CHAPTER 21
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
realised 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 goods, 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.
