CHAPTER 11
THE STORY OF LESLIE MOORE
"Yes, the eighth baby arrived a fortnight ago," said
Miss Cornelia, from a rocker before the fire of the
little house one chilly October afternoon. "It's a
girl. Fred was ranting mad--said he wanted a
boy--when the truth is he didn't want it at all. If it
had been a boy he'd have ranted because it wasn't a
girl. They had four girls and three boys before, so I
can't see that it made much difference what this one
was, but of course he'd have to be cantankerous, just
like a man. The baby is real pretty, dressed up in its
nice little clothes. It has black eyes and the
dearest, tiny hands."
"I must go and see it. I just love babies," said
Anne, smiling to herself over a thought too dear and
sacred to be put into words.
"I don't say but what they're nice," admitted Miss
Cornelia. "But some folks seem to have more than they
really need, believe ME. My poor cousin Flora up at
the Glen had eleven, and such a slave as she is! Her
husband suicided three years ago. Just like a man!"
"What made him do that?" asked Anne, rather shocked.
"Couldn't get his way over something, so he jumped into
the well . A good riddance! He was a born tyrant.
But of course it spoiled the well. Flora could never
abide the thought of using it again, poor thing! So
she had another dug and a frightful expense it was, and
the water as hard as nails. If he HAD to drown himself
there was plenty of water in the harbor, wasn't there?
I've no patience with a man like that. We've only had
two suicides in Four Winds in my recollection. The
other was Frank West--Leslie Moore's father. By the
way, has Leslie ever been over to call on you yet?"
"No, but I met her on the shore a few nights ago and we
scraped an acquaintance," said Anne, pricking up her
ears.
Miss Cornelia nodded.
"I'm glad, dearie. I was hoping you'd foregather with
her. What do you think of her?"
"I thought her very beautiful."
"Oh, of course. There was never anybody about Four
Winds could touch her for looks. Did you ever see her
hair? It reaches to her feet when she lets it down.
But I meant how did you like her?"
"I think I could like her very much if she'd let me,"
said Anne slowly.
"But she wouldn't let you--she pushed you off and kept
you at arm's length. Poor Leslie! You wouldn't be
much surprised if you knew what her life has been.
It's been a tragedy--a tragedy!" repeated Miss
Cornelia emphatically.
"I wish you would tell me all about her--that is, if
you can do so without betraying any confidence."
"Lord, dearie, everybody in Four Winds knows poor
Leslie's story. It's no secret--the OUTSIDE, that is.
Nobody knows the INSIDE but Leslie herself, and she
doesn't take folks into her confidence. I'm about the
best friend she has on earth, I reckon, and she's never
uttered a word of complaint to me. Have you ever seen
Dick Moore?"
"No."
"Well, I may as well begin at the beginning and tell
you everything straight through, so you'll understand
it. As I said, Leslie's father was Frank West. He was
clever and shiftless--just like a man. Oh, he had
heaps of brains--and much good they did him! He
started to go to college, and he went for two years,
and then his health broke down. The Wests were all
inclined to be consumptive. So Frank came home and
started farming. He married Rose Elliott from over
harbor. Rose was reckoned the beauty of Four
Winds--Leslie takes her looks from her mother, but she
has ten times the spirit and go that Rose had, and a
far better figure. Now you know, Anne, I always take
the ground that us women ought to stand by each other.
We've got enough to endure at the hands of the men, the
Lord knows, so I hold we hadn't ought to clapper-claw
one another, and it isn't often you'll find me running
down another woman. But I never had much use for Rose
Elliott. She was spoiled to begin with, believe ME,
and she was nothing but a lazy, selfish, whining
creature. Frank was no hand to work, so they were
poor as Job's turkey. Poor! They lived on potatoes
and point, believe ME. They had two children--Leslie
and Kenneth. Leslie had her mother's looks and her
father's brains, and something she didn't get from
either of them. She took after her Grandmother West--a
splendid old lady. She was the brightest, friendliest,
merriest thing when she was a child, Anne. Everybody
liked her. She was her father's favorite and she was
awful fond of him. They were `chums,' as she used to
say. She couldn't see any of his faults--and he WAS a
taking sort of man in some ways.
