The village of Four Winds was buzzing with curiosity when, on a bright, clear October afternoon, the news spread that guests, out-of-towners, had come to Moore's house for a visit. Mrs. Olivia Kirke was almost beside herself, as was Louisa Balwdin too, but she had a reason for it. When gray-haired Louisa Baldwin arrived out of breath at Carter Flagg's shop up at the Glen, and exclaimed, "I was on the high road, and I saw the dead walk, it was quite horrible, I had a shiver down my spine, and I almost fainted at the place."
The news of the vision reached Cornelia Marshall Elliott's ears very quickly, and that clever woman noted in her snappy style, "Louisa Baldwin, imagining her own, ghosts, stuff and nonsense. That vision is just George Moore and his fiancee, up here at visit, nothing very exciting."
But the Annals of Four Winds, that visit of George Moore, revived and in his full senses was quite remarkable, and so a couple of days later, there was quite a crowd of curious people at the train station to see how the always showy and brilliantly stately Leslie Moore, Mrs. Gilbert Blythe, and Cornelia Elliot shook hands and even embraced the tall man, and standing next to him was a slim, girlish-looking woman whose hair under a modest hat was coppergold, and that lady said in an audible voice, somewhat pointedly, "Dear Leslie, and Anne, thank you for the delightful reception, here in this lovely village. Now we can begin again, the shadows are banished."
Kirke later told everyone who happened to hear, and some who didn't, "When I happened to look in George Moore's direction, I'm sure I smelled some booze on the wind, maybe rum. He seemed uncomfortable, those eyes, and that striped sweater, very peculiar, and frowned upon. And everyone knows that red-haired women are untrustworthy, and strange, like Mistress Blythe, for example here one wants to think that she is a saint, if Susan Baker or Cornelia Marshall Elliott are to be believed, because her husband knows his trade, quite well, so young, and he is quite easy on the eyes too, that smooth bedside-manner.
Leslie found herself glad the visit was over, thankfully the rains had stopped momentarily, as the Moores had walked in the house, and Sianna Moore had stated matter-of-factly in a style Leslie found she recognized, "George is still a Moore, and you know what that means, dearest sea is in him, but I know that along with the love of the sea, George tries to consider my feelings, he doesn't always succeed, but he tries, and that in itself means something. It's been a challenging time in Halifax and I'm glad we're getting a fresh start elsewhere, less echoes, hopefully. This visit here has been more important to both of us than you might imagine."
There was a slightly rueful and slightly ironic look in Sianna's blue eyes, which looked almost gray in the translucent light, as she glanced out the window. George Moore was sitting on the edge of the well, looking toward the barn, a large man in dark pants and a striped shirt.
Sianna continued, with a slim shrug of her shoulders, "You have to know how to deal with men of the Moore family, but only up to a certain point. My late Mother would not have wanted me to start walking out with George, but I knew that life by George's side would at least be varied." To her own surprise, Leslie found herself returning that smile with her own, as she noted dryly, "Restful those Moores are not."
Sianna's neutral gaze swept cautiously over Leslie, appraisingly, nonjudgmentally, and finally her gaze settled on the worn cross-stitch that hung on the parlor wall, a darkened crack in the wall panel, as she whispered, "Dick was always a brute, despite his charm."
Leslie nodded stiffly, and for a brief moment she was lost in memories. Mama Rose's wheezing, choked breathing coming from upstairs, Dick's fluctuating temper, and the growing pile of doctor's bills that seemed to keep coming no matter how hard she tried to budget, and the fatigue that felt to be everywhere, as if separated by a black misty gauze, Dick's demands didn't seem so heavy either, they just had to endure. She had done so, but how Leslie could no longer remember exactly, the details were unclear.
Leslie flinched as Sianna gently touched his hand and said sincerely, "It's over. Don't look back, try to live forward. Dick's been dust for years, it's hard to understand, especially when George and I are here now. I know , that this is extremely difficult for you, but you have done a great job, many others would not have agreed. I know you were a great help to George, in Montreal, even though he is not said a lot about it."
Leslie folded her arms and, in her cool way, glanced at Sianna Moore and said quietly, "You're right. I suppose George didn't tell everything, but enough that I got the whole picture, or part of it, it was a confusing time, for all of us." Sianna got up with light movements, and over her shoulder she glanced at Leslie, as she noted, "I want to see the rocks and the sea, I've been inside too long."
A little later, leaning against the shining golden aspen tree, Leslie looked thoughtfully at Sianna walking on the beach sand, almost in the waves, and George, who held his hand softly, gently, respectfully on Sianna's waist, and at that moment, Leslie missed Captain Jim immensely, for that scene reminded one of a touching chapter of the Life-Book , which George and Sianna had unknowingly recreated, a bluish gray light, sea-green waves, and a sailor and his beloved, walking in the shore water, but neither of them was Jim, nor lost Margaret, Sianna turned round, and cried, "Leslie, come!"
