Anne's House of Dreams (6 page)

‘Well, at last everything was ready – even to the logs in the big fireplace ready for lighting. ’Twasn’t exactly
this
fireplace, though ’twas in the same place. Miss Elizabeth had this put in when she made the house over fifteen years ago. It was a big, old-fashioned fireplace where you could have roasted an ox. Many’s the time I’ve sat here and spun yarns, same’s I’m doing tonight.’

Again there was a silence, while Captain Jim kept a passing tryst with visitants Anne and Gilbert could not see – the folks who had sat with him around that fireplace in the vanished years, with mirth and bridal joy shining in eyes long since closed for ever, under churchyard sod or heaving leagues of sea. Here on olden nights children had tossed laughter lightly to and fro. Here on winter evenings friends had gathered. Dance and music and jest had been here. Here youths and maidens had dreamed. For Captain Jim the little house was tenanted with shapes entreating remembrance.

‘It was the first of July when the house was finished. The schoolmaster began to count the days then. We used to see him walking along the shore, and we’d say to each other, “She’ll soon be with him now.”

‘She was expected the middle of July, but she didn’t come then. Nobody felt anxious. Vessels were often delayed for days and mebbe weeks. The
Royal William
was a week overdue – and then two – and then three. And at last we began to be frightened, and it got worse and worse. Fin’lly I couldn’t bear to look into John Selwyn’s eyes. D’ye know, Mistress Blythe’ – Captain Jim lowered his voice – ‘I used to think that they looked just like what his old great-great-grandmother’s must have been when they were burning her to death. He never said much, but he taught school like a man in a dream and then hurried to the shore. Many a night he walked there from dark to dawn. People said he was losing his mind. Everybody had given up hope – the
Royal William
was eight weeks overdue. It was the middle of September and the schoolmaster’s bride hadn’t come – never would come, we thought.

‘There was a big storm then that lasted three days, and on the evening after it died away I went to the shore. I found the schoolmaster there, leaning with his arms folded against a big rock, gazing out to sea.

‘I spoke to him but he didn’t answer. His eyes seemed to be looking at something I couldn’t see. His face was set, like a dead man’s.

‘ “John – John,” I called out – jest like that – jest like a frightened child, “wake up – wake up.”

‘That strange, awful look seemed to sorter fade out of his eyes. He turned his head and looked at me. I’ve never forgot his face – never will forget it till I ships for my last voyage.

‘ “All is well, lad,” he says. “I’ve seen the
Royal William
coming around East Point. She will be here by dawn. Tomorrow night I shall sit with my bride by my own hearth-fire.”

‘Do you think he did see it?’ demanded Captain Jim abruptly.

‘God knows,’ said Gilbert softly. ‘Great love and great pain might compass we know not what marvels.’

‘I am sure he did see it,’ said Anne earnestly.

‘Fol-de-rol,’ said Doctor Dave, but he spoke with less conviction than usual.

‘Because, you know,’ said Captain Jim solemnly, ‘the
Royal William
came into Four Winds Harbour at daylight the next morning. Every soul in the Glen and along the shore was at the old wharf to meet her. The schoolmaster had been watching there all night. How we cheered as she sailed up the channel.’

Captain Jim’s eyes were shining. They were looking at the Four Winds Harbour of sixty years agone, with a battered old ship sailing through the sunrise splendour.

‘And Persis Leigh was on board?’ asked Anne.

‘Yes – her and the captain’s wife. They’d had an awful passage – storm after storm – and their provisions give out, too. But there they were at last. When Persis Leigh stepped on to the old wharf John Selwyn took her in his arms – and folks stopped cheering and begun to cry. I cried myself, though ’twas years, mind you, afore I’d admit it. Ain’t it funny how ashamed boys are of tears?’

‘Was Persis Leigh beautiful?’ asked Anne.

‘Well, I don’t know that you’d call her beautiful exactly – I – don’t – know,’ said Captain Jim slowly. ‘Somehow, you never got so far along as to wonder if she was handsome or not. It jest didn’t matter. There was something so sweet and winsome about her that you had to love her, that was all. But she was pleasant to look at – big, clear hazel eyes and heaps of glossy brown hair, and an English skin. John and her were married at our house that night at early candle-lighting; everybody from far and near was there to see it and we all brought them down here afterwards. Mistress Selwyn lighted the fire, and we went away and left them sitting here, jest as John had seen in that vision of his. A strange thing – a strange thing! But I’ve seen a turrible lot of strange things in my time.’

