Welcome to sleep stories with Steph your go-to podcast.
That offers you a calm and relaxing transition.
Into a great night's sleep.
It is time to relax and fully let go.
There is nothing you need to be doing now.
And know where you need to go.
Close your eyes.
And feel yourself sink into the support beneath you.
And let all the worries of the day go.
Drift away.
This is your time.
And your space.
Take a deep breath in through your nose.
And let it out with a long sigh.
That's it!
There is nothing you need to be doing now.
And know where you need to go.
Happy listening.
Chapter 8 Miss Cornelia Bryant comes to call.
That September was a month of golden mists and purple hazes at Four Winds Harbour.
A month of sun-steeped days and of nights that were swimming in moonlight or pulsating with stars.
No storm marred it,
No rough winds blew.
Anne and Gilbert put their nest in order,
Rambled on the shores,
Sailed on the harbour,
Drove about four winds in the glen or through the ferny,
Sequestered roads of the woods.
In short,
Had such a honeymoon as any lovers in the world might have envied them.
If life were to stop short just now,
It would still have been richly worthwhile just for the sake of these past four weeks,
Wouldn't it?
Said Anne.
I don't suppose we'll ever have four such perfect weeks again,
But we've had them.
Everything,
Wind,
Weather,
Folks,
House of dreams,
Has conspired to make our honeymoon delightful.
There hasn't even been a rainy day since we came.
And we haven't quarreled once,
Teased Gilbert.
Well that's a pleasure all the greater for being deferred,
Quoted Anne.
I'm so glad we decided to spend our honeymoon here.
Our memories of it will always belong here in our house of dreams.
Instead of being scattered about in strange places.
There was a certain tang of romance and adventure in the atmosphere of their new home,
Which Anne had never found in Avonlea.
There,
Although she'd lived in sight of the sea,
It had not entered intimately into her life.
In four winds it surrounded her and called to her constantly.
From every window of her new home,
She saw some varying aspect of it.
Its haunting murmur was ever in her ears.
Vessels sailed up the harbour every day to the wharf of the Glen,
Or sailed out again through the sunset,
Bound for ports that might be halfway round the globe.
Fishing boats went white-winged down the channel in the mornings and returned laden in the evenings.
Sailors and fisherfolk travelled the red,
Winding harbour roads light-hearted and content.
There was always a certain sense of things going to happen.
Of adventures and fairings forth.
The ways of four winds were less staid and settled and grooved than those of Avonlea.
Winds of change blew over them.
The sea called ever to the dwellers on shore,
And even those who might not answer its call felt the thrill and unrest and mystery and possibilities of it.
I understand now why some men must go to sea.
Sit down.
That desire which comes to us at times to sail beyond the borne of sunset must be very imperious when it's borne into you.
I don't want a Captain Jim Runaway because of it.
I never see a ship sailing out of the channel or a gull soaring over the sandbar without wishing I were on board the ship or had wings.
Not like a dove to fly away and be at rest.
But like a gull to sweep out into the very heart of a storm.
You'll stay right here with me,
Angle.
Said Gilbert lazily.
I won't have you flying away from me into the hearts of storms.
They were sitting on their red sandstone doorstep in the late afternoon.
Great tranquilities were all about them in land and sand and sea and sky.
Silvery golds were soaring over them.
The horizons were laced with long trails of frail,
Pinkish clouds.
The hushed air was threaded with a murmurous refrain of minstrel winds and waves.
Pale asters were blowing in the sere and misty meadows between them and the harbour.
Doctors who have to be up all night waiting on sick folk don't feel very adventurous,
I suppose.
And said indulgently,
If you'd had a good sleep last night,
Gilbert,
You'd be as ready as I am for a flight of imagination.
I did good work last night,
Anne.
Said Gilbert quietly.
Under God I saved a life.
This is the first time I could ever really claim that.
In other cases I may have helped,
But,
Uh,
If I'd not stayed on at Alanis last night and fought death hand to hand.
.
.
That woman would have died this morning.
I tried an experiment that was certainly never tried in four winds before.
I doubt if it was ever tried anywhere before outside of a hospital.
It was a new thing in Kingsport Hospital last winter.
I could never dare have tried it here if I'd not been absolutely certain there was no other chance.
I wished it and it succeeded.
As a result,
A good wife and mother saved for long years of happiness.
And usefulness.
As I drove home this morning,
While the sun was rising over the harbour,
I thanked God I'd chosen the profession I did.
I fought a good fight and won it.
Think of it,
Anne.
I won against the Great Destroyer.
It's what I dreamed of doing long ago when we talked about what we wanted to do in life.
That dream came true this morning.
Was that only one of your dreams that has come true?
Anne knew perfectly well what the substance of his answer would be,
But she wanted to hear it again.
You know Anne Girl,
" said Gilbert,
Smiling into her eyes.
At that moment there were certainly two perfectly happy people sitting on the doorstep of a little white house on the Four Winds Harbour shore.
Presently Gilbert said with a change of tone.
Do I or do I not see a full-rigged ship sailing up our lane?
And looked and sprang up.
That must be either Miss Cornelia Bryant or Mrs Moore coming to call.
She said.
I'm going into the office.
If it's Miss Cornelia,
I warn you I'll eavesdrop,
" said Gilbert.
I've heard all regarding Miss Cornelia,
And I conclude her conversation will not be dull,
To say the least.
It may be Mrs Moore.
I don't think Mrs Moore is built on those lines.
I saw her working in her garden the other day and though I was far too far away to see clearly,
I thought she was rather slender.
It doesn't seem very socially inclined when she's never called on you yet.
Although she's your nearest neighbor.
