Owen Ford leaned against the doorway of Leslie's dressing room, and carefully observed how his dear wife seemed to be searching for something with a frantic intensity. The small jewelry boxes were half open, and the wardrobe drawers, too. The air in the room smelled lightly of powder, and of Cara Nome perfume by Langoise. Leslie turned suddenly, violently, and in a controlled manner slammed one of the boxes shut. Cautiously, Owen inquired, "My love, what are you looking for, perhaps I can help?" Leslie raised her eyes, and Owen, stifled a start, for Leslie's gaze was inward and full of shadows, as she gently swept her fingertips over her arms, the seasonal taffeta rustling softly, as Leslie stepped to the door and said with a murmur, "Christmas is coming, I thought that I would give Persis my grandmother's twin sets of rose gold combs, but they are not here, in the whole house, I have looked everywhere."
Owen, nodded thoughtfully, for that reference was clear. On their wedding day, Leslie's veil had been held by heavy, antique hair combs, which Cornelia Elliot had put in place, with loving, worn hands.
Owen smiled gently at Leslie and said, "My treasure, have you thought of writing to Anne? Could it be that they and a few other items are in our bedroom in the House of Dreams, or perhaps even in packing cases upstairs in the old Moore House?" A peculiar kind of stillness froze Leslie, for a time, and Owen saw that his wife was buried in memories to which he had no key, for even love could not fix everything, and then, she stepped gracefully, lightly past Owen, and said, quietly, " Do you want me to comment on your manuscript? Our whirlwind will soon return of her business with the Red Cross, and then we'll have tea, in the drawing-room, I think."
The brakes of the worn-out Ford screeched, as Persis Ford carefully parked the car in its place. Tiredly, she shook off her leather driving gloves, and glanced at the next bench where there was a pile of letters. The winter air was extremely cold, and the frost was crunching, and a soft blanket of snow that had been polished to a mirror smoothness covered the ground, as Persis walked home, after varied day full of lists, rolling of bandages, folding, sheets, doing good works, and internal politics, because the election was the topic of conversation everywhere, even in the corridors of the Red Cross, opinions rushed for Union Government, and the charisma of Prime Minister Borden.
At the hallway, Persis, balanced with a pile of letters, as she happily exclaimed, "There is quite large haul, this time, and by no means all circulars." There was an idyllic scene going on in the salon, Father was reading aloud a new chapter, quietly, and malty tea smelled, but after examining the atmosphere more closely, Persis noticed that Mum seemed more than a bit strained, to cheer her up, Persis said, in her golden way, "Mum, here is our Peacock's letter, for you, it just arrived?" Leslie smiled gently, and handed Persis a cup of tea in return. Ken's handwriting on the envelope was strong, lively, but exhausted. Persis sorted through the letters, and found one with a Quebecian postmarks, and with one stroke she cut it open.
Dear Persis!
The mood here is variable and fierce, as the French Canadian minority is boiling, the streets are almost papered with anti-conscription posters, the issue that will decide so many things. Many people here support Laurier, of course. Much will depend on what kind of government we will have. You can believe that I will be on the streets if there will be rallies, in time. But I remember your words, and I will try to avoid arrest if I can at all.
A couple of days ago I was walking in the Plaines d'Abraham, and I wished you had been by my side, for the views were absolutely enchanting, as Château Frontenac, that historic castle, now a splendid hotel rose to its heights, and the Saint-Lawrence river shimmered like a great silver stream, and the church bells tolled, brightly, in the still, cold bluish air. I think that even though you have traveled a lot, you have not come here so far, so I hope that this concise description will awaken the enthusiasm for travel in your heart.
Avec mes salutations les plus affectueuses,
à mon propre ange,
Athénaise
Persis tapped the shiny table thoughtfully with her fingertips, as Owen inquired benevolently, "Our dear Whirlwind, you seem pensive, what's the latest news from your firebrand of correspondent?"
Roused from her thoughts, Persis poured herself more tea, and replied in her sincere, sensitive style, which sometimes echoed Leslie's, "Oh, this and that. Athenaise was in a very lyrical mood, of Quebecian splendor, amid her usual politics, naturally."