Holding up the hem of her bluish skirt, Leslie joined them.
The light had turned a hazy gray, and the salt of the waves smelled strongly. A few seagulls flew in an arc in the sky, with sharp wing beats. The reddish rocks were all around them, in that peaceful cove, and seaweed was lilting in the shore water.
George Moore glanced at Dicks Pretty's lovely profile in the hazy light, and he noted, politely,"My congratulations."
A rose gold amethyst ring shimmered in the light.
Pretty glanced quietly in George's direction, and that look was wary, that glorious golden wheat and honey colored hair in a thick braid moved slightly, it was almost a nod.
Morgan House was quiet, and full of packing boxes, things still finding their place. Gilbert noticed that Anne often sat on the verandah and looked up in the Four Winds way, and gently he remarked, "Dearest, you will love this house too."
Anne let out a small stifled sigh, as she raised her tragic eyes to Gilbert's face as she murmured, " You are right, I know it in my heart, but I am still sad, I have been uprooted, I know we will be happy here, and in time this will be our a home for our growing family, but let me be sad for a moment still, Gil please."
Gilbert pressed a soft kiss to Anne's hair, and went to unpack the packing boxes in his office.
A month passed, and one gray afternoon Gilbert had just arrived home from a consultation. Leslie had conquered the Morgan House kitchen, despite Susan's opposition, and had baked sweet-loaf with the old Elliott recipe, filled with raisins, nuts and slices of dried apples.
Anne was sitting in an armchair, with a half-open Tennyson on her knees, suddenly Anne declared, "This house is called Ingelside, because there are such charming ingelnooks here."
On a clear day, a large iron pot was boiling in a corner of the garden, and a clothesline was hung on a leafy tree. The cauldron smelled of old iron nails, and slowly the extremely beautiful old cream-colored silk dress took on a new color, an exciting, changing shade of amethyst.
At Carter Flagg's store, news was exchanged, the main one being Leslie Moore's upcoming wedding, on Christmas Day. Opinions were exchanged for and against and the general opinion was that it was quite peculiar that Leslie wanted a home wedding again, it was as if she had something to hide. And the wedding still out in the garden, in the middle of winter, far from everything, quite strange, and shameful, and no one knew anything about that Mr. Ford, you couldn't trust the newspaper men, not properly, he had never even visited either church, during his stay here, maybe he was a heathen, or even worse a Catholic.
Mrs. Olivia Kirke, sniffed and declared in a judgmental tone, " Mr. Ford is strange, nattering on about Beauty and Art, Leslie gets a bad bargain, I can tell, nobody's beauty lasts forever, when Leslies bloom begins to fade, then the trouble will start."
The sparest of spare room in Ingelside was lighted with the warmest of candles, and their golden soft glow complemented the red glow of Anne's hair, and the rich, thick, braid of Leslie's half-opened rich, thick braid of gold and honey, which flowed onto Rachel Lynde-stitched bedspread, though not the tobacco-leaf pattern.
Gilbert noticed that Leslie was half leaning on Anne's shoulder. His wife's milky skin was shimmering, there was light flush of rose in her cheeks, as she was dressed in her lace-decorated high-collared shirt, which she had worn in formal occasions in Summerside.
Anne looked intently at Leslie, with peculiarly keen intent.
A slight concern kindled in Gilberts heart as he saw how eagerly, with great joy, Anne joined in with Leslie. All golden, cream, and crimson cheeks flowing red tresses, as they chatted with low tones as notes of cooling tea were lingering in the room.
Never, never had Anne looked at him with such a mixture of trust and love. Not quite, there was a degree of difference, it shouldn't matter, but it did, somehow. A bosom-friend yes, but in his heart Gilbert was glad that Leslie was soon to be married to Owen Ford as then he could have Annes attention directed to him, all again.
Faintly Gilbert heard as Anne noted with a glimmer of her particular silvery laughter, " Oh, Leslie my love, I did tell you that marriage can be quite fun too, and you shall soon discover it. I know that you will be an unearthly beautiful apparition, in your wedding finery. It almost breaks my heart just thinking about your magnificence."
Then before one had time to turn around it was Christmas Day, the year was 1892, for a while still. Gilbert remembered his own wedding day, seeing Owen Ford's steady clear gray eyes and pale face, in the sitting room of the House of Dreams, as he waited for Leslie to appear.
Owen murmured to Gilbert, "What if Leslie doesn't come, what if it's too soon."
