Moore's farm was bathed in a soft golden light that hid the shabbiness of the outbuildings. The wind slowly rustled the willows, their music harmonizing with the sound of horse-drawn carriages passing by on the upper road.
Leslie wiped her forehead, the barn was dimly hot, and smelled pleasantly of hay.
A few moments before, in a fit of mischief, Dick had let Leslie's geese out, and she had been quite busy herding them back. Leslie turned, as the shadow at the barn door turned out to be Dick, steadily lifting bales of hay on a pallet.
The slanted light, the smell of hay and the dust floating in the air was alluring, and for a moment Leslie sank into an old memory.
Dick's blue-and-white-striped shirt had been damp with sweat as he turned with cat-like agility, like the sailor that he was. The silence deepened, as Leslie noticed that her hands holding the tray were shaking a little, as Dick looked at her for a long time with impudence, as he finally said, in his usual gruff way, " Pretty, if you don't want a frolick or two in the hay, that's all the same to me, but I thought while we're both here?"
Leslie had shifted her weight so that her pale skirt had swung, as she had left the tray of lemonade on the chopping block without saying a word.
Dick's laugh had been harshly suggestive as he had turned to the hay again, remarking, "There's time. You'll find we can have fun together my dear, luckily you're my type, you will submit sooner or later."
Dick had stretched, in a showing off-way, and again in a faint way Leslie had thought that Dick liked the predation more than the catch. And a little later, looking at her bruised arms, Leslie had shivered, looking in the mirror, there had been a broken look in her eyes, it was slowly covered under steely willpower.
And now, hearing Dick's footsteps, Leslie retreated instinctively, into the shadows. She leaned against the wall, and touched the rusted scythe, fingered it. There was a pale bandage on Dick's neck, which Leslie had taken care of according to Gilbert's instructions.
Dick glanced in Leslie's direction with a little startled helplessness as he lowered his rake to the ground, and held out his hairy hands and mumbled softly, "Pretty, Pretty, come, come to me." That sentence cut Leslie's soul like a burning iron, because it was mixed with previous memories. Cautiously, Leslie walked through the dim barn to Dick's. With a focused look in his eyes, Dick gently touched Leslie's glinting golden braid, as if caressing it, and when he released his grip, he had a handful of grasses in his hand, which he clearly proudly held out to Leslie.
The barn was quiet, and geese and turkeys were cackling outside safely snug in their shelters. Leslie glanced at Dick's face, and there was only calmness and mild confusion, his earlier brooding and heavy mood was as if swept away. They came and went. Leslie flinched as suddenly she felt a light, strangely impersonal touch on her waist. Dick's other hand touched her usual gridle of crimson scarf tentatively, and a slight smile had formed on his lips as he remarked, "It suits you, Pretty."
A little later, while laundry was drying on the porch, Leslie eyed Dick critically as he shaved his beard, carefully, and then the straight-razor cut a gash under his jaw. Red blood stained the collar of his white shirt.
Leslie, took the thin blade in her hand, the pearly handle felt cool in her hand as she softly drew the blade along Dick's skin. And the sharp moth of an idea fluttered restlessly in Leslie's mind, just one cut and her burden would be off, it would be like the fall slaughter of a pig, but not as bloody chore. Her slender fingers tightened their grip on the razor, as Leslie looked anxiously at Dick, who, like a trusting child, put his life in her hands, literally.
Dick hummed, and his shoulders were solid and sturdy, and so alive. With a damp cloth, Leslie wiped Dick's face, and he rose from his creaking chair, and loomed. As if to make up for her recent thoughts, Leslie said more softly than usual, "Do you want to go up to the Light, set nets with Captain Jim?" Dick nodded eagerly, and soon he had disappeared towards the Cape of the Four Winds.
Carefully, Leslie soaked Dick's bloodstained shirt in salt and warm water and hung it up to dry. Humming, Leslie filled the old tub in the back room with steaming water. On the small table, there was a teapot full of fragrant mint tea and a novel that Anne had recommended.
