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youā€™ll never forget her, Mistress Blythe. And if the years, as I hope, bring other little folks to your home, I want you to promise me that youā€™ll tell THEM the story of lost Margaret, so that her name wonā€™t be forgotten among humankind.ā€
CHAPTER 21 BARRIERS SWEPT AWAY

ā€œAnne,ā€ said Leslie, breaking abruptly a short silence, ā€œyou donā€™t know how GOOD it is to be sitting here with you againā€”workingā€” and talkingā€”and being silent together.ā€

They were sitting among the blue-eyed grasses on the bank of the brook in Anneā€™s garden. The water sparkled and crooned past them; the birches threw dappled shadows over them; roses bloomed along the walks. The sun was beginning to be low, and the air was full of woven music. There was one music of the wind in the firs behind the house, and another of the waves on the bar, and still another from the distant bell of the church near which the wee, white lady slept. Anne loved that bell, though it brought sorrowful thoughts now.

She looked curiously at Leslie, who had thrown down her sewing and spoken with a lack of restraint that was very unusual with her.

ā€œOn that horrible night when you were so ill,ā€ Leslie went on, ā€œI kept thinking that perhaps weā€™d have no more talks and walks and WORKS together. And I realised just what your friendship had come to mean to meā€”just what YOU meantā€”and just what a hateful little beast I had been.ā€

ā€œLeslie! Leslie! I never allow anyone to call my friends names.ā€

ā€œItā€™s true. Thatā€™s exactly what I amā€”a hateful little beast. Thereā€™s something Iā€™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.ā€

ā€œI KNEW it,ā€ said Anne calmly.

ā€œYou KNEW it?ā€

ā€œYes, I saw it in your eyes.ā€

ā€ And yet you went on liking me and being my friend.ā€

ā€œWell, it was only now and then you hated me, Leslie. Between times you loved me, I think.ā€

ā€œI certainly did. But that other horrid feeling was always there, spoiling it, back in my heart. I kept it downā€”sometimes I forgot itā€” but sometimes it would surge up and take possession of me. I hated you because I ENVIED youā€”oh, I was sick with envy of you at times. You had a dear little homeā€”and loveā€”and happinessā€”and glad dreamsā€”everything I wantedā€”and never hadā€”and never could have. Oh, never could have! THAT was what stung. I wouldnā€™t have envied you, if I had had any HOPE that life would ever be different for me. But I hadnā€™tā€”I hadnā€™tā€”and it didnā€™t seem FAIR. It made me rebelliousā€”and it hurt meā€”and so I hated you at times. Oh, I was so ashamed of itā€”Iā€™m dying of shame nowā€”but I couldnā€™t conquer it.

That night, when I was afraid you mightnā€™t liveā€”I thought I was going to be punished for my wickednessā€”and I loved you so then. Anne, Anne, I never had anything to love since my mother died, except Dickā€™s old dogā€”and itā€™s so dreadful to have nothing to loveā€”life is so EMPTYā€”and thereā€™s NOTHING worse than emptinessā€” and I might have loved you so muchā€”and that horrible thing had spoiled itā€”ā€

Leslie was trembling and growing almost incoherent with the violence of her emotion.

ā€œDonā€™t, Leslie,ā€ implored Anne, ā€œoh, donā€™t. I understandā€” donā€™t talk of it any more.ā€

ā€œI mustā€”I must. When I knew you were going to live I vowed that I would tell you as soon as you were wellā€”that I wouldnā€™t go on accepting your friendship and companionship without telling you how unworthy I was of it. And Iā€™ve been so afraidā€”it would turn you against me.ā€

ā€œYou neednā€™t fear that, Leslie.ā€

ā€œOh, Iā€™m so gladā€”so glad, Anne.ā€ Leslie clasped her brown, work-hardened hands tightly together to still their shaking. ā€œBut I want to tell you everything, now Iā€™ve begun. You donā€™t remember the first time I saw you, I supposeā€”it wasnā€™t that night on the shoreā€”ā€

ā€œNo, 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 beautifulā€”I longed for weeks after to find out who you were.ā€

ā€œI 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 Russellā€™s little house. Iā€”I hated you that very moment, Anne.ā€

ā€œI felt the resentment in your eyesā€”then I doubtedā€”I thought I must be mistakenā€”because WHY should it be?ā€

ā€œIt was because you looked so happy. Oh, youā€™ll agree with me now that I AM a hateful beastā€”to hate another woman just because she was happy,ā€”and when her happiness didnā€™t take anything from me! That was why I never went to see you. I knew quite well I ought to goā€”even our simple Four Winds customs demanded that. But I couldnā€™t. I used to watch you from my windowā€”I could see you and your husband strolling about your garden in the eveningā€”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 Iā€™ve never had in my lifeā€”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.ā€

ā€œNo, but I couldnā€™t understand you, Leslie. One moment you drew me to youā€”the next you pushed me back.ā€

