 Chapter 36. Anne's House of Dreams. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Anne's House of Dreams by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Chapter 36. Beauty for Ashes. Any news from Greengables, Anne? Nothing very special, replied Anne, folding up Marilla's letter. Jake Donald 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 Sinclair. 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 bow. Just think of it, that child. Dora is 17, said Gilbert. Charlie Sloane and I were both mad about you when you were 17, Anne. Really, Gilbert, we must be getting on in years, said Anne, with a half-ruful smile. When children who were six, when we thought ourselves grown up, are old enough now to have bows. Dora is Ralph Andrews, Joan'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 Charlotte, 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, Muse Dan. 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 Joan 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 hypnotised 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, interestingly, yet with an unreal feeling that she was inquiring about someone 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 see 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 at the present. It was pretty hard on him that 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, mock Gilbert. At least, do not become my echo, Anne. A little opposition gives vice to life. I do not want a wife like John McAllister's over the harbour. 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 the little gem, 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 cat-a-wampus 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 plate up. 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, not withstanding. 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? Exclaim, 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 the arrangement. It seems providential, she told Anne in confidence. I'm sorry for Matilda Clo, 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 wins, 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 Louise of Owen remarked to me that she thought, at very strange, that Leslie should never have suspected it, it wasn't her own husband, I said, you never suspected it wasn't Dick Moore, and you were next door neighbour to him all his life, and by nature your ten times, as suspicious says Leslie, that you can't stop some people's tongues, Ann Deary, 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 Ann were absorbed in worshipping the baby. He paused at the open door at 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-way hand and covering it with kisses. Isn't him there, darling, as Eddie sing, crewed Ann, hanging over the arm of her chair adoringly? Dem itty-wee pads as the very tweeter's handies in the whole big world. Isn't they, you darling itty man? Ann, in the months before little Jim's coming, had poured diligently over several wise volumes and pinned her faith to one in the special, 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 accustomed its impressionable grey matter to such observed 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 twitty itty-wee singy ever attain to any proper conception of his own being and possibilities and destiny? Ann 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 Ann shamelessly violated the very first moment Little Gem 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 loved Sir Oracle to scorn. Had I ever 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 Little Gem is going to have it. Bless his dear itty-heartoms. But you're the worst I ever heard, Ann, 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 talked to that child. Very likely you never did. Go away, go away. Didn't I bring up three pairs of Hammond twins who were 11? 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. An oud disorguse with heavy words must assays. Don't who, 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. Little Gem was talked to and loved and cuddled and he throwed as became a child of the House of Dreams. Leslie was quite as foolish over him as Ann was. When their work was done and Gilbert was out of the way they gave themselves over to shameless orgies of lovemaking 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. Ann 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 Ann. 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 Ann 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 Ann. Ann, 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. Owen up, what secret have you been keeping from your deceived husband? Don't be a goose, Gilbert, was Ann's conjugal reply. As for Leslie, she is absurd and I'm going up to tell her so. Ann found Leslie at the dormer window of her room. The little place was filled with the rheumatic thunder of the sea. Leslie sat with locked hands in the misty moonshine, a beautiful, accusing presence. Ann, she said in a low, reproachful voice, did you know Owen Ford was coming to forewinds? I did, said Ann brazenly. Oh, you should have told me, Ann, 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, Ann. Oh, it wasn't fair. Leslie's lips were trembling and her whole form was tense with emotion. But Ann 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 ears, 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 dare say the sorrows. Two, of a happy woman. The omen of the shadow of Venus to come true for you, Leslie. The year in which you saw her brought your life's basket 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 did to dream wakingly. Life had been so hard for this poor Leslie. The path on which she had had to walk had been so straight that she could not whisper to her own heart the hopes that might wait on the future but she watched the great revolving light bestaring 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 till asked her to go with him to the shore did she say him nay. End of Chapter 36 Miss Cornelius 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 Cornelius 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 Cornelius' conversation was singularly devoid of spice that day and Gilbert, who had stayed home to listen to her instead of going fishing as he had intended, felt himself aggrieved. What had come over Miss Cornelius? She did not look cast down or worried. On the contrary, there was a certain air of nervous exultation about her. Whereas 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 suppertime 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 Cornelius? No, I shall not. But, said Miss Cornelius, with the air of one determined to take the plunge and have it over, I will tell you something else. I came to-day on purpose to tell it. I am going to be married. Anne and Gilbert were silent. If Miss Cornelius had announced her intention of going out to the channel and drowning herself, the thing might have been more believable. This was not. So they waited. Of course, Miss Cornelius had made a mistake. Well, you both look sort of kerflummic, said Miss Cornelius, with a twinkle in her eyes. Now that the awkward moment of revelation was over, Miss Cornelius 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 Cornelius. Marshal Elliott is a long way from being the best. Are you going to marry Marshal 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 lived in my finger. I suppose I was going to walk into church beside a perambulating haystack like that? I am sure we are very glad and wish you all the 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 Cornelius. Thanks, I knew you would, said Miss Cornelius. You are the first of my friends to know it. We shall be so sorry to lose you, though, dear Miss Cornelius, said Anne, beginning to be a little sad and sentimental. Oh, you won't lose me, said Miss Cornelius, unsentimentally. You don't suppose I would live over harbor with all those McAllister's and Elliott's and Crawford's, do you? From the conceit of the Elliott's and the pride of the McAllister's and the vain glory of the Crawford's good Lord deliver us. Marshal 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 get 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 fertilizing my backyard 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, a failure day of independence is done. As you know, Marshal 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. I never saw such a weather vane. He jumped into the pond to drown himself once and then changed his mind and swam out again. Wasn't that like a man? Marshal would have stuck to it and drowned. And he has a bit of a temper they tell me, persisted Gilbert. He wouldn't be in 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 temporary 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 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. Marshal will live me out. The Elliot's are long-lived and the Bryant's 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. Marshal 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. Elliot, Miss Cornelia. I don't see any good reason why you shouldn't have a veil if you want one. But Miss Cornelia, who had 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 her 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 Marshal Elliot, 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? Third and fourth are, keep your eye on him. I believe you, said Miss Cornelia, emphatically. End of Chapter 37 Red Roses The garden of the little house was a haunt beloved of the bees and reddened by late roses that August. The little housefolk 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 twilight when great night moths sailed a thwart the velvet gloom. One evening, Owen Ford found Leslie alone in it. Anne and Gilbert were away, but Susan, who was expected back that night, had not yet returned. The northern sky was amber and pale green over the fur 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-covered 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 that 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 the 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. 