Listening to Cornelia Bryant's account of Leslie Moore's tragic life in that bright, crisp October afternoon, Anne felt her throat tighten. Cornelia Byrant, cut the thread from her sewing with one sharp swipe, as she murmured, " As I mentioned before, the tragedies of the West and Moore families are well-known old stroy hereabouts, but no one has ever heard Leslie Moore complain, she does not take to people in her confidences, not even me, and I've known her since she was a merry, charming and lovely golden-haired child, so clever and kind, vivacious, with most charming bubbly golden-silver laughter. I think she likes me quite a bit, but then again, it is hard to say with her sometimes, with her aloof, frozen ways. That, poor, brilliant lovely lass, to be chained forever into that half-witted, boorish, shell of a man! Anne dearie, you can trust that Leslie is in her heart a devout Presbyterian, although she is not often seen in church, as the failing Moore farm, as she is as poor as Job´s turkey, at that has been all her life, taking care of Dick Moore takes most of her time. Drat, all of the menkind, I say, especially former greedy, keen-eyed sort of charming louts. Did you know that Dick Moore was raised as a Methodist at that, all that strain of Moore´s were, but he only smirked of the prohibition to dance in public, in those days as he stalked Leslie, like a bloodhound on a scent before their wedding, but that is all gone now. "
Anne, swallowed hard, for Cornelia's sharp words had brought up an old half-buried memory in her mind. Of the Hammonds, that house almost suffocated by dust and misery, where the children always seemed to be crying, and she, always hungry, tried to keep them quiet, as Mr. Hammod swayed, with keen glint in his bloated, bristly features, as he murmured in a low voice , " Sweet, Sweet, little Anne, ever present in the shadows, I wonder, what could I do to make you laugh?" Mrs. Hammond's strained, exhausted face, and her numb gaze, which never stopped near Anne, was as if Mrs. Hammod did not see her, did not notice her, she might as well have been a piece of furniture. The clink of breaking things, of dishes the cracking of bottles, as Mr. Hammod kicked things around, once again, as his temper was on the rise, after the work had been taken away. That uneasy, creeping feeling that nowhere was safe, because eyes were everywhere. Mrs. Hammond's bruised arms, always on certain days, weeks. That coarse bristled brush her in hand. figure of Mr. Hammond rose menacingly in front of her, in that last moment before the heart attack had taken him.
Cornelia Byrant's voice slowly returned to Anne's consciousness, as if through a gray fog, as she remarked, " Anne, I think that Leslie has taken a shine to you, as she was quite melted, not so formal at all, of course you don't notice that little change, but I can tell. I hope you two become friends, I have been praying on it too!" Anne, tilted her head, and in vain tried to focus on Cornelia's words, as she replied, in somewhat strained tone, " I would like that too. Leslie is one of the most beautiful people I've ever met, but it's her changing nature that fascinates me the most ."
Cornelia Byrant, nodded with satisfaction and said in a fond tone, " In the Four Winds or the Glen, there is no one who can touch her, for looks, as she has that Elliot-hair of hers, and there is hidden burning love in her, twined with the golden sweetness, though her losses, and haunting tragedies have almost smothered them, I think. When I first met you Anne, I thought you could learn to care for Leslie."
Anne exclaimed passionately, "learn to care for her, but I love her, already, because there is something in her that I have not encountered in anyone else."
Cornelia Byrant, clicked her knitting needles, in censure, as she said, a little cautiously, " Anne, you have a good heart, that is plain, and I am glad of it."
The hot laundry pot was sizzling, hot and the air smelled of lye, ash and yellowish soap. Light laundry hung on a line strung across the back porch of the Moore house as Leslie wiped her forehead, where beads of sweat had beaded up. Laundry was hard work. Rubbing her aching arms, Leslie grabbed the washboard again, where Frank West's knife marks were clearly visible, the work seemed endless, just chores, and chores. A little concerned Leslie frowned, as she had noticed that the roof tiles had broken in last winter's fierce storms, but the roof wasn't leaking, yet. To repair the bricks, additional income was needed. Perhaps next summer a new temporary tenant could be found, and thus also the funds for repairs.
Wrapping her pale sleeves on her elbows, Leslie concentrated on her scrubbing, and as she did so, she thought with a wistful heart of her Papa's books, there weren't many of them, and their cloth covers were stained, but they contained all the wonders of the world, written word had always done so to her Dick's laugh echoed from the front yard, familiar, reasonless, as Leslie hung the rest of the laundry to dry, wringing the heavy water from her blue-striped skirt. Simple light country blouses, modest handmade skirts, all carefully made in her own hands, with Mummy's old patterns, worn fabrics, swayed in the chilly October wind.
The frosty honey-yellow light of the early evening sparkled in the willow branches as Leslie sat on the veranda and looked up at the sky, a thin leather-backed book, Music and Moonlight: Poems and Songs, by Arthur O'Shaughnessy, lying beside her. Leslie's loneliness was broken when Caro came up next to her and pressed her muzzle to her shoulder. A cold rising wind pelted Leslie, and she hurried inside.
Nature was preparing for winter, everything seemed shady, freezing and gray.
A couple of hours later, Captain Jim appeared with Dick in tow, and he said in a friendly but nonchalant tone, "Leslie my girl, you've been as busy as a bee all this week, as you always are. And you deserve a rest and company. Go visit the Blythes. I'm with Dick, maybe we'll play checkers, or I'll tell him some of my old yarns, so all will be well here. Go."
