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Wherever you listen to podcasts today, we'll be continuing anne's House of Dreams by Lucy Maud Montgomery.

Chapter Eleven the Story of Leslie Moore.

Yes, the 8th baby arrived a fortnight ago, said Miss Cornelia from a rocker before the fire of the little house one chilly October afternoon.

It's a girl thread with ranting.

Mad said he wanted a boy, when the truth is he didn't want it at all.

If it had been a boy, he'd have ranted, because it wasn't a girl.

They had four girls and three boys before, so I can't see that it made much difference what this one was.

But of course he'd have to be cantankerious, just like a man.

The baby's real pretty, dressed up in its nice little clothes.

It has black eyes and the dearest tiny hands.

I must go and see it.

I just love babies, said Anne, smiling to herself over a thought too dear and sacred to be put into words.

I don't say but what they're nice, admitted Miss Cornelia.

But some folks seem to have more than they really need, believe me.

My poor cousin Flora up at the Glenn had eleven and such a slave as she is.

Her husband suicided three years ago, just like a man.

What made him do that?

Asked Anne, rather shocked.

Couldn't get his way over something, so he jumped into the well.

A good riddance.

He was a born tyrant.

But of course it spoiled the well.

Flora could never abide the thought of using it again, poor thing.

So she had another dug, and a frightful expense it was.

And the water as hard as nails.

If he had to drown himself, there was plenty of water in the harbour, wasn't there?

I've no patience with a man like that.

We've only had two suicides and four winds in my recollection.

The other was Frank West, leslie Moore's father.

By the way, has Leslie ever been over to call on you yet?

No, but I met her on the shore a few nights ago and we scraped an acquaintance, said Anne, pricking up her ears.

Miss Cornelia nodded.

I'm glad, dearie.

I was hoping you'd foregather with her.

What do you think of her?

I thought her very beautiful.

Oh, of course there is never anybody about four winds could touch her for looks.

Did you ever see her hair?

It reaches to her feet when she lets it down.

But I meant how did you like her?

I think I could like her very much if she'd let me, said Anne slowly.

But she wouldn't let you.

She pushed you off and kept you at arm's length.

Poor Leslie.

You wouldn't be much surprised if you knew what her life has been.

It's been a tragedy.

A tragedy, repeated Miss Cornelia emphatically.

I wish you would tell me all about her.

That is, if you can do so without betraying any confidence.

Lord dearie.

Everybody in four wins knows Port Leslie's story.

It's no secret the outside, that is.

Nobody knows the inside but Leslie herself.

And she doesn't take folks into her confidence.

I'm about the best friend she has on earth, I reckon.

And she's never uttered a word of complaint to me.

Have you ever seen D*** Moore?

No.

I may as well begin at the beginning and tell you everything straight through so you'll understand it.

As I've said, Leslie's father was Frank West.

He was clever and shiftless, just like a man.

Oh, he had heaps of brains, and much good they did him.

He started to go to college and he went for two years and then his health broke down.

The Wests were all inclined to be consumptive, so Frank came home and started farming.

He married Rose Elliot from Over Harbor.

Rose was reckoned to the beauty of four winds.

Leslie takes her looks from her mother but she is ten times the spirit and go that Rose had and a far better figure.

Now you know, Anne, I always take the ground that us women ought to stand by each other.

We've got enough to endure at the hands of the men, the Lord knows.

So I hold.

We hadn't ought to clap or claw one another.

And it isn't often you'll find me running down another woman.

But I never had much use for rose Elliot.

She was spoiled to begin with, believe me.

And she was nothing but a lazy, selfish, whining creature.

Frank was no hands to work, so they were poor as jobs.

Turkey poor.

They lived on potatoes in point, believe me.

They had two children, leslie and Kenneth.

Leslie had her mother's looks and her father's brains and something she didn't get from either of them.

She took after her grandmother, west.

A splendid old lady she was the brightest friendliest Mariest thing when she was a child, Anne.

Everybody liked her.

She was her father's favorite and she was awful fond of him.

They were chums, as she used to say.

She couldn't see any sort of his faults.

And he was taking a sort of man in some ways.

Well, when Leslie was twelve years old, the first dreadful thing happened.