Captain Jim shook his head sagely.

‘It’s a dear story,’ said Anne, feeling that for once she had got enough romance to satisfy her. ‘How long did they live here?’

‘Fifteen years. I ran off to sea soon after they were married, like the young scallawag I was. But every time I come back from a voyage I’d head for here, even before I went home, and tell Mistress Selwyn all about it. Fifteen happy years! They had a sort of talent for happiness, them two. Some folks are like that, if you’ve noticed. They
couldn’t
be unhappy for long, no matter what happened. They quarrelled once or twice, for they was both high-sperrited. But Mistress Selwyn says to me once, says she, laughing in that pretty way of hers, “I felt dreadful when John and I quarrelled, but underneath it all I was very happy because I had such a nice husband to quarrel with and make it up with.” Then they moved to Charlottetown, and Ned Russell bought this house and brought his bride here. They were a gay young pair, as I remember them. Miss Elizabeth Russell was Alec’s sister. She came to live with them a year or so later, and she was a creature of mirth, too. The walls of this house must be sorter
soaked
with laughing and good times. You’re the third bride I’ve seen come here, Mistress Blythe – and the handsomest.’

Captain Jim contrived to give his sunflower compliment the delicacy of a violet, and Anne wore it proudly. She was looking her best that night, with the bridal rose on her cheeks and the love-light in her eyes; even gruff old Doctor Dave gave her an approving glance, and told his wife, as they drove home together, that that red-headed wife of the boy’s was something of a beauty.

‘I must be getting back to the light,’ announced Captain Jim. ‘I’ve enj’yed this evening something tremenjus.’

‘You must come often to see us,’ said Anne.

‘I wonder if you’d give that invitation if you knew how likely I’ll be to accept it,’ Captain Jim remarked whimsically.

‘Which is another way of saying you wonder if I mean it,’ smiled Anne. ‘I do, “cross my heart”, as we used to say at school.’

‘Then I’ll come. You’re likely to be pestered with me at any hour. And I’ll be proud to have you drop down and visit me now and then, too. Gin’rally I haven’t anyone to talk to but the First Mate, bless his sociable heart. He’s a mighty good listener, and has forgot more’n any MacAllister of them all ever knew, but he isn’t much of a conversationalist. You’re young and I’m old, but our souls are about the same age, I reckon. We both belong to the race that knows Joseph, as Cornelia Bryant would say.’

‘The race that knows Joseph?’ puzzled Anne.

‘Yes. Cornelia divides all the folks in the world into two kinds – the race that knows Joseph and the race that don’t. If a person sorter sees eye to eye with you, and has pretty much the same ideas about things, and the same taste in jokes – why, then he belongs to the race that knows Joseph.’

‘Oh, I understand,’ exclaimed Anne, light breaking in upon her. ‘It’s what I used to call – and still call in quotation marks – “kindred spirits”.’

‘Jest so – jest so,’ agreed Captain Jim. ‘We’re
it
, whatever it is. When you come in tonight, Mistress Blythe, I says to myself, says I, “Yes, she’s of the race that knows Joseph.” And mighty glad I was, for if it wasn’t so we couldn’t have had any real satisfaction in each other’s company. The race that knows Joseph is the salt of the airth, I reckon.’

The moon had just risen when Anne and Gilbert went to the door with their guests. Four Winds Harbour was beginning to be a thing of dream and glamour and enchantment – a spellbound haven where no tempest might ever ravin. The Lombardies down the lane, tall and sombre as the priestly forms of some mystic band, were tipped with silver.

‘Always like Lombardies,’ said Captain Jim, waving a long arm at them. ‘They’re the trees of princesses. They’re out of fashion now. Folks complain that they die at the top and get ragged-looking. So they do – so they do, if you don’t risk your neck every spring climbing up a light ladder to trim them out. I always did it for Miss Elizabeth, so her Lombardies never got out-at-elbows. She was especially fond of them. She liked their dignity and stand-offishness.
They
don’t hob-nob with every Tom, Dick, and Harry. If it’s maples for company, Mistress Blythe, it’s Lombardies for society.’

‘What a beautiful night,’ said Mrs Doctor Dave, as she climbed into the Doctor’s buggy.

