prevailed on Mrs. Thomas Holt to go with me,” said Miss Cornelia +complacently. “It’s time she had a little holiday, believe ME. She +has just about worked herself to death. Tom Holt can crochet +beautifully, but he can’t make a living for his family. He never seems +to be able to get up early enough to do any work, but I notice he can +always get up early to go fishing. Isn’t that like a man?” + +Anne smiled. She had learned to discount largely Miss Cornelia’s +opinions of the Four Winds men. Otherwise she must have believed them +the most hopeless assortment of reprobates and ne’er-do-wells in the +world, with veritable slaves and martyrs for wives. This particular +Tom Holt, for example, she knew to be a kind husband, a much loved +father, and an excellent neighbor. If he were rather inclined to be +lazy, liking better the fishing he had been born for than the farming +he had not, and if he had a harmless eccentricity for doing fancy work, +nobody save Miss Cornelia seemed to hold it against him. His wife was +a “hustler,” who gloried in hustling; his family got a comfortable +living off the farm; and his strapping sons and daughters, inheriting +their mother’s energy, were all in a fair way to do well in the world. +There was not a happier household in Glen St. Mary than the Holts’. + +Miss Cornelia returned satisfied from the house up the brook. + +“Leslie’s going to take him,” she announced. “She jumped at the +chance. She wants to make a little money to shingle the roof of her +house this fall, and she didn’t know how she was going to manage it. I +expect Captain Jim’ll be more than interested when he hears that a +grandson of the Selwyns’ is coming here. Leslie said to tell you she +hankered after cherry pie, but she couldn’t come to tea because she has +to go and hunt up her turkeys. They’ve strayed away. But she said, if +there was a piece left, for you to put it in the pantry and she’d run +over in the cat’s light, when prowling’s in order, to get it. You +don’t know, Anne, dearie, what good it did my heart to hear Leslie send +you a message like that, laughing like she used to long ago. + +“There’s a great change come over her lately. She laughs and jokes +like a girl, and from her talk I gather she’s here real often.” + +“Every day--or else I’m over there,” said Anne. “I don’t know what I’d +do without Leslie, especially just now when Gilbert is so busy. He’s +hardly ever home except for a few hours in the wee sma’s. He’s really +working himself to death. So many of the over-harbor people send for +him now.” + +“They might better be content with their own doctor,” said Miss +Cornelia. “Though to be sure I can’t blame them, for he’s a Methodist. +Ever since Dr. Blythe brought Mrs. Allonby round folks think he can +raise the dead. I believe Dr. Dave is a mite jealous--just like a man. +He thinks Dr. Blythe has too many new-fangled notions! ‘Well,’ I says +to him, ‘it was a new-fangled notion saved Rhoda Allonby. If YOU’D +been attending her she’d have died, and had a tombstone saying it had +pleased God to take her away.’ Oh, I DO like to speak my mind to Dr. +Dave! He’s bossed the Glen for years, and he thinks he’s forgotten +more than other people ever knew. Speaking of doctors, I wish Dr. +Blythe’d run over and see to that boil on Dick Moore’s neck. It’s +getting past Leslie’s skill. I’m sure I don’t know what Dick Moore +wants to start in having boils for--as if he wasn’t enough trouble +without that!” + +“Do you know, Dick has taken quite a fancy to me,” said Anne. “He +follows me round like a dog, and smiles like a pleased child when I +notice him.” + +“Does it make you creepy?” + +“Not at all. I rather like poor Dick Moore. He seems so pitiful and +appealing, somehow.” + +“You wouldn’t think him very appealing if you’d see him on his +cantankerous days, believe ME. But I’m glad you don’t mind him--it’s +all the nicer for Leslie. She’ll have more to do when her boarder +comes. I hope he’ll be a decent creature. You’ll probably like +him--he’s a writer.” + +“I wonder why people so commonly suppose that if two individuals are +both writers they must therefore be hugely congenial,” said Anne, +rather scornfully. “Nobody would expect two blacksmiths to be +violently attracted toward each other merely because they were both +blacksmiths.” + +Nevertheless, she looked forward to the advent of Owen Ford with a +pleasant sense of expectation. If he were young and likeable he might +prove a very pleasant addition to society in Four Winds. The +latch-string of the little house was always out for the race of Joseph. + + + + +CHAPTER 23 + +OWEN FORD COMES + +One evening Miss Cornelia telephoned down to Anne. + +“The writer man has just arrived here. I’m going to drive him down to +your place, and you can show him the way over to Leslie’s. It’s +shorter than driving round by the other road, and I’m in a mortal +hurry. The Reese baby has gone and fallen into a pail of hot water at +the Glen, and got nearly scalded to death and they want me right +off--to put a new skin on the child, I presume. Mrs. Reese is always +so careless, and then expects other people to mend her mistakes. You +won’t mind, will you, dearie? His trunk can go down tomorrow.” + +“Very well,” said Anne. “What is he like, Miss Cornelia?” + +“You’ll see what he’s like outside when I take him down. As for what +he’s like inside only the Lord who made him knows THAT. I’m not going +to say another word, for every receiver in the Glen is down.” + +“Miss Cornelia evidently can’t find much fault with Mr. Ford’s looks, +or she would find it in spite of the receivers,” said Anne. “I +conclude therefore, Susan, that Mr. Ford is rather handsome than +otherwise.” + +“Well, Mrs. Doctor, dear, I DO enjoy seeing a well-looking man,” said +Susan candidly. “Had I not better get up a snack for him? There is a +strawberry pie that would melt in your mouth.” + +“No, Leslie is expecting him and has his supper ready. Besides, I want +that strawberry pie for my own poor man. He won’t be home till late, +so leave the pie and a glass of milk out for him, Susan.” + +“That I will, Mrs. Doctor, dear. Susan is at the helm. After all, it +is better to give pie to your own men than to strangers, who may be +only seeking to devour, and the doctor himself is as well-looking a man +as you often come across.” + +When Owen Ford came Anne secretly admitted, as Miss Cornelia towed him +in, that he was very “well-looking” indeed. He was tall and +broad-shouldered, with thick, brown hair, finely-cut nose and chin, +large and brilliant dark-gray eyes. + +“And did you notice his ears and his teeth, Mrs. Doctor, dear?” queried +Susan later on. “He has got the nicest-shaped ears I ever saw on a +man’s head. I am choice about ears. When I was young I was scared +that I might have to marry a man with ears like flaps. But I need not +have worried, for never a chance did I have with any kind of ears.” + +Anne had not noticed Owen Ford’s ears, but she did see his teeth, as +his lips parted over them in a frank and friendly smile. Unsmiling, +his face was rather sad and absent in expression, not unlike the +melancholy, inscrutable hero of Anne’s own early dreams; but mirth and +humor and charm lighted it up when he smiled. Certainly, on the +outside, as Miss Cornelia said, Owen Ford was a very presentable fellow. + +“You cannot realize how delighted I am to be here, Mrs. Blythe,” he +said, looking around him with eager, interested eyes. “I have an odd +feeling of coming home. My mother was born and spent her childhood +here, you know. She used to talk a great deal to me of her old home. +I know the geography of it as well as of the one I lived in, and, of +course, she told me the story of the building of the house, and of my +grandfather’s agonised watch for the Royal William. I had thought that +so old a house must have vanished years ago, or I should have come to +see it before this.” + +“Old houses don’t vanish easily on this enchanted coast,” smiled Anne. +“This is a ‘land where all things always seem the same’--nearly always, +at least. John Selwyn’s house hasn’t even been much changed, and +outside the rose-bushes your grandfather planted for his bride are +blooming this very minute.” + +“How the thought links me with them! With your leave I must explore +the whole place soon.” + +“Our latch-string will always be out for you,” promised Anne. “And do +you know that the old sea captain who keeps the Four Winds light knew +John Selwyn and his bride well in his boyhood? He told me their story +the night I came here--the third bride of the old house.” + +“Can it be possible? This IS a discovery. I must hunt him up.” + +“It won’t be difficult; we are all cronies of Captain Jim. He will be +as eager to see you as you could be to see him. Your grandmother +shines like a star in his memory. But I think Mrs. Moore is expecting +you. I’ll show you our ‘cross-lots’ road.” + +Anne walked with him to the house up the brook, over a field that was +as white as snow with daisies. A boat-load of people were singing far +across the harbor. The sound drifted over the water like faint, +unearthly music wind-blown across a starlit sea. The big light flashed +and beaconed. Owen Ford looked around him with satisfaction. + +“And so this is Four Winds,” he said. “I wasn’t prepared to find it +quite so beautiful, in spite of all mother’s praises. What +colors--what scenery--what charm! I shall get as strong as a horse in +no time. And if inspiration comes from beauty, I should certainly be +able to begin my great Canadian novel here.” + +“You haven’t begun it yet?” asked Anne. + +“Alack-a-day, no. I’ve never been able to get the right central idea +for it. It lurks beyond me--it allures--and beckons--and recedes--I +almost grasp it and it is gone. Perhaps amid this peace and +loveliness, I shall be able to capture it. Miss Bryant tells me that +you write.” + +“Oh, I do little things for children. I haven’t done much since I was +married. And--I have no designs on a great Canadian novel,” laughed +Anne. “That is quite beyond me.” + +Owen Ford laughed too. + +“I dare say it is beyond me as well. All the same I mean to have a try +at it some day, if I can ever get time. A newspaper man doesn’t have +much chance for that sort of thing. I’ve done a good deal of short +story writing for the magazines, but I’ve never had the leisure that +seems to be necessary for the writing of a book. With three months of +liberty I ought to make a start, though--if I could only get the +necessary motif for it--the SOUL of the book.” + +An idea whisked through Anne’s brain with a suddenness that made her +jump. But she did not utter it, for they had reached the Moore house. +As they entered the yard Leslie came out on the veranda from the side +door, peering through the gloom for some sign of her expected guest. +She stood just where the warm yellow light flooded her from the open +door. She wore a plain dress of cheap, cream-tinted cotton voile, with +the usual girdle of crimson. Leslie was never without her touch of +crimson. She had told Anne that she never felt satisfied without a +gleam of red somewhere about her, if it were only a flower. To Anne, +it always seemed to symbolise Leslie’s glowing, pent-up personality, +denied all expression save in that flaming glint. Leslie’s dress was +cut a little away at the neck and had short sleeves. Her arms gleamed +like ivory-tinted marble. Every exquisite curve of her form was +outlined in soft darkness against the light. Her hair shone in it like +flame. Beyond her was a purple sky, flowering with stars over the +harbor. + +Anne heard her companion give a gasp. Even in the dusk she could see +the amazement and admiration on his face. + +“Who is that beautiful creature?” he asked. + +“That is Mrs. Moore,” said Anne. “She is very lovely, isn’t she?” + +“I--I never saw anything like her,” he answered, rather dazedly. “I +wasn’t prepared--I didn’t expect--good heavens, one DOESN’T expect a +goddess for a landlady! Why, if she were clothed in a gown of +sea-purple, with a rope of amethysts in her hair, she would be a +veritable sea-queen. And she takes in boarders!” + +“Even goddesses must live,” said Anne. “And Leslie isn’t a goddess. +She’s just a very beautiful woman, as human as the rest of us. Did +Miss Bryant tell you about Mr. Moore?” + +“Yes,--he’s mentally deficient, or something of the sort, isn’t he? +But she said nothing about Mrs. Moore, and I supposed she’d be the +usual hustling country housewife who takes in boarders to earn an +honest penny.” + +“Well, that’s just what Leslie is doing,” said Anne crisply. “And it +isn’t altogether pleasant for her, either. I hope you won’t mind Dick. +If you do, please don’t let Leslie see it. It would hurt her horribly. +He’s just a big baby, and sometimes a rather annoying one.” + +“Oh, I won’t mind him. I don’t suppose I’ll be much in the house +anyhow, except for meals. But what a shame it all is! Her life must +be a hard one.” + +“It is. But she doesn’t like to be pitied.” + +Leslie had gone back into the house and now met them at the front door. +She greeted Owen Ford with cold civility, and told him in a +business-like tone that his room and his supper were ready for him. +Dick, with a pleased grin, shambled upstairs with the valise, and Owen +Ford was installed as an inmate of the old house among the willows. + + + + +CHAPTER 24 + +THE LIFE-BOOK OF CAPTAIN JIM + +“I have a little brown cocoon of an idea that may possibly expand into +a magnificent moth of fulfilment,” Anne told Gilbert when she reached +home. He had returned earlier than she had expected, and was enjoying +Susan’s cherry pie. Susan herself hovered in the background, like a +rather grim but beneficent guardian spirit, and found as much pleasure +in watching Gilbert eat pie as he did in eating it. + + “What is your idea?” he asked. + +“I sha’n’t tell you just yet--not till I see if I can bring the thing +about.” + +“What sort of a chap is Ford?” + +“Oh, very nice, and quite good-looking.” + +“Such beautiful ears, doctor, dear,” interjected Susan with a relish. + +“He is about thirty or thirty-five, I think, and he meditates writing a +novel. His voice is pleasant and his smile delightful, and he knows +how to dress. He looks as if life hadn’t been altogether easy for him, +somehow.” + +Owen Ford came over the next evening with a note to Anne from Leslie; +they spent the sunset time in the garden and then went for a moonlit +sail on the harbor, in the little boat Gilbert had set up for summer +outings. They liked Owen immensely and had that feeling of having +known him for many years which distinguishes the freemasonry of the +house of Joseph. “He is as nice as his ears, Mrs. Doctor, dear,” said +Susan, when he had gone. He had told Susan that he had never tasted +anything like her strawberry shortcake and Susan’s susceptible heart +was his forever. + +“He has got a way with him,” she reflected, as she cleared up the +relics of the supper. “It is real queer he is not married, for a man +like that could have anybody for the asking. Well, maybe he is like +me, and has not met the right one yet.” + +Susan really grew quite romantic in her musings as she washed the +supper dishes. + +Two nights later Anne took Owen Ford down to Four Winds Point to +introduce him to Captain Jim. The clover fields along the harbor shore +were whitening in the western wind, and Captain Jim had one of his +finest sunsets on exhibition. He himself had just returned from a trip +over the harbor. + +“I had to go over and tell Henry Pollack he was dying. Everybody else +was afraid to tell him. They expected he’d take on turrible, for he’s +been dreadful determined to live, and been making no end of plans for +the fall. His wife thought he oughter be told and that I’d be the best +one to break it to him that he couldn’t get better. Henry and me are +old cronies--we sailed in the Gray Gull for years together. Well, I +went over and sat down by Henry’s bed and I says to him, says I, jest +right out plain and simple, for if a thing’s got to be told it may as +well be told first as last, says I, ‘Mate, I reckon you’ve got your +sailing orders this time,’ I was sorter quaking inside, for it’s an +awful thing to have to tell a man who hain’t any idea he’s dying that +he is. But lo and behold, Mistress Blythe, Henry looks up at me, with +those bright old black eyes of his in his wizened face and says, says +he, ‘Tell me something I don’t know, Jim Boyd, if you want to give me +information. I’ve known THAT for a week.’ I was too astonished to +speak, and Henry, he chuckled. ‘To see you coming in here,’ says he, +‘with your face as solemn as a tombstone and sitting down there with +your hands clasped over your stomach, and passing me out a blue-mouldy +old item of news like that! It’d make a cat laugh, Jim Boyd,’ says he. +‘Who told you?’ says I, stupid like. ‘Nobody,’ says he. ‘A week ago +Tuesday night I was lying here awake--and I jest knew. I’d suspicioned +it before, but then I KNEW. I’ve been keeping up for the wife’s sake. +And I’d LIKE to have got that barn built, for Eben’ll never get it +right. But anyhow, now that you’ve eased your mind, Jim, put on a +smile and tell me something interesting,’ Well, there it was. They’d +been so scared to tell him and he knew it all the time. Strange how +nature looks out for us, ain’t it, and lets us know what we should know +when the time comes? Did I never tell you the yarn about Henry getting +the fish hook in his nose, Mistress Blythe?” + +“No.” + +“Well, him and me had a laugh over it today. It happened nigh unto +thirty years ago. Him and me and several more was out mackerel fishing +one day. It was a great day--never saw such a school of mackerel in +the gulf--and in the general excitement Henry got quite wild and +contrived to stick a fish hook clean through one side of his nose. +Well, there he was; there was barb on one end and a big piece of lead +on the other, so it couldn’t be pulled out. We wanted to take him +ashore at once, but Henry was game; he said he’d be jiggered if he’d +leave a school like that for anything short of lockjaw; then he kept +fishing away, hauling in hand over fist and groaning between times. +Fin’lly the school passed and we come in with a load; I got a file and +begun to try to file through that hook. I tried to be as easy as I +could, but you should have heard Henry--no, you shouldn’t either. It +was well no ladies were around. Henry wasn’t a swearing man, but he’d +heard some few matters of that sort along shore in his time, and he +fished ’em all out of his recollection and hurled ’em at me. Fin’lly +he declared he couldn’t stand it and I had no bowels of compassion. So +we hitched up and I drove him to a doctor in Charlottetown, thirty-five +miles--there weren’t none nearer in them days--with that blessed hook +still hanging from his nose. When we got there old Dr. Crabb jest took +a file and filed that hook jest the same as I’d tried to do, only he +weren’t a mite particular about doing it easy!” + +Captain Jim’s visit to his old friend had revived many recollections +and he was now in the full tide of reminiscences. + +“Henry was asking me today if I remembered the time old Father Chiniquy +blessed Alexander MacAllister’s boat. Another odd yarn--and true as +gospel. I was in the boat myself. We went out, him and me, in +Alexander MacAllister’s boat one morning at sunrise. Besides, there +was a French boy in the boat--Catholic of course. You know old Father +Chiniquy had turned Protestant, so the Catholics hadn’t much use for +him. Well, we sat out in the gulf in the broiling sun till noon, and +not a bite did we get. When we went ashore old Father Chiniquy had to +go, so he said in that polite way of his, ‘I’m very sorry I cannot go +out with you dis afternoon, Mr. MacAllister, but I leave you my +blessing. You will catch a t’ousand dis afternoon. ‘Well, we did not +catch a thousand, but we caught exactly nine hundred and +ninety-nine--the biggest catch for a small boat on the whole north +shore that summer. Curious, wasn’t it? Alexander MacAllister, he says +to Andrew Peters, ‘Well, and what do you think of Father Chiniquy now?’ +‘Vell,’ growled Andrew, ‘I t’ink de old devil has got a blessing left +yet.’ Laws, how Henry did laugh over that today!” + +“Do you know who Mr. Ford is, Captain Jim?” asked Anne, seeing that +Captain Jim’s fountain of reminiscence had run out for the present. “I +want you to guess.” + +Captain Jim shook his head. + +“I never was any hand at guessing, Mistress Blythe, and yet somehow +when I come in I thought, ‘Where have I seen them eyes before?’--for I +HAVE seen ’em.” + +“Think of a September morning many years ago,” said Anne, softly. +“Think of a ship sailing up the harbor--a ship long waited for and +despaired of. Think of the day the Royal William came in and the first +look you had at the schoolmaster’s bride.” + +Captain Jim sprang up. + +“They’re Persis Selwyn’s eyes,” he almost shouted. “You can’t be her +son--you must be her--” + +“Grandson; yes, I am Alice Selwyn’s son.” + +Captain Jim swooped down on Owen Ford and shook his hand over again. + +“Alice Selwyn’s son! Lord, but you’re welcome! Many’s the time I’ve +wondered where the descendants of the schoolmaster were living. I knew +there was none on the Island. Alice--Alice--the first baby ever born +in that little house. No baby ever brought more joy! I’ve dandled her +a hundred times. It was from my knee she took her first steps alone. +Can’t I see her mother’s face watching her--and it was near sixty years +ago. Is she living yet?” + +“No, she died when I was only a boy.” + +“Oh, it doesn’t seem right that I should be living to hear that,” +sighed Captain Jim. “But I’m heart-glad to see you. It’s brought back +my youth for a little while. You don’t know yet what a boon THAT is. +Mistress Blythe here has the trick--she does it quite often for me.” + +Captain Jim was still more excited when he discovered that Owen Ford +was what he called a “real writing man.” He gazed at him as at a +superior being. Captain Jim knew that Anne wrote, but he had never +taken that fact very seriously. Captain Jim thought women were +delightful creatures, who ought to have the vote, and everything else +they wanted, bless their hearts; but he did not believe they could +write. + +“Jest look at A Mad Love,” he would protest. “A woman wrote that and +jest look at it--one hundred and three chapters when it could all have +been told in ten. A writing woman never knows when to stop; that’s the +trouble. The p’int of good writing is to know when to stop.” + +“Mr. Ford wants to hear some of your stories, Captain Jim” said Anne. +“Tell him the one about the captain who went crazy and imagined he was +the Flying Dutchman.” + +This was Captain Jim’s best story. It was a compound of horror and +humor, and though Anne had heard it several times she laughed as +heartily and shivered as fearsomely over it as Mr. Ford did. Other +tales followed, for Captain Jim had an audience after his own heart. +He told how his vessel had been run down by a steamer; how he had been +boarded by Malay pirates; how his ship had caught fire; how he helped a +political prisoner escape from a South African republic; how he had +been wrecked one fall on the Magdalens and stranded there for the +winter; how a tiger had broken loose on board ship; how his crew had +mutinied and marooned him on a barren island--these and many other +tales, tragic or humorous or grotesque, did Captain Jim relate. The +mystery of the sea, the fascination of far lands, the lure of +adventure, the laughter of the world--his hearers felt and realized +them all. Owen Ford listened, with his head on his hand, and the First +Mate purring on his knee, his brilliant eyes fastened on Captain Jim’s +rugged, eloquent face. + +“Won’t you let Mr. Ford see your life-book, Captain Jim?” asked Anne, +when Captain Jim finally declared that yarn-spinning must end for the +time. + +“Oh, he don’t want to be bothered with THAT,” protested Captain Jim, +who was secretly dying to show it. + +“I should like nothing better than to see it, Captain Boyd,” said Owen. +“If it is half as wonderful as your tales it will be worth seeing.” + +With pretended reluctance Captain Jim dug his life-book out of his old +chest and handed it to Owen. + +“I reckon you won’t care to wrastle long with my old hand o’ write. I +never had much schooling,” he observed carelessly. “Just wrote that +there to amuse my nephew Joe. He’s always wanting stories. Comes here +yesterday and says to me, reproachful-like, as I was lifting a +twenty-pound codfish out of my boat, ‘Uncle Jim, ain’t a codfish a dumb +animal?’ I’d been a-telling him, you see, that he must be real kind to +dumb animals, and never hurt ’em in any way. I got out of the scrape +by saying a codfish was dumb enough but it wasn’t an animal, but Joe +didn’t look satisfied, and I wasn’t satisfied myself. You’ve got to be +mighty careful what you tell them little critters. THEY can see +through you.” + +While talking, Captain Jim watched Owen Ford from the corner of his eye +as the latter examined the life-book; and presently observing that his +guest was lost in its pages, he turned smilingly to his cupboard and +proceeded to make a pot of tea. Owen Ford separated himself from the +life-book, with as much reluctance as a miser wrenches himself from his +gold, long enough to drink his tea, and then returned to it hungrily. + +“Oh, you can take that thing home with you if you want to,” said +Captain Jim, as if the “thing” were not his most treasured possession. +“I must go down and pull my boat up a bit on the skids. There’s a wind +coming. Did you notice the sky tonight? + + Mackerel skies and mares’ tails + Make tall ships carry short sails.” + +Owen Ford accepted the offer of the life-book gladly. On their way +home Anne told him the story of lost Margaret. + +“That old captain is a wonderful old fellow,” he said. “What a life he +has led! Why, the man had more adventures in one week of his life than +most of us have in a lifetime. Do you really think his tales are all +true?” + +“I certainly do. I am sure Captain Jim could not tell a lie; and +besides, all the people about here say that everything happened as he +relates it. There used to be plenty of his old shipmates alive to +corroborate him. He’s one of the last of the old type of P.E. Island +sea-captains. They are almost extinct now.” + + + + +CHAPTER 25 + +THE WRITING OF THE BOOK + +Owen Ford came over to the little house the next morning in a state of +great excitement. “Mrs. Blythe, this is a wonderful book--absolutely +wonderful. If I could take it and use the material for a book I feel +certain I could make the novel of the year out of it. Do you suppose +Captain Jim would let me do it?” + +“Let you! I’m sure he would be delighted,” cried Anne. “I admit that +it was what was in my head when I took you down last night. Captain +Jim has always been wishing he could get somebody to write his +life-book properly for him.” + +“Will you go down to the Point with me this evening, Mrs. Blythe? I’ll +ask him about that life-book myself, but I want you to tell him that +you told me the story of lost Margaret and ask him if he will let me +use it as a thread of romance with which to weave the stories of the +life-book into a harmonious whole.” + +Captain Jim was more excited than ever when Owen Ford told him of his +plan. At last his cherished dream was to be realized and his +“life-book” given to the world. He was also pleased that the story of +lost Margaret should be woven into it. + +“It will keep her name from being forgotten,” he said wistfully. + +“That’s why I want it put in.” + +“We’ll collaborate,” cried Owen delightedly. “You will give the soul +and I the body. Oh, we’ll write a famous book between us, Captain Jim. +And we’ll get right to work.” + +“And to think my book is to be writ by the schoolmaster’s grandson!” +exclaimed Captain Jim. “Lad, your grandfather was my dearest friend. +I thought there was nobody like him. I see now why I had to wait so +long. It couldn’t be writ till the right man come. You BELONG +here--you’ve got the soul of this old north shore in you--you’re the +only one who COULD write it.” + +It was arranged that the tiny room off the living room at the +lighthouse should be given over to Owen for a workshop. It was +necessary that Captain Jim should be near him as he wrote, for +consultation upon many matters of sea-faring and gulf lore of which +Owen was quite ignorant. + +He began work on the book the very next morning, and flung himself into +it heart and soul. As for Captain Jim, he was a happy man that summer. +He looked upon the little room where Owen worked as a sacred shrine. +Owen talked everything over with Captain Jim, but he would not let him +see the manuscript. + +“You must wait until it is published,” he said. “Then you’ll get it +all at once in its best shape.” + +He delved into the treasures of the life-book and used them freely. He +dreamed and brooded over lost Margaret until she became a vivid reality +to him and lived in his pages. As the book progressed it took +possession of him and he worked at it with feverish eagerness. He let +Anne and Leslie read the manuscript and criticise it; and the +concluding chapter of the book, which the critics, later on, were +pleased to call idyllic, was modelled upon a suggestion of Leslie’s. + +Anne fairly hugged herself with delight over the success of her idea. + +“I knew when I looked at Owen Ford that he was the very man for it,” +she told Gilbert. “Both humor and passion were in his face, and that, +together with the art of expression, was just what was necessary for +the writing of such a book. As Mrs. Rachel would say, he was +predestined for the part.” + +Owen Ford wrote in the mornings. The afternoons were generally spent +in some merry outing with the Blythes. Leslie often went, too, for +Captain Jim took charge of Dick frequently, in order to set her free. +They went boating on the harbor and up the three pretty rivers that +flowed into it; they had clambakes on the bar and mussel-bakes on the +rocks; they picked strawberries on the sand-dunes; they went out +cod-fishing with Captain Jim; they shot plover in the shore fields and +wild ducks in the cove--at least, the men did. In the evenings they +rambled in the low-lying, daisied, shore fields under a golden moon, or +they sat in the living room at the little house where often the +coolness of the sea breeze justified a driftwood fire, and talked of +the thousand and one things which happy, eager, clever young people can +find to talk about. + +Ever since the day on which she had made her confession to Anne Leslie +had been a changed creature. There was no trace of her old coldness +and reserve, no shadow of her old bitterness. The girlhood of which +she had been cheated seemed to come back to her with the ripeness of +womanhood; she expanded like a flower of flame and perfume; no laugh +was readier than hers, no wit quicker, in the twilight circles of that +enchanted summer. When she could not be with them all felt that some +exquisite savor was lacking in their intercourse. Her beauty was +illumined by the awakened soul within, as some rosy lamp might shine +through a flawless vase of alabaster. There were hours when Anne’s +eyes seemed to ache with the splendor of her. As for Owen Ford, the +“Margaret” of his book, although she had the soft brown hair and elfin +face of the real girl who had vanished so long ago, “pillowed where +lost Atlantis sleeps,” had the personality of Leslie Moore, as it was +revealed to him in those halcyon days at Four Winds Harbor. + +All in all, it was a never-to-be-forgotten summer--one of those summers +which come seldom into any life, but leave a rich heritage of beautiful +memories in their going--one of those summers which, in a fortunate +combination of delightful weather, delightful friends and delightful +doings, come as near to perfection as anything can come in this world. + +“Too good to last,” Anne told herself with a little sigh, on the +September day when a certain nip in the wind and a certain shade of +intense blue on the gulf water said that autumn was hard by. + +That evening Owen Ford told them that he had finished his book and that +his vacation must come to an end. + +“I have a good deal to do to it yet--revising and pruning and so +forth,” he said, “but in the main it’s done. I wrote the last sentence +this morning. If I can find a publisher for it it will probably be out +next summer or fall.” + +Owen had not much doubt that he would find a publisher. He knew that +he had written a great book--a book that would score a wonderful +success--a book that would LIVE. He knew that it would bring him both +fame and fortune; but when he had written the last line of it he had +bowed his head on the manuscript and so sat for a long time. And his +thoughts were not of the good work he had done. + + + + +CHAPTER 26 + +OWEN FORD’S CONFESSION + +“I’m so sorry Gilbert is away,” said Anne. “He had to go--Allan Lyons +at the Glen has met with a serious accident. He will not likely be +home till very late. But he told me to tell you he’d be up and over +early enough in the morning to see you before you left. It’s too +provoking. Susan and I had planned such a nice little jamboree for +your last night here.” + +She was sitting beside the garden brook on the little rustic seat +Gilbert had built. Owen Ford stood before her, leaning against the +bronze column of a yellow birch. He was very pale and his face bore +the marks of the preceding sleepless night. Anne, glancing up at him, +wondered if, after all, his summer had brought him the strength it +should. Had he worked too hard over his book? She remembered that for +a week he had not been looking well. + +“I’m rather glad the doctor is away,” said Owen slowly. “I wanted to +see you alone, Mrs. Blythe. There is something I must tell somebody, +or I think it will drive me mad. I’ve been trying for a week to look +it in the face--and I can’t. I know I can trust you--and, besides, you +will understand. A woman with eyes like yours always understands. You +are one of the folks people instinctively tell things to. Mrs. Blythe, +I love Leslie. LOVE her! That seems too weak a word!” + +His voice suddenly broke with the suppressed passion of his utterance. +He turned his head away and hid his face on his arm. His whole form +shook. Anne sat looking at him, pale and aghast. She had never +thought of this! And yet--how was it she had never thought of it? It +now seemed a natural and inevitable thing. She wondered at her own +blindness. But--but--things like this did not happen in Four Winds. +Elsewhere in the world human passions might set at defiance human +conventions and laws--but not HERE, surely. Leslie had kept summer +boarders off and on for ten years, and nothing like this had happened. +But perhaps they had not been like Owen Ford; and the vivid, LIVING +Leslie of this summer was not the cold, sullen girl of other years. +Oh, SOMEBODY should have thought of this! Why hadn’t Miss Cornelia +thought of it? Miss Cornelia was always ready enough to sound the +alarm where men were concerned. Anne felt an unreasonable resentment +against Miss Cornelia. Then she gave a little inward groan. No matter +who was to blame the mischief was done. And Leslie--what of Leslie? +It was for Leslie Anne felt most concerned. + +“Does Leslie know this, Mr. Ford?” she asked quietly. + +“No--no,--unless she has guessed it. You surely don’t think I’d be cad +and scoundrel enough to tell her, Mrs. Blythe. I couldn’t help loving +her--that’s all--and my misery is greater than I can bear.” + +“Does SHE care?” asked Anne. The moment the question crossed her lips +she felt that she should not have asked it. Owen Ford answered it with +overeager protest. + +“No--no, of course not. But I could make her care if she were free--I +know I could.” + +“She does care--and he knows it,” thought Anne. Aloud she said, +sympathetically but decidedly: + +“But she is not free, Mr. Ford. And the only thing you can do is to go +away in silence and leave her to her own life.” + +“I know--I know,” groaned Owen. He sat down on the grassy bank and +stared moodily into the amber water beneath him. “I know there’s +nothing to do--nothing but to say conventionally, ‘Good-bye, Mrs. +Moore. Thank you for all your kindness to me this summer,’ just as I +would have said it to the sonsy, bustling, keen-eyed housewife I +expected her to be when I came. Then I’ll pay my board money like any +honest boarder and go! Oh, it’s very simple. No doubt--no +perplexity--a straight road to the end of the world! + +“And I’ll walk it--you needn’t fear that I won’t, Mrs. Blythe. But it +would be easier to walk over red-hot ploughshares.” + +Anne flinched with the pain of his voice. And there was so little she +could say that would be adequate to the situation. Blame was out of +the question--advice was not needed--sympathy was mocked by the man’s +stark agony. She could only feel with him in a maze of compassion and +regret. Her heart ached for Leslie! Had not that poor girl suffered +enough without this? + +“It wouldn’t be so hard to go and leave her if she were only happy,” +resumed Owen passionately. “But to think of her living death--to +realize what it is to which I do leave her! THAT is the worst of all. +I would give my life to make her happy--and I can do nothing even to +help her--nothing. She is bound forever to that poor wretch--with +nothing to look forward to but growing old in a succession of empty, +meaningless, barren years. It drives me mad to think of it. But I +must go through my life, never seeing her, but always knowing what she +is enduring. It’s hideous--hideous!” + +“It is very hard,” said Anne sorrowfully. “We--her friends here--all +know how hard it is for her.” + +“And she is so richly fitted for life,” said Owen rebelliously. + +“Her beauty is the least of her dower--and she is the most beautiful +woman I’ve ever known. That laugh of hers! I’ve angled all summer to +evoke that laugh, just for the delight of hearing it. And her +eyes--they are as deep and blue as the gulf out there. I never saw +such blueness--and gold! Did you ever see her hair down, Mrs. Blythe?” + +“No.” + +“I did--once. I had gone down to the Point to go fishing with Captain +Jim but it was too rough to go out, so I came back. She had taken the +opportunity of what she expected to be an afternoon alone to wash her +hair, and she was standing on the veranda in the sunshine to dry it. +It fell all about her to her feet in a fountain of living gold. When +she saw me she hurried in, and the wind caught her hair and swirled it +all around her--Danae in her cloud. Somehow, just then the knowledge +that I loved her came home to me--and realized that I had loved her +from the moment I first saw her standing against the darkness in that +glow of light. And she must live on here--petting and soothing Dick, +pinching and saving for a mere existence, while I spend my life longing +vainly for her, and debarred, by that very fact, from even giving her +the little help a friend might. I walked the shore last night, almost +till dawn, and thrashed it all out over and over again. And yet, in +spite of everything, I can’t find it in my heart to be sorry that I +came to Four Winds. It seems to me that, bad as everything is, it +would be still worse never to have known Leslie. It’s burning, searing +pain to love her and leave her--but not to have loved her is +unthinkable. I suppose all this sounds very crazy--all these terrible +emotions always do sound foolish when we put them into our inadequate +words. They are not meant to be spoken--only felt and endured. I +shouldn’t have spoken--but it has helped--some. At least, it has given +me strength to go away respectably tomorrow morning, without making a +scene. You’ll write me now and then, won’t you, Mrs. Blythe, and give +me what news there is to give of her?” + +“Yes,” said Anne. “Oh, I’m so sorry you are going--we’ll miss you +so--we’ve all been such friends! If it were not for this you could +come back other summers. Perhaps, even yet--by-and-by--when you’ve +forgotten, perhaps--” + +“I shall never forget--and I shall never come back to Four Winds,” said +Owen briefly. + +Silence and twilight fell over the garden. Far away the sea was +lapping gently and monotonously on the bar. The wind of evening in the +poplars sounded like some sad, weird, old rune--some broken dream of +old memories. A slender shapely young aspen rose up before them +against the fine maize and emerald and paling rose of the western sky, +which brought out every leaf and twig in dark, tremulous, elfin +loveliness. + +“Isn’t that beautiful?” said Owen, pointing to it with the air of a man +who puts a certain conversation behind him. + +“It’s so beautiful that it hurts me,” said Anne softly. “Perfect +things like that always did hurt me--I remember I called it ‘the queer +ache’ when I was a child. What is the reason that pain like this seems +inseparable from perfection? Is it the pain of finality--when we +realize that there can be nothing beyond but retrogression?” + +“Perhaps,” said Owen dreamily, “it is the prisoned infinite in us +calling out to its kindred infinite as expressed in that visible +perfection.” + +“You seem to have a cold in the head. Better rub some tallow on your +nose when you go to bed,” said Miss Cornelia, who had come in through +the little gate between the firs in time to catch Owen’s last remark. +Miss Cornelia liked Owen; but it was a matter of principle with her to +visit any “high-falutin” language from a man with a snub. + +Miss Cornelia personated the comedy that ever peeps around the corner +at the tragedy of life. Anne, whose nerves had been rather strained, +laughed hysterically, and even Owen smiled. Certainly, sentiment and +passion had a way of shrinking out of sight in Miss Cornelia’s +presence. And yet to Anne nothing seemed quite as hopeless and dark +and painful as it had seemed a few moments before. But sleep was far +from her eyes that night. + + + + +CHAPTER 27 + +ON THE SAND BAR + +Owen Ford left Four Winds the next morning. In the evening Anne went +over to see Leslie, but found nobody. The house was locked and there +was no light in any window. It looked like a home left soulless. +Leslie did not run over on the following day--which Anne thought a bad +sign. + +Gilbert having occasion to go in the evening to the fishing cove, Anne +drove with him to the Point, intending to stay awhile with Captain Jim. +But the great light, cutting its swathes through the fog of the autumn +evening, was in care of Alec Boyd and Captain Jim was away. + +“What will you do?” asked Gilbert. “Come with me?” + +“I don’t want to go to the cove--but I’ll go over the channel with you, +and roam about on the sand shore till you come back. The rock shore is +too slippery and grim tonight.” + +Alone on the sands of the bar Anne gave herself up to the eerie charm +of the night. It was warm for September, and the late afternoon had +been very foggy; but a full moon had in part lessened the fog and +transformed the harbor and the gulf and the surrounding shores into a +strange, fantastic, unreal world of pale silver mist, through which +everything loomed phantom-like. Captain Josiah Crawford’s black +schooner sailing down the channel, laden with potatoes for Bluenose +ports, was a spectral ship bound for a far uncharted land, ever +receding, never to be reached. The calls of unseen gulls overhead were +the cries of the souls of doomed seamen. The little curls of foam that +blew across the sand were elfin things stealing up from the sea-caves. +The big, round-shouldered sand-dunes were the sleeping giants of some +old northern tale. The lights that glimmered palely across the harbor +were the delusive beacons on some coast of fairyland. Anne pleased +herself with a hundred fancies as she wandered through the mist. It +was delightful--romantic--mysterious to be roaming here alone on this +enchanted shore. + +But was she alone? Something loomed in the mist before her--took shape +and form--suddenly moved towards her across the wave-rippled sand. + +“Leslie!” exclaimed Anne in amazement. “Whatever are you +doing--HERE--tonight?” + +“If it comes to that, whatever are YOU doing here?” said Leslie, trying +to laugh. The effort was a failure. She looked very pale and tired; +but the love locks under her scarlet cap were curling about her face +and eyes like little sparkling rings of gold. + +“I’m waiting for Gilbert--he’s over at the Cove. I intended to stay at +the light, but Captain Jim is away.” + +“Well, _I_ came here because I wanted to walk--and walk--and WALK,” +said Leslie restlessly. “I couldn’t on the rock shore--the tide was +too high and the rocks prisoned me. I had to come here--or I should +have gone mad, I think. I rowed myself over the channel in Captain +Jim’s flat. I’ve been here for an hour. Come--come--let us walk. I +can’t stand still. Oh, Anne!” + +“Leslie, dearest, what is the trouble?” asked Anne, though she knew too +well already. + +“I can’t tell you--don’t ask me. I wouldn’t mind your knowing--I wish +you did know--but I can’t tell you--I can’t tell anyone. I’ve been +such a fool, Anne--and oh, it hurts so terribly to be a fool. There’s +nothing so painful in the world.” + +She laughed bitterly. Anne slipped her arm around her. + +“Leslie, is it that you have learned to care for Mr. Ford?” + +Leslie turned herself about passionately. + +“How did you know?” she cried. “Anne, how did you know? Oh, is it +written in my face for everyone to see? Is it as plain as that?” + +“No, no. I--I can’t tell you how I knew. It just came into my mind, +somehow. Leslie, don’t look at me like that!” + +“Do you despise me?” demanded Leslie in a fierce, low tone. “Do you +think I’m wicked--unwomanly? Or do you think I’m just plain fool?” + +“I don’t think you any of those things. Come, dear, let’s just talk it +over sensibly, as we might talk over any other of the great crises of +life. You’ve been brooding over it and let yourself drift into a +morbid view of it. You know you have a little tendency to do that +about everything that goes wrong, and you promised me that you would +fight against it.” + +“But--oh, it’s so--so shameful,” murmured Leslie. “To love +him--unsought--and when I’m not free to love anybody.” + +“There’s nothing shameful about