OWEN FORD COMES
One evening Miss Cornelia telephoned down to Anne.
“The writer man has just arrived here. I’m going to drive him down to
your place, and you can show him the way over to Leslie’s. It’s
shorter than driving round by the other road, and I’m in a mortal
hurry. The Reese baby has gone and fallen into a pail of hot water at
the Glen, and got nearly scalded to death and they want me right
off--to put a new skin on the child, I presume. Mrs. Reese is always
so careless, and then expects other people to mend her mistakes. You
won’t mind, will you, dearie? His trunk can go down tomorrow.”
“Very well,” said Anne. “What is he like, Miss Cornelia?”
“You’ll see what he’s like outside when I take him down. As for what
he’s like inside only the Lord who made him knows THAT. I’m not going
to say another word, for every receiver in the Glen is down.”
“Miss Cornelia evidently can’t find much fault with Mr. Ford’s looks,
or she would find it in spite of the receivers,” said Anne. “I
conclude therefore, Susan, that Mr. Ford is rather handsome than
otherwise.”
“Well, Mrs. Doctor, dear, I DO enjoy seeing a well-looking man,” said
Susan candidly. “Had I not better get up a snack for him? There is a
strawberry pie that would melt in your mouth.”
“No, Leslie is expecting him and has his supper ready. Besides, I want
that strawberry pie for my own poor man. He won’t be home till late,
so leave the pie and a glass of milk out for him, Susan.”
“That I will, Mrs. Doctor, dear. Susan is at the helm. After all, it
is better to give pie to your own men than to strangers, who may be
only seeking to devour, and the doctor himself is as well-looking a man
as you often come across.”
When Owen Ford came Anne secretly admitted, as Miss Cornelia towed him
in, that he was very “well-looking” indeed. He was tall and
broad-shouldered, with thick, brown hair, finely-cut nose and chin,
large and brilliant dark-gray eyes.
“And did you notice his ears and his teeth, Mrs. Doctor, dear?” queried
Susan later on. “He has got the nicest-shaped ears I ever saw on a
man’s head. I am choice about ears. When I was young I was scared
that I might have to marry a man with ears like flaps. But I need not
have worried, for never a chance did I have with any kind of ears.”
Anne had not noticed Owen Ford’s ears, but she did see his teeth, as
his lips parted over them in a frank and friendly smile. Unsmiling,
his face was rather sad and absent in expression, not unlike the
melancholy, inscrutable hero of Anne’s own early dreams; but mirth and
humor and charm lighted it up when he smiled. Certainly, on the
outside, as Miss Cornelia said, Owen Ford was a very presentable fellow.
“You cannot realize how delighted I am to be here, Mrs. Blythe,” he
said, looking around him with eager, interested eyes. “I have an odd
feeling of coming home. My mother was born and spent her childhood
here, you know. She used to talk a great deal to me of her old home.
I know the geography of it as well as of the one I lived in, and, of
course, she told me the story of the building of the house, and of my
grandfather’s agonised watch for the Royal William. I had thought that
so old a house must have vanished years ago, or I should have come to
see it before this.”
“Old houses don’t vanish easily on this enchanted coast,” smiled Anne.
“This is a ‘land where all things always seem the same’--nearly always,
at least. John Selwyn’s house hasn’t even been much changed, and
outside the rose-bushes your grandfather planted for his bride are
blooming this very minute.”
“How the thought links me with them! With your leave I must explore
the whole place soon.”
“Our latch-string will always be out for you,” promised Anne. “And do
you know that the old sea captain who keeps the Four Winds light knew
John Selwyn and his bride well in his boyhood? He told me their story
the night I came here--the third bride of the old house.”
“Can it be possible? This IS a discovery. I must hunt him up.”
“It won’t be difficult; we are all cronies of Captain Jim. He will be
as eager to see you as you could be to see him. Your grandmother
shines like a star in his memory. But I think Mrs. Moore is expecting
you. I’ll show you our ‘cross-lots’ road.”
