The West's house creaked.
Ellen, sitting in the living room with her book, strained her ears, and black-furred yawned. From the hall came the sounds of light conversation, and Rosemary's voice glowed alive and glimmering like strand of gold. Soon Rosemary stood in front of her, in her dark dress, but she wasn't alone, as usual. Beside her stood a slender man with dark hair, who was putting books from Glen's lending library into a neat stack on Grandma's old desk. And Rosemary said in her sweet way, "I promised to lend Reverend Meredith a book he hasn't read."
A chilling fear crept into Ellen's heart, but she gracefully shook hands with Glen's Presbyterian Reverend and she attacked world politics head-on, saying pointedly "I am just reading a book about the German Emperor, and German militarism in general. What do you think?"
Opinions bounced back and forth between the interlocutors.
Rosemary, sat down in the rocking chair and petted . Ellen watched Revered's countenance, he still talked with enthusiasm, and his arguments were mostly sharp and refined, and his sincere clear voice was sure, but now and then his dark eyed gaze would slip towards Rosemary, as he paused in thought.
When Rosemary had returned to the drawing room, Ellen stood to her full height and said in an accusing darkly forceful tone, that had always before brought Rosemary to heel. "Rosemary, he has notions of courtship."
Rosemary shivered, for Ellen's words, suddenness of them was like a sudden blow, hurtful and quick. They also were old, and worn, and they trivialized memory of a pleasant evening, stripped it of all charm. Rosemary forced herself to laugh lightly, perhaps a little too lightly and carelessly, as she said "Nonsense. Dear sister, my own Ellen, you see suitors for me, at every turn of the road, you always have done so. As we walked here, he told me a few things about his late wife, Cecilia I think her name was, and a little about his own circumstances, at the Manse. How empty the world feels, as if all the light had disappeared."
Ellen's blue eyes were cool, and attentive as she remarked, "Very poetic, and noble. A widower whose heart is still in the grave. Men have all kinds of ways to get what they want, I understand, and that kind of talk may well be his style. But the most important thing is that you don't forget your promise Rosemary" Ellen retorted with a frown.
"You happen to forget, Ellen, that I am an old maid. It is only your sisterly delusion that I am still young, flourishingly dangerous, but I was not really, so even then. Mr. Meredith wants, only friendship, if even that, I think, and he will surely forget us both, already long before he reaches the door of his Manse."
Rosemary's voice was a little strained, and cautiously Ellen moved, as if to comfort her sister, but Rosemary turned, half a step back, and Ellen saw only her fine blond profile, and a few curls that had fallen out of her smooth hairdo.
"I have nothing against friendship, but it must not go any further. And this Presbyterian minister is not at all so shy as I have heard to say. On the contrary, but so very absentminded that he forgot to say good-bye to me when you went to see him to the door, but he can think, and that is rare. There are so few men here who really know how to hold their own in conversation. I must admit that I enjoyed the evening, so if he happened to come again I wouldn't mind. But, no pilhandering, Rosemary, no pilhandering, remember that," Ellen said in a comforting, placating tone.
Rosemary was so used to her sister's repeated warnings that she usually just laughed them off with undisguised glee, but now she felt irritated. So Rosemary said with unusual rudeness "Don't be a goose, Ellen." And soon afterrwards, Rosemary's steps echoed on the stairs.
Ellen shook her head a little doubtfully, and looked towards black cat, it was sitting in the middle of the floor, majestically proud." ," she promised, and we Wests always keep our promises, so there's no need to worry at all."
There was silence. Only St. George's purr broke it. Ellen read German Emperor's biography again, with renewed enthusiasm as she did so, she faintly planned future arguments which she might be able to use against Presbyterian minister, if he would return. For Ellen loved debate, and as an Episcopalian she enjoyed asserting her own superiority against leading representative of another branch of faith.
The light from the flickering lamp cast Ellen's stark dark shadow on the pale wall. The library books Rosemary had borrowed were still on Grandma's desk, there were Conrad's, Mirror of the Sea, Dreamer's and Waughan-Williams' English Hymnal, and Shelley's poems. jumped on them, and with careless grace, he slept, jewel-bright eyes only slits, and sleek tail curled.
Upstairs, in her room, Rosemary sat for a long time by the window, looking out at the moonlight twinkling across the garden, towards the distant shimmering harbour. She felt vaguely unhappy, as Ellen´s attitude rankled. Suddenly Rosemary found herself tired of old withered dreams, and the memories that had sustained her for so many years. This was first time she had stood by the spring, without remembering, Martin Crawford, the old promise, and the spell had been broken. In garden a gentle breeze blew through roses. It detached petals of the last glowing red rose.
