The soft spring nights of March-April are bright and short for those who are awake, as Leslie was. For hours after another, she walked the floor of her room, and with every step she felt in her soul a cutting, pain, as she heard again Gilbert's clear merciless words, his judgment of Dick.
That sliver of opportunity.
Leslie felt the painful cage around her again, that black suffocating, merciless cage, that cage that had materialized around her again, invisible for now, but pressing.
Leslie could almost feel its sharp spikes, feel the blood running down her arms, down her legs, feel the phantom touch of Dick, that merciless, clever insidious touch, those soft words that could so quickly turn into something else. A throbbing panic and terror choked her throat, for she knew what was right, but her whole soul rebelled against it.
A golden sunrise sparkled in the eastern sky as Leslie lifted her pale face toward it. In that light, she stood, in front of the mirror in her long, thin lawn chemise, and examined herself coolly, critically. A network of white, thin burn scars on her arms, and a few fresh bruises that resembled finger marks. Their blackish-blue hue was a strange contrast against the creamy paleness of her skin.
Leslie in the mirror, the expression in her eyes, was turbulent. And slowly as the light rose and increased, as every worn corner of the Moore House appeared anew in the spring glow, Leslie felt like an animal squirming free from a sharp trap.
The fastest most effective movements, Leslie wrote a short list, and chose her clothes.
There were many things to do today, as it was day to visit Glen.
Downstairs, in the parlor Dick seemed content, and even a little drowsy as he ate his eggs. His striped cap was in his hands, and he looked up as Leslie stood in the doorway, as Leslie said, as always, "I'll be right back. I will do some errands at Glen."
The patched roof was clearly visible in the spring light, and looking at it Leslie remembered how much pain she had felt when she gave the contractor his fee, the money with her initials his well flowing hand written on the envelope. But it had to be done, there was no escaping the inevitable. Without repairs, the roof would not have survived the winter that had hit the island.
Dick watched from the window as Pretty walked away, she was standing by the willows, in her blue skirt, her white pretty country blouse, and a red scarf around her slim waist, she had a basket on her arm, then she vanished from his sight.
Leslie had stayed away in the Glen longer than she had planned, as several of the women from Glen's Laidies Aid had wanted to talk to her, and a few new novels had arrived in Glen's lending library, which Leslie had happily borrowed.
In the basket weighed her purchases, which Carter Flagg, smiling and wiping his thinning hair, had carefully packed for her, saying, "Beautiful daughter of Rose West, here to visit."
Mrs Kirke had said half kindly, " Mrs Leslie Moore are you going to see your kin perhaps? They are so alone in West house, up on the hill, but Wests are always strange, in your own way."
Leslie had glanced slightly frostily at Mrs Kirke as she had remarked briefly, "Dear , Mrs Kirke I am not. Good afternoon, I have to go now."
When Leslie Moore's slender figure had disappeared from view Mrs. Kirke had remarked to Mrs. Crawfrod, "Did you hear that? Leslie Moore is still as proud and icy as ever, but so beautiful, men fall at her feet, even when she takes care of that idiot. There should be some justice in the world."
Hours passed, and the light changed. The wind picked up and the smell of the sea increased. Restlessly he did his chores, but still Pretty didn't come.
Tired, her shoulder aching from carrying the basket, Leslie stopped in the yard of Moore House. It was quiet, not even the geese were cawing. The outbuildings were covered in a golden, almost dusty light, and a few spring flowers were growing on the lawn.
And then the door opened and Dick ran across the yard, there was a restless, lost look in his eyes, as he stopped in front of Leslie and held out his hand helplessly, as he rumbled, "Pretty, you lingered, you lingered."
Dick's large hands grasped her blue hems, and seeing that helpless gesture Leslie's earlier steadfast resolve broke.
More gently than usual, Leslie gently touched Dick's shoulder as she remarked, "Will you help me carry this basket?"
Dick, rose from his crouched position, and with one step swung the basket over his shoulder, almost flamboyant in style.
Herbal mint tea made from dried herbs smelled lightly in a bluish teapot.
His recent anxiety and loneliness seemed to be washed away, but he still seemed restless as he paced in circles so violently that the floor creaked.
Then suddenly, Dick stopped and held out his hand to Leslie, there was a melting politeness and humanity in that gesture.
Tired and numb, heart aching Leslie whispered, "No, not, now Dick. Drink your tea, I'll be back soon."
The large figure, nodded once, and as Leslie closed the door, she heard a soft hum.
Gilbert looked up from the latest issue of the Lancet in surprise as Anne said, "Dearest, Leslie is here."
Gilbert noticed that Leslie was pale, but the torturous pain that had been in her eyes a couple of days earlier was now gone. Her manner was very brisk and efficient, almost cold as she said, "I've thought, and I've made up my mind. I agree to that operation. He, He deserves a chance, however small it may be. To do otherwise is not right, I know my duty."
Gilbert, glancing inquisitively at Leslie, as she continued, "I'll have to travel to Montreal, with him, and the local doctors will probably want to do their own analysis, won't they?"
Gilbert noticed that Leslie's voice trembled slightly as she said, "In Montreal there is Asuylums there."
Gilbert remarked in the most soothing way possible, "Yes, but they are some of the best in the country, but this upcoming operation is at a local hospital. You are right that there is a lot to organize and if you have any questions, I will give you all the information I can, both of you. "
Leslie gave Anne an almost dismissive look as she said, "Thank you for agreeing to walk part of the way with me, but it's not necessary, as mist has already fallen to the ground. Good evening."
Greenish dusk was falling as Leslie walked out of the garden of the House of Dreams, and at the window, Anne stood as she pondered with her inner acuity. None of us can know what this is like, for her. Leslie clings to her duty as if it's the only thing that can keep her going, which maybe it is. If Dick can be restored, Leslie's life will return to the way it was before, of which she has only referred to fragments, because she may not be able to do anything else. She shall vanish in some corner of her soul.
Trembling, Anne closed her eyes as she remembered what she had half-witnessed her time at Hammonds. The constant threat of violence, the clink of breaking glass, and a silence that had been more alarming than anything else. With a shudder, Anne remembered Leslie's arms, those light constellations of burn scars, some explainable, some not.
Anne started, as Gilbert's arms wrapped around her, tenderly lovingly, as he murmured, "Well, Anne-girl, you shouldn't be standing, come sit by our own fireplace, with me."
The misty bright spring moonlight shone in the Toronto sky.
Owen Ford looked out the window of his rented room.
On the small table was a letters and a stack of books, Anne Blythe's letters were among the others.
She had been true to her word, there were few mentions of Leslie in her lovely, chatty letters, but there had been no letters for a few weeks now, but there was nothing special about it, as their correspondence was regular and irregular.
Owen looked again at the publishing deal for his book, the book, the collaboration that might put his name in the stars. Wearily he glanced at another book on the table, actually, it was a play that always brought Leslie to his mind, it was Pelléas et Mélisande, by Maeterlinck.