Anne's House of Dreams [100]
Anne, dearie, what you really think. I'll go by your advice."
"I don't think veils are usually worn with any but white dresses," admitted Anne, "but that is merely a convention; and I am like Mr. Elliott, Miss Cornelia. I don't see any good reason why you shouldn't have a veil if you want one."
But Miss Cornelia, who made her calls in calico wrappers, shook her head.
"If it isn't the proper thing I won't wear it," she said, with a sigh of regret for a lost dream.
"Since you are determined to be married, Miss Cornelia," said Gilbert solemnly, "I shall give you the excellent rules for the management of a husband which my grandmother gave my mother when she married my father."
"Well, I reckon I can manage Marshall Elliott," said Miss Cornelia placidly. "But let us hear your rules."
"The first one is, catch him."
"He's caught. Go on."
"The second one is, feed him well."
"With enough pie. What next?"
"The third and fourth are--keep your eye on him."
"I believe you," said Miss Cornelia emphatically.
CHAPTER 38
RED ROSES
The garden of the little house was a haunt beloved of bees and reddened by late roses that August. The little house folk lived much in it, and were given to taking picnic suppers in the grassy corner beyond the brook and sitting about in it through the twilights when great night moths sailed athwart the velvet gloom. One evening Owen Ford found Leslie alone in it. Anne and Gilbert were away, and Susan, who was expected back that night, had not yet returned.
The northern sky was amber and pale green over the fir tops. The air was cool, for August was nearing September, and Leslie wore a crimson scarf over her white dress. Together they wandered through the little, friendly, flower-crowded paths in silence. Owen must go soon. His holiday was nearly over. Leslie found her heart beating wildly. She knew that this beloved garden was to be the scene of the binding words that must seal their as yet unworded understanding.
" Some evenings a strange odor blows down the air of this garden, like a phantom perfume," said Owen. "I have never been able to discover from just what flower it comes. It is elusive and haunting and wonderfully sweet. I like to fancy it is the soul of Grandmother Selwyn passing on a little visit to the old spot she loved so well. There should be a lot of friendly ghosts about this little old house."
"I have lived under its roof only a month," said Leslie, "but I love it as I never loved the house over there where I have lived all my life."
"This house was builded and consecrated by love," said Owen. "Such houses, MUST exert an influence over those who live in them. And this garden--it is over sixty years old and the history of a thousand hopes and joys is written in its blossoms. Some of those flowers were actually set out by the schoolmaster's bride, and she has been dead for thirty years. Yet they bloom on every summer. Look at those red roses, Leslie--how they queen it over everything else!"
"I love the red roses," said Leslie. "Anne likes the pink ones best, and Gilbert likes the white. But I want the crimson ones. They satisfy some craving in me as no other flower does."
"These roses are very late--they bloom after all the others have gone--and they hold all the warmth and soul of the summer come to fruition," said Owen, plucking some of the glowing, half-opened buds.
"The rose is the flower of love--the world has acclaimed it so for centuries. The pink roses are love hopeful and expectant--the white roses are love dead or forsaken--but the red roses--ah, Leslie, what are the red roses?"
"Love triumphant," said Leslie in a low voice.
"Yes--love triumphant and perfect. Leslie, you know--you understand. I have loved you from the first. And I KNOW you love me--I don't need to ask you. But I want to hear you say it--my darling-- my darling!"
Leslie said something in a very low and tremulous voice. Their hands and lips met; it was life's supreme moment for them and as they stood there in the
"I don't think veils are usually worn with any but white dresses," admitted Anne, "but that is merely a convention; and I am like Mr. Elliott, Miss Cornelia. I don't see any good reason why you shouldn't have a veil if you want one."
But Miss Cornelia, who made her calls in calico wrappers, shook her head.
"If it isn't the proper thing I won't wear it," she said, with a sigh of regret for a lost dream.
"Since you are determined to be married, Miss Cornelia," said Gilbert solemnly, "I shall give you the excellent rules for the management of a husband which my grandmother gave my mother when she married my father."
"Well, I reckon I can manage Marshall Elliott," said Miss Cornelia placidly. "But let us hear your rules."
"The first one is, catch him."
"He's caught. Go on."
"The second one is, feed him well."
"With enough pie. What next?"
"The third and fourth are--keep your eye on him."
"I believe you," said Miss Cornelia emphatically.
CHAPTER 38
RED ROSES
The garden of the little house was a haunt beloved of bees and reddened by late roses that August. The little house folk lived much in it, and were given to taking picnic suppers in the grassy corner beyond the brook and sitting about in it through the twilights when great night moths sailed athwart the velvet gloom. One evening Owen Ford found Leslie alone in it. Anne and Gilbert were away, and Susan, who was expected back that night, had not yet returned.
The northern sky was amber and pale green over the fir tops. The air was cool, for August was nearing September, and Leslie wore a crimson scarf over her white dress. Together they wandered through the little, friendly, flower-crowded paths in silence. Owen must go soon. His holiday was nearly over. Leslie found her heart beating wildly. She knew that this beloved garden was to be the scene of the binding words that must seal their as yet unworded understanding.
" Some evenings a strange odor blows down the air of this garden, like a phantom perfume," said Owen. "I have never been able to discover from just what flower it comes. It is elusive and haunting and wonderfully sweet. I like to fancy it is the soul of Grandmother Selwyn passing on a little visit to the old spot she loved so well. There should be a lot of friendly ghosts about this little old house."
"I have lived under its roof only a month," said Leslie, "but I love it as I never loved the house over there where I have lived all my life."
"This house was builded and consecrated by love," said Owen. "Such houses, MUST exert an influence over those who live in them. And this garden--it is over sixty years old and the history of a thousand hopes and joys is written in its blossoms. Some of those flowers were actually set out by the schoolmaster's bride, and she has been dead for thirty years. Yet they bloom on every summer. Look at those red roses, Leslie--how they queen it over everything else!"
"I love the red roses," said Leslie. "Anne likes the pink ones best, and Gilbert likes the white. But I want the crimson ones. They satisfy some craving in me as no other flower does."
"These roses are very late--they bloom after all the others have gone--and they hold all the warmth and soul of the summer come to fruition," said Owen, plucking some of the glowing, half-opened buds.
"The rose is the flower of love--the world has acclaimed it so for centuries. The pink roses are love hopeful and expectant--the white roses are love dead or forsaken--but the red roses--ah, Leslie, what are the red roses?"
"Love triumphant," said Leslie in a low voice.
"Yes--love triumphant and perfect. Leslie, you know--you understand. I have loved you from the first. And I KNOW you love me--I don't need to ask you. But I want to hear you say it--my darling-- my darling!"
Leslie said something in a very low and tremulous voice. Their hands and lips met; it was life's supreme moment for them and as they stood there in the