BEAUTY FOR ASHES
“Any news from Green Gables, Anne?”
“Nothing very especial,” replied Anne, folding up Marilla’s letter.
“Jake Donnell 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 St. Clair.”
“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 beau. Just think of it--that child!”
“Dora is seventeen,” said Gilbert. “Charlie Sloane and I were both mad
about you when you were seventeen, Anne.”
“Really, Gilbert, we must be getting on in years,” said Anne, with a
half-rueful smile, “when children who were six when we thought
ourselves grown up are old enough now to have beaux. Dora’s is Ralph
Andrews--Jane’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 Charlotta
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,” mused Anne.
“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 Jane 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 hypnotized 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 interestedly, yet with an unreal feeling
that she was inquiring about some one 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 sea 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 of the present.
It was pretty hard on him, but 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!” mocked Gilbert. “At least do
not become my echo, Anne. A little opposition gives spice to life. I
do not want a wife like John MacAllister’s over the harbor. 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 little Jem, 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 catawampus 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 platter. 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 notwithstanding. 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?”
exclaimed 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 of the
arrangement.
“It seems Providential,” she told Anne in confidence. “I’m sorry for
Matilda Clow, 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 Winds, 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 Louisa Baldwin remarked to me
that she thought it very strange that Leslie should never have
suspected it wasn’t her own husband _I_ said, ‘YOU never suspected it
wasn’t Dick Moore, and you were next-door neighbor to him all his life,
and by nature you’re ten times as suspicious as Leslie.’ But you can’t
stop some people’s tongues, Anne, dearie, 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
Anne were absorbed in worshipping the baby. He paused at the open door
of 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 wee
hand and covering it with kisses.
“Isn’t him ze darlingest itty sing,” crooned Anne, hanging over the arm
of her chair adoringly. “Dem itty wee pads are ze very tweetest
handies in ze whole big world, isn’t dey, you darling itty man.”
Anne, in the months before Little Jem’s coming, had pored diligently
over several wise volumes, and pinned her faith to one in especial,
“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 accustoms its impressionable gray matter to such absurd
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 ‘tweet itty wee singie’ ever
attain to any proper conception of his own being and possibilities and
destiny?”
Anne 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 Anne shamelessly
violated the very first moment Little Jem 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 laughed Sir
Oracle to scorn.
“He never 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, and Little Jem is going to
have it, bless his dear itty heartums.”
“But you’re the worst I ever heard, Anne,” 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 talk to
that child.”
“Very likely you never did. Go away--go away. Didn’t I bring up three
pairs of Hammond twins before I was eleven? 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. And oo dest agwees
wif evy word muzzer says, don’t oo, 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.”
So Little Jem was talked to and loved and cuddled; and he throve as
became a child of the house of dreams. Leslie was quite as foolish
over him as Anne was. When their work was done and Gilbert was out of
the way, they gave themselves over to shameless orgies of love-making
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
Anne 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 Anne.
“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 Anne 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 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.