Gilbert smiled reassuringly at Owen and said, "She will, Leslie loves you, I'm sure, as is Anne too."
That old house was full of fragrant Christmas roses and hyacinths, lilies.
Anne strode down the stairs, in her green dress, a bunch of fragrant lilacs in her hair.
Marshall Elliott played Captain Jim's violin selection from Schubert's Rosamond Quartet, as Leslie floated in her amethyst silk with a frosted veil covering her features. There was a bouquet of dark red roses in her hands, a stunned, reverent silence fell.
Owen felt how Leslie's hand in its glove shook slightly in his grip as Gilbert held out the rings. Swift glance that Leslie gave him from between her eyelashes was steady and filled with love.
A sigh of delight was heard from those present, as the Presbyterian Minister declared, "I give you, Mr and Mrs Ford."
The wedding feast was long and merry, filled with shimmering happiness.
Anne warmly embraced Leslie, and whispered, "Leslie, now a new chapter in your life can begin."
Leslie's dark blue eyes were full of shadows as she whispered, "Anne, this happiness, it's almost painful, like an enchanted dream. I'm afraid it will disappear, like a beautiful cloud."
Anne pressed her finger softly, in a gentle scolding style, to Leslie's chin, as she chuckled lightly and said, "My dear, try to enjoy this evening as a whole, and I must say that Miss Russell's pale-blue moonstone lavalier necklace given by Cornelia Marshall Elliott for you, for your wedding, is downright lovely, it is your something blue and old. All the dark clouds are gone, dear."
The candles were lit, and the enchanting scent of roses and hyacinths was lingering. Owen opened his cufflinks, they clattered softly onto the small plate. Owen noticed that Leslie was sitting in front of the window, there was stiffness in her being, as she watched how the snow slowly fell.
Gently Owen whispered "My love."
Leslie turned, and the look in her eyes cut Owen's heart open, for a silent fear lingered in that dark blue gaze, a fear that seemed to increase as the silence deepened. Owen took a step forward, and opened the door to the corridor, the smell of roses increased.
Cautiously, Owen held out his hand. It looked for a moment as if Leslie didn't want to move, but then she glided past Owen like an automaton, and sat on the edge of the bed, stiff, in a thin pale blue slip dress with hand-woven lace at the hem, her hair still in its elaborate wedding-updo.
She resembled a queen awaiting judgment, or destruction.
Owen, bent down next to Leslie, and gently took her hand in his.
Leslie's hand was cold.
In a voice barely above a whisper, Owen said, "Leslie, Leslie. Tonight and all the nights to come, I want to sleep with you, fall asleep and sleep. That magnificent word, how deep, how true, how unequivocal, how exactly what it says. Just – sleep. And nothing more: and know right into the deepest sleep. And – kiss your heart. Everything else will come later, my beloved dearest."
Trembling, Leslie looked up at Owen's face as she nodded, barely perceptibly.
A pale snowy morning dawned and sleepily, hardly believing her own senses, as there was no pain, or bruises anywhere. Leslie felt Owen's safe warmth close to her, his arm wrapped around Leslie's waist.
With her heart overflowing with love, Leslie looked at sleeping Owen.
This was the new morning of the rest of her life, she could begin again, as she was truly being alive, not half-life anymore and maybe other blessings would be in store for her, later. Leslie leaned into Owen´s embrace and started slowly to create dreams, high castles filled with turrets, and perhaps she could gain her marble palace of her girlyhood-dreams, of sort. And children, with Owen´s eyes and her hair.
Owen awoke to a shy, loving touch, and smiling, he noted, "Morning Melisande."
Chuckling, Leslie inquired, "Someday you'll tell me why you call me that."
Owen embraced his wife gently, and found once again that in this snowy morning with golden hair in a cloud, Leslie was startlingly reminiscent of the heroine of Maeternlick's play, Owen smiled, happily, as he noted, "I promise it, but later, as it is too sad tale to tell this happy day, of all days."
Years later, Owen did take Leslie to see Debussy's opera Peleas et Melisande, just before they traveled to Japan, with Kenneth and Persis. As Debyssy's music glows in brilliant modern colors and the symbolist romantic text seduces the audience into a tragic triangle drama of two princes Golaud, Pelléas and fair lost Mélisande. Leslie afterwards glances at Owen in her cool precise style and says, "You were perceptive, in our early days my dear, when you called me by that name, then."
Owen, wrapped his arms around Leslie as Paris in May glowed around them, the boulevards full of life and the mysterious enchantment of spring, as he noted, "I had my romantic phase then, and you were the fulfillment of my unspoken and secret dreams my love, as you still are."