Author: L. M. Montgomery
Category: Childrens
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Esme did feel a little afraid still but she would not admit it for worlds.
She clung very closely to Aunt Hester as the latter opened the gate and went through. Gyp turned and ran. But Esme forgot all about him. And she suddenly forgot all her fear, too.
So this was the strange ... the forbidden ... garden! Why, there was nothing very terrible about it. In fact, nothing terrible at all. Why on earth did they keep it locked up and untended? Oh, yes, Esme remembered that it was supposed to be “haunted.” She was quite ready to call that nonsense now. Somehow she had a strange feeling that she had come home.
The garden was less overgrown than might have been expected. But it had a lonely look in the moonlight, as if it, like Aunt Hester, were waiting ... waiting. There were a great many weeds, but along the south wall a row of tall lilies looked like saints in the moonglow. There were some young poplars on which the leaves were trembling and in one corner was a slim white birch which Esme knew ... but could not have told how she knew ... that some long-ago bride had planted.
Here and there were dim paths on which lovers of half a century ago had walked with their ladies. One of the paths, flagged with thin sandstones from the shore, ran through the middle of the garden to the river shore, where there was no fence ... only a low stone wall to keep the garden from running into the river.
There ... why, there was someone in the garden. A young man was coming up the sandstone path, with outstretched hands.
And Aunt Hester, who never smiled, was smiling.
“Geoffrey!” she said.
Then Esme knew what “haunted” meant but she was not in the least afraid. How foolish to be afraid. She sat on the stone wall while Aunt Hester and Geoffrey paced up and down the walks and talked in low tones.
Esme could not hear what they said and she did not want to. She only knew that she would have liked to come to the garden every night ... and stay there. No wonder Janet Dalley had not come back.
“Will you bring me here again?” she asked Aunt Hester, when they finally left it.
“Would you like to come?” asked Aunt Hester.
“Yes ... oh, yes.”
“Then you must never tell anyone you have been here,” said Aunt Hester.
“Of course I won’t if you don’t want me to,” said Esme. “But why, Aunt Hester?”
“Because there are so few people who understand,” said Aunt Hester. “I did not understand until this summer. But I do now ... and I am very happy, Esme. But we can go into the garden only on full moonlight nights ... it is sometimes hard to wait so long. We must have some playmates for you next time. You understand now why Janet Dalley never came back, don’t you?”
“But Janet Dalley went into the garden over sixty years ago,” cried Esme, some of her fear coming back.
“There is no time in the garden,” said Aunt Hester, smiling tranquilly. “Janet could come back even now if she wanted to. But nobody ever does want to.”
“I don’t want to go away forever,” whispered Esme.
“You do not have to. I said you could come back whenever you wanted to. Now we will go to bed and you will not think of this again until the next full moon ... and you will not tell a word of it to anyone.”
“Oh, no, no,” said Esme.
It was the last thing she wanted to do. Perhaps Dr. Blythe was quite right in his opinion. At any rate Anne Blythe, bending over her sleeping daughters that night, thanked God there was no Dalley blood in them. As for Susan Baker, she did not know anything about it, but if she had she would have said,
“I don’t know what those people are thinking of to let Esme Dalley spend so much time at Birkentrees with that crazy woman. You needn’t tell me craziness isn’t catching. Some kinds are.”
Esme found it very hard to wait for the next full moon. Sometimes she thought she must have dreamed it all. The garden looked so much the same by daylight as it always had. She did not know whether she hoped or feared she had.
But the next full moon did come and again Esme went with Aunt Hester to the little garden. The first night there had been no one there except the young man Aunt Hester called Geoffrey ... whom in the meantime Esme had found out was her lover. Esme thought this should have frightened her ... and it did. She made up her small mind that she would not go into the garden again with Aunt Hester.
But when the night of the full moon came she was wild to go. Geoffrey was there again and he and Aunt Hester walked on the stone paths as before while Esme sat on the stone wall, just where there was a little hollow filled with fragrant fern, and wondered why she had ever been afraid of the garden.
