Anne's House of Dreams - L. M. Montgomery [41]
14
NOVEMBER DAYS
The splendour of colour which had glowed for weeks along the shores of Four Winds Harbour had faded out into the soft grey-blue of late autumnal hills. There came many days when fields and shores were dim with misty rain, or shivering before the breath of a melancholy sea-wind – nights, too, of storm and tempest, when Anne sometimes wakened to pray that no ship might be beating up the grim north shore, for if it were so not even the great, faithful light, whirling through the darkness unafraid, could avail to guide it into safe haven.
‘In November I sometimes feel as if spring could never come again,’ she sighed, grieving over the hopeless unsightliness of her frosted and bedraggled flower-pots. The gay little garden of the schoolmaster’s bride was rather a forlorn place now, and the Lombardies and birches were under bare poles, as Captain Jim said. But the fir-wood behind the little house was forever green and staunch and even in November and December there came gracious days of sunshine and purple hazes, when the harbour danced and sparkled as blithely as in midsummer, and the gulf was so softly blue and tender that the storm and the wild wind seemed only things of a long-past dream.
Anne and Gilbert spent many an autumn evening at the lighthouse. It was always a cheery place. Even when the east wind sang in minor and the sea was dead and grey, hints of sunshine seemed to be lurking all about it. Perhaps this was because the First Mate always paraded it in panoply of gold. He was so large and effulgent that one hardly missed the sun, and his resounding purrs formed a pleasant accompaniment to the laughter and conversation which went on around Captain Jim’s fireplace. Captain Jim and Gilbert had many long discussions and high converse on matters beyond the ken of cat or kind.
‘I like to ponder on all kinds of problems, though I can’t solve ’em,’ said Captain Jim. ‘My father held that we should never talk of things we couldn’t understand, but if we didn’t, Doctor, the subjects for conversation would be mighty few. I reckon the gods laugh many a time to hear us, but what matters so long as we remember that we’re only men, and don’t take to fancying that we’re gods ourselves, really, knowing good and evil. I reckon our powpows won’t do us or anyone much harm, so let’s have another whack at the whence, why, and whither this evening, Doctor.’
While they ‘whacked’ Anne listened or dreamed. Sometimes Leslie went to the lighthouse with them, and she and Anne wandered along the shore in the eerie twilight, or sat on the rocks below the lighthouse until the darkness drove them back to the cheer of the driftwood fire. Then Captain Jim would brew them tea and tell them
tales of land and sea
And whatsoever might betide
The great forgotten world outside.
Leslie seemed always to enjoy those lighthouse carousals very much, and bloomed out for the time being into ready wit and beautiful laughter, or glowing-eyed silence. There was a certain tang and savour in the conversation when Leslie was present which they missed when she was absent. Even when she did not talk she seemed to inspire others to brilliancy. Captain Jim told his stories better, Gilbert was quicker in argument and repartee, Anne felt little gushes and trickles of fancy and imagination bubbling to her lips under the influence of Leslie’s personality.
‘That girl was born to be a leader in social and intellectual circles, far away from Four Winds,’ she said to Gilbert as they walked home one night. ‘She’s just wasted here – wasted.’
‘Weren’t you listening to Captain Jim and yours truly the other night when we discussed that subject generally? We came to the comforting conclusion that the Creator probably knew how to run His universe quite as well as we do, and that, after all, there are no such things as “wasted” lives, saving and except when an individual wilfully squanders and wastes his own life – which Leslie Moore certainly hasn’t done. And some people might think that