"Well, when Leslie was twelve years old, the first
dreadful thing happened. She worshipped little
Kenneth--he was four years younger than her, and he WAS
a dear little chap. And he was killed one day--fell
off a big load of hay just as it was going into the
barn, and the wheel went right over his little body and
crushed the life out of it. And mind you, Anne, Leslie
saw it. She was looking down from the loft. She gave
one screech--the hired man said he never heard such a
sound in all his life--he said it would ring in his
ears till Gabriel's trump drove it out. But she never
screeched or cried again about it. She jumped from the
loft onto the load and from the load to the floor, and
caught up the little bleeding, warm, dead body,
Anne--they had to tear it from her before she would let
it go. They sent for me--I can't talk of it."
Miss Cornelia wiped the tears from her kindly brown
eyes and sewed in bitter silence for a few minutes.
"Well," she resumed, "it was all over--they buried
little Kenneth in that graveyard over the harbor, and
after a while Leslie went back to her school and her
studies. She never mentioned Kenneth's name--I've
never heard it cross her lips from that day to this. I
reckon that old hurt still aches and burns at times;
but she was only a child and time is real kind to
children, Anne, dearie. After a while she began to
laugh again--she had the prettiest laugh. You don't
often hear it now."
"I heard it once the other night," said Anne. "It IS
a beautiful laugh."
"Frank West began to go down after Kenneth's death. He
wasn't strong and it was a shock to him, because he was
real fond of the child, though, as I've said, Leslie
was his favorite. He got mopy and melancholy, and
couldn't or wouldn't work. And one day, when Leslie
was fourteen years of age, he hanged himself--and in
the parlor, too, mind you, Anne, right in the middle of
the parlor from the lamp hook in the ceiling. Wasn't
that like a man? It was the anniversary of his
wedding day, too. Nice, tasty time to pick for it,
wasn't it? And, of course, that poor Leslie had to be
the one to find him. She went into the parlor that
morning, singing, with some fresh flowers for the
vases, and there she saw her father hanging from the
ceiling, his face as black as a coal. It was something
awful, believe ME!"
"Oh, how horrible!" said Anne, shuddering. "The poor,
poor child!"
"Leslie didn't cry at her father's funeral any more
then she had cried at Kenneth's. Rose whooped and
howled for two, however, and Leslie had all she could
do trying to calm and comfort her mother. I was
disgusted with Rose and so was everyone else, but
Leslie never got out of patience. She loved her
mother. Leslie is clannish--her own could never do
wrong in her eyes. Well, they buried Frank West beside
Kenneth, and Rose put up a great big monument to him.
It was bigger than his character, believe ME! Anyhow,
it was bigger than Rose could afford, for the farm was
mortgaged for more than its value. But not long after
Leslie's old grandmother West died and she left Leslie
a little money--enough to give her a year at Queen's
Academy. Leslie had made up her mind to pass for a
teacher if she could, and then earn enough to put
herself through Redmond College. That had been her
father's pet scheme--he wanted her to have what he had
lost. Leslie was full of ambition and her head was
chock full of brains. She went to Queen's, and she
took two years' work in one year and got her First;
and when she came home she got the Glen school. She
was so happy and hopeful and full of life and
eagerness. When I think of what she was then and what
she is now, I say--drat the men!"
Miss Cornelia snipped her thread off as viciously as
if, Nero-like, she was severing the neck of mankind by
the stroke.
"Dick Moore came into her life that summer. His
father, Abner Moore, kept store at the Glen, but Dick
had a sea-going streak in him from his mother; he used
to sail in summer and clerk in his father's store in
winter. He was a big, handsome fellow, with a little
ugly soul. He was always wanting something till he got
it, and then he stopped wanting it--just like a man.
Oh, he didn't growl at the weather when it was fine,
and he was mostly real pleasant and agreeable when
everything went right. But he drank a good deal, and
there were some nasty stories told of him and a girl
down at the fishing village. He wasn't fit for Leslie
to wipe her feet on, that's the long and short of it.
And he was a Methodist! But he was clean mad about
her--because of her good looks in the first place, and
because she wouldn't have anything to say to him in the
second. He vowed he'd have her--and he got her!"
"How did he bring it about?"
