The Classic Children's Literature Collection: 39 Classic Novels

by Various Authors

  Owen Ford wrote in the mornings. The afternoons were generally spent in some merry outing with the Blythes. Leslie often went, too, for Captain Jim took charge of Dick frequently, in order to set her free. They went boating on the harbor and up the three pretty rivers that flowed into it; they had clambakes on the bar and mussel-bakes on the rocks; they picked strawberries on the sand-dunes; they went out cod-fishing with Captain Jim; they shot plover in the shore fields and wild ducks in the cove—at least, the men did. In the evenings they rambled in the low-lying, daisied, shore fields under a golden moon, or they sat in the living room at the little house where often the coolness of the sea breeze justified a driftwood fire, and talked of the thousand and one things which happy, eager, clever young people can find to talk about.

  Ever since the day on which she had made her confession to Anne Leslie had been a changed creature. There was no trace of her old coldness and reserve, no shadow of her old bitterness. The girlhood of which she had been cheated seemed to come back to her with the ripeness of womanhood; she expanded like a flower of flame and perfume; no laugh was readier than hers, no wit quicker, in the twilight circles of that enchanted summer. When she could not be with them all felt that some exquisite savor was lacking in their intercourse. Her beauty was illumined by the awakened soul within, as some rosy lamp might shine through a flawless vase of alabaster. There were hours when Anne’s eyes seemed to ache with the splendor of her. As for Owen Ford, the “Margaret” of his book, although she had the soft brown hair and elfin face of the real girl who had vanished so long ago, “pillowed where lost Atlantis sleeps,” had the personality of Leslie Moore, as it was revealed to him in those halcyon days at Four Winds Harbor.

  All in all, it was a never-to-be-forgotten summer—one of those summers which come seldom into any life, but leave a rich heritage of beautiful memories in their going—one of those summers which, in a fortunate combination of delightful weather, delightful friends and delightful doings, come as near to perfection as anything can come in this world.

  “Too good to last,” Anne told herself with a little sigh, on the September day when a certain nip in the wind and a certain shade of intense blue on the gulf water said that autumn was hard by.

  That evening Owen Ford told them that he had finished his book and that his vacation must come to an end.

  “I have a good deal to do to it yet—revising and pruning and so forth,” he said, “but in the main it’s done. I wrote the last sentence this morning. If I can find a publisher for it it will probably be out next summer or fall.”

  Owen had not much doubt that he would find a publisher. He knew that he had written a great book—a book that would score a wonderful success—a book that would LIVE. He knew that it would bring him both fame and fortune; but when he had written the last line of it he had bowed his head on the manuscript and so sat for a long time. And his thoughts were not of the good work he had done.

  CHAPTER 26.OWEN FORD’S CONFESSION

  “I’m so sorry Gilbert is away,” said Anne. “He had to go—Allan Lyons at the Glen has met with a serious accident. He will not likely be home till very late. But he told me to tell you he’d be up and over early enough in the morning to see you before you left. It’s too provoking. Susan and I had planned such a nice little jamboree for your last night here.”

  She was sitting beside the garden brook on the little rustic seat Gilbert had built. Owen Ford stood before her, leaning against the bronze column of a yellow birch. He was very pale and his face bore the marks of the preceding sleepless night. Anne, glancing up at him, wondered if, after all, his summer had brought him the strength it should. Had he worked too hard over his book? She remembered that for a week he had not been looking well.

  “I’m rather glad the doctor is away,” said Owen slowly. “I wanted to see you alone, Mrs. Blythe. There is something I must tell somebody, or I think it will drive me mad. I’ve been trying for a week to look it in the face—and I can’t. I know I can trust you—and, besides, you will understand. A woman with eyes like yours always understands. You are one of the folks people instinctively tell things to. Mrs. Blythe, I love Leslie. LOVE her! That seems too weak a word!”

