Anne's House of Dreams
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