Anne walked with him to the house up the brook, over a field that was
as white as snow with daisies. A boat-load of people were singing far
across the harbor. The sound drifted over the water like faint,
unearthly music wind-blown across a starlit sea. The big light flashed
and beaconed. Owen Ford looked around him with satisfaction.
“And so this is Four Winds,” he said. “I wasn’t prepared to find it
quite so beautiful, in spite of all mother’s praises. What
colors--what scenery--what charm! I shall get as strong as a horse in
no time. And if inspiration comes from beauty, I should certainly be
able to begin my great Canadian novel here.”
“You haven’t begun it yet?” asked Anne.
“Alack-a-day, no. I’ve never been able to get the right central idea
for it. It lurks beyond me--it allures--and beckons--and recedes--I
almost grasp it and it is gone. Perhaps amid this peace and
loveliness, I shall be able to capture it. Miss Bryant tells me that
you write.”
“Oh, I do little things for children. I haven’t done much since I was
married. And--I have no designs on a great Canadian novel,” laughed
Anne. “That is quite beyond me.”
Owen Ford laughed too.
“I dare say it is beyond me as well. All the same I mean to have a try
at it some day, if I can ever get time. A newspaper man doesn’t have
much chance for that sort of thing. I’ve done a good deal of short
story writing for the magazines, but I’ve never had the leisure that
seems to be necessary for the writing of a book. With three months of
liberty I ought to make a start, though--if I could only get the
necessary motif for it--the SOUL of the book.”
An idea whisked through Anne’s brain with a suddenness that made her
jump. But she did not utter it, for they had reached the Moore house.
As they entered the yard Leslie came out on the veranda from the side
door, peering through the gloom for some sign of her expected guest.
She stood just where the warm yellow light flooded her from the open
door. She wore a plain dress of cheap, cream-tinted cotton voile, with
the usual girdle of crimson. Leslie was never without her touch of
crimson. She had told Anne that she never felt satisfied without a
gleam of red somewhere about her, if it were only a flower. To Anne,
it always seemed to symbolise Leslie’s glowing, pent-up personality,
denied all expression save in that flaming glint. Leslie’s dress was
cut a little away at the neck and had short sleeves. Her arms gleamed
like ivory-tinted marble. Every exquisite curve of her form was
outlined in soft darkness against the light. Her hair shone in it like
flame. Beyond her was a purple sky, flowering with stars over the
harbor.
Anne heard her companion give a gasp. Even in the dusk she could see
the amazement and admiration on his face.
“Who is that beautiful creature?” he asked.
“That is Mrs. Moore,” said Anne. “She is very lovely, isn’t she?”
“I--I never saw anything like her,” he answered, rather dazedly. “I
wasn’t prepared--I didn’t expect--good heavens, one DOESN’T expect a
goddess for a landlady! Why, if she were clothed in a gown of
sea-purple, with a rope of amethysts in her hair, she would be a
veritable sea-queen. And she takes in boarders!”
“Even goddesses must live,” said Anne. “And Leslie isn’t a goddess.
She’s just a very beautiful woman, as human as the rest of us. Did
Miss Bryant tell you about Mr. Moore?”
“Yes,--he’s mentally deficient, or something of the sort, isn’t he?
But she said nothing about Mrs. Moore, and I supposed she’d be the
usual hustling country housewife who takes in boarders to earn an
honest penny.”
“Well, that’s just what Leslie is doing,” said Anne crisply. “And it
isn’t altogether pleasant for her, either. I hope you won’t mind Dick.
If you do, please don’t let Leslie see it. It would hurt her horribly.
He’s just a big baby, and sometimes a rather annoying one.”
“Oh, I won’t mind him. I don’t suppose I’ll be much in the house
anyhow, except for meals. But what a shame it all is! Her life must
be a hard one.”
“It is. But she doesn’t like to be pitied.”
Leslie had gone back into the house and now met them at the front door.
She greeted Owen Ford with cold civility, and told him in a
business-like tone that his room and his supper were ready for him.
Dick, with a pleased grin, shambled upstairs with the valise, and Owen
Ford was installed as an inmate of the old house among the willows.