Anne walked into the yard of Moore's house, the reddish light of the early evening brought out the shadows, but the yard was deserted. As was her custom, Anne knocked on the porch door, but Leslie was nowhere to be seen.
The smelling drying laundry was neatly on the line, and Carlo raised his head, and barked low and loud when Anne entered a little hesitantly.
Leslie's voice could be heard invitingly, gently curtly commanding, from the room next to the kitchen, "Carlo, don't bark, it's probably only dearest Anne, come here, the door is ajar."
Anne hid her smile as she stepped forward into a narrow hallway that resembled something similar to Green Gables, but only upstairs, as Leslie's voice came muffled from behind the door, "Anne, I had a rough day today, so I took a little time for myself. Dick unleashed my gooses, and there was more, well you yourself know how farm work accumulates."
Anne, sat down in a little chair near the door and said merrily, and in musing way "I do, know dearest. Sometimes I feel like I made all the scrapes I could, ruined my favorite dress in wet oats while following a cow, and fell into a duck coop, and stained my nose."
Leslie's silver and golden delicious laugh sparkled soft as rain, the door was indeed ajar, and Anne saw a simple, almost barren washroom with a large broken mirror on one wall, and through its reflection Anne glanced into the room in passing, freezing in place, flush staining her cheeks.
She saw Leslie, who was enveloped in a thin opaque muslin shift, through which the soft curves of her body were visible. Leslie plaited, patiently, her damp, thick hair, the color of which was a mixture of dark gold and wind-ripened wheat. A faded rose-red kimono was on her shoulders, and Anne could clearly see, half in the shadows, Leslie's arms, with traces of old scars, glinting almost silvery in the light. The heavy tub was still steaming, and the water had turned Leslie's pale skin a soft rose pink.
In that moment, she was utterly captivatingly lovely, and her beauty was almost too much. Anne lowered her eyes, embarrassed, as she thought, of those moments when Gilbert had surprised her in a similar situation. But, Leslie, her situation was quite different. Again, Anne felt an almost excruciating pain and a quiet, unanswerable enchantment.
As they sat later in the parlor drinking tea, Anne inquired with a slight blush rising to her ears, "That kimono you were wearing a moment ago, it was beautiful, and looks old." Leslie straightened the collar of her simple bluish dress, as she smiled, like a delighted child, as she replied thoughtfully, "It was Mamas, most of my clothes are, or at least made according to her patterns. Simplicity is dignity in my opinion, at least in clothes. Of course, I have dreamed of purple silk at one time, but that too is yet another unfulfilled dream."
Anne stirred her tea as she inquired, "Are you taking on a tenant for the summer season as Miss Cornelia can't? Apparently Mr. Ford would be willing to have a simple homestay in this very village, at least according to Cornelia's information."
Leslie played with her braids, they dripped heavily almost to the ground, as she said with light irony, "I have no choice if I want to keep my roof in order this coming winter, Anne. A simple homestay is what I can offer, but I don't think this Mr. Ford is comfortable here, my previous tenants were not, as Four Winds is too far from everything, hotels and entertainment."
Anne raised her teacup, and said in a gentle scolding style, "Leslie my dear, you promised to try to change your attitude. Maybe Mr. Ford will surprise us. One never knows."
Leslie shrugged her shoulders slightly in her cool style as she looked at Anne's fresh, dear, lively features.
And then she stood up suddenly and said a little haltingly, "You recite so beautifully, can you read me something?"
Anne got up and lightly and eagerly she went to explore the bookshelf, most of the books were unknown to her, she ran her finger along the narrow shelf, and picked up a thin greenish book with stylized flowers on the cover, opened it blindly and began to recite.
The lilies clustered fair and tall;
I stood outside the garden wall;
I saw her light robe glimmering through
The fragrant evening's dusk and dew.
She stopped above the lilies pale;
Up the clear east the moon did sail;
I saw her bend her lovely head
O'er her rich roses blushing red.