It was very different that night. It seemed to be full of people who came and went. Girls with laughing, dreamy eyes ... slender women like pale flames ... slim boys ... twinkling children. None of them took any notice of Esme except a little girl of about her own age ... a little girl with golden hair cut low over her brow and great, wistful eyes.
Esme could not have told how she knew the little girl’s name was Janet, but she did. Janet stopped as she was running by in pursuit of a silvery green moth and beckoned to Esme. Esme was on the point of following her ... she often wondered what would have happened if she had followed ... when Francis came.
She never understood either how she knew his name was Francis. But she did understand that she had always known him. He was tall and slender, with a boyish face on which an air of command sat strangely.
He had thick brown hair, parted in the middle, and shining dark-blue eyes. He took Esme’s hand in his and they walked about the garden and talked. She could never remember what they talked about but she knew he made her laugh.
When Esme remembered Janet and turned to look for her Janet had gone. Esme never saw her again. She did not greatly care. Francis was so funny and wonderful ... he was the best of comrades. Then they danced on the open grassy space around the old, dried-up fountain where wild mint grew so thickly. It smelt so beautifully when they trod on it.
And the music to which they danced made Esme tremble with delight ... and something that was not quite delight. She could not understand where the music came from and Francis only laughed when she asked him. His laugh was more delightful than any music. Esme had never heard anyone laugh so delightfully.
None of the other people who came and went spoke to them or took any notice of them. Aunt Hester never came near them. She was always with Geoffrey.
Aunt Jane was a little worried about Esme those days. She thought the child was moping. She did not run about or play as usual, but sat, like Hester, on the lawn with a dreamy, waiting face.
“I wish we could go to the garden every night,” she said to Aunt Hester.
“They only come on the nights when the moon is full,” said Aunt Hester. “Watch when the moon comes back. When it is full and casts a shadow on the birch lane we will go again.”
Dr. Blythe happened to call at Birkentrees that day and the next time he saw Esme’s Uncle Conrad he told him to take his niece away from Birkentrees as soon as possible.
But the problem was solved in a different way. When the August moon was near fullness Aunt Hester was dead. She had died very quietly in her sleep, and her face was young and smiling and happy. The doctor said her heart had been affected for some time.
She lay with flowers clasped in her pale, beautiful hands and her clan came and looked at her ... and the women cried a little ... and all felt secretly relieved that the problem of “poor Hester” had been decently and effectively solved.
Esme was the only one who cried very much.
“She has gone to be with Geoffrey for always,” thought Esme, “but I shall never see Francis again.”
At first the thought seemed more than she could bear. She had never gone back to Birkentrees after that summer. Uncle John had died and Aunt Jane had moved to Charlottetown.
But Esme had never quite forgotten. She always came to the conclusion that she had dreamed it all. And just as often as she concluded this she kn
ew, somehow, she hadn’t.
“And that picture of your great-uncle, Allardyce. He was the Francis I saw in the garden ... the Francis I never saw in life. Was Sally right when she said the garden was haunted? I think she must have been.”
Allardyce gave a roar of laughter and squeezed her hand. Esme shivered. She wished Allardyce wouldn’t laugh like that ... wouldn’t look at her with that ready, easy, meaningless ... yes, it was meaningless ... smile of his. She suddenly felt that he was a stranger.
And he had a ready common-sensible explanation.
“Sally was nothing but a superstitious goose,” he said. “Your Aunt Hester was quite ... well, to put it plainly, out of her mind. Oh, I’ve heard all about her. She just imagined she saw people in the garden ... and somehow she made you see them, too ... or think you saw them. You are such a sensitive, impressionable little thing, you know. And I daresay you imagined a good bit yourself ... children do, you know. They haven’t just got the power to distinguish between what is real and what is imagination. You just ask my mother the queer things I used to tell her.”