In the Presbyterian Manse, John Meredith sat among his books, determinedly chasing his theological dreams, forgetting everything, the days ceased to exist, his duties, his children, their joyful laughter always echoing, sometimes in his consciousness, but mostly not. He wandered in his dreams, absent-minded, disheveled, until the moment he stood in the drawing-room listening to Mrs. Davis' request, concerning Una, his dear, fragile Una, that child to whom Cecilia's almost last words had been associated. After had gone, in a stormy temper and shouting something about "Vermins, or was it maybe Varmints."
Revered Meredith stood at the gate of the Manse, looking out over the sunset-reddened landscape. And suddenly a ray of light shone from the window of the house on the hill. He felt quite as if his soul had been scratched, and Ellen's sharp conversation and Rosemary's presence, her calmness, and her heavenly eyes would be the perfect antidote. Reverend climbed with renewed strength into his study and found the book that Rosemary had lent him, it was under several others, for books were everywhere, and looking at his wide and cluttered shelves he thought that over the years, here were several volumes that he had borrowed but forgotten return.
Weeks had passed, and Mr. Meredith had not come to the gray house again, on the hill, where autumn winds were tearing the leaves from the trees. Rosemary had continued her everyday life; piano lessons, and cooking, and going to church, like she had for the last eighteen years.
In general, their life, Ellen´s and hers together were harmonious, and there were no external distractions, and no strangers. Sometimes few ladies of the Glen´s sewing circle came to sew, and Ms. Marshall Elliot, came to tea, and a round of gossip, and Ellen and Ms. Cornelia argued, in all manner of things. Rosemary often were playing Switzerland, in those instances. A couple of summers ago, Leslie had come to visit with her young son, Kenneth. He had been running in the garden, amid roses and lilies, watching the clouds with his dark gray, observant eyes. Leslie had sewn with the fastest, half-invisible stitches, a shawl with beautiful silk embroidery. Leslie's beautiful face had glowed with quiet contentment, and unspeakable happiness, and the hem of her red silk dress had caressed the soft grass.
Leslie had looked thoughtfully at Rosemary with her dark blue eyes and she said quietly "Family and relatives can do no wrong in our eyes. Even though God knows we are no saints. If we give our word, it will hold. Regardless of the circumstances." Leslie's words glowed with an echo of dark, bitter humor, and in a faint way Rosemary remembered Leslie as before.
Those misty years as loss of Martin had been like burning brand, in her soul. Leslie had been then remote, cold, and cutting. There had been sterness in her manner, and only very rarely that golden sweetness had sometimes glimmered, like a nebula of stars, between her repulsive attitude.
In the Four Winds no one had spoken of Abner Moore´s son, or what had befallen on him, not since Capitan Jim had brought human ruin back to Moore's old farm, for the shame had been too hard, too bitter to bear, whispers had echoed, but they had soon died down. That burden Leslie had carried on her regal shoulders for years, alone without asking for help. She had been, almost as if buried alive, bound by an unbreakable bond, from which Anne and Gilbert Blythe's arrival at the Four Winds had so unexpectedly relieved her. Then love and freedom had come in her life, and she had found, glimmering, elegant society of Toronto´s publishing world.
Summer wind had brought a faint smell of salt water, and in a low voice Rosemary had hummed Ave Maris Stella, Leslie had smiled wistfully, and Kenneth's laughter had echoed over the hum of the bumblebees.
Dreamily, Rosemary returned from her recollections, as the teapot whistled shrillly, and with a light hum, she arranged tea tray. Suddenly there was a sharp knock at the door, and Rosemary, somewhat startled, opened the door, and with difficulty she kept her face calm, for on the other side of the door stood an ethereal-looking Mr. Meredith, grinning surprisingly boyishly, as he held out a book, saying in his dreamy way, "I happened to be nearby, and I remembered your book. I hope this visit is not too late?"
A gust of autumn wind, mixed with rain dappled Mr. Meredith's worn overcoat. Rosemary shook her head. She said softly, "No, not at all. We keep late hours here, relatively speaking. I just made some tea, come and have a cup if you can, at least while your coat dries?"
The pumpkin pie had already been eaten a long time ago, and the strong scented tea had cooled, only the scraps were left.
Ellen and Mr. Meredith had a lively discussion about the effects of imperialism and religion in various British colonies, and the productivity of colonialism, but also its flip side, exploitation, blood and tears, and the destruction of native cultures.