She can't be like Mrs Linde after all,
Or curiosity would have brought her over,
Said Anne.
This caller is,
I think,
Miss Cornelia.
Miss Cornelia it was.
Moreover,
She had not come to make any brief and fashionable wedding call.
She had her work under her arm in a substantial parcel,
And when Anne asked her to stay,
She promptly took off her capacious sun-hat,
Which had been held on her head despite irreverent September breezes,
By a tight elastic band under the hard little knob of fair hair.
No hat and pins for Miss Cornelia.
Elastic bands have been good enough for her mother and they were good enough for her.
She had a fresh,
Round,
Pink and white face and jolly brown eyes.
She did not look in the least like a traditional maid.
And there was something in her expression which won Anne instantly.
With her old instinctive quickness to discern kindred spirits,
She knew she was going to like Miss Cornelia.
In spite of uncertain oddities of opinion and certain oddities of attire.
Nobody but Miss Cornelia would have come to make a call arrayed in a striped blue and white apron and a wrapper of chocolate print with the design of huge pink roses scattered over it.
And nobody but Miss Cornelia could have looked dignified and suitably garbed in it.
Had Miss Cornelia been entering a palace to call on a prince's bride?
She would have been just as dignified and just as wholly mistress of the situation.
She would have trailed her rose-spattered flounce over the marble floors just as unconcernedly and she would have proceeded just as calmly to disabuse the mind of the princess of any idea that the possession of a mere man,
Be he prince or peasant,
Was anything to brag about.
I've brought my work,
Mrs Blythe,
Dearie,
" she remarked,
Unrolling some dainty material.
I'm in a hurry to get this done and there isn't any time to lose.
And looked in some surprise at the white garment spread over Miss Cornelia's ample lap.
It was certainly a baby's dress and it was most beautifully made with tiny frills and tucks.
Miss Cornelia adjusted her glasses and fell to embroidering with exquisite stitches.
This is for Mrs Fred Proctor up at the Glen,
" she announced.
She's expecting her eighth any day now,
And not a stitch has she ready for it.
The other seven have wore out all she made for the first,
And she's never had any time nor strength to spirit to make any more.
That woman is a martyr,
Mrs Blythe.
Believe me,
When she married Fred Proctor,
I knew how it'd turn out.
He was one of your wicked fascinating men.
After he got married,
He left off being fascinating and just kept on being wicked.
He drinks and he neglects his family.
Ain't that like a man?
I don't know how Mrs.
Proctor would ever keep her children decently clothed if her neighbours didn't help her out.
As Anne was afterwards to learn,
Miss Cornelia was the only neighbour who troubled herself much about the decency of the young Proctors.
When I heard this eighth baby was coming,
I decided to make some things for it.
She went on,
This is the last and I want to finish it today.
It's certainly very pretty,
" said Anne.
I'll get my sewing and we'll have a thimble party or two.
You're a beautiful sower,
Miss Bryant.
I'm the best sower in this part,
" said Miss Cornelia in a matter-of-fact tone.
I suppose I'm no fool to be putting hand embroidery on this dress for an eighth baby.
But Lord Mrs.
Blyde,
Dearie,
Ain't to blame for being the eighth and diner.
Kind of wished it to have one real pretty dress,
Just as if it was wanted.
Nobody's wanting the pormite,
So I'll put some extra fuss on its little things just on that account.
Any baby might be proud of that dress,
" said Anne,
Feeling still more strongly she was going to like Miss Cornelia.
I suppose you've been thinking I was never gonna come and call on you.
Miss Cornelia resumed.
But this is harvest month,
You know,
And I've been busy,
And a lot of extra hands hanging around,
Eating more than they work,
Just like the men.
I'd have come yesterday,
But I went to Mrs.
Roderick McAllister's funeral.
At first I thought my head was aching so badly I couldn't enjoy myself if I did go.
But she was a hundred years old and I've always promised myself I'd go to her funeral.
Was it a successful function?
Asked Anne,
Noticing the office door was ajar.
What's that?
Yes,
It was a tremendous funeral.
She had a very large connection.
There was over 120 carriages in the procession.
There was one or two funny things that happened though.
I thought that die I would to see Joe Bradshaw.
Singing safe in the arms of Jesus with great gusto and fervor He glories in singing,
That's why he never misses a funeral.
As for poor Mrs Bradshaw,
She didn't look much like singing.
She was a worn-out slaving.
Old Jo starts,
Well,
Once a year to buy her a present and brings her home some new kind of farm machinery.
Ain't that like a man?
But what else would you expect of a man who never goes to church,
Even a Methodist one?
I was real thankful to see you in the young doctor in the Presbyterian church your first Sunday.
No doctor for me who isn't a Presbyterian.
We were in the Methodist church last Sunday evening,
" said Anne wickedly.
Oh,
I suppose Dr.
Blythe has to go to the Methodist one once in a while or he wouldn't get the Methodist practice.
We liked the sermon very much,
And I thought the Methodist minister's prayer was one of the most beautiful I ever heard.
No doubt you can pray.
I never heard anyone make more beautiful prayers than old Simon Bentley.
Who was always drunk or hoping to be,
And the drunker he was,
The better he prayed.
The Methodist minister is very fine looking,
" said Anne,
For the benefit of the office door.
He's quite ornamental,
" agreed Miss Corelia.
And very ladylike.
And he thinks every girl who looks at him falls in love with him.
As if a Methodist minister walking about like any Jew was such a prize!
If you and the young doctor take my advice,
You won't have much to do with the Methodists.
My motto is.
.
.
If you are a Presbyterian.
Be a Presbyterian.