On the other side of the table, Leslie put Ken's letter on the table, and Persis quickly grabbed it for herself, so that she almost spilled a half-full cup of tea on the tablecloth that Leslie had embroidered full of primroses years before. Owen cut open the usual invitation for his publisher's Christmas party, and he showed the expensively printed invitation, with embossed egdes, to Leslie, with impish smile, as he said, " The curse of success, hob-knobbing, even in wartime, oh well. Well luckily for us no need to stay there long."
Leslie nodded softly, and Owen noticed with delight that the letter from their son had helped, for there was that certain glimmer in her eyes again.
Later, in the evening, in the peace of her cluttered room, Persis glanced at her brother's photo, which was in dark frames. In the photo, Ken looked so serious, completely different from the humorous, charming, madcap peacock of a brother that Persis remembered. Certain fragments, of Ken's letter, haunted Persis, perhaps, because the letter was not addressed to her this time, but to Mum, and those closely written pages, revealed psychological sensitivity and perceptiveness that lay behind Ken's commanding self-confidence, and gentleness which literally shone through the hastily scribbed lines.
Dear Mum.
It's remarkable how much the fate and lives of my men, my subordinates weigh on my shoulders, but I try to cope and carry the burden that the Army has placed on me, it seems that I have a head for the organization, and the needs and quirks of my men easily stick in my mind. I notice that I have some kind of Westian strain of duty in me after all.
So many dangers lurk, and coldness is the least of them, heaviness, melancholy, is the greatest, for the conditions here are inhuman, and we are all exhausted, in our own ways. This is why letters and packages from home, and varied entertainment, are so important. Even now the men around me are singing, something outrageously naughty, but I do not have a heart to scold them, much, because military discipline has not been broken.
You have given me the art of interpreting silences, and while this bloody dance still goes on, I will use it with utmost delicacy. Two days ago Private Tibbins, was feeling poor, as he was half-frozen with cold, after his watch, so I cheered him up by giving him the last of my biscuits, and a couple of hours later I was playing cards, with tattered pack of cards, with the lieutenants, the stakes were happy memories, rum -and cognac rations, and surprisingly Persis' photo is naturally extremely popular with my men. I'm not quite sure how I feel about it, but I know that if she reads this letter she might be amused rather than offended. Despite requests, I have not given Persis' address to anyone, not even my closest companions.
I remember one time years, and years before, as I walked through the rooms of the old Moore house, it was a golden summer, Persis's laughter echoed outside, pearly bright, and you and Father were clearing things up in the attic, and in the yard, there was stuff everywhere, boxes, ropes, flimsy papers, and old withered flowers, and photographs, tin-types, likenesses of past Elliot and West relations, and also grandmother fair Rose and dashing grandfather Frank, with charming smile and sideburn moustache. And I stopped at the door of the great parlour, and I saw there was a hook in the roof, and being curious, I took a chair and climbed up, and I was about to touch that rusty hook, when you raised your voice to me, which you have not done since. I started, I turned, I almost fell off my chair, and I saw how pale, and terrified you were, but of course you said nothing, at that time, but only later, in Ingelside's garden, I happened to be sitting with Walter in the grove, eating Susan's delicious biscuits, when you told Aunt Anne, about that scene. I still remember, your voice, the half-frozen tone, when you said quietly, "It was as if the years had suddenly slipped away, and Kenneth, was there, alive, but he couldn't be, not really, reaching towards our Father's final ruin, and then he turned, and I saw Owen's eyes, those bright gray shade of the Selwyns, and past and present merged, and I took my beloved boy, in my arms. Anne, I'm afraid that cursed melancholy should be in my children."
But that didn't happen, Persis and I are completely our own kind, with our own quirks. Especially the time of December is still hard for you, even after long and loving years with us, but I promise you that I'll stay as safe as possible within the scope of my duty. That's why I wanted to write to you tonight. I hope this letter brings you happiness. I imagine Toronto will be aglow with the colors of December, with seasonal carols, collection containers, Christmas parties, all around, and the King Edward Hotel has that glorious Christmas tree again, maybe you'll go hear Handel at Massey Hall, like in the old days? For we are fighting here for life to continue there. The war effort is important, but so are unspoiled merry memories, find me some, would you, as they will give us strenght here.