“Aunt Hester never saw your great-uncle Francis, nor did I,” said Esme. “How could we have imagined him?”
“She must have seen his picture. She was often at Long-meadow when she was a girl. It was here she met Geoffrey Gordon, you know ... a sap, if ever there was one. But she was wild about him. For that matter you may have been here yourself when you were too young to remember, and seen the picture. Now, don’t think any more about this, honey-child. It’s foolish to monkey with spooks. They’re interesting things but dangerous. So irresponsible, you see. And I don’t deny I like a good ghost yarn myself once in a while. But for a steady thing they’re not good diet.”
“All the same ... I can’t marry you ... ever,” said Esme.
Allardyce stared at her.
“Esme ... you’re joking!”
But Esme was not joking. She had a hard time to make Allardyce believe she was in earnest but she finally succeeded. He went off in a tremendous huff, trying to make himself believe that it was just as well not to marry anyone with Dalley blood in them. His mother was furious ... and relieved. Why, there was an Italian princess who was crazy about him, as everybody knew. And that insignificant little Esme Dalley had actually turned him down!
Esme had a very hard time of it with Uncle Conrad and Aunt Helen. It was impossible to make them understand. They and the whole clan thought she was an utter little idiot.
The only ones who really approved her action were Dr. and Mrs. Blythe. And as Esme never knew they did, it did not comfort her much.
“A bad egg, that same Allardyce Barry,” said the doctor.
“Not having met him very often, I take your word for it,” said Anne.
“I never believed a word about that yarn about the Rooshian princess,” said Susan.
One early October evening Esme found herself alone. Everyone had gone out. It was going to be a moonlit evening with a full moon.
It made her think of the old garden at Birkentrees ... and strange Aunt Hester ... angry Allardyce Barry ... and all the trouble of that dreadful time ... for which Esme knew she had never been forgiven. The clan only tolerated her now.
She found herself trembling a little with the thought and the desire that suddenly came to her ... the thought of the little locked garden by the river shore and the desire to see it once more. Who knew what dim, lovely things waited there for her still?
Well, why shouldn’t she? It was only three miles to Birken-trees by a cross-country cut and Esme had always been a good walker in spite of her ethereal looks.
An hour later she was at Birkentrees.
The old house came out darkly against the sunset sky. Its grim shadow lay across the lawn and the spruce wood beyond it had turned black. There was an air of neglect over everything. Disputes among the heirs had prevented a sale.
But Esme was not interested in the house. She had come to walk on the secret paths of her enchanted garden once more and she hurried to the birch lane that led to it.
Dr. Gilbert Blythe, whizzing by in his car, saw her and recognized her.
“What on earth is that girl doing alone at that forsaken old place?” he wondered a little uneasily. He had heard tales that summer that Esme Dalley was “getting queer” like her Aunt Hester. The said tales emanated mostly from people who had said Allardyce Barry had “jilted” her.
Dr. Blythe wondered if he should stop and go over and offer her a drive home. But he had a serious case waiting for him in the Glen ... and besides he had a feeling that Esme would not come. Anne always said that Esme Dalley had an iron will under all her sweetness and the doctor had a great deal of respect for the intuition of his wife.
Whatever Esme had come to Birkentrees for she would carry out her intention. So he went on. In after days he boasted that he had at least made one match by leaving things alone.
“I suppose you will never leave off twitting me,” said Anne.
“Oh, I am sure he does not mean to do that, Mrs. Dr. dear,” said Susan. “It is just his way. I am told the men are all like that ... though,” she added with a sigh, “I myself have never had any chance of proving it.”
The gate to the garden was no longer locked but hung open slackly. It all seemed smaller than Esme remembered it. There were only withered leaves and frosted stalks where she had danced with Francis ... where she had imagined or dreamed she had danced with Francis.
But it was still beautiful and eerie, full of the strange, deep shadows that come with the rising of the hunter’s moon. There was no noise but the sigh of the wind in the remote, pointed firs that had grown up of their own accord among the still golden maples in a corner.
