Anne's House of Dreams
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