‘Most nights are beautiful,’ said Captain Jim. ‘But I ’low that moonlight over Four Winds makes me sorter wonder what’s left for heaven. The moon’s a great friend of mine, Mistress Blythe. I’ve loved her ever since I can remember. When I was a little chap of eight I fell asleep in the garden one evening and wasn’t missed. I woke up alone in the night and I was most scared to death. What shadows and queer noises there was! I dursn’t move. Jest crouched there quaking, poor small mite. Seemed ’sif there weren’t anyone in the world but meself and it was mighty big. Then all at once I saw the moon looking down at me through the apple boughs, jest like an old friend. I was comforted right off. Got up and walked to the house as brave as a lion, looking at her. Many’s the night I’ve watched her from the deck of my vessel, on seas far away from here. Why don’t you folks tell me to take in the slack of my jaw and go home?’

The laughter of the good-nights died away. Anne and Gilbert walked hand in hand around their garden. The brook that ran across the corner dimpled pellucidly in the shadows of the birches. The poppies along its banks were like shallow cups of moonlight. Flowers that had been planted by the hands of the schoolmaster’s bride flung their sweetness on the shadowy air, like the beauty and blessing of sacred yesterdays. Anne paused in the gloom to gather a spray.

‘I love to smell flowers in the dark,’ she said. ‘You get hold of their soul then. Oh, Gilbert, this little house is all I’ve dreamed it. And I’m so glad that we are not the first who have kept bridal tryst here!’

That September was a month of golden mists and purple hazes at Four Winds Harbour – a month of sun-stepped days and of nights that were swimming in moonlight, or pulsating with stars. No storm marred it, no rough wind blew. Anne and Gilbert put their nest in order, rambled on the shores, sailed on the harbour, drove about Four Winds and the Glen, or through the ferny, sequestered roads of the woods around the harbour head; in short, had such a honeymoon as any lovers in the world might have envied them.

‘If life were to stop short just now it would still have been richly worth while, just for the sake of these past four weeks, wouldn’t it?’ said Anne. ‘I don’t suppose we will ever have four such perfect weeks again – but we’ve
had
them. Everything – wind, weather, folks, house of dreams – has conspired to make our honeymoon delightful. There hasn’t even been a rainy day since we came here.’

‘And we haven’t quarrelled once,’ teased Gilbert.

‘Well, “that’s a pleasure all the greater for being deferred”,’ quoted Anne. ‘I’m so glad we decided to spend our honeymoon here. Our memories of it will always belong here, in our house of dreams, instead of being scattered about in strange places.’

There was a certain tang of romance and adventure in the atmosphere of their new home which Anne had never found in Avonlea. There, although she had lived in sight of the sea, it had not entered intimately into her life. In Four Winds it surrounded her and called to her constantly. From every window of her new home she saw some varying aspect of it. Its haunting murmur was ever in her ears. Vessels sailed up the harbour every day to the wharf at the Glen, or sailed out again through the sunset, bound for ports that might be halfway round the globe. Fishing boats went white-winged down the channel in the mornings, and returned laden in the evenings. Sailors and fisher-folk travelled the red, winding harbour roads, light-hearted and content. There was always a certain sense of things going to happen – of adventures and farings-forth. The Ways of Four Winds were less staid and settled and grooved than those of Avonlea; winds of change blew over them; the sea called ever to the dwellers on shore, and even those who might not answer its call felt the thrill and unrest and mystery and possibilities of it.

‘I understand now why some men must go to sea,’ said Anne. ‘That desire which comes to us all at times – “to sail beyond the bourne of sunset” – must be very imperious when it is born in you. I don’t wonder Captain Jim ran away because of it. I never see a ship sailing out of the channel, or a gull soaring over the sand-bar, without wishing I were on board the ship or had wings, not like a dove “to fly away and be at rest”, but like a gull, to sweep out into the very heart of a storm.’

‘You’ll stay right here with me, Anne-girl,’ said Gilbert lazily. ‘I won’t have you flying away from me into the hearts of storms.’

They were sitting on their red sandstone doorstep in the late afternoon. Great tranquillities were all about them in land and sea and sky. Silvery gulls were soaring over them. The horizons were laced with long trails of frail, pinkish clouds. The hushed air was threaded with a murmurous refrain of minstrel winds and waves. Pale asters were blowing in the sere and misty meadows between them and the harbour.