Anne's House of Dreams - L. M. Montgomery [58]
She looked curiously at Leslie, who had thrown down her sewing and spoken with a lack of restraint that was very unusual with her.
‘On that horrible night when you were so ill,’ Leslie went on, ‘I kept thinking that perhaps we’d have no more talks and walks and works together. And I realized just what your friendship had come to mean to me – just what you meant – and just what a hateful little beast I had been.’
‘Leslie! Leslie! I never allow anyone to call my friends names.’
‘It’s true. That’s exactly what I am – a hateful little beast. There’s something I’ve got to tell you, Anne. I suppose it will make you despise me, but 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