Anne's House of Dreams [58]
I MUST confess it. Anne, there have been times this past winter and spring when I have HATED you."
"I KNEW it," said Anne calmly.
"You KNEW it?"
"Yes, I saw it in your eyes."
" And yet you went on liking me and being my friend."
"Well, it was only now and then you hated me, Leslie. Between times you loved me, I think."
"I certainly did. But that other horrid feeling was always there, spoiling it, back in my heart. I kept it down--sometimes I forgot it-- but sometimes it would surge up and take possession of me. I hated you because I ENVIED you--oh, I was sick with envy of you at times. You had a dear little home--and love--and happiness--and glad dreams--everything I wanted--and never had--and never could have. Oh, never could have! THAT was what stung. I wouldn't have envied you, if I had had any HOPE that life would ever be different for me. But I hadn't--I hadn't--and it didn't seem FAIR. It made me rebellious--and it hurt me--and so I hated you at times. Oh, I was so ashamed of it--I'm dying of shame now--but I couldn't conquer it.
That night, when I was afraid you mightn't live--I thought I was going to be punished for my wickedness--and I loved you so then. Anne, Anne, I never had anything to love since my mother died, except Dick's old dog--and it's so dreadful to have nothing to love--life is so EMPTY--and there's NOTHING worse than emptiness-- and I might have loved you so much--and that horrible thing had spoiled it--"
Leslie was trembling and growing almost incoherent with the violence of her emotion.
"Don't, Leslie," implored Anne, "oh, don't. I understand-- don't talk of it any more."
"I must--I must. When I knew you were going to live I vowed that I would tell you as soon as you were well--that I wouldn't go on accepting your friendship and companionship without telling you how unworthy I was of it. And I've been so afraid--it would turn you against me."
"You needn't fear that, Leslie."
"Oh, I'm so glad--so glad, Anne." Leslie clasped her brown, work-hardened hands tightly together to still their shaking. "But I want to tell you everything, now I've begun. You don't remember the first time I saw you, I suppose--it wasn't that night on the shore--"
"No, it was the night Gilbert and I came home. You were driving your geese down the hill. I should think I DO remember it! I thought you were so beautiful--I longed for weeks after to find out who you were."
"I knew who YOU were, although I had never seen either of you before. I had heard of the new doctor and his bride who were coming to live in Miss Russell's little house. I--I hated you that very moment, Anne."
"I felt the resentment in your eyes--then I doubted--I thought I must be mistaken--because WHY should it be?"
"It was because you looked so happy. Oh, you'll agree with me now that I AM a hateful beast--to hate another woman just because she was happy,--and when her happiness didn't take anything from me! That was why I never went to see you. I knew quite well I ought to go--even our simple Four Winds customs demanded that. But I couldn't. I used to watch you from my window--I could see you and your husband strolling about your garden in the evening--or you running down the poplar lane to meet him. And it hurt me. And yet in another way I wanted to go over. I felt that, if I were not so miserable, I could have liked you and found in you what I've never had in my life--an intimate, REAL friend of my own age. And then you remember that night at the shore? You were afraid I would think you crazy. You must have thought _I_ was."
"No, but I couldn't understand you, Leslie. One moment you drew me to you--the next you pushed me back."
"I was very unhappy that evening. I had had a hard day. Dick had been very--very hard to manage that day. Generally he is quite good-natured and easily controlled, you know, Anne. But some days he is very different. I was so heartsick--I ran away to the shore as soon as he went to sleep. It was my only refuge. I sat there thinking of how
"I KNEW it," said Anne calmly.
"You KNEW it?"
"Yes, I saw it in your eyes."
" And yet you went on liking me and being my friend."
"Well, it was only now and then you hated me, Leslie. Between times you loved me, I think."
"I certainly did. But that other horrid feeling was always there, spoiling it, back in my heart. I kept it down--sometimes I forgot it-- but sometimes it would surge up and take possession of me. I hated you because I ENVIED you--oh, I was sick with envy of you at times. You had a dear little home--and love--and happiness--and glad dreams--everything I wanted--and never had--and never could have. Oh, never could have! THAT was what stung. I wouldn't have envied you, if I had had any HOPE that life would ever be different for me. But I hadn't--I hadn't--and it didn't seem FAIR. It made me rebellious--and it hurt me--and so I hated you at times. Oh, I was so ashamed of it--I'm dying of shame now--but I couldn't conquer it.
That night, when I was afraid you mightn't live--I thought I was going to be punished for my wickedness--and I loved you so then. Anne, Anne, I never had anything to love since my mother died, except Dick's old dog--and it's so dreadful to have nothing to love--life is so EMPTY--and there's NOTHING worse than emptiness-- and I might have loved you so much--and that horrible thing had spoiled it--"
Leslie was trembling and growing almost incoherent with the violence of her emotion.
"Don't, Leslie," implored Anne, "oh, don't. I understand-- don't talk of it any more."
"I must--I must. When I knew you were going to live I vowed that I would tell you as soon as you were well--that I wouldn't go on accepting your friendship and companionship without telling you how unworthy I was of it. And I've been so afraid--it would turn you against me."
"You needn't fear that, Leslie."
"Oh, I'm so glad--so glad, Anne." Leslie clasped her brown, work-hardened hands tightly together to still their shaking. "But I want to tell you everything, now I've begun. You don't remember the first time I saw you, I suppose--it wasn't that night on the shore--"
"No, it was the night Gilbert and I came home. You were driving your geese down the hill. I should think I DO remember it! I thought you were so beautiful--I longed for weeks after to find out who you were."
"I knew who YOU were, although I had never seen either of you before. I had heard of the new doctor and his bride who were coming to live in Miss Russell's little house. I--I hated you that very moment, Anne."
"I felt the resentment in your eyes--then I doubted--I thought I must be mistaken--because WHY should it be?"
"It was because you looked so happy. Oh, you'll agree with me now that I AM a hateful beast--to hate another woman just because she was happy,--and when her happiness didn't take anything from me! That was why I never went to see you. I knew quite well I ought to go--even our simple Four Winds customs demanded that. But I couldn't. I used to watch you from my window--I could see you and your husband strolling about your garden in the evening--or you running down the poplar lane to meet him. And it hurt me. And yet in another way I wanted to go over. I felt that, if I were not so miserable, I could have liked you and found in you what I've never had in my life--an intimate, REAL friend of my own age. And then you remember that night at the shore? You were afraid I would think you crazy. You must have thought _I_ was."
"No, but I couldn't understand you, Leslie. One moment you drew me to you--the next you pushed me back."
"I was very unhappy that evening. I had had a hard day. Dick had been very--very hard to manage that day. Generally he is quite good-natured and easily controlled, you know, Anne. But some days he is very different. I was so heartsick--I ran away to the shore as soon as he went to sleep. It was my only refuge. I sat there thinking of how