  His voice suddenly broke with the suppressed passion of his utterance. He turned his head away and hid his face on his arm. His whole form shook. Anne sat looking at him, pale and aghast. She had never thought of this! And yet—how was it she had never thought of it? It now seemed a natural and inevitable thing. She wondered at her own blindness. But—but—things like this did not happen in Four Winds. Elsewhere in the world human passions might set at defiance human conventions and laws—but not HERE, surely. Leslie had kept summer boarders off and on for ten years, and nothing like this had happened. But perhaps they had not been like Owen Ford; and the vivid, LIVING Leslie of this summer was not the cold, sullen girl of other years. Oh, SOMEBODY should have thought of this! Why hadn’t Miss Cornelia thought of it? Miss Cornelia was always ready enough to sound the alarm where men were concerned. Anne felt an unreasonable resentment against Miss Cornelia. Then she gave a little inward groan. No matter who was to blame the mischief was done. And Leslie—what of Leslie? It was for Leslie Anne felt most concerned.

  “Does Leslie know this, Mr. Ford?” she asked quietly.

  “No—no,—unless she has guessed it. You surely don’t think I’d be cad and scoundrel enough to tell her, Mrs. Blythe. I couldn’t help loving her—that’s all—and my misery is greater than I can bear.”

  “Does SHE care?” asked Anne. The moment the question crossed her lips she felt that she should not have asked it. Owen Ford answered it with overeager protest.

  “No—no, of course not. But I could make her care if she were free—I know I could.”

  “She does care—and he knows it,” thought Anne. Aloud she said, sympathetically but decidedly:

  “But she is not free, Mr. Ford. And the only thing you can do is to go away in silence and leave her to her own life.”

  “I know—I know,” groaned Owen. He sat down on the grassy bank and stared moodily into the amber water beneath him. “I know there’s nothing to do—nothing but to say conventionally, ‘Good-bye, Mrs. Moore. Thank you for all your kindness to me this summer,’ just as I would have said it to the sonsy, bustling, keen-eyed housewife I expected her to be when I came. Then I’ll pay my board money like any honest boarder and go! Oh, it’s very simple. No doubt—no perplexity—a straight road to the end of the world!

  “And I’ll walk it—you needn’t fear that I won’t, Mrs. Blythe. But it would be easier to walk over red-hot ploughshares.”

  Anne flinched with the pain of his voice. And there was so little she could say that would be adequate to the situation. Blame was out of the question—advice was not needed—sympathy was mocked by the man’s stark agony. She could only feel with him in a maze of compassion and regret. Her heart ached for Leslie! Had not that poor girl suffered enough without this?

  “It wouldn’t be so hard to go and leave her if she were only happy,” resumed Owen passionately. “But to think of her living death—to realise what it is to which I do leave her! THAT is the worst of all. I would give my life to make her happy—and I can do nothing even to help her—nothing. She is bound forever to that poor wretch—with nothing to look forward to but growing old in a succession of empty, meaningless, barren years. It drives me mad to think of it. But I must go through my life, never seeing her, but always knowing what she is enduring. It’s hideous—hideous!”

  “It is very hard,” said Anne sorrowfully. “We—her friends here—all know how hard it is for her.”

  “And she is so richly fitted for life,” said Owen rebelliously.

  “Her beauty is the least of her dower—and she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. That laugh of hers! I’ve angled all summer to evoke that laugh, just for the delight of hearing it. And her eyes—they are as deep
and blue as the gulf out there. I never saw such blueness—and gold! Did you ever see her hair down, Mrs. Blythe?”

  “No.”

  “I did—once. I had gone down to the Point to go fishing with Captain Jim but it was too rough to go out, so I came back. She had taken the opportunity of what she expected to be an afternoon alone to wash her hair, and she was standing on the veranda in the sunshine to dry it. It fell all about her to her feet in a fountain of living gold. When she saw me she hurried in, and the wind caught her hair and swirled it all around her—Danae in her cloud. Somehow, just then the knowledge that I loved her came home to me—and realised that I had loved her from the moment I first saw her standing against the darkness in that glow of light. And she must live on here—petting and soothing Dick, pinching and saving for a mere existence, while I spend my life longing vainly for her, and debarred, by that very fact, from even giving her the little help a friend might. I walked the shore last night, almost till dawn, and thrashed it all out over and over again. And yet, in spite of everything, I can’t find it in my heart to be sorry that I came to Four Winds. It seems to me that, bad as everything is, it would be still worse never to have known Leslie. It’s burning, searing pain to love her and leave her—but not to have loved her is unthinkable. I suppose all this sounds very crazy—all these terrible emotions always do sound foolish when we put them into our inadequate words. They are not meant to be spoken—only felt and endured. I shouldn’t have spoken—but it has helped—some. At least, it has given me strength to go away respectably tomorrow morning, without making a scene. You’ll write me now and then, won’t you, Mrs. Blythe, and give me what news there is to give of her?”

