"who was the first bride who came to this house, captain jim?" anne asked, as they sat around the fireplace after supper.
"was she a part of the story i've heard was connected with this house?" asked gilbert. "somebody told me you could tell it, captain jim."
"well, yes, i know it. i reckon i'm the only person living in four winds now that can remember the schoolmaster's bride as she was when she come to the island. she's been dead this thirty year, but she was one of them women you never forget."
"tell us the story," pleaded anne. "i want to find out all about the women who have lived in this house before me."
"well, there's jest been three—elizabeth russell, and mrs. ned russell, and the schoolmaster's bride. elizabeth russell was a nice, clever little critter, and mrs. ned was a nice woman, too. but they weren't ever like the schoolmaster's bride.
"the schoolmaster's name was john selwyn. he came out from the old country to teach school at the glen when i was a boy of sixteen. he wasn't much like the usual run of derelicts who used to come out to p.e.i. to teach school in them days. most of them were clever, drunken critters who taught the children the three r's when they were sober, and lambasted them when they wasn't. but john selwyn was a fine, handsome young fellow. he boarded at my father's, and he and me were cronies, though he was ten years older'n me. we read and walked and talked a heap together. he knew about all the poetry that was ever written, i reckon, and he used to quote it to me along shore in the evenings. dad thought it an awful waste of time, but he sorter endured it, hoping it'd put me off the notion of going to sea. well, nothing could do that—mother come of a race of sea-going folk and it was born in me. but i loved to hear john read and recite. it's almost sixty years ago, but i could repeat yards of poetry i learned from him. nearly sixty years!"
captain jim was silent for a space, gazing into the glowing fire in a quest of the bygones. then, with a sigh, he resumed his story.
"i remember one spring evening i met him on the sand-hills. he looked sorter uplifted—jest like you did, dr. blythe, when you brought mistress blythe in tonight. i thought of him the minute i seen you. and he told me that he had a sweetheart back home and that she was coming out to him. i wasn't more'n half pleased, ornery young lump of selfishness that i was; i thought he wouldn't be as much my friend after she came. but i'd enough decency not to let him see it. he told me all about her. her name was persis leigh, and she would have come out with him if it hadn't been for her old uncle. he was sick, and he'd looked after her when her parents died and she wouldn't leave him. and now he was dead and she was coming out to marry john selwyn. 'twasn't no easy journey for a woman in them days. there weren't no steamers, you must ricollect.
"'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.
"and persis leigh was on board?" asked anne.
"yes—her and the captain's wife. they'd had an awful passage—storm after storm—and their provisions give out, too. but there they were at last. when persis leigh stepped onto the old wharf john selwyn took her in his arms—and folks stopped cheering and begun to cry. i cried myself, though 'twas years, mind you, afore i'd admit it. ain't it funny how ashamed boys are of tears?"
"was persis leigh beautiful?" asked anne.
"well, i don't know that you'd call her beautiful exactly—i—don't—know," said captain jim slowly. "somehow, you never got so far along as to wonder if she was handsome or not. it jest didn't matter. there was something so sweet and winsome about her that you had to love her, that was all. but she was pleasant to look at—big, clear, hazel eyes and heaps of glossy brown hair, and an english skin. john and her were married at our house that night at early candle-lighting; everybody from far and near was there to see it and we all brought them down here afterwards. mistress selwyn lighted the fire, and we went away and left them sitting here, jest as john had seen in that vision of his. a strange thing—a strange thing! but i've seen a turrible lot of strange things in my time."
captain jim shook his head sagely.
"it's a dear story," said anne, feeling that for once she had got enough romance to satisfy her. "how long did they live here?"
"fifteen years. i ran off to sea soon after they were married, like the young scalawag i was. but every time i come back from a voyage i'd head for here, even before i went home, and tell mistress selwyn all about it. fifteen happy years! they had a sort of talent for happiness, them two. some folks are like that, if you've noticed. they couldn't be unhappy for long, no matter what happened. they quarrelled once or twice, for they was both high-sperrited. but mistress selwyn says to me once, says she, laughing in that pretty way of hers, 'i felt dreadful when john and i quarrelled, but underneath it all i was very happy because i had such a nice husband to quarrel with and make it up with.' then they moved to charlottetown, and ned russell bought this house and brought his bride here. they were a gay young pair, as i remember them. miss elizabeth russell was alec's sister. she came to live with them a year or so later, and she was a creature of mirth, too. the walls of this house must be sorter soaked with laughing and good times. you're the third bride i've seen come here, mistress blythe—and the handsomest."
captain jim contrived to give his sunflower compliment the delicacy of a violet, and anne wore it proudly. she was looking her best that night, with the bridal rose on her cheeks and the love-light in her eyes; even gruff old doctor dave gave her an approving glance, and told his wife, as they drove home together, that that red-headed wife of the boy's was something of a beauty.