With love,
Ken.
Persis, stroked the sleeves of her kimono, and vaguely she remembered that same summer day when they had all been at the old Moore house, but the things had never been finished, they had been shrouded with sheets, and the lavender water had smelled strongly.
The light tapping of a typewriter echoed from the parlor, and the smell of Christmas cake wafted from the kitchen.
Persis, took out writing paper and her favorite fountain pen and began to answer her correspondence, with a particular wim, deliberately making an extremely hilarious letter to Ken.
At midnight, with the pale moon shining in the sky, through the muslin curtains, Owen became aware of a light rustle, and the smell of ink, and he found that Leslie's soft, inviting warmth was not beside him. Instead, she sat at her dressing table, on her shoulders a silky, red, vibrant scarf, against which her abundant hair sparkled, like molten gold, as she wrote with peculiar intentness, in her mien. There was a distant, hazy look in Leslie's eyes, which called Owen, awakened, his own inspiration, and carefully he took a little note-book from under his pillow, and a chewed-up pencil, and turned on the light, and began to write, furiously, feverishly, just as in that memorable moment when he had before him for the very first time, Captain Jim's life's work.
Ingelside's kitchen smelled of spices, as Susan cooked carefully regulated treats for the upcoming Laidies Aid Meeting. Anne Blythe, glanced thoughtfully at the pile of mail that had arrived, a few days earlier.
The headlines of the newspapers had announced the liberation of Jerusalem, which had been a couple of days before, and delighted by the news, Rilla and Gertrude Oliver had been quoting Thomas Campbell's verses almost non-stop, so with the romance of Scottish lyric poetry still enlivening her soul, Anne cut open Leslie's letter, for she found herself wanting to escape a heated election atmosphere, which had only intensified.
All of Glen's phone lines were jammed, and the front of Carter Flagg's store was extremely crowded despite the freezing temperatures, even though there was still time for the election. And it was rumored that Mr. Pryor had received several telegrams, and upon hearing that news Susan had been bitterly sarcastic, saying, "I almost wish Norman Douglas would shake him again, for he has seemed too pleased these last few days, that can't be good thing, Mrs Doctor Dear, I say! I hope that results would come, this excitement is almost too much, politics is too strenous for us womanfolk to bear."
Curious, Anne spread Leslie's letter over her beloved Tennyson.
Dearest Anne!
I am writing to you, on Owen's advice, for as I always find he can see right into my heart, though sometimes I wish he could not, for he shares that same skill with you, my dear, my friend.
I have a request that is perhaps a bit peculiar. It now seems that I have misplaced certain heirloom items, and they are probably upstairs in the Old Moore House in a rosewood box, just off the wide stairs, so if you are doing your usual rambles of yours, to Four Winds way, on a bright winter's day, please come and see if they are there. The key hangs in its usual place, because as you know I don't like to go there, as that house still seems full of shadows, even though time has moved on.
What a comfort our children are to us, they are so brave as they face challenges the likes of which we could never imagine for them, but we had our own gray moments before we met each other, in the glimmering autumn of the Glen.
With loving regards,
Leslie.
The soft, enchantingly bright sunshine cast its shadows on the sparkling snow, and glancing at the clock, on the mantel, beside Gog and Magog, and listening to Ingelside's homely voices, Rilla's soft humming, the latest hymn-tunes from last Sunday, and Gertrude's brisk argument with Susan. Anne rose and with her own charming way, which Charlotta the Fourth had so admired years ago, in Echo Logde, times, she slipped out.
After a brisk walk, the Moore House was in front of Anne, snowy spruces crowning that large, crooked house, and cautiously Anne walked through the pristine snow to the back door where an old key hung. The lock clicked almost immediately, and Anne entered curiously, for she had never been here before.
An oil lamp stood on the clean table, and carefully she lit it, oil crackled, and the wavering light came on. Deep shadows danced on the walls, and Anne could see her breath as a mist in the air, as she cautiously walked through empty rooms, where few pieces of furniture rose shrouded in darkness. And then a staircase rose in front of her, and according to the instructions she went to the right room.