She worshipped little Kenneth.

He was four years younger than her and he was a dear little chap.

And he was killed one day.

Fell off a big load of hay just as it was going into the barn.

And the wheel went right over his little body and crushed the life out of it.

And mind you, Anne, Leslie saw it.

She was looking down from the loft.

She gave one screech.

The hired man said he never heard a sound in all his life.

He said it would ring in his ears till Gabriel's Trump drove it out.

But she never screeched or cried again about it.

She jumped from the loft onto the load and from the load to the floor and caught up the little bleeding, warm, dead body.

Ann.

They had to tear it from her before she would let it go.

They sent for me.

I can't talk of it.

Miss Cornelia wiped the tears from her kindly brown eyes and sewed in bitter silence for a few minutes.

Well, she resumed, it was all over.

They buried little Kenneth in that graveyard over the harbor and after a while Leslie went back to her school and her studies.

She never mentioned Kenneth's name.

I've never heard it cross her lips from that day to this.

I reckon that old hertz still aches and burns at times.

But she was only a child.

And time is real kind to children, Anne deary.

After a while she began to laugh again.

She had the prettiest laugh.

You don't often hear it now.

I heard it once the other night, said Anne.

It is a beautiful laugh.

Frank west began to go down after Kenneth's death.

He wasn't strong and it was a shock to him because he was real fond of the child.

Though, as I've said, Leslie was his favorite.

He got mopey and melancholy and couldn't or wouldn't work.

And one day, when Leslie was 14 years of age, he hanged himself.

And in the parlor tomb, mind you, Anne, right in the middle of the parlor from the lamp hook in the ceiling.

Wasn't that like a man?

It was the anniversary of his wedding day, too.

Nice tasty time to pick for it, wasn't it?

And of course, that poor Leslie had to be the one to find him.

She went into the parlor that morning, singing with some fresh flowers for the vases.

And there she saw her father hanging from the ceiling.

His face is black as a coal.

It was something awful, believe me.

Oh, how horrible.

Said Anne Shuddering.

The poor, poor child.

Leslie didn't cry at her father's funeral any more than she had cried at Kenneth's rose whooped and howled for two, however.

And Leslie had all she could do trying to calm and comfort her mother.

I was disgusted with Rose, and so was everyone else.

But Leslie never got out of patience.

She loved her mother.

Leslie's Clannish, her own, could never do wrong in her eyes.

Well, they buried Frank West beside Kenneth and Rose put up a great big monument to him.

It was bigger than his character, believe me.

Anyhow, it was bigger than Rose could afford, for the farm was mortgaged for more than its value.

But not long after, Leslie's old grandmother, Wes died and she left Leslie a little money, enough to give her a year at Queen's Academy.

Leslie had made up her mind to pass for a teacher if she could, and then earn enough to put herself through Redmond College.

That had been her father's pet scheme.

He wanted her to have what he had lost.

Leslie was full of ambition, and her head was chock full of brains.

She went to Queen's and she took two years'work in one year and got her first.

And when she came home, she got the Glenn school.

She was so happy and hopeful and full of life and eagerness.

When I think of what she was then and what she is now, I say draught the men.

Miss Cornelia sniffed her thread off as viciously as if Nero like.

She was severing the neck of mankind by the stroke.

D*** Moore came into her life that summer.

His father, Abner Moore, kept store at the Glen.

But D*** had a sea going streak in him from his mother.

He used to sail in summer and clerk in his father's store in winter.

He was a big, handsome fellow with a little ugly soul.

He was always wanting something till he got it.

And then he stopped wanting it, just like a man.

Oh, he didn't growl with the weather when it was fine.

And he was mostly real pleasant and agreeable when everything went right.

But he drank a good deal and there were some nasty stories told of him and a girl down at the fishing village he wasn't fit for Leslie to wipe her feet on.

That's the long and short of it.

And he was a Methodist.

But he was clean mad about her because of her good looks in the first place and because she wouldn't have anything to say to him in the second.

He vowed he'd have her, and he got her.

How did he bring it about?

Oh, he was an iniquitous thing.

I'll never forgive Rose West.

You see, dearie, Abner Moore held the mortgage on the west farm and the interest was overdue some years.