Esme felt lonelier than she had ever felt in her life as she went down the grass-grown path to the river shore.
“There isn’t any you,” she whispered piteously, thinking of Francis. “There never was any you. What a little fool I have been! I suppose I shouldn’t have used Allardyce so. No wonder they were all so cross with me. No wonder Mrs. Barry was glad.”
For Esme had never heard the tales about Allardyce’s foreign life and the Italian or Russian princesses. To her Allardyce was still the man who made her laugh a little like Francis had ... the Francis who had never existed.
She wondered a little what had become of the picture of Great-uncle Francis when the Barrys had closed Longmeadow and gone abroad again ... this time it was said for good. Mrs. Barry had reported, so rumour ran, that they did not mean to return to Canada. Everything was so crude here ... and all the girls pursued Allardyce. She was afraid he would make some silly match. Esme Dalley had almost hooked him ... but thank the Lord she had failed. Allardyce had come to his senses in time.
Esme was thinking of the picture. Somehow, she would have liked to have it ... even if it were only the picture of a dream.
But when she got to the old stone wall ... most of which had fallen down ... she saw him coming up the steps from the river. The steps were very loose and some were missing altogether, so that he was picking his way a bit carefully. But he was just the same as she remembered him ... a little taller, perhaps, and dressed in a more modern fashion, but with the same thick brown hair and the same adventurous light in his blue eagle eyes. He and Jem Blythe were to share a German prison after some years but nobody dreamed anything about that then.
The long, dim river and the deserted garden and the pointed firs whirled around Esme.
She threw out her hands and would have fallen if he had not caught her as he sprang over the crumbling wall.
“Francis!” gasped Esme.
“Francis is my middle name but my friends call me Stephen,” he said, smiling ... the same frank, friendly, pleasant smile she remembered so well.
Esme recovered herself a little and drew away, but she was still trembling so violently that he kept his arm around her ... just as Francis had done.
“I am afraid I have frightened you,” he said gently. �
�I’m sorry my appearance was so abrupt. I know I’m not handsome but I didn’t think I was so ugly that I would scare a girl into nearly fainting.”
“It’s ... it’s not that,” said Esme, quite conscious now that she had made an awful fool of herself. Perhaps she was queer ... like Aunt Hester.
“Perhaps I’m trespassing ... but the place looked so deserted ... and they told me I could take this shortcut. Please forgive me for frightening you.”
“Who are you?” cried Esme wildly. Nothing mattered but that.
“A very humble individual ... Stephen Francis Barry at your service. My home is at the Coast but I came east a few days ago to take charge of the new biological station down at the harbour. I knew I had ... or once had ... some distant cousins over this way at a place called Longmeadow so I thought I’d come over this evening and hunt them up if they were still here. Somebody else told me they had gone abroad. What is the truth? ... as somebody called Pilate once said.”
Esme knew now who he was ... a western third cousin she had heard Allardyce speak of ... contemptuously enough.
“He works,” Allardyce had said, as if that were something shameful. “I’ve never seen him ... none of the family have ever been east ... too busy studying bugs, I suppose. Or else for lack of spondulicks. In any case our branch of the family have never had anything in common with them. I did hear Dr. Blythe had met one of them called Stephen or some such name when he was attending some medical congress in Vancouver and thought he was a very fine fellow. But my opinion and the good doctor’s do not often agree.”
Esme drew a little further away still, looking gravely at him. She had no idea how exquisitely lovely she looked in the velvet and shadow of the moonlight, but Stephen Barry had. He stood and looked at her as if he could never get enough of looking.
“It was not your sudden appearance that startled me,” said Esme gravely. “It was because you looked so much like somebody I once saw ... no, like somebody I dreamed I saw. A picture of Captain Francis Barry that used to be at Longmeadow.”
“Great-uncle Frank? Granddad always told me I looked like him. I wish I could see it. Do I really look as much like this Francis as all that?”