"i must be getting back to the light," announced captain jim. "i've enj'yed this evening something tremenjus."
"you must come often to see us," said anne.
"i wonder if you'd give that invitation if you knew how likely i'll be to accept it," captain jim remarked whimsically.
"which is another way of saying you wonder if i mean it," smiled anne. "i do, 'cross my heart,' as we used to say at school."
"then i'll come. you're likely to be pestered with me at any hour. and i'll be proud to have you drop down and visit me now and then, too. gin'rally i haven't anyone to talk to but the first mate, bless his sociable heart. he's a mighty good listener, and has forgot more'n any macallister of them all ever knew, but he isn't much of a conversationalist. you're young and i'm old, but our souls are about the same age, i reckon. we both belong to the race that knows joseph, as cornelia bryant would say."
"the race that knows joseph?" puzzled anne.
"yes. cornelia divides all the folks in the world into two kinds—the race that knows joseph and the race that don't. if a person sorter sees eye to eye with you, and has pretty much the same ideas about things, and the same taste in jokes—why, then he belongs to the race that knows joseph."
"oh, i understand," exclaimed anne, light breaking in upon her.
"it's what i used to call—and still call in quotation marks 'kindred spirits.'"
"jest so—jest so," agreed captain jim. "we're it, whatever it is. when you come in tonight, mistress blythe, i says to myself, says i, 'yes, she's of the race that knows joseph.' and mighty glad i was, for if it wasn't so we couldn't have had any real satisfaction in each other's company. the race that knows joseph is the salt of the airth, i reckon."
the moon had just risen when anne and gilbert went to the door with their guests. four winds harbor was beginning to be a thing of dream and glamour and enchantment—a spellbound haven where no tempest might ever ravin. the lombardies down the lane, tall and sombre as the priestly forms of some mystic band, were tipped with silver.
"always liked lombardies," said captain jim, waving a long arm at them. "they're the trees of princesses. they're out of fashion now. folks complain that they die at the top and get ragged-looking. so they do—so they do, if you don't risk your neck every spring climbing up a light ladder to trim them out. i always did it for miss elizabeth, so her lombardies never got out-at-elbows. she was especially fond of them. she liked their dignity and stand-offishness. they don't hobnob with every tom, dick and harry. if it's maples for company, mistress blythe, it's lombardies for society."
"what a beautiful night," said mrs. doctor dave, as she climbed into the doctor's buggy.
"most nights are beautiful," said captain jim. "but i 'low that moonlight over four winds makes me sorter wonder what's left for heaven. the moon's a great friend of mine, mistress blythe. i've loved her ever since i can remember. when i was a little chap of eight i fell asleep in the garden one evening and wasn't missed. i woke up along in the night and i was most scared to death. what shadows and queer noises there was! i dursn't move. jest crouched there quaking, poor small mite. seemed 's if there weren't anyone in the world but meself and it was mighty big. then all at once i saw the moon looking down at me through the apple boughs, jest like an old friend. i was comforted right off. got up and walked to the house as brave as a lion, looking at her. many's the night i've watched her from the deck of my vessel, on seas far away from here. why don't you folks tell me to take in the slack of my jaw and go home?"
the laughter of the goodnights died away. anne and gilbert walked hand in hand around their garden. the brook that ran across the corner dimpled pellucidly in the shadows of the birches. the poppies along its banks were like shallow cups of moonlight. flowers that had been planted by the hands of the schoolmaster's bride flung their sweetness on the shadowy air, like the beauty and blessing of sacred yesterdays. anne paused in the gloom to gather a spray.
"i love to smell flowers in the dark," she said. "you get hold of their soul then. oh, gilbert, this little house is all i've dreamed it. and i'm so glad that we are not the first who have kept bridal tryst here!"