  “Yes,” said Anne. “Oh, I’m so sorry you are going—we’ll miss you so—we’ve all been such friends! If it were not for this you could come back other summers. Perhaps, even yet—by-and-by—when you’ve forgotten, perhaps—”

  “I shall never forget—and I shall never come back to Four Winds,” said Owen briefly.

  Silence and twilight fell over the garden. Far away the sea was lapping gently and monotonously on the bar. The wind of evening in the poplars sounded like some sad, weird, old rune—some broken dream of old memories. A slender shapely young aspen rose up before them against the fine maize and emerald and paling rose of the western sky, which brought out every leaf and twig in dark, tremulous, elfin loveliness.

  “Isn’t that beautiful?” said Owen, pointing to it with the air of a man who puts a certain conversation behind him.

  “It’s so beautiful that it hurts me,” said Anne softly. “Perfect things like that always did hurt me—I remember I called it ‘the queer ache’ when I was a child. What is the reason that pain like this seems inseparable from perfection? Is it the pain of finality—when we realise that there can be nothing beyond but retrogression?”

  “Perhaps,” said Owen dreamily, “it is the prisoned infinite in us calling out to its kindred infinite as expressed in that visible perfection.”

  “You seem to have a cold in the head. Better rub some tallow on your nose when you go to bed,” said Miss Cornelia, who had come in through the little gate between the firs in time to catch Owen’s last remark. Miss Cornelia liked Owen; but it was a matter of principle with her to visit any “high-falutin” language from a man with a snub.

  Miss Cornelia personated the comedy that ever peeps around the corner at the tragedy of life. Anne, whose nerves had been rather strained, laughed hysterically, and even Owen smiled. Certainly, sentiment and passion had a way of shrinking out of sight in Miss Cornelia’s presence. And yet to Anne nothing seemed quite as hopeless and dark and painful as it had seemed a few moments before. But sleep was far from her eyes that night.

  CHAPTER 27.ON THE SAND BAR

  Owen Ford left Four Winds the next morning. In the evening Anne went over to see Leslie, but found nobody. The house was locked and there was no light in any window. It looked like a home left soulless. Leslie did not run over on the following day—which Anne thought a bad sign.

  Gilbert having occasion to go in the evening to the fishing cove, Anne drove with him to the Point, intending to stay awhile with Captain Jim. But the great light, cutting its swathes through the fog of the autumn evening, was in care of Alec Boyd and Captain Jim was away.

  “What will you do?” asked Gilbert. “Come with me?”

  “I don’t want to go to the cove—but I’ll go over the channel with you, and roam about on the sand shore till you come back. The rock shore is too slippery and grim tonight.”

  Alone on the sands of the bar Anne gave herself up to the eerie charm of the night. It was warm for September, and the late afternoon had been very foggy; but a full moon had in part lessened the fog and transformed the harbor and the gulf and the surrounding shores into a strange, fantastic, unreal world of pale silver mist, through which everything loomed phantom-like. Captain Josiah Crawford’s black schooner sailing down the channel, laden with potatoes for Bluenose ports, was a spectral ship bound for a far uncharted land, ever receding, never to be reached. The calls of unseen gulls overhead were the cries of the souls of doomed seamen. The little curls of foam that blew across the sand were elfin things stealing up from the sea-caves. The big, round-shouldered sand-dunes were the sleeping giants of some old northern tale. The lights that glimmered palely across the harbor were the delusive beacons on some coast of fairyland. Anne pleased herself with a hundred fancies as she wandered through the mist. It was delightful—romantic—mysterious to be roaming here alone on this enchanted shore.

  But was she alone? Something loomed in the mist before her—took shape and form—suddenly moved towards her across the wave-rippled sand.