And D*** just went and told Mrs.

West that if Leslie wouldn't marry him, he'd get his father to foreclose the mortgage.

Rose carried on terrible fainted and wept and pleaded with Leslie not to let her be turned out of her home.

She said it would break her heart to leave the home she'd come to as a bride.

I wouldn't have blamed her for feeling dreadful bad over it.

But you wouldn't have thought she'd be so selfish as to sacrifice her own flesh and blood because of it, would you?

Well, she was, and Leslie gave in.

She loved her mother so much she would have done anything to save her pain.

She married D*** Moore.

None of us knew why at the time.

It wasn't long afterward that I found out how her mother had worried her into it.

I was sure there was something wrong, though because I knew how she had snubbed him time and time again.

And it wasn't like Leslie to turn face about like that.

Besides, I knew that D*** Moore wasn't the kind of man Leslie could ever fancy in spite of his good looks and dashing ways.

Of course, there was no wedding, but Rose asked me to go and see them married.

I went, but I was sorry I did.

I'd seen Leslie's face at her brother's funeral and at her father's funeral and now it seemed to me I was seeing it at her own funeral.

But Rose was smiling as a basket of chips, believe me.

Leslie and D*** settled down on the west place.

Rose couldn't bear to part with her dear daughter and live there for the winter.

In the spring, Rose took pneumonia and died a year too late.

Leslie was heartbroken enough over it.

Isn't it terrible the way some unworthy folks are loved while others that deserve it far more?

You'd think never get much affection.

As for D***, he'd had enough of quiet married life just like a man.

He was for.

Up and off he went, over to Nova Scotia to visit his relations.

His father had come from Nova Scotia and he wrote back to Leslie that his cousin George Moore was going on a voyage to Havana and he was going to.

The name of the vessel was the Four Sisters and they were to be gone about nine weeks.

It must have been a relief to Leslie, but she never said anything from the day of her marriage.

She was just what she is now cold and proud and keeping everyone but me at a distance.

I won't be kept at a distance, believe me.

I've just stuck to Leslie as close as I knew how, in spite of everything she told me.

You were the best friend she had said.

Anne did?

She exclaimed, Miss cornelia.

Delightedly.

Well, I'm real thankful to hear it.

Sometimes I've wondered if she really did want me around at all.

She never let me think so.

You must have thought her out more than you think or she wouldn't have said that much itself to you.

Oh, that poor, heartbroken girl.

I never see D*** more, but I want to run a knife clean through him.

Es Cornelia wiped her eyes again, and having relieved her feelings by her bloodthirsty wish, took up her tail while Leslie was left over there alone.

D*** had put in the crop before he went, and old Abner looked after it.

The summer went by, and the Four Sisters didn't come back.

The Nova Scotia Moors investigated and found she had got to Havana and discharged her cargo and took on another and left her home.

And that was all they ever found out about her.

By degrees, people began to talk of D*** more as one that was dead.

Almost everyone believed that he was, though no one felt certain, for men have turned up here at the harbor after they'd been dead, gone for years.

Leslie never thought he was dead, and she was right a thousand pities, too.

The next summer, Captain Jim was in Havana.

That was before he gave up the sea, of course.

He thought he'd poke round a bit.

Captain Jim was always meddlesome, just like a man, and he went to Enquiring, round among the sailors, boarding houses and places like that, to see if he could find out anything about the crew of the Four Sisters.

He'd better have let sleeping dogs lie, in my opinion.

But he went to one out of the way place, and there he found a man he knew at first sight.

It was D*** Moore, though he had a big beard.

Captain Jim got it shaved off, and then there was no doubt.

D*** Moore.

It was his body.

At least his mind wasn't there.

As for his soul, in my opinion, he never had one.

What happened to him, nobody knows the rights of it.

All the folks who kept the boarding house could tell was that about a year before they had found him lying on their doorstep one morning in an awful condition, his head battered to a jelly almost.

They supposed he'd got hurt in some drunken row, and likely that's the truth of it.

They took him in, never thinking he could live, but he did, and he was just like a child when he got well.

He hadn't memory or intellect or reason.

They tried to find out who he was, but they never could.