The old cabinet clock showed half past eight in the evening. And glancing around, Leslie said briefly, "It is unseemly, to go so late, I don't want to disturb them." Capitan Jim looked at Leslie and said, "It is your duty to your neighbors to go and say hello, tonight, sit by the roaring fire and enjoy yourself with those lovely young people. Take your coat and that sweet red cap of yours, and do what is right."
Captain Jim saw a slightly distressed, haunted look flash across Leslie's blue eyes, but then it vanished as Leslie raised her posture, and stepping to the little dresser, opened the drawer and fastened a scarlet geranium to her collar, close to her neck.
With almost silent steps Leslie's figure disappeared among the trees, of the cross-lots road, as Captain Jim took out a game of checkers and sat down on the couch, glanced at Dick Moore, who sat opposite a little slouched, familiarly, and said, "Well, let's see, once years ago I was sailing in Havana and In Cuba, of course you remember those waters, the blazing sun, and the rum and the beautiful, delicious women.."
A small grin slowly crept up Dick Moore's parted lips as he leaned forward as Captain Jim's voice filled the quiet, hollow house.
Gilbert Blythe glanced attentively at Leslie Moore, as that girl sat with girlish queenly grace in an arm-chair, and watched, listened attentively, with a touch of hungry glances at their modest library. Anne had been talking with Leslie intensely all evening, and every now and then a charming laugh had burst from Leslie's lips, in that laugh was all the joy in the world, and mirth. Leslie's sea-blue eyes twinkled, with soft allurement, as she murmured, a strand of poetry unknown to Gilbert.
We are the music-makers.
And we are the dreamers of dreams.
Wandering by lone sea-breakers.
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers.
On whom the pale moon gleams
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems
Gilbert observed how Anne's eyes twinkled, and a slight blush rose upon her face, as she eagerly answered Leslie's glance, and exclaimed, "Is that perhaps O'Shaughnessy's verse?"
Leslie's voice dropped into a low almost caressing glad murmur, as she replied to Anne, eagerly, " Yes, it was. Papa loved his way of verse, I only have one of his collections, but I know it by heart."
The light sparkled on her hair, like molten gold, that thick golden hair was braided into a braid with something feminine done to keep it out of the way, as for a moment Gilbert remembered Ruby Gills flirtatious laugh, and the twinkle in her blue eyes, as Ruby had leaned on Gilbert's arm on the Avonlea road, but Leslie Moore was nothing like poor, lost Ruby, as the force of her personality was startling.
With a frown Gilbert concluded that Leslie Moore was probably a few years older than either of them, but it was certain that his previous conclusion about Moore's marriage could still be wrong. Anne seemed to believe Cornelia Bryant's version wholeheartedly, but Gilbert wanted to hear another opinion, perhaps from Captain Jim.
The fire crackled, and the toffee smelled, as Leslie rose and examined, with quiet satisfaction in her being, the books whose merits Anne had praised a few moments before. Magog's shadow spread across the wall as Leslie returned to her seat, lightly, gracefully. Almost against his will, Gilbert created an extremely admiring look at her, as her stately figure was most excellent, as Gilbert turned his gaze to Anne, he noticed that there was a peculiarly intent look in Anne's varying grey-green eyes, as if Anne was waiting for something.
The clock started ringing, it was ten.
And with a start Leslie rose, saying earnestly, "Oh, an hour is no time, and nothing Captain Jim often says, but I've been here two hours already, and what fun they've been, but now I must go."
Leslie looked at Anne and Gilbert, and at that moment, a deep wave of resentment rose in her chest. There they stood, happy, loving, all this loveliness around them, all that which would never be her lot in life, for her path, her duty was elsewhere. Scorching anger and crippling self-loathing burned, and to cover it, Leslie nodded mechanically, expressed her thanks politely, if curt style, there were almost pitiful haste in her graceful movements.
Anne stood by the window and watched as Leslie's figure slowly disappeared into the foggy evening. The wind seemed to howl. And slowly Anne turned and said lightly, seriously, "Well, now you surely understand Gil. Wasn't she lovely?" Cornelia has said that her hair reaches to her feet when she lets it loose. Every hair is like gold, living gold. I've never seen anything like it, Ruby's hair was beautiful, but not like that."
Gilbert glanced at Anne he replied with an emphatic hearty tone, "She is very beautiful." And just as Gilbert had calculated, a shrad of green sparkled in Anne's eyes as she replied, with a touch of wistfullness, "What if my hair wasn't red, if it was blonde, like Leslie's?"
Gilbert took a step towards Anne as he whispered in her ear, "Your red hair crowns you. It makes you shine my own queen, queen of my home and my heart."
An extremely delighted smile came to Anne's lips as she cast a calculating glance in Gilbert's direction, saying, "Well, then you can admire Leslie as much as you like."
And a little later, in their bedroom, Gilbert noticed how the corset had left red streaks on Anne's lily-white skin, despite her thin shift, as she rested beside him, her red hair flowing, covering them both, those fragrant strands of deep red.
Slightly startled, Gilbert felt Anne shiver as she opened up, sweetly slick, and warm, enveloping him in her, as she rained small caresses and kisses, on his collarbones, there was sense of fierceness in that surrender, as waves of fierce passion shook them both like an October storm.