Anne's House of Dreams - L. M. Montgomery [50]
But Leslie was brusque and curt when Anne thanked her, and again the latter felt thrown back upon herself.
Leslie’s gift was not alone in the little house. Miss Cornelia had, for the time being, given up sewing for unwanted, unwelcome eighth babies, and fallen to sewing for a very much wanted first one, whose welcome would leave nothing to be desired. Philippa Blake and Diana Wright each sent a marvellous garment; and Mrs Rachel Lynde sent several, in which good material and honest stitches took the place of embroidery and frills. Anne herself made many, desecrated by no touch of machinery, spending over them the happiest hours of that happy winter.
Captain Jim was the most frequent guest of the little house, and none was more welcome. Every day Anne loved the simple-souled, true-hearted old sailor more and more. He was as refreshing as a sea-breeze, as interesting as some ancient chronicle. She was never tired of listening to his stories, and his quaint remarks and comments were a continual delight to her. Captain Jim was one of those rare and interesting people who ‘never speak but they say something’. The milk of human kindness and the wisdom of the serpent were mingled in his composition in delightful proportions.
Nothing ever seemed to put Captain Jim out or depress him in any way.
‘I’ve kind of contracted a habit of enj’ying things,’ he remarked once, when Anne had commented on his invariable cheerfulness. ‘It’s got so chronic that I believe I even enj’y the disagreeable things. It’s great fun thinking they can’t last. “Old rheumatiz,” says I, when it grips me hard, “you’ve got to stop aching sometime. The worse you are the sooner you’ll stop, mebbe. I’m bound to get the better of you in the long run, whether in the body or out of the body.”’
One night, by the fireside at the light, Anne saw Captain Jim’s ‘life-book’. He needed no coaxing to show it and proudly gave it to her to read.
‘I writ it to leave to little Joe,’ he said. ‘I don’t like the idea of everything I’ve done and seen being clean forgot after I’ve shipped for my last v’yage. Joe, he’ll remember it, and tell the yarns to his children.’
It was an old leather-bound book filled with the record of his voyages and adventures. Anne thought what a treasure trove it would be to a writer. Every sentence was a nugget. In itself the book had no literary merit; Captain Jim’s charm of story-telling failed him when he came to pen and ink; he could only jot roughly down the outline of his famous tales, and both spelling and grammar were sadly askew. But Anne felt that if anyone possessed of the gift could take that simple record of a brave, adventurous life, reading between the bald lines the tales of dangers staunchly faced and duty manfully done, a wonderful story might be made from it. Rich comedy and thrilling tragedy were both lying hidden in Captain Jim’s ‘life-book’, waiting for the touch of the master hand to waken the laughter and grief and horror of thousands.
Anne said something of this to Gilbert as they walked home.
‘Why don’t you try your hand at it yourself, Anne?’
Anne shook her head.
‘No. I only wish I could. But it’s not in the power of my gift. You know what my forte is, Gilbert – the fanciful, the fairylike, the pretty. To write Captain Jim’s life-book as it should be written one should be a master of vigorous yet subtle style, a keen psychologist, a born humorist and a born tragedian. A rare combination of gifts is needed. Paul might do it if he were older. Anyhow, I’m going to ask him to come down next summer and meet Captain Jim.’
‘Come to this shore,’ wrote Anne to Paul. ‘I am afraid you cannot find here Nora or the Golden Lady or the Twin Sailors; but you will find one old sailor who can tell you wonderful stories.’
Paul, however, wrote back, saying regretfully that he could not come that year. He was going abroad for two years’ study.
‘When I return I’ll come to Four Winds, dear Teacher,’ he wrote.
‘But meanwhile, Captain Jim is growing old,’ said Anne, sorrowfully,