He couldn't even tell them his name.

He could only say a few simple words.

He had a letter on him beginning, Dear D***, and signed Leslie.

But there was no address on it, and the envelope was gone.

They let him stay on.

He learned to do a few odd jobs about the place.

And there Captain Jim.

Found him.

He brought him home.

I've always said it was a bad day's work, though I suppose there was nothing else he could do.

He thought maybe when D*** got home and saw his old surroundings and familiar faces, his memory would wake up.

But it hadn't any effect there.

He's been at the house up the brook ever since.

He's just like a child, no more nor less.

Takes fractious spells occasionally, but mostly he's just vacant and good humored and harmless.

He's apt to run away if he isn't watched.

That's the burden Leslie has had to carry for eleven years and all alone.

Old Abner Moore died soon after D*** was brought home, and it was found he was almost bankrupt.

When things were settled up, there was nothing for Leslie and D*** but the Old West farm.

Leslie rented it to John Ward, and the rent is all she has to live on.

Sometimes in summer she takes a border to help out, but most visitors prefer the other side of the harbor where the hotels and summer cottages are.

Leslie's house is too far from the bathing shore.

She's taken care of D***, and she's never been away from him for eleven years.

She's tied to that imbecile for life, and after all the dreams and hope she once had, you can imagine what it has been like for her, Anne deary, with her beauty and spirit and pride and cleverness.

It's just been a living death.

Poor, poor girl, said Anne again.

Her own happiness seemed to reproach her.

What right had she to be so happy when another human soul must be so miserable?

Will you tell me just what Leslie said and how she acted the night you met her on the shore?

Asked Miss Cornelia.

She listened intently and nodded her satisfaction.

You thought she was stiff and cold and deary, but I can tell you she thought out wonderful for her.

She must have taken to you real strong.

I'm so glad you may be able to help her a good deal.

I was thankful when I heard that a young couple was coming to this house, for I hoped it would need some friends for Leslie, especially if you belonged to the race that knows Joseph.

You will be her friend, won't you, Anne dearie?

Indeed I will, if she'll let me, said Anne with all her own sweet, impulsive earnestness.

No, you must be her friend whether she'll let you or not, said Miss Cornelia resolutely.

Don't you mind if she's stiff by times, don't notice it.

Remember what her life has been and is and must always be.

I suppose, for creatures like D*** Moore live forever, I understand.

You should see how Fatty's got since he came home.

He used to be lean enough.

Just make her be friends.

You can do it.

You're one of those who have the knack, only you mustn't be sensitive and don't mind if she doesn't seem to want you to go over.

There much.

She knows that some women don't like to be where D*** is.

They complain he gives them the creeps.

Just get her to come over here as often as she can.

She can't get away so very much.

She can't leave D*** long, for the Lord knows what he'd do burn the house down.

Most likely at nights after he's in bed and asleep is about the only time she's free.

He always goes to bed early and sleeps like the dead till next morning.

That is how you came to meet her at the shore.

Likely she wanders there considerable.

I will do everything I can for her, said Anne.

Her interest in Leslie Moore, which had been vivid ever since she had seen her driving her geese down the hill, was intensified a thousandfold by Miss Cornelia's narration.

The girl's beauty and sorrow and loneliness drew her with an irresistible fascination.

She had never known anyone like her.

Her friends had hitherto been wholesome, normal married girls like herself.

With only the average trials of human care and bereavement to shadow their girlish dreams, leslie Moore stood apart a tragic appealing figure of thwarted womanhood and resolved that she would win entrance into the kingdom of that lonely soul.

And find there the comradeship it could so richly give were it not for the cruel fetters that held it in a prison not of its own making.

And mind you this, Anne deary, said Miss Cornelia, who had not yet wholly relieved her mind, you mustn't think Leslie is an infidel because she hardly ever goes to church, or even that she's a Methodist.

She can't take D*** to church, of course.

Not that he ever troubled church much in his best days, but you just remember that she's a real strong Presbyterian at heart.

And deary, thank you for joining Bite at a Time Books today while we read a bite of one of your favorite classics.

Again, my name is Brie Carlyle and I hope you come back tomorrow for the next bite of Anne's House of Dreams.

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