it. But I’m very sorry that you have +learned to care for Owen, because, as things are, it will only make you +more unhappy.” + +“I didn’t LEARN to care,” said Leslie, walking on and speaking +passionately. “If it had been like that I could have prevented it. I +never dreamed of such a thing until that day, a week ago, when he told +me he had finished his book and must soon go away. Then--then I knew. +I felt as if someone had struck me a terrible blow. I didn’t say +anything--I couldn’t speak--but I don’t know what I looked like. I’m +so afraid my face betrayed me. Oh, I would die of shame if I thought +he knew--or suspected.” + +Anne was miserably silent, hampered by her deductions from her +conversation with Owen. Leslie went on feverishly, as if she found +relief in speech. + +“I was so happy all this summer, Anne--happier than I ever was in my +life. I thought it was because everything had been made clear between +you and me, and that it was our friendship which made life seem so +beautiful and full once more. And it WAS, in part--but not all--oh, +not nearly all. I know now why everything was so different. And now +it’s all over--and he has gone. How can I live, Anne? When I turned +back into the house this morning after he had gone the solitude struck +me like a blow in the face.” + +“It won’t seem so hard by and by, dear,” said Anne, who always felt the +pain of her friends so keenly that she could not speak easy, fluent +words of comforting. Besides, she remembered how well-meant speeches +had hurt her in her own sorrow and was afraid. + +“Oh, it seems to me it will grow harder all the time,” said Leslie +miserably. “I’ve nothing to look forward to. Morning will come after +morning--and he will not come back--he will never come back. Oh, when +I think that I will never see him again I feel as if a great brutal +hand had twisted itself among my heartstrings, and was wrenching them. +Once, long ago, I dreamed of love--and I thought it must be +beautiful--and NOW--its like THIS. When he went away yesterday morning +he was so cold and indifferent. He said ‘Good-bye, Mrs. Moore’ in the +coldest tone in the world--as if we had not even been friends--as if I +meant absolutely nothing to him. I know I don’t--I didn’t want him to +care--but he MIGHT have been a little kinder.” + +“Oh, I wish Gilbert would come,” thought Anne. She was racked between +her sympathy for Leslie and the necessity of avoiding anything that +would betray Owen’s confidence. She knew why his good-bye had been so +cold--why it could not have the cordiality that their good-comradeship +demanded--but she could not tell Leslie. + +“I couldn’t help it, Anne--I couldn’t help it,” said poor Leslie. + +“I know that.” + +“Do you blame me so very much?” + +“I don’t blame you at all.” + +“And you won’t--you won’t tell Gilbert?” + +“Leslie! Do you think I would do such a thing?” + +“Oh, I don’t know--you and Gilbert are such CHUMS. I don’t see how you +could help telling him everything.” + +“Everything about my own concerns--yes. But not my friends’ secrets.” + +“I couldn’t have HIM know. But I’m glad YOU know. I would feel guilty +if there were anything I was ashamed to tell you. I hope Miss Cornelia +won’t find out. Sometimes I feel as if those terrible, kind brown eyes +of hers read my very soul. Oh, I wish this mist would never lift--I +wish I could just stay in it forever, hidden away from every living +being. I don’t see how I can go on with life. This summer has been so +full. I never was lonely for a moment. Before Owen came there used to +be horrible moments--when I had been with you and Gilbert--and then had +to leave you. You two would walk away together and I would walk away +ALONE. After Owen came he was always there to walk home with me--we +would laugh and talk as you and Gilbert were doing--there were no more +lonely, envious moments for me. And NOW! Oh, yes, I’ve been a fool. +Let’s have done talking about my folly. I’ll never bore you with it +again.” + +“Here is Gilbert, and you are coming back with us,” said Anne, who had +no intention of leaving Leslie to wander alone on the sand-bar on such +a night and in such a mood. “There’s plenty of room in our boat for +three, and we’ll tie the flat on behind.” + +“Oh, I suppose I must reconcile myself to being the odd one again,” +said poor Leslie with another bitter laugh. “Forgive me, Anne--that +was hateful. I ought to be thankful--and I AM--that I have two good +friends who are glad to count me in as a third. Don’t mind my hateful +speeches. I just seem to be one great pain all over and everything +hurts me.” + +“Leslie seemed very quiet tonight, didn’t she?” said Gilbert, when he +and Anne reached home. “What in the world was she doing over there on +the bar alone?” + +“Oh, she was tired--and you know she likes to go to the shore after one +of Dick’s bad days.” + +“What a pity she hadn’t met and married a fellow like Ford long ago,” +ruminated Gilbert. “They’d have made an ideal couple, wouldn’t they?” + +“For pity’s sake, Gilbert, don’t develop into a match-maker. It’s an +abominable profession for a man,” cried Anne rather sharply, afraid +that Gilbert might blunder on the truth if he kept on in this strain. + +“Bless us, Anne-girl, I’m not matchmaking,” protested Gilbert, rather +surprised at her tone. “I was only thinking of one of the +might-have-beens.” + +“Well, don’t. It’s a waste of time,” said Anne. Then she added +suddenly: + +“Oh, Gilbert, I wish everybody could be as happy as we are.” + + + + +CHAPTER 28 + +ODDS AND ENDS + +“I’ve been reading obituary notices,” said Miss Cornelia, laying down +the Daily Enterprise and taking up her sewing. + +The harbor was lying black and sullen under a dour November sky; the +wet, dead leaves clung drenched and sodden to the window sills; but the +little house was gay with firelight and spring-like with Anne’s ferns +and geraniums. + +“It’s always summer here, Anne,” Leslie had said one day; and all who +were the guests of that house of dreams felt the same. + +“The Enterprise seems to run to obituaries these days,” quoth Miss +Cornelia. “It always has a couple of columns of them, and I read every +line. It’s one of my forms of recreation, especially when there’s some +original poetry attached to them. Here’s a choice sample for you: + + She’s gone to be with her Maker, + Never more to roam. + She used to play and sing with joy + The song of Home, Sweet Home. + +Who says we haven’t any poetical talent on the Island! Have you ever +noticed what heaps of good people die, Anne, dearie? It’s kind of +pitiful. Here’s ten obituaries, and every one of them saints and +models, even the men. Here’s old Peter Stimson, who has ‘left a large +circle of friends to mourn his untimely loss.’ Lord, Anne, dearie, that +man was eighty, and everybody who knew him had been wishing him dead +these thirty years. Read obituaries when you’re blue, Anne, +dearie--especially the ones of folks you know. If you’ve any sense of +humor at all they’ll cheer you up, believe ME. I just wish _I_ had the +writing of the obituaries of some people. Isn’t ‘obituary’ an awful +ugly word? This very Peter I’ve been speaking of had a face exactly +like one. I never saw it but I thought of the word OBITUARY then and +there. There’s only one uglier word that I know of, and that’s RELICT. +Lord, Anne, dearie, I may be an old maid, but there’s this comfort in +it--I’ll never be any man’s ‘relict.’” + +“It IS an ugly word,” said Anne, laughing. “Avonlea graveyard was full +of old tombstones ‘sacred to the memory of So-and-So, RELICT of the +late So-and-So.’ It always made me think of something worn out and +moth eaten. Why is it that so many of the words connected with death +are so disagreeable? I do wish that the custom of calling a dead body +‘the remains’ could be abolished. I positively shiver when I hear the +undertaker say at a funeral, ‘All who wish to see the remains please +step this way.’ It always gives me the horrible impression that I am +about to view the scene of a cannibal feast.” + +“Well, all I hope,” said Miss Cornelia calmly, “is that when I’m dead +nobody will call me ‘our departed sister.’ I took a scunner at this +sister-and-brothering business five years ago when there was a +travelling evangelist holding meetings at the Glen. I hadn’t any use +for him from the start. I felt in my bones that there was something +wrong with him. And there was. Mind you, he was pretending to be a +Presbyterian--PresbyTARian, HE called it--and all the time he was a +Methodist. He brothered and sistered everybody. He had a large circle +of relations, that man had. He clutched my hand fervently one night, +and said imploringly, ‘My DEAR sister Bryant, are you a Christian?’ I +just looked him over a bit, and then I said calmly, ‘The only brother I +ever had, MR. Fiske, was buried fifteen years ago, and I haven’t +adopted any since. As for being a Christian, I was that, I hope and +believe, when you were crawling about the floor in petticoats.’ THAT +squelched him, believe ME. Mind you, Anne dearie, I’m not down on all +evangelists. We’ve had some real fine, earnest men, who did a lot of +good and made the old sinners squirm. But this Fiske-man wasn’t one of +them. I had a good laugh all to myself one evening. Fiske had asked +all who were Christians to stand up. _I_ didn’t, believe me! I never +had any use for that sort of thing. But most of them did, and then he +asked all who wanted to be Christians to stand up. Nobody stirred for +a spell, so Fiske started up a hymn at the top of his voice. Just in +front of me poor little Ikey Baker was sitting in the Millison pew. He +was a home boy, ten years old, and Millison just about worked him to +death. The poor little creature was always so tired he fell asleep +right off whenever he went to church or anywhere he could sit still for +a few minutes. He’d been sleeping all through the meeting, and I was +thankful to see the poor child getting a rest, believe ME. Well, when +Fiske’s voice went soaring skyward and the rest joined in, poor Ikey +wakened with a start. He thought it was just an ordinary singing and +that everybody ought to stand up, so he scrambled to his feet mighty +quick, knowing he’d get a combing down from Maria Millison for sleeping +in meeting. Fiske saw him, stopped and shouted, ‘Another soul saved! +Glory Hallelujah!’ And there was poor, frightened Ikey, only half +awake and yawning, never thinking about his soul at all. Poor child, +he never had time to think of anything but his tired, overworked little +body. + +“Leslie went one night and the Fiske-man got right after her--oh, he +was especially anxious about the souls of the nice-looking girls, +believe me!--and he hurt her feelings so she never went again. And +then he prayed every night after that, right in public, that the Lord +would soften her hard heart. Finally I went to Mr. Leavitt, our +minister then, and told him if he didn’t make Fiske stop that I’d just +rise up the next night and throw my hymn book at him when he mentioned +that ‘beautiful but unrepentant young woman.’ I’d have done it too, +believe ME. Mr. Leavitt did put a stop to it, but Fiske kept on with +his meetings until Charley Douglas put an end to his career in the +Glen. Mrs. Charley had been out in California all winter. She’d been +real melancholy in the fall--religious melancholy--it ran in her +family. Her father worried so much over believing that he had +committed the unpardonable sin that he died in the asylum. So when +Rose Douglas got that way Charley packed her off to visit her sister in +Los Angeles. She got perfectly well and came home just when the Fiske +revival was in full swing. She stepped off the train at the Glen, real +smiling and chipper, and the first thing she saw staring her in the +face on the black, gable-end of the freight shed, was the question, in +big white letters, two feet high, ‘Whither goest thou--to heaven or +hell?’ That had been one of Fiske’s ideas, and he had got Henry Hammond +to paint it. Rose just gave a shriek and fainted; and when they got +her home she was worse than ever. Charley Douglas went to Mr. Leavitt +and told him that every Douglas would leave the church if Fiske was +kept there any longer. Mr. Leavitt had to give in, for the Douglases +paid half his salary, so Fiske departed, and we had to depend on our +Bibles once more for instructions on how to get to heaven. After he +was gone Mr. Leavitt found out he was just a masquerading Methodist, +and he felt pretty sick, believe ME. Mr. Leavitt fell short in some +ways, but he was a good, sound Presbyterian.” + +“By the way, I had a letter from Mr. Ford yesterday,” said Anne. “He +asked me to remember him kindly to you.” + +“I don’t want his remembrances,” said Miss Cornelia, curtly. + +“Why?” said Anne, in astonishment. “I thought you liked him.” + +“Well, so I did, in a kind of way. But I’ll never forgive him for what +he done to Leslie. There’s that poor child eating her heart out about +him--as if she hadn’t had trouble enough--and him ranting round +Toronto, I’ve no doubt, enjoying himself same as ever. Just like a +man.” + +“Oh, Miss Cornelia, how did you find out?” + +“Lord, Anne, dearie, I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? And I’ve known Leslie +since she was a baby. There’s been a new kind of heartbreak in her +eyes all the fall, and I know that writer-man was behind it somehow. +I’ll never forgive myself for being the means of bringing him here. +But I never expected he’d be like he was. I thought he’d just be like +the other men Leslie had boarded--conceited young asses, every one of +them, that she never had any use for. One of them did try to flirt +with her once and she froze him out--so bad, I feel sure he’s never got +himself thawed since. So I never thought of any danger.” + +“Don’t let Leslie suspect you know her secret,” said Anne hurriedly. +“I think it would hurt her.” + +“Trust me, Anne, dearie. _I_ wasn’t born yesterday. Oh, a plague on +all the men! One of them ruined Leslie’s life to begin with, and now +another of the tribe comes and makes her still more wretched. Anne, +this world is an awful place, believe me.” + + “There’s something in the world amiss + Will be unriddled by and by,” + +quoted Anne dreamily. + +“If it is, it’ll be in a world where there aren’t any men,” said Miss +Cornelia gloomily. + +“What have the men been doing now?” asked Gilbert, entering. + +“Mischief--mischief! What else did they ever do?” + +“It was Eve ate the apple, Miss Cornelia.” + +“’Twas a he-creature tempted her,” retorted Miss Cornelia triumphantly. + +Leslie, after her first anguish was over, found it possible to go on +with life after all, as most of us do, no matter what our particular +form of torment has been. It is even possible that she enjoyed moments +of it, when she was one of the gay circle in the little house of +dreams. But if Anne ever hoped that she was forgetting Owen Ford she +would have been undeceived by the furtive hunger in Leslie’s eyes +whenever his name was mentioned. Pitiful to that hunger, Anne always +contrived to tell Captain Jim or Gilbert bits of news from Owen’s +letters when Leslie was with them. The girl’s flush and pallor at such +moments spoke all too eloquently of the emotion that filled her being. +But she never spoke of him to Anne, or mentioned that night on the +sand-bar. + +One day her old dog died and she grieved bitterly over him. + +“He’s been my friend so long,” she said sorrowfully to Anne. “He was +Dick’s old dog, you know--Dick had him for a year or so before we were +married. He left him with me when he sailed on the Four Sisters. +Carlo got very fond of me--and his dog-love helped me through that +first dreadful year after mother died, when I was alone. When I heard +that Dick was coming back I was afraid Carlo wouldn’t be so much mine. +But he never seemed to care for Dick, though he had been so fond of him +once. He would snap and growl at him as if he were a stranger. I was +glad. It was nice to have one thing whose love was all mine. That old +dog has been such a comfort to me, Anne. He got so feeble in the fall +that I was afraid he couldn’t live long--but I hoped I could nurse him +through the winter. He seemed pretty well this morning. He was lying +on the rug before the fire; then, all at once, he got up and crept over +to me; he put his head on my lap and gave me one loving look out of his +big, soft, dog eyes--and then he just shivered and died. I shall miss +him so.” + +“Let me give you another dog, Leslie,” said Anne. “I’m getting a +lovely Gordon setter for a Christmas present for Gilbert. Let me give +you one too.” + +Leslie shook her head. + +“Not just now, thank you, Anne. I don’t feel like having another dog +yet. I don’t seem to have any affection left for another. Perhaps--in +time--I’ll let you give me one. I really need one as a kind of +protection. But there was something almost human about Carlo--it +wouldn’t be DECENT to fill his place too hurriedly, dear old fellow.” + +Anne went to Avonlea a week before Christmas and stayed until after the +holidays. Gilbert came up for her, and there was a glad New Year +celebration at Green Gables, when Barrys and Blythes and Wrights +assembled to devour a dinner which had cost Mrs. Rachel and Marilla +much careful thought and preparation. When they went back to Four +Winds the little house was almost drifted over, for the third storm of +a winter that was to prove phenomenally stormy had whirled up the +harbor and heaped huge snow mountains about everything it encountered. +But Captain Jim had shovelled out doors and paths, and Miss Cornelia +had come down and kindled the hearth-fire. + +“It’s good to see you back, Anne, dearie! But did you ever see such +drifts? You can’t see the Moore place at all unless you go upstairs. +Leslie’ll be so glad you’re back. She’s almost buried alive over +there. Fortunately Dick can shovel snow, and thinks it’s great fun. +Susan sent me word to tell you she would be on hand tomorrow. Where +are you off to now, Captain?” + +“I reckon I’ll plough up to the Glen and sit a bit with old Martin +Strong. He’s not far from his end and he’s lonesome. He hasn’t many +friends--been too busy all his life to make any. He’s made heaps of +money, though.” + +“Well, he thought that since he couldn’t serve God and Mammon he’d +better stick to Mammon,” said Miss Cornelia crisply. “So he shouldn’t +complain if he doesn’t find Mammon very good company now.” + +Captain Jim went out, but remembered something in the yard and turned +back for a moment. + +“I’d a letter from Mr. Ford, Mistress Blythe, and he says the life-book +is accepted and is going to be published next fall. I felt fair +uplifted when I got the news. To think that I’m to see it in print at +last.” + +“That man is clean crazy on the subject of his life-book,” said Miss +Cornelia compassionately. “For my part, I think there’s far too many +books in the world now.” + + + + +CHAPTER 29 + +GILBERT AND ANNE DISAGREE + +Gilbert laid down the ponderous medical tome over which he had been +poring until the increasing dusk of the March evening made him desist. +He leaned back in his chair and gazed meditatively out of the window. +It was early spring--probably the ugliest time of the year. Not even +the sunset could redeem the dead, sodden landscape and rotten black +harbor ice upon which he looked. No sign of life was visible, save a +big black crow winging his solitary way across a leaden field. Gilbert +speculated idly concerning that crow. Was he a family crow, with a +black but comely crow wife awaiting him in the woods beyond the Glen? +Or was he a glossy young buck of a crow on courting thoughts intent? +Or was he a cynical bachelor crow, believing that he travels the +fastest who travels alone? Whatever he was, he soon disappeared in +congenial gloom and Gilbert turned to the cheerier view indoors. + +The firelight flickered from point to point, gleaming on the white and +green coats of Gog and Magog, on the sleek, brown head of the beautiful +setter basking on the rug, on the picture frames on the walls, on the +vaseful of daffodils from the window garden, on Anne herself, sitting +by her little table, with her sewing beside her and her hands clasped +over her knee while she traced out pictures in the fire--Castles in +Spain whose airy turrets pierced moonlit cloud and sunset bar--ships +sailing from the Haven of Good Hopes straight to Four Winds Harbor with +precious burthen. For Anne was again a dreamer of dreams, albeit a +grim shape of fear went with her night and day to shadow and darken her +visions. + +Gilbert was accustomed to refer to himself as “an old married man.” +But he still looked upon Anne with the incredulous eyes of a lover. He +couldn’t wholly believe yet that she was really his. It MIGHT be only +a dream after all, part and parcel of this magic house of dreams. His +soul still went on tip-toe before her, lest the charm be shattered and +the dream dispelled. + +“Anne,” he said slowly, “lend me your ears. I want to talk with you +about something.” + +Anne looked across at him through the fire-lit gloom. + +“What is it?” she asked gaily. “You look fearfully solemn, Gilbert. I +really haven’t done anything naughty today. Ask Susan.” + +“It’s not of you--or ourselves--I want to talk. It’s about Dick Moore.” + +“Dick Moore?” echoed Anne, sitting up alertly. “Why, what in the world +have you to say about Dick Moore?” + +“I’ve been thinking a great deal about him lately. Do you remember +that time last summer I treated him for those carbuncles on his neck?” + +“Yes--yes.” + +“I took the opportunity to examine the scars on his head thoroughly. +I’ve always thought Dick was a very interesting case from a medical +point of view. Lately I’ve been studying the history of trephining and +the cases where it has been employed. Anne, I have come to the +conclusion that if Dick Moore were taken to a good hospital and the +operation of trephining performed on several places in his skull, his +memory and faculties might be restored.” + +“Gilbert!” Anne’s voice was full of protest. “Surely you don’t mean +it!” + +“I do, indeed. And I have decided that it is my duty to broach the +subject to Leslie.” + +“Gilbert Blythe, you shall NOT do any such thing,” cried Anne +vehemently. “Oh, Gilbert, you won’t--you won’t. You couldn’t be so +cruel. Promise me you won’t.” + +“Why, Anne-girl, I didn’t suppose you would take it like this. Be +reasonable--” + +“I won’t be reasonable--I can’t be reasonable--I AM reasonable. It is +you who are unreasonable. Gilbert, have you ever once thought what it +would mean for Leslie if Dick Moore were to be restored to his right +senses? Just stop and think! She’s unhappy enough now; but life as +Dick’s nurse and attendant is a thousand times easier for her than life +as Dick’s wife. I know--I KNOW! It’s unthinkable. Don’t you meddle +with the matter. Leave well enough alone.” + +“I HAVE thought over that aspect of the case thoroughly, Anne. But I +believe that a doctor is bound to set the sanctity of a patient’s mind +and body above all other considerations, no matter what the +consequences may be. I believe it his duty to endeavor to restore +health and sanity, if there is any hope whatever of it.” + +“But Dick isn’t your patient in that respect,” cried Anne, taking +another tack. “If Leslie had asked you if anything could be done for +him, THEN it might be your duty to tell her what you really thought. +But you’ve no right to meddle.” + +“I don’t call it meddling. Uncle Dave told Leslie twelve years ago +that nothing could be done for Dick. She believes that, of course.” + +“And why did Uncle Dave tell her that, if it wasn’t true?” cried Anne, +triumphantly. “Doesn’t he know as much about it as you?” + +“I think not--though it may sound conceited and presumptuous to say it. +And you know as well as I that he is rather prejudiced against what he +calls ‘these new-fangled notions of cutting and carving.’ He’s even +opposed to operating for appendicitis.” + +“He’s right,” exclaimed Anne, with a complete change of front. “I +believe myself that you modern doctors are entirely too fond of making +experiments with human flesh and blood.” + +“Rhoda Allonby would not be a living woman today if I had been afraid +of making a certain experiment,” argued Gilbert. “I took the risk--and +saved her life.” + +“I’m sick and tired of hearing about Rhoda Allonby,” cried Anne--most +unjustly, for Gilbert had never mentioned Mrs. Allonby’s name since the +day he had told Anne of his success in regard to her. And he could not +be blamed for other people’s discussion of it. + +Gilbert felt rather hurt. + +“I had not expected you to look at the matter as you do, Anne,” he said +a little stiffly, getting up and moving towards the office door. It +was their first approach to a quarrel. + +But Anne flew after him and dragged him back. + +“Now, Gilbert, you are not ‘going off mad.’ Sit down here and I’ll +apologise bee-YEW-ti-fully, I shouldn’t have said that. But--oh, if +you knew--” + +Anne checked herself just in time. She had been on the very verge of +betraying Leslie’s secret. + +“Knew what a woman feels about it,” she concluded lamely. + +“I think I do know. I’ve looked at the matter from every point of +view--and I’ve been driven to the conclusion that it is my duty to tell +Leslie that I believe it is possible that Dick can be restored to +himself; there my responsibility ends. It will be for her to decide +what she will do.” + +“I don’t think you’ve any right to put such a responsibility on her. +She has enough to bear. She is poor--how could she afford such an +operation?” + +“That is for her to decide,” persisted Gilbert stubbornly. + +“You say you think that Dick can be cured. But are you SURE of it?” + +“Certainly not. Nobody could be sure of such a thing. There may have +been lesions of the brain itself, the effect of which can never be +removed. But if, as I believe, his loss of memory and other faculties +is due merely to the pressure on the brain centers of certain depressed +areas of bone, then he can be cured.” + +“But it’s only a possibility!” insisted Anne. “Now, suppose you tell +Leslie and she decides to have the operation. It will cost a great +deal. She will have to borrow the money, or sell her little property. +And suppose the operation is a failure and Dick remains the same. + +“How will she be able to pay back the money she borrows, or make a +living for herself and that big helpless creature if she sells the +farm?” + +“Oh, I know--I know. But it is my duty to tell her. I can’t get away +from that conviction.” + +“Oh, I know the Blythe stubbornness,” groaned Anne. “But don’t do this +solely on your own responsibility. Consult Doctor Dave.” + +“I HAVE done so,” said Gilbert reluctantly. + +“And what did he say?” + +“In brief--as you say--leave well enough alone. Apart from his +prejudice against new-fangled surgery, I’m afraid he looks at the case +from your point of view--don’t do it, for Leslie’s sake.” + +“There now,” cried Anne triumphantly. “I do think, Gilbert, that you +ought to abide by the judgment of a man nearly eighty, who has seen a +great deal and saved scores of lives himself--surely his opinion ought +to weigh more than a mere boy’s.” + +“Thank you.” + +“Don’t laugh. It’s too serious.” + +“That’s just my point. It IS serious. Here is a man who is a helpless +burden. He may be restored to reason and usefulness--” + +“He was so very useful before,” interjected Anne witheringly. + +“He may be given a chance to make good and redeem the past. His wife +doesn’t know this. I do. It is therefore my duty to tell her that +there is such a possibility. That, boiled down, is my decision.” + +“Don’t say ‘decision’ yet, Gilbert. Consult somebody else. Ask +Captain Jim what he thinks about it.” + +“Very well. But I’ll not promise to abide by his opinion, Anne. + +“This is something a man must decide for himself. My conscience would +never be easy if I kept silent on the subject.” + +“Oh, your conscience!” moaned Anne. “I suppose that Uncle Dave has a +conscience too, hasn’t he?” + +“Yes. But I am not the keeper of his conscience. Come, Anne, if this +affair did not concern Leslie--if it were a purely abstract case, you +would agree with me,--you know you would.” + +“I wouldn’t,” vowed Anne, trying to believe it herself. “Oh, you can +argue all night, Gilbert, but you won’t convince me. Just you ask Miss +Cornelia what she thinks of it.” + +“You’re driven to the last ditch, Anne, when you bring up Miss Cornelia +as a reinforcement. She will say, ‘Just like a man,’ and rage +furiously. No matter. This is no affair for Miss Cornelia to settle. +Leslie alone must decide it.” + +“You know very well how she will decide it,” said Anne, almost in +tears. “She has ideals of duty, too. I don’t see how you can take +such a responsibility on your shoulders. _I_ couldn’t.” + + “‘Because right is right to follow right + Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence,’” + +quoted Gilbert. + +“Oh, you think a couplet of poetry a convincing argument!” scoffed +Anne. “That is so like a man.” + +And then she laughed in spite of herself. It sounded so like an echo +of Miss Cornelia. + +“Well, if you won’t accept Tennyson as an authority, perhaps you will +believe the words of a Greater than he,” said Gilbert seriously. “‘Ye +shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.’ I believe +that, Anne, with all my heart. It’s the greatest and grandest verse in +the Bible--or in any literature--and the TRUEST, if there are +comparative degrees of trueness. And it’s the first duty of a man to +tell the truth, as he sees it and believes it.” + +“In this case the truth won’t make poor Leslie free,” sighed Anne. “It +will probably end in still more bitter bondage for her. Oh, Gilbert, I +CAN’T think you are right.” + + + + +CHAPTER 30 + +LESLIE DECIDES + +A sudden outbreak of a virulent type of influenza at the Glen and down +at the fishing village kept Gilbert so busy for the next fortnight that +he had no time to pay the promised visit to Captain Jim. Anne hoped +against hope that he had abandoned the idea about Dick Moore, and, +resolving to let sleeping dogs lie, she said no more about the subject. +But she thought of it incessantly. + +“I wonder if it would be right for me to tell him that Leslie cares for +Owen,” she thought. “He would never let her suspect that he knew, so +her pride would not suffer, and it MIGHT convince him that he should +let Dick Moore alone. Shall I--shall I? No, after all, I cannot. A +promise is sacred, and I’ve no right to betray Leslie’s secret. But +oh, I never felt so worried over anything in my life as I do over this. +It’s spoiling the spring--it’s spoiling everything.” + +One evening Gilbert abruptly proposed that they go down and see Captain +Jim. With a sinking heart Anne agreed, and they set forth. Two weeks +of kind sunshine had wrought a miracle in the bleak landscape over +which Gilbert’s crow had flown. The hills and fields were dry and +brown and warm, ready to break into bud and blossom; the harbor was +laughter-shaken again; the long harbor road was like a gleaming red +ribbon; down on the dunes a crowd of boys, who were out smelt fishing, +were burning the thick, dry sandhill grass of the preceding summer. +The flames swept over the dunes rosily, flinging their cardinal banners +against the dark gulf beyond, and illuminating the channel and the +fishing village. It was a picturesque scene which would at other times +have delighted Anne’s eyes; but she was not enjoying this walk. +Neither was Gilbert. Their usual good-comradeship and Josephian +community of taste and viewpoint were sadly lacking. Anne’s +disapproval of the whole project showed itself in the haughty uplift of +her head and the studied politeness of her remarks. Gilbert’s mouth +was set in all the Blythe obstinacy, but his eyes were troubled. He +meant to do what he believed to be his duty; but to be at outs with +Anne was a high price to pay. Altogether, both were glad when they +reached the light--and remorseful that they should be glad. + +Captain Jim put away the fishing net upon which he was working, and +welcomed them joyfully. In the searching light of the spring evening +he looked older than Anne had ever seen him. His hair had grown much +grayer, and the strong old hand shook a little. But his blue eyes were +clear and steady, and the staunch soul looked out through them gallant +and unafraid. + +Captain Jim listened in amazed silence while Gilbert said what he had +come to say. Anne, who knew how the old man worshipped Leslie, felt +quite sure that he would side with her, although she had not much hope +that this would influence Gilbert. She was therefore surprised beyond +measure when Captain Jim, slowly and sorrowfully, but unhesitatingly, +gave it as his opinion that Leslie should be told. + +“Oh, Captain Jim, I didn’t think you’d say that,” she exclaimed +reproachfully. “I thought you wouldn’t want to make more trouble for +her.” + +Captain Jim shook his head. + +“I don’t want to. I know how you feel about it, Mistress Blythe--just +as I feel meself. But it ain’t our feelings we have to steer by +through life--no, no, we’d make shipwreck mighty often if we did that. +There’s only the one safe compass and we’ve got to set our course by +that--what it’s right to do. I agree with the doctor. If there’s a +chance for Dick, Leslie should be told of it. There’s no two sides to +that, in my opinion.” + +“Well,” said Anne, giving up in despair, “wait until Miss Cornelia gets +after you two men.” + +“Cornelia’ll rake us fore and aft, no doubt,” assented Captain Jim. +“You women are lovely critters, Mistress Blythe, but you’re just a mite +illogical. You’re a highly eddicated lady and Cornelia isn’t, but +you’re like as two peas when it comes to that. I dunno’s you’re any +the worse for it. Logic is a sort of hard, merciless thing, I reckon. +Now, I’ll brew a cup of tea and we’ll drink it and talk of pleasant +things, jest to calm our minds a bit.” + +At least, Captain Jim’s tea and conversation calmed Anne’s mind to such +an extent that she did not make Gilbert suffer so acutely on the way +home as she had deliberately intended to do. She did not refer to the +burning question at all, but she chatted amiably of other matters, and +Gilbert understood that he was forgiven under protest. + +“Captain Jim seems very frail and bent this spring. The winter has +aged him,” said Anne sadly. “I am afraid that he will soon be going to +seek lost Margaret. I can’t bear to think of it.” + +“Four Winds won’t be the same place when Captain Jim ‘sets out to +sea,’” agreed Gilbert. + +The following evening he went to the house up the brook. Anne wandered +dismally around until his return. + +“Well, what did Leslie say?” she demanded when he came in. + +“Very little. I think she felt rather dazed.” + +“And is she going to have the operation?” + +“She is going to think it over and decide very soon.” + +Gilbert flung himself wearily into the easy chair before the fire. He +looked tired. It had not been an easy thing for him to tell Leslie. +And the terror that had sprung into her eyes when the meaning of what +he told her came home to her was not a pleasant thing to remember. +Now, when the die was cast, he was beset with doubts of his own wisdom. + +Anne looked at him remorsefully; then she slipped down on the rug +beside him and laid her glossy red head on his arm. + +“Gilbert, I’ve been rather hateful over this. I won’t be any more. +Please just call me red-headed and forgive me.” + +By which Gilbert understood that, no matter what came of it, there +would be no I-told-you-so’s. But he was not wholly comforted. Duty in +the abstract is one thing; duty in the concrete is quite another, +especially when the doer is confronted by a woman’s stricken eyes. + +Some instinct made Anne keep away from Leslie for the next three days. +On the third evening Leslie came down to the little house and told +Gilbert that she had made up her mind; she would take Dick to Montreal +and have the operation. + +She was very pale and seemed to have wrapped herself in her old mantle +of aloofness. But her eyes had lost the look which had haunted +Gilbert; they were cold and bright; and she proceeded to discuss +details with him in a crisp, business-like way. There were plans to be +made and many things to be thought over. When Leslie had got the +information she wanted she went home. Anne wanted to walk part of the +way with her. + +“Better not,” said Leslie curtly. “Today’s rain has made the ground +damp. Good-night.” + +“Have I lost my friend?” said Anne with a sigh. “If the operation is +successful and Dick Moore finds himself again Leslie will retreat into +some remote fastness of her soul where none of us can ever find her.” + +“Perhaps she will leave him,” said Gilbert. + +“Leslie would never do that, Gilbert. Her sense of duty is very +strong. She told me once that her Grandmother West always impressed +upon her the fact that when she assumed any responsibility she must +never shirk it, no matter what the consequences might be. That is one +of her cardinal rules. I suppose it’s very old-fashioned.” + +“Don’t be bitter, Anne-girl. You know you don’t think it +old-fashioned--you know you have the very same idea of sacredness of +assumed responsibilities yourself. And you are right. Shirking +responsibilities is the curse of our modern life--the secret of all the +unrest and discontent that is seething in the world.” + +“Thus saith the preacher,” mocked Anne. But under the mockery she felt +that he was right; and she was very sick at heart for Leslie. + +A week later Miss Cornelia descended like an avalanche upon the little +house. Gilbert was away and Anne was compelled to bear the shock of +the impact alone. + +Miss Cornelia hardly waited to get her hat off before she began. + +“Anne, do you mean to tell me it’s true what I’ve heard--that Dr. +Blythe has told Leslie Dick can be cured, and that she is going to take +him to Montreal to have him operated on?” + +“Yes, it is quite true, Miss Cornelia,” said Anne bravely. + +“Well, it’s inhuman cruelty, that’s what it is,” said Miss Cornelia, +violently agitated. “I did think Dr. Blythe was a decent man. I +didn’t think he could have been guilty of this.” + +“Dr. Blythe thought it was his duty to tell Leslie that there was a +chance for Dick,” said Anne with spirit, “and,” she added, loyalty to +Gilbert getting the better of her, “I agree with him.” + +“Oh, no, you don’t, dearie,” said Miss Cornelia. “No person with any +bowels of compassion could.” + +“Captain Jim does.” + +“Don’t quote that old ninny to me,” cried Miss Cornelia. “And I don’t +care who agrees with him. Think--THINK what it means to that poor +hunted, harried girl.” + +“We DO think of it. But Gilbert believes that a doctor should put the +welfare of a patient’s mind and body before all other considerations.” + +“That’s just like a man. But I expected better things of you, Anne,” +said Miss Cornelia, more in sorrow than in wrath; then she proceeded to +bombard Anne with precisely the same arguments with which the latter +had attacked Gilbert; and Anne valiantly defended her husband with the +weapons he had used for his own protection. Long was the fray, but +Miss Cornelia made an end at last. + +“It’s an iniquitous shame,” she declared, almost in tears. “That’s +just what it is--an iniquitous shame. Poor, poor Leslie!” + +“Don’t you think Dick should be considered a little too?” pleaded Anne. + +“Dick! Dick Moore! HE’S happy enough. He’s a better behaved and more +reputable member of society now than he ever was before. + +“Why, he was a drunkard and perhaps worse. Are you going to set him +loose again to roar and to devour?” + +“He may reform,” said poor Anne, beset by foe without and traitor +within. + +“Reform your grandmother!” retorted Miss Cornelia. “Dick Moore got the +injuries that left him as he is in a drunken brawl. He DESERVES his +fate. It was sent on him for a punishment. I don’t believe the doctor +has any business to tamper with the visitations of God.” + +“Nobody knows how Dick was hurt, Miss Cornelia. It may not have been +in a drunken brawl at all. He may have been waylaid and robbed.” + +“Pigs MAY whistle, but they’ve poor mouths for it,” said Miss Cornelia. +“Well, the gist of what you tell me is that the thing is settled and +there’s no use in talking. If that’s so I’ll hold my tongue. I don’t +propose to wear MY teeth out gnawing files. When a thing has to be I +give in to it. But I like to make mighty sure first that it HAS to be. +Now, I’ll devote MY energies to comforting and sustaining Leslie. And +after all,” added Miss Cornelia, brightening up hopefully, “perhaps +nothing can be done for Dick.” + + + + +CHAPTER 31 + +THE TRUTH MAKES FREE + +Leslie, having once made up her mind what to do, proceeded to do it +with characteristic resolution and speed. House-cleaning must be +finished with first, whatever issues of life and death might await +beyond. The gray house up the brook was put into flawless order and +cleanliness, with Miss Cornelia’s ready assistance. Miss Cornelia, +having said her say to Anne, and later on to Gilbert and Captain +Jim--sparing neither of them, let it be assured--never spoke of the +matter to Leslie. She accepted the fact of Dick’s operation, referred +to it when necessary in a business-like way, and ignored it when it was +not. Leslie never attempted to discuss it. She was very cold and +quiet during these beautiful spring days. She seldom visited Anne, and +though she was invariably courteous and friendly, that very courtesy +was as an icy barrier between her and the people of the little house. +The old jokes and laughter and chumminess of common things could not +reach her over it. Anne refused to feel hurt. She knew that Leslie +was in the grip of a hideous dread--a dread that wrapped her away from +all little glimpses of happiness and hours of pleasure. When one great +passion seizes possession of the soul all other feelings are crowded +aside. Never in all her life had Leslie Moore shuddered away from the +future with more intolerable terror. But she went forward as +unswervingly in the path she had elected as the martyrs of old walked +their chosen way, knowing the end of it to be the fiery agony of the +stake. + +The financial question was settled with greater ease than Anne had +feared. Leslie borrowed the necessary money from Captain Jim, and, at +her insistence, he took a mortgage on the little farm. + +“So that is one thing off the poor girl’s mind,” Miss Cornelia told +Anne, “and off mine too. Now, if Dick gets well enough to work again +he’ll be able to earn enough to pay the interest on it; and if he +doesn’t I know Captain Jim’ll manage someway that Leslie won’t have to. +He said as much to me. ‘I’m getting old, Cornelia,’ he said, ‘and I’ve +no chick or child of my own. Leslie won’t take a gift from a living +man, but mebbe she will from a dead one.’ So it will be all right as +far as THAT goes. I wish everything else might be settled as +satisfactorily. As for that wretch of a Dick, he’s been awful these +last few days. The devil was in him, believe ME! Leslie and I +couldn’t get on with our work for the tricks he’d play. He chased all +her ducks one day around the yard till most of them died. And not one +thing would he do for us. Sometimes, you know, he’ll make himself +quite handy, bringing in pails of water and wood. But this week if we +sent him to the well he’d try to climb down into it. I thought once, +‘If you’d only shoot down there head-first everything would be nicely +settled.’” + +“Oh, Miss Cornelia!” + +“Now, you needn’t Miss Cornelia me, Anne, dearie. ANYBODY would have +thought the same. If the Montreal doctors can make a rational creature +out of Dick Moore they’re wonders.” + +Leslie took Dick to Montreal early in May. Gilbert went with her, to +help her, and make the necessary arrangements for her. He came home +with the report that the Montreal surgeon whom they had consulted +agreed with him that there was a good chance of Dick’s restoration. + +“Very comforting,” was Miss Cornelia’s sarcastic comment. + +Anne only sighed. Leslie had been very distant at their parting. + +But she had promised to write. Ten days after Gilbert’s return the +letter came. Leslie wrote that the operation had been successfully +performed and that Dick was making a good recovery. + +“What does she mean by ‘successfully?’” asked Anne. “Does she mean +that Dick’s memory is really restored?” + +“Not likely--since she says nothing of it,” said Gilbert. “She uses +the word ‘successfully’ from the surgeon’s point of view. The +operation has been performed and followed by normal results. But it is +too soon to know whether Dick’s faculties will be eventually restored, +wholly or in part. His memory would not be likely to return to him all +at once. The process will be gradual, if it occurs at all. Is that +all she says?” + +“Yes--there’s her letter. It’s very short. Poor girl, she must be +under a terrible strain. Gilbert Blythe, there are heaps of things I +long to say to you, only it would be mean.” + +“Miss Cornelia says them for you,” said Gilbert with a rueful smile. +“She combs me down every time I encounter her. She makes it plain to +me that she regards me as little better than a murderer, and that she +thinks it a great pity that Dr. Dave ever let me step into his shoes. +She even told me that the Methodist doctor over the harbor was to be +preferred before me. With Miss Cornelia the force of condemnation can +no further go.” + +“If Cornelia Bryant was sick, it would not be Doctor Dave or the +Methodist doctor she would send for,” sniffed Susan. “She would have +you out of your hard-earned bed in the middle of the night, doctor, +dear, if she took a spell of misery, that she would. And then she +would likely say your bill was past all reason. But do not mind her, +doctor, dear. It takes all kinds of people to make a world.” + +No further word came from Leslie for some time. The May days crept +away in a sweet succession and the shores of Four Winds Harbor greened +and bloomed and purpled. One day in late May Gilbert came home to be +met by Susan in the stable yard. + +“I am afraid something has upset Mrs. Doctor, doctor, dear,” she said +mysteriously. “She got a letter this afternoon and since then she has +just been walking round the garden and talking to herself. You know it +is not good for her to be on her feet so much, doctor, dear. She did +not see fit to tell me what her news was, and I am no pry, doctor, +dear, and never was, but it is plain something has upset her. And it +is not good for her to be upset.” + +Gilbert hurried rather anxiously to the garden. Had anything happened +at Green Gables? But Anne, sitting on the rustic seat by the brook, +did not look troubled, though she was certainly much excited. Her eyes +were their grayest, and scarlet spots burned on her cheeks. + +“What has happened, Anne?” + +Anne gave a queer little laugh. + +“I think you’ll hardly believe it when I tell you, Gilbert. _I_ can’t +believe it yet. As Susan said the other day, ‘I feel like a fly coming +to live in the sun--dazed-like.’ It’s all so incredible. I’ve read +the letter a score of times and every time it’s just the same--I can’t +believe my own eyes. Oh, Gilbert, you were right--so right. I can see +that clearly enough now--and I’m so ashamed of myself--and will you +ever really forgive me?” + +“Anne, I’ll shake you if you don’t grow coherent. Redmond would be +ashamed of you. WHAT has happened?” + +“You won’t believe it--you won’t believe it--” + +“I’m going to phone for Uncle Dave,” said Gilbert, pretending to start +for the house. + +“Sit down, Gilbert. I’ll try to tell you. I’ve had a letter, and oh, +Gilbert, it’s all so amazing--so incredibly amazing--we never +thought--not one of us ever dreamed--” + +“I suppose,” said Gilbert, sitting down with a resigned air, “the only +thing to do in a case of this kind is to have patience and go at the +matter categorically. Whom is your letter from?” + +“Leslie--and, oh, Gilbert--” + +“Leslie! Whew! What has she to say? What’s the news about Dick?” + +Anne lifted the letter and held it out, calmly dramatic in a moment. + +“There is NO Dick! The man we have thought Dick Moore--whom everybody +in Four Winds has believed for twelve years to be Dick Moore--is his +cousin, George Moore, of Nova Scotia, who, it seems, always resembled +him very strikingly. Dick Moore died of yellow fever thirteen years +ago in Cuba.” + + + + +CHAPTER 32 + +MISS CORNELIA DISCUSSES THE AFFAIR + +“And do you mean to tell me, Anne, dearie, that Dick Moore has turned +out not to be Dick Moore at all but somebody else? Is THAT what you +phoned up to me today?” + +“Yes, Miss Cornelia. It is very amazing, isn’t it?” + +“It’s--it’s--just like a man,” said Miss Cornelia helplessly. She took +off her hat with trembling fingers. For once in her life Miss Cornelia +was undeniably staggered. + +“I can’t seem to sense it, Anne,” she said. “I’ve heard you say +it--and I believe you--but I can’t take it in. Dick Moore is dead--has +been dead all these years--and Leslie is free?” + +“Yes. The truth has made her free. Gilbert was right when he said +that verse was the grandest in the Bible.” + +“Tell me everything, Anne, dearie. Since I got your phone I’ve been in +a regular muddle, believe ME. Cornelia Bryant was never so +kerflummuxed before.” + +“There isn’t a very great deal to tell. Leslie’s letter was short. +She didn’t go into particulars. This man--George Moore--has recovered +his memory and knows who he is. He says Dick took yellow fever in +Cuba, and the Four Sisters had to sail without him. George stayed +behind to nurse him. But he died very shortly afterwards. + +“George did not write Leslie because he intended to come right home and +tell her himself.” + +“And why didn’t he?” + +“I suppose his accident must have intervened. Gilbert says it is quite +likely that George Moore remembers nothing of his accident, or what led +to it, and may never remember it. It probably happened very soon after +Dick’s death. We may find out more particulars when Leslie writes +again.” + +“Does she say what she is going to do? When is she coming home?” + +“She says she will stay with George Moore until he can leave the +hospital. She has written to his people in Nova Scotia. It seems that +George’s only near relative is a married sister much older than +himself. She was living when George sailed on the Four Sisters, but of +course we do not know what may have happened since. Did you ever see +George Moore, Miss Cornelia?” + +“I did. It is all coming back to me. He was here visiting his Uncle +Abner eighteen years ago, when he and Dick would be about seventeen. +They were double cousins, you see. Their fathers were brothers and +their mothers were twin sisters, and they did look a terrible lot +alike. Of course,” added Miss Cornelia scornfully, “it wasn’t one of +those freak resemblances you read of in novels where two people are so +much alike that they can fill each other’s places and their nearest and +dearest can’t tell between them. In those days you could tell easy +enough which was George and which was Dick, if you saw them together +and near at hand. Apart, or some distance away, it wasn’t so easy. +They played lots of tricks on people and thought it great fun, the two +scamps. George Moore was a little taller and a good deal fatter than +Dick--though neither of them was what you would call fat--they were +both of the lean kind. Dick had higher color than George, and his hair +was a shade lighter. But their features were just alike, and they both +had that queer freak of eyes--one blue and one hazel. They weren’t +much alike in any other way, though. George was a real nice fellow, +though he was a scalawag for mischief, and some said he had a liking +for a glass even then. But everybody liked him better than Dick. He +spent about a month here. Leslie never saw him; she was only about +eight or nine then and I remember now that she spent that whole winter +over harbor with her grandmother West. Captain Jim was away, too--that +was the winter he was wrecked on the Magdalens. I don’t suppose either +he or Leslie had ever heard about the Nova Scotia cousin looking so +much like Dick. Nobody ever thought of him when Captain Jim brought +Dick--George, I should say--home. Of course, we all thought Dick had +changed considerable--he’d got so lumpish and fat. But we put that +down to what had happened to him, and no doubt that was the reason, +for, as I’ve said, George wasn’t fat to begin with either. And there +was no other way we could have guessed, for the man’s senses were clean +gone. I can’t see that it is any wonder we were all deceived. But +it’s a staggering thing. And Leslie has sacrificed the best years of +her life to nursing a man who hadn’t any claim on her! Oh, drat the +men! No matter what they do, it’s the wrong thing. And no matter who +they are, it’s somebody they shouldn’t be. They do exasperate me.” + +“Gilbert and Captain Jim are men, and it is through them that the truth +has been discovered at last,” said Anne. + +“Well, I admit that,” conceded Miss Cornelia reluctantly. “I’m sorry I +raked the doctor off so. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever felt +ashamed of anything I said to a man. I don’t know as I shall tell him +so, though. He’ll just have to take it for granted. Well, Anne, +dearie, it’s a mercy the Lord doesn’t answer all our prayers. I’ve +been praying hard right along that the operation wouldn’t cure Dick. +Of course I didn’t put it just quite so plain. But that was what was +in the back of my mind, and I have no doubt the Lord knew it.” + +“Well, He has answered the spirit of your prayer. You really wished +that things shouldn’t be made any harder for Leslie. I’m afraid that +in my secret heart I’ve been hoping the operation wouldn’t succeed, and +I am wholesomely ashamed of it.” + +“How does Leslie seem to take it?” + +“She writes like one dazed. I think that, like ourselves, she hardly +realizes it yet. She says, ‘It all seems like a strange dream to me, +Anne.’ That is the only reference she makes to herself.” + +“Poor child! I suppose when the chains are struck off a prisoner he’d +feel queer and lost without them for a while. Anne, dearie, here’s a +thought keeps coming into my mind. What about Owen Ford? We both know +Leslie was fond of him. Did it ever occur to you that he was fond of +her?” + +“It--did--once,” admitted Anne, feeling that she might say so much. + +“Well, I hadn’t any reason to think he was, but it just appeared to me +he MUST be. Now, Anne, dearie, the Lord knows I’m not a match-maker, +and I scorn all such doings. But if I were you and writing to that +Ford man I’d just mention, casual-like, what has happened. That is +what _I_’d do.” + +“Of course I will mention it when I write him,” said Anne, a trifle +distantly. Somehow, this was a thing she could not discuss with Miss +Cornelia. And yet, she had to admit that the same thought had been +lurking in her mind ever since she had heard of Leslie’s freedom. But +she would not desecrate it by free speech. + +“Of course there is no great rush, dearie. But Dick Moore’s been dead +for thirteen years and Leslie has wasted enough of her life for him. +We’ll just see what comes of it. As for this George Moore, who’s gone +and come back to life when everyone thought he was dead and done for, +just like a man, I’m real sorry for him. He won’t seem to fit in +anywhere.” + +“He is still a young man, and if he recovers completely, as seems +likely, he will be able to make a place for himself again. It must be +very strange for him, poor fellow. I suppose all these years since his +accident will not exist for him.” + + + + +CHAPTER 33 + +LESLIE RETURNS + +A fortnight later Leslie Moore came home alone to the old house where +she had spent so many bitter years. In the June twilight she went over +the fields to Anne’s, and appeared with ghost-like suddenness in the +scented garden. + +“Leslie!” cried Anne in amazement. “Where have you sprung from? We +never knew you were coming. Why didn’t you write? We would have met +you.” + +“I couldn’t write somehow, Anne. It seemed so futile to try to say +anything with pen and ink. And I wanted to get back quietly and +unobserved.” + +Anne put her arms about Leslie and kissed her. Leslie returned the +kiss warmly. She looked pale and tired, and she gave a little sigh as +she dropped down on the grasses beside a great bed of daffodils that +were gleaming through the pale, silvery twilight like golden stars. + +“And you have come home alone, Leslie?” + +“Yes. George Moore’s sister came to Montreal and took him home with +her. Poor fellow, he was sorry to part with me--though I was a +stranger to him when his memory first came back. He clung to me in +those first hard days when he was trying to realize that Dick’s death +was not the thing of yesterday that it seemed to him. It was all very +hard for him. I helped him all I could. When his sister came it was +easier for him, because it seemed to him only the other day that he had +seen her last. Fortunately she had not changed much, and that helped +him, too.” + +“It is all so strange and wonderful, Leslie. I think we none of us +realize it yet.” + +“I cannot. When I went into the house over there an hour ago, I felt +that it MUST be a dream--that Dick must be there, with his childish +smile, as he had been for so long. Anne, I seem stunned yet. I’m not +glad or sorry--or ANYTHING. I feel as if something had been torn +suddenly out of my life and left a terrible hole. I feel as if I +couldn’t be _I_--as if I must have changed into somebody else and +couldn’t get used to it. It gives me a horrible lonely, dazed, +helpless feeling. It’s good to see you again--it seems as if you were +a sort of anchor for my drifting soul. Oh, Anne, I dread it all--the +gossip and wonderment and questioning. When I think of that, I wish +that I need not have come home at all. Dr. Dave was at the station +when I came off the train--he brought me home. Poor old man, he feels +very badly because he told me years ago that nothing could be done for +Dick. ‘I honestly thought so, Leslie,’ he said to me today. ‘But I +should have told you not to depend on my opinion--I should have told +you to go to a specialist. If I had, you would have been saved many +bitter years, and poor George Moore many wasted ones. I blame myself +very much, Leslie.’ I told him not to do that--he had done what he +thought right. He has always been so kind to me--I couldn’t bear to +see him worrying over it.” + +“And Dick--George, I mean? Is his memory fully restored?” + +“Practically. Of course, there are a great many details he can’t +recall yet--but he remembers more and more every day. He went out for +a walk on the evening after Dick was buried. He had Dick’s money and +watch on him; he meant to bring them home to me, along with my letter. +He admits he went to a place where the sailors resorted--and he +remembers drinking--and nothing else. Anne, I shall never forget the +moment he remembered his own name. I saw him looking at me with an +intelligent but puzzled expression. I said, ‘Do you know me, Dick?’ +He answered, ‘I never saw you before. Who are you? And my name is not +Dick. I am George Moore, and Dick died of yellow fever yesterday! +Where am I? What has happened to me?’ I--I fainted, Anne. And ever +since I have felt as if I were in a dream.” + +“You will soon adjust yourself to this new state of things, Leslie. +And you are young--life is before you--you will have many beautiful +years yet.” + +“Perhaps I shall be able to look at it in that way after a while, Anne. +Just now I feel too tired and indifferent to think about the future. +I’m--I’m--Anne, I’m lonely. I miss Dick. Isn’t it all very strange? +Do you know, I was really fond of poor Dick--George, I suppose I should +say--just as I would have been fond of a helpless child who depended on +me for everything. I would never have admitted it--I was really +ashamed of it--because, you see, I had hated and despised Dick so much +before he went away. When I heard that Captain Jim was bringing him +home I expected I would just feel the same to him. But I never +did--although I continued to loathe him as I remembered him before. +From the time he came home I felt only pity--a pity that hurt and wrung +me. I supposed then that it was just because his accident had made him +so helpless and changed. But now I believe it was because there was +really a different personality there. Carlo knew it, Anne--I know now +that Carlo knew it. I always thought it strange that Carlo shouldn’t +have known Dick. Dogs are usually so faithful. But HE knew it was not +his master who had come back, although none of the rest of us did. I +had never seen George Moore, you know. I remember now that Dick once +mentioned casually that he had a cousin in Nova Scotia who looked as +much like him as a twin; but the thing had gone out of my memory, and +in any case I would never have thought it of any importance. You see, +it never occurred to me to question Dick’s identity. Any change in him +seemed to me just the result of the accident. + +“Oh, Anne, that night in April when Gilbert told me he thought Dick +might be cured! I can never forget it. It seemed to me that I had +once been a prisoner in a hideous cage of torture, and then the door +had been opened and I could get out. I was still chained to the cage +but I was not in it. And that night I felt that a merciless hand was +drawing me back into the cage--back to a torture even more terrible +than it had once been. I didn’t blame Gilbert. I felt he was right. +And he had been very good--he said that if, in view of the expense and +uncertainty of the operation, I should decide not to risk it, he would +not blame me in the least. But I knew how I ought to decide--and I +couldn’t face it. All night I walked the floor like a mad woman, +trying to compel myself to face it. I couldn’t, Anne--I thought I +couldn’t--and when morning broke I set my teeth and resolved that I +WOULDN’T. I would let things remain as they were. It was very wicked, +I know. It would have been just punishment for such wickedness if I +had just been left to abide by that decision. I kept to it all day. +That afternoon I had to go up to the Glen to do some shopping. It was +one of Dick’s quiet, drowsy days, so I left him alone. I was gone a +little longer than I had expected, and he missed me. He felt lonely. +And when I got home, he ran to meet me just like a child, with such a +pleased smile on his face. Somehow, Anne, I just gave way then. That +smile on his poor vacant face was more than I could endure. I felt as +if I were denying a child the chance to grow and develop. I knew that +I must give him his chance, no matter what the consequences might be. +So I came over and told Gilbert. Oh, Anne, you must have thought me +hateful in those weeks before I went away. I didn’t mean to be--but I +couldn’t think of anything except what I had to do, and everything and +everybody about me were like shadows.” + +“I know--I understood, Leslie. And now it is all over--your chain is +broken--there is no cage.” + +“There is no cage,” repeated Leslie absently, plucking at the fringing +grasses with her slender, brown hands. “But--it doesn’t seem as if +there were anything else, Anne. You--you remember what I told you of +my folly that night on the sand-bar? I find one doesn’t get over being +a fool very quickly. Sometimes I think there are people who are fools +forever. And to be a fool--of that kind--is almost as bad as being +a--a dog on a chain.” + +“You will feel very differently after you get over being tired and +bewildered,” said Anne, who, knowing a certain thing that Leslie did +not know, did not feel herself called upon to waste overmuch sympathy. + +Leslie laid her splendid golden head against Anne’s knee. + +“Anyhow, I have YOU,” she said. “Life can’t be altogether empty with +such a friend. Anne, pat my head--just as if I were a little +girl--MOTHER me a bit--and let me tell you while my stubborn tongue is +loosed a little just what you and your comradeship have meant to me +since that night I met you on the rock shore.” + + + + +CHAPTER 34 + +THE SHIP O’DREAMS COMES TO HARBOR + +One morning, when a windy golden sunrise was billowing over the gulf in +waves of light, a certain weary stork flew over the bar of Four Winds +Harbor on his way from the Land of Evening Stars. Under his wing was +tucked a sleepy, starry-eyed, little creature. The stork was tired, +and he looked wistfully about him. He knew he was somewhere near his +destination, but he could not yet see it. The big, white light-house +on the red sandstone cliff had its good points; but no stork possessed +of any gumption would leave a new, velvet baby there. An old gray +house, surrounded by willows, in a blossomy brook valley, looked more +promising, but did not seem quite the thing either. The staring green +abode further on was manifestly out of the question. Then the stork +brightened up. He had caught sight of the very place--a little white +house nestled against a big, whispering firwood, with a spiral of blue +smoke winding up from its kitchen chimney--a house which just looked as +if it were meant for babies. The stork gave a sigh of satisfaction, +and softly alighted on the ridge-pole. + +Half an hour later Gilbert ran down the hall and tapped on the +spare-room door. A drowsy voice answered him and in a moment Marilla’s +pale, scared face peeped out from behind the door. + +“Marilla, Anne has sent me to tell you that a certain young gentleman +has arrived here. He hasn’t brought much luggage with him, but he +evidently means to stay.” + +“For pity’s sake!” said Marilla blankly. “You don’t mean to tell me, +Gilbert, that it’s all over. Why wasn’t I called?” + +“Anne wouldn’t let us disturb you when there was no need. Nobody was +called until about two hours ago. There was no ‘passage perilous’ this +time.” + +“And--and--Gilbert--will this baby live?” + +“He certainly will. He weighs ten pounds and--why, listen to him. +Nothing wrong with his lungs, is there? The nurse says his hair will +be red. Anne is furious with her, and I’m tickled to death.” + +That was a wonderful day in the little house of dreams. + +“The best dream of all has come true,” said Anne, pale and rapturous. +“Oh, Marilla, I hardly dare believe it, after that horrible day last +summer. I have had a heartache ever since then--but it is gone now.” + +“This baby will take Joy’s place,” said Marilla. + +“Oh, no, no, NO, Marilla. He can’t--nothing can ever do that. He has +his own place, my dear, wee man-child. But little Joy has hers, and +always will have it. If she had lived she would have been over a year +old. She would have been toddling around on her tiny feet and lisping +a few words. I can see her so plainly, Marilla. Oh, I know now that +Captain Jim was right when he said God would manage better than that my +baby would seem a stranger to me when I found her Beyond. I’ve learned +THAT this past year. I’ve followed her development day by day and week +by week--I always shall. I shall know just how she grows from year to +year--and when I meet her again I’ll know her--she won’t be a stranger. +Oh, Marilla, LOOK at his dear, darling toes! Isn’t it strange they +should be so perfect?” + +“It would be stranger if they weren’t,” said Marilla crisply. Now that +all was safely over, Marilla was herself again. + +“Oh, I know--but it seems as if they couldn’t be quite FINISHED, you +know--and they are, even to the tiny nails. And his hands--JUST look +at his hands, Marilla.” + +“They appear to be a good deal like hands,” Marilla conceded. + +“See how he clings to my finger. I’m sure he knows me already. He +cries when the nurse takes him away. Oh, Marilla, do you think--you +don’t think, do you--that his hair is going to be red?” + +“I don’t see much hair of any color,” said Marilla. “I wouldn’t worry +about it, if I were you, until it becomes visible.” + +“Marilla, he HAS hair--look at that fine little down all over his head. +Anyway, nurse says his eyes will be hazel and his forehead is exactly +like Gilbert’s.” + +“And he has the nicest little ears, Mrs. Doctor, dear,” said Susan. +“The first thing I did was to look at his ears. Hair is deceitful and +noses and eyes change, and you cannot tell what is going to come of +them, but ears is ears from start to finish, and you always know where +you are with them. Just look at their shape--and they are set right +back against his precious head. You will never need to be ashamed of +his ears, Mrs. Doctor, dear.” + +Anne’s convalescence was rapid and happy. Folks came and worshipped +the baby, as people have bowed before the kingship of the new-born +since long before the Wise Men of the East knelt in homage to the Royal +Babe of the Bethlehem manger. Leslie, slowly finding herself amid the +new conditions of her life, hovered over it, like a beautiful, +golden-crowned Madonna. Miss Cornelia nursed it as knackily as could +any mother in Israel. Captain Jim held the small creature in his big +brown hands and gazed tenderly at it, with eyes that saw the children +who had never been born to him. + +“What are you going to call him?” asked Miss Cornelia. + +“Anne has settled his name,” answered Gilbert. + +“James Matthew--after the two finest gentlemen I’ve ever known--not +even saving your presence,” said Anne with a saucy glance at Gilbert. + +Gilbert smiled. + +“I never knew Matthew very well; he was so shy we boys couldn’t get +acquainted with him--but I quite agree with you that Captain Jim is one +of the rarest and finest souls God ever clothed in clay. He is so +delighted over the fact that we have given his name to our small lad. +It seems he has no other namesake.” + +“Well, James Matthew is a name that will wear well and not fade in the +washing,” said Miss Cornelia. “I’m glad you didn’t load him down with +some highfalutin, romantic name that he’d be ashamed of when he gets to +be a grandfather. Mrs. William Drew at the Glen has called her baby +Bertie Shakespeare. Quite a combination, isn’t it? And I’m glad you +haven’t had much trouble picking on a name. Some folks have an awful +time. When the Stanley Flaggs’ first boy was born there was so much +rivalry as to who the child should be named for that the poor little +soul had to go for two years without a name. Then a brother came along +and there it was--‘Big Baby’ and ‘Little Baby.’ Finally they called Big +Baby Peter and Little Baby Isaac, after the two grandfathers, and had +them both christened together. And each tried to see if it couldn’t +howl the other down. You know that Highland Scotch family of MacNabs +back of the Glen? They’ve got twelve boys and the oldest and the +youngest are both called Neil--Big Neil and Little Neil in the same +family. Well, I s’pose they ran out of names.” + +“I have read somewhere,” laughed Anne, “that the first child is a poem +but the tenth is very prosy prose. Perhaps Mrs. MacNab thought that +the twelfth was merely an old tale re-told.” + +“Well, there’s something to be said for large families,” said Miss +Cornelia, with a sigh. “I was an only child for eight years and I did +long for a brother and sister. Mother told me to pray for one--and +pray I did, believe ME. Well, one day Aunt Nellie came to me and said, +‘Cornelia, there is a little brother for you upstairs in your ma’s +room. You can go up and see him.’ I was so excited and delighted I +just flew upstairs. And old Mrs. Flagg lifted up the baby for me to +see. Lord, Anne, dearie, I never was so disappointed in my life. You +see, I’d been praying for A BROTHER TWO YEARS OLDER THAN MYSELF.” + +“How long did it take you to get over your disappointment?” asked Anne, +amid her laughter. + +“Well, I had a spite at Providence for a good spell, and for weeks I +wouldn’t even look at the baby. Nobody knew why, for I never told. +Then he began to get real cute, and held out his wee hands to me and I +began to get fond of him. But I didn’t get really reconciled to him +until one day a school chum came to see him and said she thought he was +awful small for his age. I just got boiling mad, and I sailed right +into her, and told her she didn’t know a nice baby when she saw one, +and ours was the nicest baby in the world. And after that I just +worshipped him. Mother died before he was three years old and I was +sister and mother to him both. Poor little lad, he was never strong, +and he died when he wasn’t much over twenty. Seems to me I’d have +given anything on earth, Anne, dearie, if he’d only lived.” + +Miss Cornelia sighed. Gilbert had gone down and Leslie, who had been +crooning over the small James Matthew in the dormer window, laid him +asleep in his basket and went her way. As soon as she was safely out +of earshot, Miss Cornelia bent forward and said in a conspirator’s +whisper: + +“Anne, dearie, I’d a letter from Owen Ford yesterday. He’s in +Vancouver just now, but he wants to know if I can board him for a month +later on. YOU know what that means. Well, I hope we’re doing right.” + +“We’ve nothing to do with it--we couldn’t prevent him from coming to +Four Winds if he wanted to,” said Anne quickly. She did not like the +feeling of match-making Miss Cornelia’s whispers gave her; and then she +weakly succumbed herself. + +“Don’t let Leslie know he is coming until he is here,” she said. “If +she found out I feel sure she would go away at once. She intends to go +in the fall anyhow--she told me so the other day. She is going to +Montreal to take up nursing and make what she can of her life.” + +“Oh, well, Anne, dearie,” said Miss Cornelia, nodding sagely “that is +all as it may be. You and I have done our part and we must leave the +rest to Higher Hands.” + + + + +CHAPTER 35 + +POLITICS AT FOUR WINDS + +When Anne came downstairs again, the Island, as well as all Canada, was +in the throes of a campaign preceding a general election. Gilbert, who +was an ardent Conservative, found himself caught in the vortex, being +much in demand for speech-making at the various county rallies. Miss +Cornelia did not approve of his mixing up in politics and told Anne so. + +“Dr. Dave never did it. Dr. Blythe will find he is making a mistake, +believe ME. Politics is something no decent man should meddle with.” + +“Is the government of the country to be left solely to the rogues +then?” asked Anne. + +“Yes--so long as it’s Conservative rogues,” said Miss Cornelia, +marching off with the honors of war. “Men and politicians are all +tarred with the same brush. The Grits have it laid on thicker than the +Conservatives, that’s all--CONSIDERABLY thicker. But Grit or Tory, my +advice to Dr. Blythe is to steer clear of politics. First thing you +know, he’ll be running an election himself, and going off to Ottawa for +half the year and leaving his practice to go to the dogs.” + +“Ah, well, let’s not borrow trouble,” said Anne. “The rate of interest +is too high. Instead, let’s look at Little Jem. It should be spelled +with a G. Isn’t he perfectly beautiful? Just see the dimples in his +elbows. We’ll bring him up to be a good Conservative, you and I, Miss +Cornelia.” + +“Bring him up to be a good man,” said Miss Cornelia. “They’re scarce +and valuable; though, mind you, I wouldn’t like to see him a Grit. As +for the election, you and I may be thankful we don’t live over harbor. +The air there is blue these days. Every Elliott and Crawford and +MacAllister is on the warpath, loaded for bear. This side is peaceful +and calm, seeing there’s so few men. Captain Jim’s a Grit, but it’s my +opinion he’s ashamed of it, for he never talks politics. There isn’t +any earthly doubt that the Conservatives will be returned with a big +majority again.” + +Miss Cornelia was mistaken. On the morning after the election Captain +Jim dropped in at the little house to tell the news. So virulent is +the microbe of party politics, even in a peaceable old man, that +Captain Jim’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes were flashing with all +his old-time fire. + +“Mistress Blythe, the Liberals are in with a sweeping majority. After +eighteen years of Tory mismanagement this down-trodden country is going +to have a chance at last.” + +“I never heard you make such a bitter partisan speech before, Captain +Jim. I didn’t think you had so much political venom in you,” laughed +Anne, who was not much excited over the tidings. Little Jem had said +“Wow-ga” that morning. What were principalities and powers, the rise +and fall of dynasties, the overthrow of Grit or Tory, compared with +that miraculous occurrence? + +“It’s been accumulating for a long while,” said Captain Jim, with a +deprecating smile. “I thought I was only a moderate Grit, but when the +news came that we were in I found out how Gritty I really was.” + +“You know the doctor and I are Conservatives.” + +“Ah, well, it’s the only bad thing I know of either of you, Mistress +Blythe. Cornelia is a Tory, too. I called in on my way from the Glen +to tell her the news.” + +“Didn’t you know you took your life in your hands?” + +“Yes, but I couldn’t resist the temptation.” + +“How did she take it?” + +“Comparatively calm, Mistress Blythe, comparatively calm. She says, +says she, ‘Well, Providence sends seasons of humiliation to a country, +same as to individuals. You Grits have been cold and hungry for many a +year. Make haste to get warmed and fed, for you won’t be in long.’ +‘Well, now Cornelia,’ I says, ‘mebbe Providence thinks Canada needs a +real long spell of humiliation.’ Ah, Susan, have YOU heard the news? +The Liberals are in.” + +Susan had just come in from the kitchen, attended by the odor of +delectable dishes which always seemed to hover around her. + +“Now, are they?” she said, with beautiful unconcern. “Well, I never +could see but that my bread rose just as light when Grits were in as +when they were not. And if any party, Mrs. Doctor, dear, will make it +rain before the week is out, and save our kitchen garden from entire +ruination, that is the party Susan will vote for. In the meantime, +will you just step out and give me your opinion on the meat for dinner? +I am fearing that it is very tough, and I think that we had better +change our butcher as well as our government.” + +One evening, a week later, Anne walked down to the Point, to see if she +could get some fresh fish from Captain Jim, leaving Little Jem for the +first time. It was quite a tragedy. Suppose he cried? Suppose Susan +did not know just exactly what to do for him? Susan was calm and +serene. + +“I have had as much experience with him as you, Mrs. Doctor, dear, have +I not?” + +“Yes, with him--but not with other babies. Why, I looked after three +pairs of twins, when I was a child, Susan. When they cried, I gave +them peppermint or castor oil quite coolly. It’s quite curious now to +recall how lightly I took all those babies and their woes.” + +“Oh, well, if Little Jem cries, I will just clap a hot water bag on his +little stomach,” said Susan. + +“Not too hot, you know,” said Anne anxiously. Oh, was it really wise +to go? + +“Do not you fret, Mrs. Doctor, dear. Susan is not the woman to burn a +wee man. Bless him, he has no notion of crying.” + +Anne tore herself away finally and enjoyed her walk to the Point after +all, through the long shadows of the sun-setting. Captain Jim was not +in the living room of the lighthouse, but another man was--a handsome, +middle-aged man, with a strong, clean-shaven chin, who was unknown to +Anne. Nevertheless, when she sat down, he began to talk to her with +all the assurance of an old acquaintance. There was nothing amiss in +what he said or the way he said it, but Anne rather resented such a +cool taking-for-granted in a complete stranger. Her replies were +frosty, and as few as decency required. Nothing daunted, her companion +talked on for several minutes, then excused himself and went away. +Anne could have sworn there was a twinkle in his eye and it annoyed +her. Who was the creature? There was something vaguely familiar about +him but she was certain she had never seen him before. + +“Captain Jim, who was that who just went out?” she asked, as Captain +Jim came in. + +“Marshall Elliott,” answered the captain. + +“Marshall Elliott!” cried Anne. “Oh, Captain Jim--it wasn’t--yes, it +WAS his voice--oh, Captain Jim, I didn’t know him--and I was quite +insulting to him! WHY didn’t he tell me? He must have seen I didn’t +know him.” + +“He wouldn’t say a word about it--he’d just enjoy the joke. Don’t +worry over snubbing him--he’ll think it fun. Yes, Marshall’s shaved +off his beard at last and cut his hair. His party is in, you know. I +didn’t know him myself first time I saw him. He was up in Carter +Flagg’s store at the Glen the night after election day, along with a +crowd of others, waiting for the news. About twelve the ’phone came +through--the Liberals were in. Marshall just got up and walked out--he +didn’t cheer or shout--he left the others to do that, and they nearly +lifted the roof off Carter’s store, I reckon. Of course, all the +Tories were over in Raymond Russell’s store. Not much cheering THERE. +Marshall went straight down the street to the side door of Augustus +Palmer’s barber shop. Augustus was in bed asleep, but Marshall +hammered on the door until he got up and come down, wanting to know +what all the racket was about. + +“Come into your shop and do the best job you ever did in your life, +Gus,’ said Marshall. ‘The Liberals are in and you’re going to barber a +good Grit before the sun rises.’ + +“Gus was mad as hops--partly because he’d been dragged out of bed, but +more because he’s a Tory. He vowed he wouldn’t shave any man after +twelve at night. + +“‘You’ll do what I want you to do, sonny,’ said Marshall, ‘or I’ll jest +turn you over my knee and give you one of those spankings your mother +forgot.’ + +“He’d have done it, too, and Gus knew it, for Marshall is as strong as +an ox and Gus is only a midget of a man. So he gave in and towed +Marshall in to the shop and went to work. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘I’ll barber +you up, but if you say one word to me about the Grits getting in while +I’m doing it I’ll cut your throat with this razor,’ says he. You +wouldn’t have thought mild little Gus could be so bloodthirsty, would +you? Shows what party politics will do for a man. Marshall kept quiet +and got his hair and beard disposed of and went home. When his old +housekeeper heard him come upstairs she peeked out of her bedroom door +to see whether ’twas him or the hired boy. And when she saw a strange +man striding down the hall with a candle in his hand she screamed blue +murder and fainted dead away. They had to send for the doctor before +they could bring her to, and it was several days before she could look +at Marshall without shaking all over.” + +Captain Jim had no fish. He seldom went out in his boat that summer, +and his long tramping expeditions were over. He spent a great deal of +his time sitting by his seaward window, looking out over the gulf, with +his swiftly-whitening head leaning on his hand. He sat there tonight +for many silent minutes, keeping some tryst with the past which Anne +would not disturb. Presently he pointed to the iris of the West: + +“That’s beautiful, isn’t, it, Mistress Blythe? But I wish you could +have seen the sunrise this morning. It was a wonderful +thing--wonderful. I’ve seen all kinds of sunrises come over that gulf. +I’ve been all over the world, Mistress Blythe, and take it all in all, +I’ve never seen a finer sight than a summer sunrise over the gulf. A +man can’t pick his time for dying, Mistress Blythe--jest got to go when +the Great Captain gives His sailing orders. But if I could I’d go out +when the morning comes across that water. I’ve watched it many a time +and thought what a thing it would be to pass out through that great +white glory to whatever was waiting beyant, on a sea that ain’t mapped +out on any airthly chart. I think, Mistress Blythe, that I’d find lost +Margaret there.” + +Captain Jim had often talked to Anne of lost Margaret since he had told +her the old story. His love for her trembled in every tone--that love +that had never grown faint or forgetful. + +“Anyway, I hope when my time comes I’ll go quick and easy. I don’t +think I’m a coward, Mistress Blythe--I’ve looked an ugly death in the +face more than once without blenching. But the thought of a lingering +death does give me a queer, sick feeling of horror.” + +“Don’t talk about leaving us, dear, DEAR Captain, Jim,” pleaded Anne, +in a choked voice, patting the old brown hand, once so strong, but now +grown very feeble. “What would we do without you?” + +Captain Jim smiled beautifully. + +“Oh, you’d get along nicely--nicely--but you wouldn’t forget the old +man altogether, Mistress Blythe--no, I don’t think you’ll ever quite +forget him. The race of Joseph always remembers one another. But +it’ll be a memory that won’t hurt--I like to think that my memory won’t +hurt my friends--it’ll always be kind of pleasant to them, I hope and +believe. It won’t be very long now before lost Margaret calls me, for +the last time. I’ll be all ready to answer. I jest spoke of this +because there’s a little favor I want to ask you. Here’s this poor old +Matey of mine”--Captain Jim reached out a hand and poked the big, warm, +velvety, golden ball on the sofa. The First Mate uncoiled himself like +a spring with a nice, throaty, comfortable sound, half purr, half meow, +stretched his paws in air, turned over and coiled himself up again. +“HE’ll miss me when I start on the V’yage. I can’t bear to think of +leaving the poor critter to starve, like he was left before. If +anything happens to me will you give Matey a bite and a corner, +Mistress Blythe?” + +“Indeed I will.” + +“Then that is all I had on my mind. Your Little Jem is to have the few +curious things I picked up--I’ve seen to that. And now I don’t like to +see tears in those pretty eyes, Mistress Blythe. I’ll mebbe hang on +for quite a spell yet. I heard you reading a piece of poetry one day +last winter--one of Tennyson’s pieces. I’d sorter like to hear it +again, if you could recite it for me.” + +Softly and clearly, while the seawind blew in on them, Anne repeated +the beautiful lines of Tennyson’s wonderful swan song--“Crossing the +Bar.” The old captain kept time gently with his sinewy hand. + +“Yes, yes, Mistress Blythe,” he said, when she had finished, “that’s +it, that’s it. He wasn’t a sailor, you tell me--I dunno how he could +have put an old sailor’s feelings into words like that, if he wasn’t +one. He didn’t want any ‘sadness o’ farewells’ and neither do I, +Mistress Blythe--for all will be well with me and mine beyant the bar.” + + + + +CHAPTER 36 + +BEAUTY FOR ASHES + +“Any news from Green Gables, Anne?” + +“Nothing very especial,” replied Anne, folding up Marilla’s letter. +“Jake Donnell has been there shingling the roof. He is a full-fledged +carpenter now, so it seems he has had his own way in regard to the +choice of a life-work. You remember his mother wanted him to be a +college professor. I shall never forget the day she came to the school +and rated me for failing to call him St. Clair.” + +“Does anyone ever call him that now?” + +“Evidently not. It seems that he has completely lived it down. Even +his mother has succumbed. I always thought that a boy with Jake’s chin +and mouth would get his own way in the end. Diana writes me that Dora +has a beau. Just think of it--that child!” + +“Dora is seventeen,” said Gilbert. “Charlie Sloane and I were both mad +about you when you were seventeen, Anne.” + +“Really, Gilbert, we must be getting on in years,” said Anne, with a +half-rueful smile, “when children who were six when we thought +ourselves grown up are old enough now to have beaux. Dora’s is Ralph +Andrews--Jane’s brother. I remember him as a little, round, fat, +white-headed fellow who was always at the foot of his class. But I +understand he is quite a fine-looking young man now.” + +“Dora will probably marry young. She’s of the same type as Charlotta +the Fourth--she’ll never miss her first chance for fear she might not +get another.” + +“Well; if she marries Ralph I hope he will be a little more +up-and-coming than his brother Billy,” mused Anne. + +“For instance,” said Gilbert, laughing, “let us hope he will be able to +propose on his own account. Anne, would you have married Billy if he +had asked you himself, instead of getting Jane to do it for him?” + +“I might have.” Anne went off into a shriek of laughter over the +recollection of her first proposal. “The shock of the whole thing +might have hypnotized me into some such rash and foolish act. Let us +be thankful he did it by proxy.” + +“I had a letter from George Moore yesterday,” said Leslie, from the +corner where she was reading. + +“Oh, how is he?” asked Anne interestedly, yet with an unreal feeling +that she was inquiring about some one whom she did not know. + +“He is well, but he finds it very hard to adapt himself to all the +changes in his old home and friends. He is going to sea again in the +spring. It’s in his blood, he says, and he longs for it. But he told +me something that made me glad for him, poor fellow. Before he sailed +on the Four Sisters he was engaged to a girl at home. He did not tell +me anything about her in Montreal, because he said he supposed she +would have forgotten him and married someone else long ago, and with +him, you see, his engagement and love was still a thing of the present. +It was pretty hard on him, but when he got home he found she had never +married and still cared for him. They are to be married this fall. +I’m going to ask him to bring her over here for a little trip; he says +he wants to come and see the place where he lived so many years without +knowing it.” + +“What a nice little romance,” said Anne, whose love for the romantic +was immortal. “And to think,” she added with a sigh of self-reproach, +“that if I had had my way George Moore would never have come up from +the grave in which his identity was buried. How I did fight against +Gilbert’s suggestion! Well, I am punished: I shall never be able to +have a different opinion from Gilbert’s again! If I try to have, he +will squelch me by casting George Moore’s case up to me!” + +“As if even that would squelch a woman!” mocked Gilbert. “At least do +not become my echo, Anne. A little opposition gives spice to life. I +do not want a wife like John MacAllister’s over the harbor. No matter +what he says, she at once remarks in that drab, lifeless little voice +of hers, ‘That is very true, John, dear me!’” + +Anne and Leslie laughed. Anne’s laughter was silver and Leslie’s +golden, and the combination of the two was as satisfactory as a perfect +chord in music. + +Susan, coming in on the heels of the laughter, echoed it with a +resounding sigh. + +“Why, Susan, what is the matter?” asked Gilbert. + +“There’s nothing wrong with little Jem, is there, Susan?” cried Anne, +starting up in alarm. + +“No, no, calm yourself, Mrs. Doctor, dear. Something has happened, +though. Dear me, everything has gone catawampus with me this week. I +spoiled the bread, as you know too well--and I scorched the doctor’s +best shirt bosom--and I broke your big platter. And now, on the top of +all this, comes word that my sister Matilda has broken her leg and +wants me to go and stay with her for a spell.” + +“Oh, I’m very sorry--sorry that your sister has met with such an +accident, I mean,” exclaimed Anne. + +“Ah, well, man was made to mourn, Mrs. Doctor, dear. That sounds as if +it ought to be in the Bible, but they tell me a person named Burns +wrote it. And there is no doubt that we are born to trouble as the +sparks fly upward. As for Matilda, I do not know what to think of her. +None of our family ever broke their legs before. But whatever she has +done she is still my sister, and I feel that it is my duty to go and +wait on her, if you can spare me for a few weeks, Mrs. Doctor, dear.” + +“Of course, Susan, of course. I can get someone to help me while you +are gone.” + +“If you cannot I will not go, Mrs. Doctor, dear, Matilda’s leg to the +contrary notwithstanding. I will not have you worried, and that +blessed child upset in consequence, for any number of legs.” + +“Oh, you must go to your sister at once, Susan. I can get a girl from +the cove, who will do for a time.” + +“Anne, will you let me come and stay with you while Susan is away?” +exclaimed Leslie. “Do! I’d love to--and it would be an act of charity +on your part. I’m so horribly lonely over there in that big barn of a +house. There’s so little to do--and at night I’m worse than +lonely--I’m frightened and nervous in spite of locked doors. There was +a tramp around two days ago.” + +Anne joyfully agreed, and next day Leslie was installed as an inmate of +the little house of dreams. Miss Cornelia warmly approved of the +arrangement. + +“It seems Providential,” she told Anne in confidence. “I’m sorry for +Matilda Clow, but since she had to break her leg it couldn’t have +happened at a better time. Leslie will be here while Owen Ford is in +Four Winds, and those old cats up at the Glen won’t get the chance to +meow, as they would if she was living over there alone and Owen going +to see her. They are doing enough of it as it is, because she doesn’t +put on mourning. I said to one of them, ‘If you mean she should put on +mourning for George Moore, it seems to me more like his resurrection +than his funeral; and if it’s Dick you mean, I confess _I_ can’t see +the propriety of going into weeds for a man who died thirteen years ago +and good riddance then!’ And when old Louisa Baldwin remarked to me +that she thought it very strange that Leslie should never have +suspected it wasn’t her own husband _I_ said, ‘YOU never suspected it +wasn’t Dick Moore, and you were next-door neighbor to him all his life, +and by nature you’re ten times as suspicious as Leslie.’ But you can’t +stop some people’s tongues, Anne, dearie, and I’m real thankful Leslie +will be under your roof while Owen is courting her.” + +Owen Ford came to the little house one August evening when Leslie and +Anne were absorbed in worshipping the baby. He paused at the open door +of the living room, unseen by the two within, gazing with greedy eyes +at the beautiful picture. Leslie sat on the floor with the baby in her +lap, making ecstatic dabs at his fat little hands as he fluttered them +in the air. + +“Oh, you dear, beautiful, beloved baby,” she mumbled, catching one wee +hand and covering it with kisses. + +“Isn’t him ze darlingest itty sing,” crooned Anne, hanging over the arm +of her chair adoringly. “Dem itty wee pads are ze very tweetest +handies in ze whole big world, isn’t dey, you darling itty man.” + +Anne, in the months before Little Jem’s coming, had pored diligently +over several wise volumes, and pinned her faith to one in especial, +“Sir Oracle on the Care and Training of Children.” Sir Oracle implored +parents by all they held sacred never to talk “baby talk” to their +children. Infants should invariably be addressed in classical language +from the moment of their birth. So should they learn to speak English +undefiled from their earliest utterance. “How,” demanded Sir Oracle, +“can a mother reasonably expect her child to learn correct speech, when +she continually accustoms its impressionable gray matter to such absurd +expressions and distortions of our noble tongue as thoughtless mothers +inflict every day on the helpless creatures committed to their care? +Can a child who is constantly called ‘tweet itty wee singie’ ever +attain to any proper conception of his own being and possibilities and +destiny?” + +Anne was vastly impressed with this, and informed Gilbert that she +meant to make it an inflexible rule never, under any circumstances, to +talk “baby talk” to her children. Gilbert agreed with her, and they +made a solemn compact on the subject--a compact which Anne shamelessly +violated the very first moment Little Jem was laid in her arms. “Oh, +the darling itty wee sing!” she had exclaimed. And she had continued +to violate it ever since. When Gilbert teased her she laughed Sir +Oracle to scorn. + +“He never had any children of his own, Gilbert--I am positive he hadn’t +or he would never have written such rubbish. You just can’t help +talking baby talk to a baby. It comes natural--and it’s RIGHT. It +would be inhuman to talk to those tiny, soft, velvety little creatures +as we do to great big boys and girls. Babies want love and cuddling +and all the sweet baby talk they can get, and Little Jem is going to +have it, bless his dear itty heartums.” + +“But you’re the worst I ever heard, Anne,” protested Gilbert, who, not +being a mother but only a father, was not wholly convinced yet that Sir +Oracle was wrong. “I never heard anything like the way you talk to +that child.” + +“Very likely you never did. Go away--go away. Didn’t I bring up three +pairs of Hammond twins before I was eleven? You and Sir Oracle are +nothing but cold-blooded theorists. Gilbert, JUST look at him! He’s +smiling at me--he knows what we’re talking about. And oo dest agwees +wif evy word muzzer says, don’t oo, angel-lover?” + +Gilbert put his arm about them. “Oh you mothers!” he said. “You +mothers! God knew what He was about when He made you.” + +So Little Jem was talked to and loved and cuddled; and he throve as +became a child of the house of dreams. Leslie was quite as foolish +over him as Anne was. When their work was done and Gilbert was out of +the way, they gave themselves over to shameless orgies of love-making +and ecstasies of adoration, such as that in which Owen Ford had +surprised them. + +Leslie was the first to become aware of him. Even in the twilight +Anne could see the sudden whiteness that swept over her beautiful face, +blotting out the crimson of lip and cheeks. + +Owen came forward, eagerly, blind for a moment to Anne. + +“Leslie!” he said, holding out his hand. It was the first time he had +ever called her by her name; but the hand Leslie gave him was cold; and +she was very quiet all the evening, while Anne and Gilbert and Owen +laughed and talked together. Before his call ended she excused herself +and went upstairs. Owen’s gay spirits flagged and he went away soon +after with a downcast air. + +Gilbert looked at Anne. + +“Anne, what are you up to? There’s something going on that I don’t +understand. The whole air here tonight has been charged with +electricity. Leslie sits like the muse of tragedy; Owen Ford jokes and +laughs on the surface, and watches Leslie with the eyes of his soul. +You seem all the time to be bursting with some suppressed excitement. +Own up. What secret have you been keeping from your deceived husband?” + +“Don’t be a goose, Gilbert,” was Anne’s conjugal reply. “As for +Leslie, she is absurd and I’m going up to tell her so.” + +Anne found Leslie at the dormer window of her room. The little place +was filled with the rhythmic thunder of the sea. Leslie sat with +locked hands in the misty moonshine--a beautiful, accusing presence. + +“Anne,” she said in a low, reproachful voice, “did you know Owen Ford +was coming to Four Winds?” + +“I did,” said Anne brazenly. + +“Oh, you should have told me, Anne,” Leslie cried passionately. “If I +had known I would have gone away--I wouldn’t have stayed here to meet +him. You should have told me. It wasn’t fair of you, Anne--oh, it +wasn’t fair!” + +Leslie’s lips were trembling and her whole form was tense with emotion. +But Anne laughed heartlessly. She bent over and kissed Leslie’s +upturned reproachful face. + +“Leslie, you are an adorable goose. Owen Ford didn’t rush from the +Pacific to the Atlantic from a burning desire to see ME. Neither do I +believe that he was inspired by any wild and frenzied passion for Miss +Cornelia. Take off your tragic airs, my dear friend, and fold them up +and put them away in lavender. You’ll never need them again. There +are some people who can see through a grindstone when there is a hole +in it, even if you cannot. I am not a prophetess, but I shall venture +on a prediction. The bitterness of life is over for you. After this +you are going to have the joys and hopes--and I daresay the sorrows, +too--of a happy woman. The omen of the shadow of Venus did come true +for you, Leslie. The year in which you saw it brought your life’s best +gift for you--your love for Owen Ford. Now, go right to bed and have a +good sleep.” + +Leslie obeyed orders in so far that she went to bed: but it may be +questioned if she slept much. I do not think she dared to dream +wakingly; life had been so hard for this poor Leslie, the path on which +she had had to walk had been so strait, that she could not whisper to +her own heart the hopes that might wait on the future. But she watched +the great revolving light bestarring the short hours of the summer +night, and her eyes grew soft and bright and young once more. Nor, +when Owen Ford came next day, to ask her to go with him to the shore, +did she say him nay. + + + + +CHAPTER 37 + +MISS CORNELIA MAKES A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT + +Miss Cornelia sailed down to the little house one drowsy afternoon, +when the gulf was the faint, bleached blue of the August seas, and the +orange lilies at the gate of Anne’s garden held up their imperial cups +to be filled with the molten gold of August sunshine. Not that Miss +Cornelia concerned herself with painted oceans or sun-thirsty lilies. +She sat in her favorite rocker in unusual idleness. She sewed not, +neither did she spin. Nor did she say a single derogatory word +concerning any portion of mankind. In short, Miss Cornelia’s +conversation was singularly devoid of spice that day, and Gilbert, who +had stayed home to listen to her, instead of going a-fishing, as he had +intended, felt himself aggrieved. What had come over Miss Cornelia? +She did not look cast down or worried. On the contrary, there was a +certain air of nervous exultation about her. + +“Where is Leslie?” she asked--not as if it mattered much either. + +“Owen and she went raspberrying in the woods back of her farm,” +answered Anne. “They won’t be back before supper time--if then.” + +“They don’t seem to have any idea that there is such a thing as a +clock,” said Gilbert. “I can’t get to the bottom of that affair. I’m +certain you women pulled strings. But Anne, undutiful wife, won’t tell +me. Will you, Miss Cornelia?” + +“No, I shall not. But,” said Miss Cornelia, with the air of one +determined to take the plunge and have it over, “I will tell you +something else. I came today on purpose to tell it. I am going to be +married.” + +Anne and Gilbert were silent. If Miss Cornelia had announced her +intention of going out to the channel and drowning herself the thing +might have been believable. This was not. So they waited. Of course +Miss Cornelia had made a mistake. + +“Well, you both look sort of kerflummexed,” said Miss Cornelia, with a +twinkle in her eyes. Now that the awkward moment of revelation was +over, Miss Cornelia was her own woman again. “Do you think I’m too +young and inexperienced for matrimony?” + +“You know--it IS rather staggering,” said Gilbert, trying to gather his +wits together. “I’ve heard you say a score of times that you wouldn’t +marry the best man in the world.” + +“I’m not going to marry the best man in the world,” retorted Miss +Cornelia. “Marshall Elliott is a long way from being the best.” + +“Are you going to marry Marshall Elliott?” exclaimed Anne, recovering +her power of speech under this second shock. + +“Yes. I could have had him any time these twenty years if I’d lifted +my finger. But do you suppose I was going to walk into church beside a +perambulating haystack like that?” + +“I am sure we are very glad--and we wish you all possible happiness,” +said Anne, very flatly and inadequately, as she felt. She was not +prepared for such an occasion. She had never imagined herself offering +betrothal felicitations to Miss Cornelia. + +“Thanks, I knew you would,” said Miss Cornelia. “You are the first of +my friends to know it.” + +“We shall be so sorry to lose you, though, dear Miss Cornelia,” said +Anne, beginning to be a little sad and sentimental. + +“Oh, you won’t lose me,” said Miss Cornelia unsentimentally. “You +don’t suppose I would live over harbor with all those MacAllisters and +Elliotts and Crawfords, do you? ‘From the conceit of the Elliotts, the +pride of the MacAllisters and the vain-glory of the Crawfords, good +Lord deliver us.’ Marshall is coming to live at my place. I’m sick +and tired of hired men. That Jim Hastings I’ve got this summer is +positively the worst of the species. He would drive anyone to getting +married. What do you think? He upset the churn yesterday and spilled +a big churning of cream over the yard. And not one whit concerned +about it was he! Just gave a foolish laugh and said cream was good for +the land. Wasn’t that like a man? I told him I wasn’t in the habit of +fertilising my back yard with cream.” + +“Well, I wish you all manner of happiness too, Miss Cornelia,” said +Gilbert, solemnly; “but,” he added, unable to resist the temptation to +tease Miss Cornelia, despite Anne’s imploring eyes, “I fear your day of +independence is done. As you know, Marshall Elliott is a very +determined man.” + +“I like a man who can stick to a thing,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “Amos +Grant, who used to be after me long ago, couldn’t. You never saw such +a weather-vane. He jumped into the pond to drown himself once and then +changed his mind and swum out again. Wasn’t that like a man? Marshall +would have stuck to it and drowned.” + +“And he has a bit of a temper, they tell me,” persisted Gilbert. + +“He wouldn’t be an Elliott if he hadn’t. I’m thankful he has. It will +be real fun to make him mad. And you can generally do something with a +tempery man when it comes to repenting time. But you can’t do anything +with a man who just keeps placid and aggravating.” + +“You know he’s a Grit, Miss Cornelia.” + +“Yes, he IS,” admitted Miss Cornelia rather sadly. “And of course +there is no hope of making a Conservative of him. But at least he is a +Presbyterian. So I suppose I shall have to be satisfied with that.” + +“Would you marry him if he were a Methodist, Miss Cornelia?” + +“No, I would not. Politics is for this world, but religion is for +both.” + +“And you may be a ‘relict’ after all, Miss Cornelia.” + +“Not I. Marshall will live me out. The Elliotts are long-lived, and +the Bryants are not.” + +“When are you to be married?” asked Anne. + +“In about a month’s time. My wedding dress is to be navy blue silk. +And I want to ask you, Anne, dearie, if you think it would be all right +to wear a veil with a navy blue dress. I’ve always thought I’d like to +wear a veil if I ever got married. Marshall says to have it if I want +to. Isn’t that like a man?” + +“Why shouldn’t you wear it if you want to?” asked Anne. + +“Well, one doesn’t want to be different from other people,” said Miss +Cornelia, who was not noticeably like anyone else on the face of the +earth. “As I say, I do fancy a veil. But maybe it shouldn’t be worn +with any dress but a white one. Please tell me, Anne, dearie, what you +really think. I’ll go by your advice.” + +“I don’t think veils are usually worn with any but white dresses,” +admitted Anne, “but that is merely a convention; and I am like Mr. +Elliott, Miss Cornelia. I don’t see any good reason why you shouldn’t +have a veil if you want one.” + +But Miss Cornelia, who made her calls in calico wrappers, shook her +head. + +“If it isn’t the proper thing I won’t wear it,” she said, with a sigh +of regret for a lost dream. + +“Since you are determined to be married, Miss Cornelia,” said Gilbert +solemnly, “I shall give you the excellent rules for the management of a +husband which my grandmother gave my mother when she married my father.” + +“Well, I reckon I can manage Marshall Elliott,” said Miss Cornelia +placidly. “But let us hear your rules.” + +“The first one is, catch him.” + +“He’s caught. Go on.” + +“The second one is, feed him well.” + +“With enough pie. What next?” + +“The third and fourth are--keep your eye on him.” + +“I believe you,” said Miss Cornelia emphatically. + + + + +CHAPTER 38 + +RED ROSES + +The garden of the little house was a haunt beloved of bees and reddened +by late roses that August. The little house folk lived much in it, and +were given to taking picnic suppers in the grassy corner beyond the +brook and sitting about in it through the twilights when great night +moths sailed athwart the velvet gloom. One evening Owen Ford found +Leslie alone in it. Anne and Gilbert were away, and Susan, who was +expected back that night, had not yet returned. + +The northern sky was amber and pale green over the fir tops. The air +was cool, for August was nearing September, and Leslie wore a crimson +scarf over her white dress. Together they wandered through the little, +friendly, flower-crowded paths in silence. Owen must go soon. His +holiday was nearly over. Leslie found her heart beating wildly. She +knew that this beloved garden was to be the scene of the binding words +that must seal their as yet unworded understanding. + +“Some evenings a strange odor blows down the air of this garden, like a +phantom perfume,” said Owen. “I have never been able to discover from +just what flower it comes. It is elusive and haunting and wonderfully +sweet. I like to fancy it is the soul of Grandmother Selwyn passing on +a little visit to the old spot she loved so well. There should be a +lot of friendly ghosts about this little old house.” + +“I have lived under its roof only a month,” said Leslie, “but I love it +as I never loved the house over there where I have lived all my life.” + +“This house was builded and consecrated by love,” said Owen. “Such +houses, MUST exert an influence over those who live in them. And this +garden--it is over sixty years old and the history of a thousand hopes +and joys is written in its blossoms. Some of those flowers were +actually set out by the schoolmaster’s bride, and she has been dead for +thirty years. Yet they bloom on every summer. Look at those red +roses, Leslie--how they queen it over everything else!” + +“I love the red roses,” said Leslie. “Anne likes the pink ones best, +and Gilbert likes the white. But I want the crimson ones. They +satisfy some craving in me as no other flower does.” + +“These roses are very late--they bloom after all the others have +gone--and they hold all the warmth and soul of the summer come to +fruition,” said Owen, plucking some of the glowing, half-opened buds. + +“The rose is the flower of love--the world has acclaimed it so for +centuries. The pink roses are love hopeful and expectant--the white +roses are love dead or forsaken--but the red roses--ah, Leslie, what +are the red roses?” + +“Love triumphant,” said Leslie in a low voice. + +“Yes--love triumphant and perfect. Leslie, you know--you understand. +I have loved you from the first. And I KNOW you love me--I don’t need +to ask you. But I want to hear you say it--my darling--my darling!” + +Leslie said something in a very low and tremulous voice. Their hands +and lips met; it was life’s supreme moment for them and as they stood +there in the old garden, with its many years of love and delight and +sorrow and glory, he crowned her shining hair with the red, red rose of +a love triumphant. + +Anne and Gilbert returned presently, accompanied by Captain Jim. Anne +lighted a few sticks of driftwood in the fireplace, for love of the +pixy flames, and they sat around it for an hour of good fellowship. + +“When I sit looking at a driftwood fire it’s easy to believe I’m young +again,” said Captain Jim. + +“Can you read futures in the fire, Captain Jim?” asked Owen. + +Captain Jim looked at them all affectionately and then back again at +Leslie’s vivid face and glowing eyes. + +“I don’t need the fire to read your futures,” he said. “I see +happiness for all of you--all of you--for Leslie and Mr. Ford--and the +doctor here and Mistress Blythe--and Little Jem--and children that +ain’t born yet but will be. Happiness for you all--though, mind you, I +reckon you’ll have your troubles and worries and sorrows, too. They’re +bound to come--and no house, whether it’s a palace or a little house of +dreams, can bar ’em out. But they won’t get the better of you if you +face ’em TOGETHER with love and trust. You can weather any storm with +them two for compass and pilot.” + +The old man rose suddenly and placed one hand on Leslie’s head and one +on Anne’s. + +“Two good, sweet women,” he said. “True and faithful and to be +depended on. Your husbands will have honor in the gates because of +you--your children will rise up and call you blessed in the years to +come.” + +There was a strange solemnity about the little scene. Anne and Leslie +bowed as those receiving a benediction. Gilbert suddenly brushed his +hand over his eyes; Owen Ford was rapt as one who can see visions. All +were silent for a space. The little house of dreams added another +poignant and unforgettable moment to its store of memories. + +“I must be going now,” said Captain Jim slowly at last. He took up his +hat and looked lingeringly about the room. + +“Good night, all of you,” he said, as he went out. + +Anne, pierced by the unusual wistfulness of his farewell, ran to the +door after him. + +“Come back soon, Captain Jim,” she called, as he passed through the +little gate hung between the firs. + +“Ay, ay,” he called cheerily back to her. But Captain Jim had sat by +the old fireside of the house of dreams for the last time. + +Anne went slowly back to the others. + +“It’s so--so pitiful to think of him going all alone down to that +lonely Point,” she said. “And there is no one to welcome him there.” + +“Captain Jim is such good company for others that one can’t imagine him +being anything but good company for himself,” said Owen. “But he must +often be lonely. There was a touch of the seer about him tonight--he +spoke as one to whom it had been given to speak. Well, I must be +going, too.” + +Anne and Gilbert discreetly melted away; but when Owen had gone Anne +returned, to find Leslie standing by the hearth. + +“Oh, Leslie--I know--and I’m so glad, dear,” she said, putting her arms +about her. + +“Anne, my happiness frightens me,” whispered Leslie. “It seems too +great to be real--I’m afraid to speak of it--to think of it. It seems +to me that it must just be another dream of this house of dreams and it +will vanish when I leave here.” + +“Well, you are not going to leave here--until Owen takes you. You are +going to stay with me until that time comes. Do you think I’d let you +go over to that lonely, sad place again?” + +“Thank you, dear. I meant to ask you if I might stay with you. I +didn’t want to go back there--it would seem like going back into the +chill and dreariness of the old life again. Anne, Anne, what a friend +you’ve been to me--‘a good, sweet woman--true and faithful and to be +depended on’--Captain Jim summed you up.” + +“He said ‘women,’ not ‘woman,’” smiled Anne. “Perhaps Captain Jim sees +us both through the rose-colored spectacles of his love for us. But we +can try to live up to his belief in us, at least.” + +“Do you remember, Anne,” said Leslie slowly, “that I once said--that +night we met on the shore--that I hated my good looks? I did--then. +It always seemed to me that if I had been homely Dick would never have +thought of me. I hated my beauty because it had attracted him, but +now--oh, I’m glad that I have it. It’s all I have to offer Owen,--his +artist soul delights in it. I feel as if I do not come to him quite +empty-handed.” + +“Owen loves your beauty, Leslie. Who would not? But it’s foolish of +you to say or think that that is all you bring him. HE will tell you +that--I needn’t. And now I must lock up. I expected Susan back +tonight, but she has not come.” + +“Oh, yes, here I