"Oh, it was an iniquitous thing! I'll never forgive
Rose West. You see, dearie, Abner Moore held the
mortgage on the West farm, and the interest was overdue
some years, and Dick just went and told Mrs. West that
if Leslie wouldn't marry him he'd get his father to
foreclose the mortgage. Rose carried on
terrible--fainted and wept, and pleaded with Leslie not
to let her be turned out of her home. She said it
would break her heart to leave the home she'd come to
as a bride. I wouldn't have blamed her for feeling
dreadful bad over it--but you wouldn't have thought
she'd be so selfish as to sacrifice her own flesh and
blood because of it, would you? Well, she was.
And Leslie gave in--she loved her mother so much she
would have done anything to save her pain. She married
Dick Moore. None of us knew why at the time. It
wasn't till long afterward that I found out how her
mother had worried her into it. I was sure there was
something wrong, though, because I knew how she had
snubbed him time and again, and it wasn't like Leslie
to turn face--about like that. Besides, I knew that
Dick Moore wasn't the kind of man Leslie could ever
fancy, in spite of his good looks and dashing ways. Of
course, there was no wedding, but Rose asked me to go
and see them married. I went, but I was sorry I did.
I'd seen Leslie's face at her brother's funeral and at
her father's funeral--and now it seemed to me I was
seeing it at her own funeral. But Rose was smiling as
a basket of chips, believe ME!
"Leslie and Dick settled down on the West place--Rose
couldn't bear to part with her dear daughter!--and
lived there for the winter. In the spring Rose took
pneumonia and died--a year too late! Leslie was
heart-broken enough over it. Isn't it terrible the way
some unworthy folks are loved, while others that
deserve it far more, you'd think, never get much
affection? As for Dick, he'd had enough of quiet
married life--just like a man. He was for up and off.
He went over to Nova Scotia to visit his relations--his
father had come from Nova Scotia--and he wrote back to
Leslie that his cousin, George Moore, was going on a
voyage to Havana and he was going too. The name of the
vessel was the Four Sisters and they were to be gone
about nine weeks.
"It must have been a relief to Leslie. But she never
said anything. From the day of her marriage she was
just what she is now--cold and proud, and keeping
everyone but me at a distance. I won't BE kept at a
distance, believe ME! I've just stuck to Leslie as
close as I knew how in spite of everything."
"She told me you were the best friend she had," said
Anne.
"Did she?" exclaimed Miss Cornelia delightedly.
"Well, I'm real thankful to hear it. Sometimes I've
wondered if she really did want me around at all--she
never let me think so. You must have thawed her out
more than you think, or she wouldn't have said that
much itself to you. Oh, that poor, heart-broken girl!
I never see Dick Moore but I want to run a knife clean
through him."
Miss Cornelia wiped her eyes again and having relieved
her feelings by her blood-thirsty wish, took up her
tale.
"Well, Leslie was left over there alone. Dick had put
in the crop before he went, and old Abner looked after
it. The summer went by and the Four Sisters didn't
come back. The Nova Scotia Moores investigated, and
found she had got to Havana and discharged her cargo
and took on another and left for home; and that was all
they ever found out about her. By degrees people began
to talk of Dick Moore as one that was dead. Almost
everyone believed that he was, though no one felt
certain, for men have turned up here at the harbor
after they'd been gone for years. Leslie never thought
he was dead--and she was right. A thousand pities too!
The next summer Captain Jim was in Havana--that was
before he gave up the sea, of course. He thought he'd
poke round a bit--Captain Jim was always meddlesome,
just like a man--and he went to inquiring round among
the sailors' boarding houses and places like that, to
see if he could find out anything about the crew of the
Four Sisters. He'd better have let sleeping dogs lie,
in my opinion! Well, he went to one out-of-the-way
place, and there he found a man he knew at first sight
it was Dick Moore, though he had a big beard. Captain
Jim got it shaved off and then there was no
doubt--Dick Moore it was--his body at least. His mind
wasn't there--as for his soul, in my opinion he never
had one!"
"What had happened to him?"
"Nobody knows the rights of it. All the folks who kept
the boarding house could tell was that about a year
before they had found him lying on their doorstep one
morning in an awful condition--his head battered to a
jelly almost. They supposed he'd got hurt in some
drunken row, and likely that's the truth of it. They
took him in, never thinking he could live. But he
did--and he was just like a child when he got well.
