Lucy Maud Montgomery - Anne's House of Dreams

“`When do you expect her?’ says I.

“`She sails on the Royal William, the 20th of June,’ says he, `and so she should be here by mid-July. I must set Carpenter Johnson to building me a home for her. Her letter come today. I know before I opened it that it had good news for me. I saw her a few nights ago.’

“I didn’t understand him, and then he explained—though I didn’t understand THAT much better. He said he had a gift—or a curse. Them was his words, Mistress Blythe—a gift or a curse. He didn’t know which it was. He said a great-great-grandmother of his had had it, and they burned her for a witch on account of it. He said queer spells—trances, I think was the name he give ‘em—come over him now and again. Are there such things, Doctor?”

“There are people who are certainly subject to trances,” answered Gilbert. “The matter is more in the line of psychical research than medical. What were the trances of this John Selwyn like?”

“Like dreams,” said the old Doctor skeptically.

“He said he could see things in them,” said Captain Jim slowly.

“Mind you, I’m telling you jest what HE said—things that were happening—things that were GOING to happen. He said they were sometimes a comfort to him and sometimes a horror. Four nights before this he’d been in one—went into it while he was sitting looking at the fire. And he saw an old room he knew well in England, and Persis Leigh in it, holding out her hands to him and looking glad and happy. So he knew he was going to hear good news of her.”

“A dream—a dream,” scoffed the old Doctor.

“Likely—likely,” conceded Captain Jim. “That’s what I said to him at the time. It was a vast more comfortable to think so. I didn’t like the idea of him seeing things like that—it was real uncanny.

“`No,’ says he, `I didn’t dream it. But we won’t talk of this again. You won’t be so much my friend if you think much about it.’

“I told him nothing could make me any less his friend. But he jest shook his head and says, says he:

“`Lad, I know. I’ve lost friends before because of this. I don’t blame them. There are times when I feel hardly friendly to myself because of it. Such a power has a bit of divinity in it—whether of a good or an evil divinity who shall say? And we mortals all shrink from too close contact with God or devil.’

“Them was his words. I remember them as if ‘twas yesterday, though I didn’t know jest what he meant. What do you s’pose he DID mean, doctor?”

“I doubt if he knew what he meant himself,” said Doctor Dave testily.

“I think I understand,” whispered Anne. She was listening in her old attitude of clasped lips and shining eyes. Captain Jim treated himself to an admiring smile before he went on with his story.

“Well, purty soon all the Glen and Four Winds people knew the schoolmaster’s bride was coming, and they were all glad because they thought so much of him. And everybody took an interest in his new house—THIS house. He picked this site for it, because you could see the harbor and hear the sea from it. He made the garden out there for his bride, but he didn’t plant the Lombardies. Mrs. Ned Russell planted THEM. But there’s a double row of rose-bushes in the garden that the little girls who went to the Glen school set out there for the schoolmaster’s bride. He said they were pink for her cheeks and white for her brow and red for her lips. He’d quoted poetry so much that he sorter got into the habit of talking it, too, I reckon.

“Almost everybody sent him some little present to help out the furnishing of the house. When the Russells came into it they were well-to-do and furnished it real handsome, as you can see; but the first furniture that went into it was plain enough. This little house was rich in love, though. The women sent in quilts and tablecloths and towels, and one man made a chest for her, and another a table and so on. Even blind old Aunt Margaret Boyd wove a little basket for her out of the sweet-scented sand-hill grass. The schoolmaster’s wife used it for years to keep her handkerchiefs in.

“Well, at last everything was ready—even to the logs in the big fireplace ready for lighting. ‘Twasn’t exactly THIS fireplace, though ‘twas in the same place. Miss Elizabeth had this put in when she made the house over fifteen years ago. It was a big, old-fashioned fireplace where you could have roasted an ox. Many’s the time I’ve sat here and spun yarns, same’s I’m doing tonight.”

Again there was a silence, while Captain Jim kept a passing tryst with visitants Anne and Gilbert could not see—the folks who had sat with him around that fireplace in the vanished years, with mirth and bridal joy shining in eyes long since closed forever under churchyard sod or heaving leagues of sea. Here on olden nights children had tossed laughter lightly to and fro. Here on winter evenings friends had gathered. Dance and music and jest had been here. Here youths and maidens had dreamed. For Captain Jim the little house was tenanted with shapes entreating remembrance.

“It was the first of July when the house was finished. The schoolmaster began to count the days then. We used to see him walking along the shore, and we’d say to each other, `She’ll soon be with him now.’

“She was expected the middle of July, but she didn’t come then. Nobody felt anxious. Vessels were often delayed for days and mebbe weeks. The Royal William was a week overdue—and then two—and then three. And at last we began to be frightened, and it got worse and worse. Fin’lly I couldn’t bear to look into John Selwyn’s eyes. D’ye know, Mistress Blythe”—Captain Jim lowered his voice—“I used to think that they looked just like what his old great-great-grandmother’s must have been when they were burning her to death. He never said much but he taught school like a man in a dream and then hurried to the shore. Many a night he walked there from dark to dawn. People said he was losing his mind. Everybody had given up hope—the Royal William was eight weeks overdue. It was the middle of September and the schoolmaster’s bride hadn’t come— never would come, we thought.

“There was a big storm then that lasted three days, and on the evening after it died away I went to the shore. I found the schoolmaster there, leaning with his arms folded against a big rock, gazing out to sea.

“I spoke to him but he didn’t answer. His eyes seemed to be looking at something I couldn’t see. His face was set, like a dead man’s.

“`John—John,’ I called out—jest like that—jest like a frightened child, `wake up—wake up.’

“That strange, awful look seemed to sorter fade out of his eyes.

He turned his head and looked at me. I’ve never forgot his face— never will forget it till I ships for my last voyage.

“`All is well, lad,’ he says. `I’ve seen the Royal William coming around East Point. She will be here by dawn. Tomorrow night I shall sit with my bride by my own hearth-fire.’

“Do you think he did see it?” demanded Captain Jim abruptly.

“God knows,” said Gilbert softly. “Great love and great pain might compass we know not what marvels.”

“I am sure he did see it,” said Anne earnestly.

“Fol-de-rol,” said Doctor Dave, but he spoke with less conviction than usual.

“Because, you know,” said Captain Jim solemnly, “the Royal William came into Four Winds Harbor at daylight the next morning.

Every soul in the Glen and along the shore was at the old wharf to meet her. The schoolmaster had been watching there all night. How we cheered as she sailed up the channel.”

Captain Jim’s eyes were shining. They were looking at the Four Winds Harbor of sixty years agone, with a battered old ship sailing through the sunrise splendor.