am, Mrs. Doctor, dear,” said Susan, entering +unexpectedly from the kitchen, “and puffing like a hen drawing rails at +that! It’s quite a walk from the Glen down here.” + +“I’m glad to see you back, Susan. How is your sister?” + +“She is able to sit up, but of course she cannot walk yet. However, +she is very well able to get on without me now, for her daughter has +come home for her vacation. And I am thankful to be back, Mrs. Doctor, +dear. Matilda’s leg was broken and no mistake, but her tongue was not. +She would talk the legs off an iron pot, that she would, Mrs. Doctor, +dear, though I grieve to say it of my own sister. She was always a +great talker and yet she was the first of our family to get married. +She really did not care much about marrying James Clow, but she could +not bear to disoblige him. Not but what James is a good man--the only +fault I have to find with him is that he always starts in to say grace +with such an unearthly groan, Mrs. Doctor, dear. It always frightens +my appetite clear away. And speaking of getting married, Mrs. Doctor, +dear, is it true that Cornelia Bryant is going to be married to +Marshall Elliott?” + +“Yes, quite true, Susan.” + +“Well, Mrs. Doctor, dear, it does NOT seem to me fair. Here is me, who +never said a word against the men, and I cannot get married nohow. And +there is Cornelia Bryant, who is never done abusing them, and all she +has to do is to reach out her hand and pick one up, as it were. It is +a very strange world, Mrs. Doctor, dear.” + +“There’s another world, you know, Susan.” + +“Yes,” said Susan with a heavy sigh, “but, Mrs. Doctor, dear, there is +neither marrying nor giving in marriage there.” + + + + +CHAPTER 39 + +CAPTAIN JIM CROSSES THE BAR + +One day in late September Owen Ford’s book came at last. Captain Jim +had gone faithfully to the Glen post office every day for a month, +expecting it. This day he had not gone, and Leslie brought his copy +home with hers and Anne’s. + +“We’ll take it down to him this evening,” said Anne, excited as a +schoolgirl. + +The long walk to the Point on that clear, beguiling evening along the +red harbor road was very pleasant. Then the sun dropped down behind +the western hills into some valley that must have been full of lost +sunsets, and at the same instant the big light flashed out on the white +tower of the point. + +“Captain Jim is never late by the fraction of a second,” said Leslie. + +Neither Anne nor Leslie ever forgot Captain Jim’s face when they gave +him the book--HIS book, transfigured and glorified. The cheeks that +had been blanched of late suddenly flamed with the color of boyhood; +his eyes glowed with all the fire of youth; but his hands trembled as +he opened it. + +It was called simply The Life-Book of Captain Jim, and on the title +page the names of Owen Ford and James Boyd were printed as +collaborators. The frontispiece was a photograph of Captain Jim +himself, standing at the door of the lighthouse, looking across the +gulf. Owen Ford had “snapped” him one day while the book was being +written. Captain Jim had known this, but he had not known that the +picture was to be in the book. + +“Just think of it,” he said, “the old sailor right there in a real +printed book. This is the proudest day of my life. I’m like to bust, +girls. There’ll be no sleep for me tonight. I’ll read my book clean +through before sun-up.” + +“We’ll go right away and leave you free to begin it,” said Anne. + +Captain Jim had been handling the book in a kind of reverent rapture. +Now he decidedly closed it and laid it aside. + +“No, no, you’re not going away before you take a cup of tea with the +old man,” he protested. “I couldn’t hear to that--could you, Matey? +The life-book will keep, I reckon. I’ve waited for it this many a +year. I can wait a little longer while I’m enjoying my friends.” + +Captain Jim moved about getting his kettle on to boil, and setting out +his bread and butter. Despite his excitement he did not move with his +old briskness. His movements were slow and halting. But the girls did +not offer to help him. They knew it would hurt his feelings. + +“You just picked the right evening to visit me,” he said, producing a +cake from his cupboard. “Leetle Joe’s mother sent me down a big basket +full of cakes and pies today. A blessing on all good cooks, says I. +Look at this purty cake, all frosting and nuts. ’Tain’t often I can +entertain in such style. Set in, girls, set in! We’ll ‘tak a cup o’ +kindness yet for auld lang syne.’” + +The girls “set in” right merrily. The tea was up to Captain Jim’s best +brewing. Little Joe’s mother’s cake was the last word in cakes; +Captain Jim was the prince of gracious hosts, never even permitting his +eyes to wander to the corner where the life-book lay, in all its +bravery of green and gold. But when his door finally closed behind +Anne and Leslie they knew that he went straight to it, and as they +walked home they pictured the delight of the old man poring over the +printed pages wherein his own life was portrayed with all the charm and +color of reality itself. + +“I wonder how he will like the ending--the ending I suggested,” said +Leslie. + +She was never to know. Early the next morning Anne awakened to find +Gilbert bending over her, fully dressed, and with an expression of +anxiety on his face. + +“Are you called out?” she asked drowsily. + +“No. Anne, I’m afraid there’s something wrong at the Point. It’s an +hour after sunrise now, and the light is still burning. You know it +has always been a matter of pride with Captain Jim to start the light +the moment the sun sets, and put it out the moment it rises.” + +Anne sat up in dismay. Through her window she saw the light blinking +palely against the blue skies of dawn. + +“Perhaps he has fallen asleep over his life-book,” she said anxiously, +“or become so absorbed in it that he has forgotten the light.” + +Gilbert shook his head. + +“That wouldn’t be like Captain Jim. Anyway, I’m going down to see.” + +“Wait a minute and I’ll go with you,” exclaimed Anne. “Oh, yes, I +must--Little Jem will sleep for an hour yet, and I’ll call Susan. You +may need a woman’s help if Captain Jim is ill.” + +It was an exquisite morning, full of tints and sounds at once ripe and +delicate. The harbor was sparkling and dimpling like a girl; white +gulls were soaring over the dunes; beyond the bar was a shining, +wonderful sea. The long fields by the shore were dewy and fresh in +that first fine, purely-tinted light. The wind came dancing and +whistling up the channel to replace the beautiful silence with a music +more beautiful still. Had it not been for the baleful star on the +white tower that early walk would have been a delight to Anne and +Gilbert. But they went softly with fear. + +Their knock was not responded to. Gilbert opened the door and they +went in. + +The old room was very quiet. On the table were the remnants of the +little evening feast. The lamp still burned on the corner stand. The +First Mate was asleep in a square of sunshine by the sofa. + +Captain Jim lay on the sofa, with his hands clasped over the life-book, +open at the last page, lying on his breast. His eyes were closed and +on his face was a look of the most perfect peace and happiness--the +look of one who has long sought and found at last. + +“He is asleep?” whispered Anne tremulously. + +Gilbert went to the sofa and bent over him for a few moments. Then he +straightened up. + +“Yes, he sleeps--well,” he added quietly. “Anne, Captain Jim has +crossed the bar.” + +They could not know precisely at what hour he had died, but Anne always +believed that he had had his wish, and went out when the morning came +across the gulf. Out on that shining tide his spirit drifted, over the +sunrise sea of pearl and silver, to the haven where lost Margaret +waited, beyond the storms and calms. + + + + +CHAPTER 40 + +FAREWELL TO THE HOUSE OF DREAMS + +Captain Jim was buried in the little over-harbor graveyard, very near +to the spot where the wee white lady slept. His relatives put up a +very expensive, very ugly “monument”--a monument at which he would have +poked sly fun had he seen it in life. But his real monument was in the +hearts of those who knew him, and in the book that was to live for +generations. + +Leslie mourned that Captain Jim had not lived to see the amazing +success of it. + +“How he would have delighted in the reviews--they are almost all so +kindly. And to have seen his life-book heading the lists of the best +sellers--oh, if he could just have lived to see it, Anne!” + +But Anne, despite her grief, was wiser. + +“It was the book itself he cared for, Leslie--not what might be said of +it--and he had it. He had read it all through. That last night must +have been one of the greatest happiness for him--with the quick, +painless ending he had hoped for in the morning. I am glad for Owen’s +sake and yours that the book is such a success--but Captain Jim was +satisfied--I KNOW.” + +The lighthouse star still kept a nightly vigil; a substitute keeper had +been sent to the Point, until such time as an all-wise government could +decide which of many applicants was best fitted for the place--or had +the strongest pull. The First Mate was at home in the little house, +beloved by Anne and Gilbert and Leslie, and tolerated by a Susan who +had small liking for cats. + +“I can put up with him for the sake of Captain Jim, Mrs. Doctor, dear, +for I liked the old man. And I will see that he gets bite and sup, and +every mouse the traps account for. But do not ask me to do more than +that, Mrs. Doctor, dear. Cats is cats, and take my word for it, they +will never be anything else. And at least, Mrs. Doctor, dear, do keep +him away from the blessed wee man. Picture to yourself how awful it +would be if he was to suck the darling’s breath.” + +“That might be fitly called a CAT-astrophe,” said Gilbert. + +“Oh, you may laugh, doctor, dear, but it would be no laughing matter.” + +“Cats never suck babies’ breaths,” said Gilbert. “That is only an old +superstition, Susan.” + +“Oh, well, it may be a superstition or it may not, doctor, dear. All +that I know is, it has happened. My sister’s husband’s nephew’s wife’s +cat sucked their baby’s breath, and the poor innocent was all but gone +when they found it. And superstition or not, if I find that yellow +beast lurking near our baby I will whack him with the poker, Mrs. +Doctor, dear.” + +Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Elliott were living comfortably and harmoniously +in the green house. Leslie was busy with sewing, for she and Owen were +to be married at Christmas. Anne wondered what she would do when +Leslie was gone. + +“Changes come all the time. Just as soon as things get really nice +they change,” she said with a sigh. + +“The old Morgan place up at the Glen is for sale,” said Gilbert, +apropos of nothing in especial. + +“Is it?” asked Anne indifferently. + +“Yes. Now that Mr. Morgan has gone, Mrs. Morgan wants to go to live +with her children in Vancouver. She will sell cheaply, for a big place +like that in a small village like the Glen will not be very easy to +dispose of.” + +“Well, it’s certainly a beautiful place, so it is likely she will find +a purchaser,” said Anne, absently, wondering whether she should +hemstitch or feather-stitch little Jem’s “short” dresses. He was to be +shortened the next week, and Anne felt ready to cry at the thought of +it. + +“Suppose we buy it, Anne?” remarked Gilbert quietly. + +Anne dropped her sewing and stared at him. + +“You’re not in earnest, Gilbert?” + +“Indeed I am, dear.” + +“And leave this darling spot--our house of dreams?” said Anne +incredulously. “Oh, Gilbert, it’s--it’s unthinkable!” + +“Listen patiently to me, dear. I know just how you feel about it. I +feel the same. But we’ve always known we would have to move some day.” + +“Oh, but not so soon, Gilbert--not just yet.” + +“We may never get such a chance again. If we don’t buy the Morgan +place someone else will--and there is no other house in the Glen we +would care to have, and no other really good site on which to build. +This little house is--well, it is and has been what no other house can +ever be to us, I admit, but you know it is out-of-the-way down here for +a doctor. We have felt the inconvenience, though we’ve made the best +of it. And it’s a tight fit for us now. Perhaps, in a few years, when +Jem wants a room of his own, it will be entirely too small.” + +“Oh, I know--I know,” said Anne, tears filling her eyes. “I know all +that can be said against it, but I love it so--and it’s so beautiful +here.” + +“You would find it very lonely here after Leslie goes--and Captain Jim +has gone too. The Morgan place is beautiful, and in time we would love +it. You know you have always admired it, Anne.” + +“Oh, yes, but--but--this has all seemed to come up so suddenly, +Gilbert. I’m dizzy. Ten minutes ago I had no thought of leaving this +dear spot. I was planning what I meant to do for it in the +spring--what I meant to do in the garden. And if we leave this place +who will get it? It IS out-of-the-way, so it’s likely some poor, +shiftless, wandering family will rent it--and over-run it--and oh, that +would be desecration. It would hurt me horribly.” + +“I know. But we cannot sacrifice our own interests to such +considerations, Anne-girl. The Morgan place will suit us in every +essential particular--we really can’t afford to miss such a chance. +Think of that big lawn with those magnificent old trees; and of that +splendid hardwood grove behind it--twelve acres of it. What a play +place for our children! There’s a fine orchard, too, and you’ve always +admired that high brick wall around the garden with the door in +it--you’ve thought it was so like a story-book garden. And there is +almost as fine a view of the harbor and the dunes from the Morgan place +as from here.” + +“You can’t see the lighthouse star from it.” + +“Yes, You can see it from the attic window. THERE’S another advantage, +Anne-girl--you love big garrets.” + + “There’s no brook in the garden.” + +“Well, no, but there is one running through the maple grove into the +Glen pond. And the pond itself isn’t far away. You’ll be able to +fancy you have your own Lake of Shining Waters again.” + +“Well, don’t say anything more about it just now, Gilbert. Give me +time to think--to get used to the idea.” + +“All right. There is no great hurry, of course. Only--if we decide to +buy, it would be well to be moved in and settled before winter.” + +Gilbert went out, and Anne put away Little Jem’s short dresses with +trembling hands. She could not sew any more that day. With tear-wet +eyes she wandered over the little domain where she had reigned so happy +a queen. The Morgan place was all that Gilbert claimed. The grounds +were beautiful, the house old enough to have dignity and repose and +traditions, and new enough to be comfortable and up-to-date. Anne had +always admired it; but admiring is not loving; and she loved this house +of dreams so much. She loved EVERYTHING about it--the garden she had +tended, and which so many women had tended before her--the gleam and +sparkle of the little brook that crept so roguishly across the +corner--the gate between the creaking fir trees--the old red sandstone +step--the stately Lombardies--the two tiny quaint glass cupboards over +the chimney-piece in the living-room--the crooked pantry door in the +kitchen--the two funny dormer windows upstairs--the little jog in the +staircase--why, these things were a part of her! How could she leave +them? + +And how this little house, consecrated aforetime by love and joy, had +been re-consecrated for her by her happiness and sorrow! Here she had +spent her bridal moon; here wee Joyce had lived her one brief day; here +the sweetness of motherhood had come again with Little Jem; here she +had heard the exquisite music of her baby’s cooing laughter; here +beloved friends had sat by her fireside. Joy and grief, birth and +death, had made sacred forever this little house of dreams. + +And now she must leave it. She knew that, even while she had contended +against the idea to Gilbert. The little house was outgrown. Gilbert’s +interests made the change necessary; his work, successful though it had +been, was hampered by his location. Anne realized that the end of +their life in this dear place drew nigh, and that she must face the +fact bravely. But how her heart ached! + +“It will be just like tearing something out of my life,” she sobbed. +“And oh, if I could hope that some nice folk would come here in our +place--or even that it would be left vacant. That itself would be +better than having it overrun with some horde who know nothing of the +geography of dreamland, and nothing of the history that has given this +house its soul and its identity. And if such a tribe come here the +place will go to rack and ruin in no time--an old place goes down so +quickly if it is not carefully attended to. They’ll tear up my +garden--and let the Lombardies get ragged--and the paling will come to +look like a mouth with half the teeth missing--and the roof will +leak--and the plaster fall--and they’ll stuff pillows and rags in +broken window panes--and everything will be out-at-elbows.” + +Anne’s imagination pictured forth so vividly the coming degeneration of +her dear little house that it hurt her as severely as if it had already +been an accomplished fact. She sat down on the stairs and had a long, +bitter cry. Susan found her there and enquired with much concern what +the trouble was. + +“You have not quarrelled with the doctor, have you now, Mrs. Doctor, +dear? But if you have, do not worry. It is a thing quite likely to +happen to married couples, I am told, although I have had no experience +that way myself. He will be sorry, and you can soon make it up.” + +“No, no, Susan, we haven’t quarrelled. It’s only--Gilbert is going to +buy the Morgan place, and we’ll have to go and live at the Glen. And +it will break my heart.” + +Susan did not enter into Anne’s feelings at all. She was, indeed, +quite rejoiced over the prospect of living at the Glen. Her one +grievance against her place in the little house was its lonesome +location. + +“Why, Mrs. Doctor, dear, it will be splendid. The Morgan house is such +a fine, big one.” + +“I hate big houses,” sobbed Anne. + +“Oh, well, you will not hate them by the time you have half a dozen +children,” remarked Susan calmly. “And this house is too small already +for us. We have no spare room, since Mrs. Moore is here, and that +pantry is the most aggravating place I ever tried to work in. There is +a corner every way you turn. Besides, it is out-of-the-world down +here. There is really nothing at all but scenery.” + +“Out of your world perhaps, Susan--but not out of mine,” said Anne with +a faint smile. + +“I do not quite understand you, Mrs. Doctor, dear, but of course I am +not well educated. But if Dr. Blythe buys the Morgan place he will +make no mistake, and that you may tie to. They have water in it, and +the pantries and closets are beautiful, and there is not another such +cellar in P. E. Island, so I have been told. Why, the cellar here, +Mrs. Doctor, dear, has been a heart-break to me, as well you know.” + +“Oh, go away, Susan, go away,” said Anne forlornly. “Cellars and +pantries and closets don’t make a HOME. Why don’t you weep with those +who weep?” + +“Well, I never was much hand for weeping, Mrs. Doctor, dear. I would +rather fall to and cheer people up than weep with them. Now, do not +you cry and spoil your pretty eyes. This house is very well and has +served your turn, but it is high time you had a better.” + +Susan’s point of view seemed to be that of most people. Leslie was the +only one who sympathised understandingly with Anne. She had a good +cry, too, when she heard the news. Then they both dried their tears +and went to work at the preparations for moving. + +“Since we must go let us go as soon as we can and have it over,” said +poor Anne with bitter resignation. + +“You know you will like that lovely old place at the Glen after you +have lived in it long enough to have dear memories woven about it,” +said Leslie. “Friends will come there, as they have come +here--happiness will glorify it for you. Now, it’s just a house to +you--but the years will make it a home.” + +Anne and Leslie had another cry the next week when they shortened +Little Jem. Anne felt the tragedy of it until evening when in his long +nightie she found her own dear baby again. + +“But it will be rompers next--and then trousers--and in no time he will +be grown-up,” she sighed. + +“Well, you would not want him to stay a baby always, Mrs. Doctor, dear, +would you?” said Susan. “Bless his innocent heart, he looks too sweet +for anything in his little short dresses, with his dear feet sticking +out. And think of the save in the ironing, Mrs. Doctor, dear.” + +“Anne, I have just had a letter from Owen,” said Leslie, entering with +a bright face. “And, oh! I have such good news. He writes me that he +is going to buy this place from the church trustees and keep it to +spend our summer vacations in. Anne, are you not glad?” + +“Oh, Leslie, ‘glad’ isn’t the word for it! It seems almost too good to +be true. I sha’n’t feel half so badly now that I know this dear spot +will never be desecrated by a vandal tribe, or left to tumble down in +decay. Why, it’s lovely! It’s lovely!” + +One October morning Anne wakened to the realization that she had slept +for the last time under the roof of her little house. The day was too +busy to indulge regret and when evening came the house was stripped and +bare. Anne and Gilbert were alone in it to say farewell. Leslie and +Susan and Little Jem had gone to the Glen with the last load of +furniture. The sunset light streamed in through the curtainless +windows. + +“It has all such a heart-broken, reproachful look, hasn’t it?” said +Anne. “Oh, I shall be so homesick at the Glen tonight!” + +“We have been very happy here, haven’t we, Anne-girl?” said Gilbert, +his voice full of feeling. + +Anne choked, unable to answer. Gilbert waited for her at the fir-tree +gate, while she went over the house and said farewell to every room. +She was going away; but the old house would still be there, looking +seaward through its quaint windows. The autumn winds would blow around +it mournfully, and the gray rain would beat upon it and the white mists +would come in from the sea to enfold it; and the moonlight would fall +over it and light up the old paths where the schoolmaster and his bride +had walked. There on that old harbor shore the charm of story would +linger; the wind would still whistle alluringly over the silver +sand-dunes; the waves would still call from the red rock-coves. + +“But we will be gone,” said Anne through her tears. + +She went out, closing and locking the door behind her. Gilbert was +waiting for her with a smile. The lighthouse star was gleaming +northward. The little garden, where only marigolds still bloomed, was +already hooding itself in shadows. + +Anne knelt down and kissed the worn old step which she had crossed as a +bride. + +“Good-bye, dear little house of dreams,” she said. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 544 *** |