ā€œI was very unhappy that evening. I had had a hard day. Dick had been veryā€”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 heartsickā€”I ran away to the shore as soon as he went to sleep. It was my only refuge. I sat there thinking of how my poor father had ended his life, and wondering if I wouldnā€™t be driven to it some day. Oh, my heart was full of black thoughts! And then you came dancing along the cove like a glad, light-hearted child. Iā€”I hated you more then than Iā€™ve ever done since. And yet I craved your friendship. The one feeling swayed me one moment; the other feeling the next. When I got home that night I cried for shame of what you must think of me. But itā€™s always been just the same when I came over here. Sometimes Iā€™d be happy and enjoy my visit. And at other times that hideous feeling would mar it all. There were times when everything about you and your house hurt me. You had so many dear little things I couldnā€™t have. Do you knowā€”itā€™s ridiculousā€” but I had an especial spite at those china dogs of yours. There were times when I wanted to catch up Gog and Magog and bang their pert black noses together! Oh, you smile, Anneā€”but it was never funny to me. I would come here and see you and Gilbert with your books and your flowers, and your household goods, and your little family jokesā€”and your love for each other showing in every look and word, even when you didnā€™t know itā€”and I would go home toā€”you know what I went home to! Oh, Anne, I donā€™t believe Iā€™m jealous and envious by nature. When I was a girl I lacked many things my schoolmates had, but I never caredā€”I never disliked them for it. But I seem to have grown so hatefulā€”ā€

ā€œLeslie, dearest, stop blaming yourself. You are NOT hateful or jealous or envious. The life you have to live has warped you a little, perhaps-but it would have ruined a nature less fine and noble than yours. Iā€™m letting you tell me all this because I believe itā€™s better for you to talk it out and rid your soul of it. But donā€™t blame yourself any more.ā€

ā€œWell, I wonā€™t. I just wanted you to know me as I am. That time you told me of your darling hope for the spring was the worst of all, Anne. I shall never forgive myself for the way I behaved then. I repented it with tears. And I DID put many a tender and loving thought of you into the little dress I made. But I might have known that anything I made could only be a shroud in the end.ā€

ā€œNow, Leslie, that IS bitter and morbidā€”put such thoughts away.

I was so glad when you brought the little dress; and since I had to lose little Joyce I like to think that the dress she wore was the one you made for her when you let yourself love me.ā€

ā€œAnne, do you know, I believe I shall always love you after this. I donā€™t think Iā€™ll ever feel that dreadful way about you again. Talking it all out seems to have done away with it, somehow. Itā€™s very strange ā€”and I thought it so real and bitter. Itā€™s like opening the door of a dark room to show some hideous creature youā€™ve believed to be thereā€”and when the light streams in your monster turns out to have been just a shadow, vanishing when the light comes. It will never come between us again.ā€

ā€œNo, we are real friends now, Leslie, and I am very glad.ā€

ā€œI hope you wonā€™t misunderstand me if I say something else. Anne, I was grieved to the core of my heart when you lost your baby; and if I could have saved her for you by cutting off one of my hands I would have done it. But your sorrow has brought us closer together. Your perfect happiness isnā€™t a barrier any longer. Oh, donā€™t misunderstand, dearestā€”Iā€™m NOT glad that your happiness isnā€™t perfect any longerā€”I can say that sincerely; but since it isnā€™t, there isnā€™t such a gulf between us.ā€

ā€œI DO understand that, too, Leslie. Now, weā€™ll just shut up the past and forget what was unpleasant in it. Itā€™s all going to be different. Weā€™re both of the race of Joseph now. I think youā€™ve been wonderful ā€”wonderful. And, Leslie, I canā€™t help believing that life has something good and beautiful for you yet.ā€

Leslie shook her head.

ā€œNo,ā€ she said dully. ā€œThere isnā€™t any hope. Dick will never be betterā€”and even if his memory were to come backā€”oh, Anne, it would be worse, even worse, than it is now. This is something you canā€™t understand, you happy bride. Anne, did Miss Cornelia ever tell you how I came to marry Dick?ā€

ā€œYes.ā€

ā€œIā€™m gladā€”I wanted you to knowā€”but I couldnā€™t bring myself to talk of it if you hadnā€™t known. Anne, it seems to me that ever since I was twelve years old life has been bitter. Before that I had a happy childhood. We were very poorā€”but we didnā€™t mind. Father was so splendidā€”so clever and loving and sympathetic. We were chums as far back as I can remember. And mother was so sweet. She was very, very beautiful. I look like her, but I am not so beautiful as she was.ā€

ā€œMiss Cornelia says you are far more beautiful.ā€

ā€œShe is mistakenā€”or prejudiced. I think my figure IS betterā€” mother was slight and bent by hard workā€”but she had the face of an angel. I used just to look up at her in worship. We all worshipped her,ā€”father and Kenneth and I.ā€

Anne remembered that Miss Cornelia had given her a very different impression of Leslieā€™s mother. But had not love the truer vision? Still, it WAS selfish of Rose West to make her daughter marry Dick Moore.

ā€œKenneth was my brother,ā€

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