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.