Anne's House of Dreams
“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.”