“What had happened to him?”
“Nobody knows the rights of it. All the folks who kept the boarding house could tell was that about a year before they had found him lying on their doorstep one morning in an awful condition — his head battered to a jelly almost. They supposed he’d got hurt in some drunken row, and likely that’s the truth of it. They took him in, never thinking he could live. But he did — and he was just like a child when he got well. He hadn’t memory or intellect or reason. They tried to find out who he was but they never could. He couldn’t even tell them his name — he could only say a few simple words. He had a letter on him beginning ‘Dear Dick’ and signed ‘Leslie,’ but there was no address on it and the envelope was gone. They let him stay on — he learned to do a few odd jobs about the place — and there Captain Jim found him. He brought him home — I’ve always said it was a bad day’s work, though I s’pose there was nothing else he could do. He thought maybe when Dick got home and saw his old surroundings and familiar faces his memory would wake up. But it hadn’t any effect. There he’s been at the house up the brook ever since. He’s just like a child, no more nor less. Takes fractious spells occasionally, but mostly he’s just vacant and good humored and harmless. He’s apt to run away if he isn’t watched. That’s the burden Leslie has had to carry for eleven years — and all alone. Old Abner Moore died soon after Dick was brought home and it was found he was almost bankrupt. When things were settled up there was nothing for Leslie and Dick but the old West farm. Leslie rented it to John Ward, and the rent is all she has to live on. Sometimes in summer she takes a boarder to help out. But most visitors prefer the other side of the harbor where the hotels and summer cottages are. Leslie’s house is too far from the bathing shore. She’s taken care of Dick and she’s never been away from him for eleven years — she’s tied to that imbecile for life. And after all the dreams and hopes she once had! You can imagine what it has been like for her, Anne, dearie — with her beauty and spirit and pride and cleverness. It’s just been a living death.”
“Poor, poor girl!” said Anne again. Her own happiness seemed to reproach her. What right had she to be so happy when another human soul must be so miserable?
“Will you tell me just what Leslie said and how she acted the night you met her on the shore?” asked Miss Cornelia.
She listened intently and nodded her satisfaction.
“YOU thought she was stiff and cold, Anne, dearie, but I can tell you she thawed out wonderful for her. She must have taken to you real strong. I’m so glad. You may be able to help her a good deal. I was thankful when I heard that a young couple was coming to this house, for I hoped it would mean some friends for Leslie; especially if you belonged to the race that knows Joseph. You WILL be her friend, won’t you, Anne, dearie?”
“Indeed I will, if she’ll let me,” said Anne, with all her own sweet, impulsive earnestness.
“No, you must be her friend, whether she’ll let you or not,” said Miss Cornelia resolutely. “Don’t you mind if she’s stiff by times — don’t notice it. Remember what her life has been — and is — and must always be, I suppose, for creatures like Dick Moore live forever, I understand. You should see how fat he’s got since he came home. He used to be lean enough. Just MAKE her be friends — you can do it — you’re one of those who have the knack. Only you mustn’t be sensitive. And don’t mind if she doesn’t seem to want you to go over there much. She knows that some women don’t like to be where Dick is — they complain he gives them the creeps. Just get her to come over here as often as she can. She can’t get away so very much — she can’t leave Dick long, for the Lord knows what he’d do — burn the house down most likely. At nights, after he’s in bed and asleep, is about the only time she’s free. He always goes to bed early and sleeps like the dead till next morning. That is how you came to meet her at the shore likely. She wanders there considerable.”
“I will do everything I can for her,” said Anne. Her interest in Leslie Moore, which had been vivid ever since she had seen her driving her geese down the hill, was intensified a thousand fold by Miss Cornelia’s narration. The girl’s beauty and sorrow and loneliness drew her with an irresistible fascination. She had never known anyone like her; her friends had hitherto been wholesome, normal, merry girls like herself, with only the average trials of human care and bereavement to shadow their girlish dreams. Leslie Moore stood apart, a tragic, appealing figure of thwarted womanhood. Anne resolved that she would win entrance into the kingdom of that lonely soul and find there the comradeship it could so richly give, were it not for the cruel fetters that held it in a prison not of its own making.
“And mind you this, Anne, dearie,” said Miss Cornelia, who had not yet wholly relieved her mind, “You mustn’t think Leslie is an infidel because she hardly ever goes to church — or even that she’s a Methodist. She can’t take Dick to church, of course — not that he ever troubled church much in his best days. But you just remember that she’s a real strong Presbyterian at heart, Anne, dearie.”
Chapter XII.
Leslie Comes Over
Leslie came over to the house of dreams one frosty October night, when moonlit mists were hanging over the harbor and curling like silver ribbons along the seaward glens. She looked as if she repented coming when Gilbert answered her knock; but Anne flew past him, pounced on her, and drew her in.
“I’m so glad you picked tonight for a call,” she said gaily. “I made up a lot of extra good fudge this afternoon and we want someone to help us eat it — before the fire — while we tell stories. Perhaps Captain Jim will drop in, too. This is his night.”
“No. Captain Jim is over home,” said Leslie. “He — he made me come here,” she added, half defiantly.
“I’ll say a thank-you to him for that when I see him,” said Anne, pulling easy chairs before the fire.
“Oh, I don’t mean that I didn’t want to come,” protested Leslie, flushing a little. “I — I’ve been thinking of coming — but it isn’t always easy for me to get away.”
“Of course it must be hard for you to leave Mr. Moore,” said Anne, in a matter-of-fact tone. She had decided that it would be best to mention Dick Moore occasionally as an accepted fact, and not give undue morbidness to the subject by avoiding it. She was right, for Leslie’s air of constraint suddenly vanished. Evidently she had been wondering how much Anne knew of the conditions of her life and was relieved that no explanations were needed. She allowed her cap and jacket to be taken, and sat down with a girlish snuggle in the big armchair by Magog. She was dressed prettily and carefully, with the customary touch of color in the scarlet geranium at her white throat. Her beautiful hair gleamed like molten gold in the warm firelight. Her sea-blue eyes were full of soft laughter and allurement. For the moment, under the influence of the little house of dreams, she was a girl again — a girl forgetful of the past and its bitterness. The atmosphere of the many loves that had sanctified the little house was all about her; the companionship of two healthy, happy, young folks of her own generation encircled her; she felt and yielded to the magic of her surroundings — Miss Cornelia and Captain Jim would scarcely have recognized her; Anne found it hard to believe that this was the cold, unresponsive woman she had met on the shore — this animated girl who talked and listened with the eagerness of a starved soul. And how hungrily Leslie’s eyes looked at the bookcases between the windows!
“Our library isn’t very extensive,” said Anne, “but every book in it is a FRIEND. We’ve picked our books up through the years, here and there, never buying one until we had first read it and knew that it belonged to