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. Anne's 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 pixie flames, and 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 Mr. Splive and little Jim and children that ain't born yet, but will be. Happiness for you all. Don't 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 them out. But they won't get the better of you, if you face them together with love and trust. You can weather any storm with them, too, 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 honour 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 wrapped 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 ferns. Aye-aye, he called cheerly 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's 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're not going to leave here until Owen takes you. You're 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. This 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-coloured 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's 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 to-night, but she has not come. Oh, yes, here I am, Mrs. Dr. Deere, said Susan, entering unexpectedly from the kitchen, and puffing like a hand-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. Dr. Deere. 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. Dr. Deere, 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 disablige 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. Dr. Deere. It always frightens my appetite clear away. And speaking of getting married, Mrs. Dr. Deere, is it true that Cornelia Bryant has to be married to Marshal Elliot? Yes, quite true, Susan. Well, Mrs. Dr. Deere, it does not seem to me fair. Here is me, who never said a word against the men, and I cannot get married know-how. And then there is Cornelia Bryant, who has never done abusing them, and all she has to do is reach her hand out and pick one up as it were. It is a very strange world, Mrs. Dr. Deere. There is another world, you know, Susan. Yes, said Susan, with a heavy sigh. But, Mrs. Dr. Deere, there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage there. End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 of Anne's House of Dreams. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Randy Warwick. Anne's House of Dreams by Lucy Maud Montgomery. 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 frontist piece 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. Little 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 pretty cake, all frosting and nuts. Taked off and I can entertain in such style. Set in, girls, set in. We'll take a cup of kindness yet for all things on. 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 pouring over the printed pages where in 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, 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 sea. Wait a minute, and I'll go with you, exclaimed Anne. Oh yes, I must. Little Jim 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, a look of one whose 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. End of Chapter 39 Chapter 40 of Anne's House of Dreams This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Randy Warwick. Anne's House of Dreams by Lucy Monmouth-Gummary Chapter 40 Farewell to the House of Dreams Captain Jim was buried in the little over-harbour 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 list 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 one 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 suited 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. Dr. Deere, 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. Dr. Deere. Cats is cats, and take my word for it, they will never be anything else, and at least Mrs. Dr. Deere 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 catastrophe, said Gilbert. Oh, you may laugh, Dr. Deere, but it would be no laughing matter. Cats never suck baby's breath, said Gilbert. That is only an old superstition, Susan. Oh, well, it may be a superstition, or it may not, Dr. Deere. All 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. Dr. Deere. Mr. and Mrs. Marshall Elliot were living comfortably and harmoniously in the greenhouse. Leslie was busy with sewing, for she and Owen were to be married at Christmas, and 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 placed up at the glen is for sale, said Gilbert, apropos of nothing in a special. 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 hem stitch or feather stitch little gem'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 an earnest Gilbert. Indeed I am, dear. And leave this darling spot, our house of dreams, said Anne incredulously. Oh, Gilbert, 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'd have to move someday. 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 that we've made the best of it. It's a tight fit for us now. Perhaps in a few years, when Jim 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 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 overrun it, and oh, that would be desecration. It would hurt me horribly. I know, but we cannot sacrifice our own interest 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 storybook garden, and there is almost as fine a view of the harbor and the dunes from the Morgan places from here. You can't see the lighthouse star from it. Yes, you can see it from the attic window. There is 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 gem 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 attended 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 of foretime by love and joy, had been re-consecrated for her by her happiness and sorrow. Here she had spent her bridal moon. Here we joys had lived her one brief day. Here the sweetness of motherhood had come again with little gem. 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 interest 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 grew nigh, to 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 pailing 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 windowpains, 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. I was concerned what the trouble was. You have not quarreled 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 quarreled. 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 Comley. 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 seller in P.E.I.L. that you may tie to. They have water in it, and the pantries and closets are beautiful, and there is not another such seller in P.E.I.L. so I have been told. Why, the seller here, Mrs. Doctor, dear, has been a heartbreak to me, as you well know. Oh, go away, Susan, go away, said Anne for Lornley. Sellers 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. You did 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 sympathized 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 dear memory is 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 gem. Anne felt the tragedy of it until evening when in his long nighty 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. Dr. 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. Dr. 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 shan'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 Jim 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 heartbroken, 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, the seaward through its quaint windows. The autumn winds would blow around it mournfully and the grey rain would beat upon it and the white mists would come in from the sea to unfold 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 harbour 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 merry-gold still bloomed, was already hooding itself in shadows. Anne knelt down and kissed the worn old step which she had crossed as a bride. Goodbye, dear little house of dreams, she said. End of Chapter 40 End of Anne's House of Dreams by Lucy Maud Montgomery