  “Leslie!” exclaimed Anne in amazement. “Whatever are you doing—HERE—tonight?”

  “If it comes to that, whatever are YOU doing here?” said Leslie, trying to laugh. The effort was a failure. She looked very pale and tired; but the love locks under her scarlet cap were curling about her face and eyes like little sparkling rings of gold.

  “I’m waiting for Gilbert—he’s over at the Cove. I intended to stay at the light, but Captain Jim is away.”

  “Well, I came here because I wanted to walk—and walk—and WALK,” said Leslie restlessly. “I couldn’t on the rock shore—the tide was too high and the rocks prisoned me. I had to come here—or I should have gone mad, I think. I rowed myself over the channel in Captain Jim’s flat. I’ve been here for an hour. Come—come—let us walk. I can’t stand still. Oh, Anne!”

  “Leslie, dearest, what is the trouble?” asked Anne, though she knew too well already.

  “I can’t tell you—don’t ask me. I wouldn’t mind your knowing—I wish you did know—but I can’t tell you—I can’t tell anyone. I’ve been such a fool, Anne—and oh, it hurts so terribly to be a fool. There’s nothing so painful in the world.”

  She laughed bitterly. Anne slipped her arm around her.

  “Leslie, is it that you have learned to care for Mr. Ford?”

  Leslie turned herself about passionately.

  “How did you know?” she cried. “Anne, how did you know? Oh, is it written in my face for everyone to see? Is it as plain as that?”

  “No, no. I—I can’t tell you how I knew. It just came into my mind, somehow. Leslie, don’t look at me like that!”

  “Do you despise me?” demanded Leslie in a fierce, low tone. “Do you think I’m wicked—unwomanly? Or do you think I’m just plain fool?”

  “I don’t think you any of those things. Come, dear, let’s just talk it over sensibly, as we might talk over any other of the great crises of life. You’ve been brooding over it and let yourself drift into a morbid view of it. You know you have a little tendency to do that about everything that goes wrong, and you promised me that you would fight against it.”

  “But—oh, it’s so—so shameful,” murmured Leslie. “To love him—unsou
ght—and when I’m not free to love anybody.”

  “There’s nothing shameful about it. But I’m very sorry that you have learned to care for Owen, because, as things are, it will only make you more unhappy.”

  “I didn’t LEARN to care,” said Leslie, walking on and speaking passionately. “If it had been like that I could have prevented it. I never dreamed of such a thing until that day, a week ago, when he told me he had finished his book and must soon go away. Then—then I knew. I felt as if someone had struck me a terrible blow. I didn’t say anything—I couldn’t speak—but I don’t know what I looked like. I’m so afraid my face betrayed me. Oh, I would die of shame if I thought he knew—or suspected.”

  Anne was miserably silent, hampered by her deductions from her conversation with Owen. Leslie went on feverishly, as if she found relief in speech.

  “I was so happy all this summer, Anne—happier than I ever was in my life. I thought it was because everything had been made clear between you and me, and that it was our friendship which made life seem so beautiful and full once more. And it WAS, in part—but not all—oh, not nearly all. I know now why everything was so different. And now it’s all over—and he has gone. How can I live, Anne? When I turned back into the house this morning after he had gone the solitude struck me like a blow in the face.”

  “It won’t seem so hard by and by, dear,” said Anne, who always felt the pain of her friends so keenly that she could not speak easy, fluent words of comforting. Besides, she remembered how well-meant speeches had hurt her in her own sorrow and was afraid.

  “Oh, it seems to me it will grow harder all the time,” said Leslie miserably. “I’ve nothing to look forward to. Morning will come after morning—and he will not come back—he will never come back. Oh, when I think that I will never see him again I feel as if a great brutal hand had twisted itself among my heartstrings, and was wrenching them. Once, long ago, I dreamed of love—and I thought it must be beautiful—and NOW—its like THIS. When he went away yesterday morning he was so cold and indifferent. He said ‘Good-bye, Mrs. Moore’ in the coldest tone in the world—as if we had not even been friends—as if I meant absolutely nothing to him. I know I don’t—I didn’t want him to care—but he MIGHT have been a little kinder.”