He hadn't memory or intellect or reason. They tried to
find out who he was but they never could. He couldn't
even tell them his name--he could only say a few simple
words. He had a letter on him beginning `Dear Dick'
and signed `Leslie,' but there was no address on it and
the envelope was gone. They let him stay on--he
learned to do a few odd jobs about the place--and there
Captain Jim found him. He brought him home-- I've
always said it was a bad day's work, though I s'pose
there was nothing else he could do. He thought maybe
when Dick got home and saw his old surroundings and
familiar faces his memory would wake up. But it hadn't
any effect. There he's been at the house up the brook
ever since. He's just like a child, no more nor less.
Takes fractious spells occasionally, but mostly he's
just vacant and good humored and harmless. He's apt to
run away if he isn't watched. That's the burden
Leslie has had to carry for eleven years--and all
alone. Old Abner Moore died soon after Dick was
brought home and it was found he was almost bankrupt.
When things were settled up there was nothing for
Leslie and Dick but the old West farm. Leslie rented
it to John Ward, and the rent is all she has to live
on. Sometimes in summer she takes a boarder to help
out. But most visitors prefer the other side of the
harbor where the hotels and summer cottages are.
Leslie's house is too far from the bathing shore.
She's taken care of Dick and she's never been away from
him for eleven years--she's tied to that imbecile for
life. And after all the dreams and hopes she once had!
You can imagine what it has been like for her, Anne,
dearie--with her beauty and spirit and pride and
cleverness. It's just been a living death."
"Poor, poor girl!" said Anne again. Her own happiness
seemed to reproach her. What right had she to be so
happy when another human soul must be so miserable?
"Will you tell me just what Leslie said and how she
acted the night you met her on the shore?" asked Miss
Cornelia.
She listened intently and nodded her satisfaction.
"YOU thought she was stiff and cold, Anne, dearie, but
I can tell you she thawed out wonderful for her. She
must have taken to you real strong. I'm so glad. You
may be able to help her a good deal. I was thankful
when I heard that a young couple was coming to this
house, for I hoped it would mean some friends for
Leslie; especially if you belonged to the race that
knows Joseph. You WILL be her friend, won't you, Anne,
dearie?"
"Indeed I will, if she'll let me," said Anne, with all
her own sweet, impulsive earnestness.
"No, you must be her friend, whether she'll let you or
not," said Miss Cornelia resolutely. "Don't you mind
if she's stiff by times-- don't notice it. Remember
what her life has been--and is--and must always be, I
suppose, for creatures like Dick Moore live forever, I
understand. You should see how fat he's got since he
came home. He used to be lean enough. Just MAKE her
be friends--you can do it--you're one of those who have
the knack. Only you mustn't be sensitive. And don't
mind if she doesn't seem to want you to go over there
much. She knows that some women don't like to be where
Dick is--they complain he gives them the creeps. Just
get her to come over here as often as she can. She
can't get away so very much--she can't leave Dick long,
for the Lord knows what he'd do--burn the house down
most likely. At nights, after he's in bed and asleep,
is about the only time she's free. He always goes to
bed early and sleeps like the dead till next morning.
That is how you came to meet her at the shore likely.
She wanders there considerable."
"I will do everything I can for her," said Anne. Her
interest in Leslie Moore, which had been vivid ever
since she had seen her driving her geese down the hill,
was intensified a thousand fold by Miss Cornelia's
narration. The girl's beauty and sorrow and loneliness
drew her with an irresistible fascination. She had
never known anyone like her; her friends had hitherto
been wholesome, normal, merry girls like herself, with
only the average trials of human care and bereavement
to shadow their girlish dreams. Leslie Moore stood
apart, a tragic, appealing figure of thwarted
womanhood. Anne resolved that she would win entrance
into the kingdom of that lonely soul and find there the
comradeship it could so richly give, were it not for
the cruel fetters that held it in a prison not of its
own making.
"And mind you this, Anne, dearie," said Miss Cornelia,
who had not yet wholly relieved her mind, "You mustn't
think Leslie is an infidel because she hardly ever goes
to church--or even that she's a Methodist. She can't
take Dick to church, of course--not that he ever
troubled church much in his best days. But you just
remember that she's a real strong Presbyterian at
heart, Anne, dearie."