A very old-fashioned chest of drawers was in the corner of the narrow room, and there were still a few faded pictures on the walls, and two objects caught Anne's attention, the first of which was a very yellowed framed diploma with official copperplate, and a seal Anne recognized immediately. First Class license, had been granted, with highest honors to Leslie Rose West, in the academic year of 1877-1878. Eyes glistening with tears, Anne touched that frame, and as she did so she counted backwards, and concluded that Leslie had been in Queens at the same time as fair Prissy Andrews.
Anne walked over to the dresser and swiped the lid of the rosewood jewelry box - it was gray with dust, and carefully she opened it. There were three objects, extremely beautiful heavy rose-gold combs inlaid with sapphires, a pair of cufflinks, and an old dugerrotype in which a small family of three posed, formally, stiffly. Leslie was instantly recognisable, but intoxicated Anne glanced at Rose West, for what Cornelia had said was true, Rose West had been spectacular, and Frank West's eyes glowed with love and pride. Leslie's hands were on the young boy's shoulders, there were playful charm on his clear cut features, - a promise that was not fulfilled, Kenneth West.
With a heavy heart Anne closed the rosewood box, and took it with her, wistfully thinking of her own long-ago trip to Bolinbroke's desolate cemetery, where the school council had erected a monument to Bertha and Walter Shirley, and the few letters that were still carefully guarded in her chest of drawers.
The stairs creaked under Anne's step, and she flinched, because that sound was suddenly so very loud, in black silence, where the cold and the shadows were lingering, Anne could smell the scent of lavender and rosewater, still on the stairs, extremely carefully she slipped away with fleet of foot,back to the glowing chaos of Ingelside, full of election tension, leaving behind her beloved friend's past like a hauntingly, distant tinkling chord.
Norman Douglas slammed his fist on the table in the corner of Carter Flagg's shop as he roared, so that the windows almost rattled, "I swear the Unionist government will get at least twelve seats, and that Laurier's troops will get a severe licking!"
Clive Howard grinned impudently as he said, "Do you want to bet on it?"
Norman, glanced around as he said in his pompous booming style, " No, as I'm not Marshall Elliot, young Howard, after all." The atmosphere was extremely intense, as the clock approached midnight and the results slowly started to come.
Tired, Gilbert opened the door to Ingelside and in the living room, he saw a frozen tableau. Anne, Gertrude, and Susan all looked at him with strained and pale features, the carpets were slightly crooked, and all the tables had cups of tea, and half-woven socks.
Taking a deep breath, Gilbert said, "The results have just come in, the Union Government is in, with a large majority, and Laurier's party did nothing, for West, as you might expect. Tomorrow, we will know the exact readings."
The next day the Canada was split in two by language lines. And looking at the readings, Susan remarked, " Luckily here on our Island after all, things have gone as they should, we have a Union Government, with Borden at the helm!"
Gertrude Olivier glanced thoughtfully at Susan and remarked, "That's what we have. I hope that no wider difficulty will arise from this, for the issue is still extremely important, to all of us, the walls are glittering with propaganda posters appealing to enlistment, and healthy patriotism is a strong motivator, in these in challenging and extraordinary times!"
Rilla counted, silver spoons, with the routine as she remarked, "Last week at the Junior Reds meeting an appeal was made, for a Christmas time fundraiser, for the soldiers and it got a lot of support. It's a small-scale event and it might be that Nan and Di might want to take part in it, if they return from Redmond by then?"
Anne looked smilingly at Rilla, as she said gently, " Even Nan admits that you're the best at organizing things, out of everyone, so just trust yourself and the Junior Reds, and do things your way."
With calm heart, Rilla ran upstairs, as it was time to write a few lines in her diary. In the last few days there had been a lot of all kinds of commotion, so writing may lift her spirits, up and it was imporant to record these momentous times for posterity. Then she took out Ken's latest letter, and read it, with a rose blush staining her cheeks, because his letters, they could be short, there were so many demands of his time, but how his sentences were beautiful, and Rilla could almost see the cramped conditions in which Ken lived, huddled with several other men, almost in a heap, in some rough shelter that was dug half underground, somewhere "over there."