Her slender hand the flowers caressed,
Her touch the unconscious blossoms blessed;
The rose against her perfumed palm
Leaned its soft cheek in blissful calm.
I would have given my soul to be
That rose she touched so tenderly!
I stood alone, outside the gate,
And knew that life was desolate.
Leslie snuggled into a worn armchair, and she half closed her eyes as Anne's voice washed over her like waves, as she read Celia Laighton Thaxters verses, which said the unspeakable, the ephemeral feeling that was even at this moment in this room.
Anne's gray-green eyes widened as she whispered with passionate excitement, "Oh darling, can I borrow this?"
Leslie smiled as she remarked, "Of course, and as I recall, here's the book I borrowed from you. It was interesting, more realistic, than I expected."
As the warmth of Leslie's shy, cautious embrace lingered in Anne's body, as she walked cross-lots road to her House of Dreams, clutching the book to her bosom, Anne's thoughts circled in a seemingly endless circle, seeing Leslie, like that, had been startlingly intimate, and even though Anne had looked away almost immediately that sight had remained, in her memory, like sweetly forbidden story might, it haunted her.
Anne found that she was in a very responsive mood, as she was feeling swollen and slick. Out of breath, Anne leaned against a tree, and closed her eyes, as she let herself to think of Gilbert, in detail, in the most explicit way.
It did help, a bit.
There was a slight sound of footsteps and Susans exlamation, " Dearest Mrs Doctor Dear, how was Mrs. Moore this fine evening?" Anne´s voice were faint as she replied to Susan.
Gilbert looked up from his chapters on trepanation, as Anne sat down on the small sofa in his study and said in a pleading tone of voice, "I have been drowning in my own grief all spring, in consequence of neglecting my marital duties. Our little one was yours too, dearest Gil."
Anne bit her lip, meeting Gilbert's surprised but slightly pained look, and without being embarrassed, Anne raised her chin, and said insistently, "I mean what I said. I need you dearest. Doctor Dave asked me last week if everything is normal between us."
Gilbert brushed his unruly curls as he said earnestly, "Anne, Anne, we have time, yes we will have children, in time. Be patient. You must get stronger, yet."
Gilbert saw Anne's eyes flash as she said in a slightly bitter voice, "I'm not made of porcelain, Gil. If you knew.."
About a week later, in time when juicy cherries were being picked in the Four Winds and Glen area and the summer evenings were calm and beautiful, the train arrived at the station.
Owen Ford lifted his suitcase onto the dusty ground and looked at the landscape unfolding in front of him with fresh, interested eyes. The place seemed idyllic and peaceful, perhaps here he was able to recover better than he had imagined.
A friendly, brisk voice said near him, " , I'm Miss Bryant, and I'm escorting you to an acquaintance of mine, as I don't have time to escort you to your lodgins, Mrs. Blythe will."
Secretly amused, Owen Ford glanced at the apparition standing before him, the woman was about middle-aged and seemed extremely efficient and busy, with sharp attentive brown eyes and a fresh color in her face, but she was dressed in a rose-patterned dressing gown more suited to a tea parlor than a rural railway station. Perhaps his landlady, Mrs. Moore was similar, to Miss Bryant.
Owen nodded with interest, but with a little automaticly as Miss Cornelia said in a slightly pointed tone, "Baxter's youngest fell into a vat of boiling water in the Glen, and I have been summoned. Mrs. Moore's husband, Dick Moore, is harmless but slow, as a result of an accident, don't mind him, he usually stays out of the tenants' way. Leslie, Mrs. Moore is quite a good housekeeper, although her pies are not as tasty as mine. Well, there is a road towards old Miss Russell's place, which the Blythes have rented. I hope you enjoy yourself here Mr. Ford. And remember to come to Presbyterian services on Sundays, if you can."
Owen Ford looked down the little path filled with soft dark green grass, and at the bend he saw a pretty pale house, really like a creamy clam, as Mother Alice had always said it was. As Owen Ford took his first step, he suddenly felt as if he had come home.