Rosemary found that she liked to watch John Meredith dodge Ellen's snares, and even at times his theological leaps of reasoning were so wild that Ellen laughed her full unbridled, luxuriant, luscious laugh that tinkled like a brass bell.
In the dim light, Rosemary got up, and calmly she walked to open the living room window. A light gust of wind played with the curtains, and the candles flickered, casting a glow on Rosemary's face as she sat down at the worn piano, notes crunching lightly.
Out of the corner of his eye, John Meredith saw her dark lashes quiver a little, and her slender neck straighten, and then leisurely, extremely soft music wafted through room, and Rosemary's soft church choir soprano matched it seamlessly. John Meredith, sat and listened with his hands open on his knees as divine strands of music flooded, like a light, summer stream.
Ellen frowned thoughtfully as Rosemary's music kept changing, and then finally, strains of Strauss's dreamy Wegenlied sparkled, and some shadow of emotion crossed Mr. Meredith's face.
Rosemary was feeling, well-worn piano keys under her fingers, so cool, but a wave of searing heat ached in her cheeks, and for a fleeting moment she was content with the dimness of the room.
Mr. Meredith rose, and said in his smooth, somewhat vague way. "Thank you, for a memorable evening, and for the discussions, and of the music, Miss West, and Miss West. I must go now, unfortunately, to finish my sermon for tomorrow. Although I know very well that you belong to the Episcopalians of Lowbridge, but I believe that ecumenical cooperation always bears fruit, so please do come to my church sometime. " And so it was that, with quick steps John Meredith walked into dark yard. He was suddenly stopped by an almost golden cry, "Mr. Meredith, wait. You, you forgot your coat."
A couple of paces away stood Rosemary Meredith. There was a dark coat over her arm, and small storm lantern in one hand, and a soft woven neckerchief woven from gray woolen thread. And with a light smile Rosemary said "Return the lantern when you can, and here's a neckerchief, against the cold and the rain. You can keep it if you like? I sew often, so you won't keep anything from me."
John Meredith, nodded, looking a little shy, and he stroked the soft knit with his fingertips as he disappeared into the dark night.
In the months that followed, it was rumored that Reverend Meredith frequented West's gray house quite often. And slowly few of Glen unmarried women who had been casting coy looks, in the diretion of Revered Meredith, they desisted, as it was known that the West girls, got always what they wanted, as no man, widow or not could not resist Rosemary West, her airs and flowing graces. She still seemed to be so young, almost like a girl still, with woman´s restraint, and as everyone knew the Wests had money. So not at all bad bargain, for Reverend, but, poor, poor golden Rosemary, those wild, careless children...
Bitterly cold weather arrived, and Rainbow Valley echoed with the laughter of Ingelside and Manse's children, and that strange, crass, blue-eyed orphan girl that now lived with Elliotts.
December came, and Norman Douglas marched into Glen Church, red-bearded and tall. When the sermon was over he said in his booming way to red-cheeked Faith leaning on the steps " Listen, Red Rose. I think your father really is one of the best preachers I've ever met. There are only a few inconsistencies in his sermons, and he's not awake at all, except when he's preaching. For he imagined my wife was still alive, though she has been dust for a few years now. You should have seen how the whole sewing society was whispering. I'm very glad that I go to church now, but only once a month, still remember that, my girl!"
Faith grinned, as her eyes sparkled. Sun cast a pale glow on her wild golden brown curls, which burst out from under a faded red cap, as quick steps, Faith ran toward her home, worn hems rustling.
Norman sat down in his cart and shook his head thoughtfully and puffing on his pipe he said "That girl is full of speed and quickness, a little like another one I knew once. Same will, and fire."
And for a brief moment Norman remembered Ellen West, whom he had ardently and thunderingly courted few decades ago. There had been that quarrel that had ended it all. Then there were those exhaustingly boring years with Ethel Reese. He had tried, in his own way, but Ethel had been completely impossible. Constant crying, and silent lamentation, and those hats. Yes, he would have very gladly bought new hats for Ethel, but she had preferred to wear her old ones and polish her martyr's crown. Glen's sewing club and Cornelia Bryant had been busy everywhere, as they still are. Marriage hadn't changed her either, or even leveled her up.
Norman let out a tired sigh, and then his eyes widened, because Ellen walked on the other side of the road. Her cheeks were red from frost, her dark clothes with their cherry red velvet collar were becoming. And thoughtfully Norman looked after her. Ellen seemed well, and handsome, which of course she had always been. The years had only put a few silver streaks in her dark neat, heavy bun, the weight of which Norman still remembered so well.