The Classic Children's Literature Collection: 39 Classic Novels

by Various Authors

  Gilbert was accustomed to refer to himself as “an old married man.” But he still looked upon Anne with the incredulous eyes of a lover. He couldn’t wholly believe yet that she was really his. It MIGHT be only a dream after all, part and parcel of this magic house of dreams. His soul still went on tip-toe before her, lest the charm be shattered and the dream dispelled.

  “Anne,” he said slowly, “lend me your ears. I want to talk with you about something.”

  Anne looked across at him through the fire-lit gloom.

  “What is it?” she asked gaily. “You look fearfully solemn, Gilbert. I really haven’t done anything naughty today. Ask Susan.”

  “It’s not of you—or ourselves—I want to talk. It’s about Dick Moore.”

  “Dick Moore?” echoed Anne, sitting up alertly. “Why, what in the world have you to say about Dick Moore?”

  “I’ve been thinking a great deal about him lately. Do you remember that time last summer I treated him for those carbuncles on his neck?”

  “Yes—yes.”

  “I took the opportunity to examine the scars on his head thoroughly. I’ve always thought Dick was a very interesting case from a medical point of view. Lately I’ve been studying the history of trephining and the cases where it has been employed. Anne, I have come to the conclusion that if Dick Moore were taken to a good hospital and the operation of trephining performed on several places in his skull, his memory and faculties might be restored.”

  “Gilbert!” Anne’s voice was full of protest. “Surely you don’t mean it!”

  “I do, indeed. And I have decided that it is my duty to broach the subject to Leslie.”

  “Gilbert Blythe, you shall NOT do any such thing,” cried Anne vehemently. “Oh, Gilbert, you won’t—you won’t. You couldn’t be so cruel. Promise me you won’t.”

  “Why, Anne-girl, I didn’t suppose you would take it like this. Be reasonable—”

  “I won’t be reasonable—I can’t be reasonable—I AM reasonable. It is you who are unreasonable. Gilbert, have you ever once thought what it would mean for Leslie if Dick Moore were to be restored to his right senses? Just stop and think! She’s unhappy enough now; but life as Dick’s nurse and attendant is a thousand times easier for her than life as Dick’s wife. I know—I KNOW! It’s unthinkable. Don’t you meddle with the matter. Leave well enough alone.”

  “I HAVE thought over that aspect of the case thoroughly, Anne. But I believe that a doctor is bound to set the sanctity of a patient’s mind and body above all other considerations, no matter what the consequences may be. I believe it his duty to endeavor to restore health and sanity, if there is any hope whatever of it.”

  “But Dick isn’t your patient in that respect,” cried Anne, taking another tack. “If Leslie had asked you if anything could be done for him, THEN it might be your duty to tell her what you really thought. But you’ve no right to meddle.”

  “I don’t call it meddling. Uncle Dave told Leslie twelve years ago that nothing could be done for Dick. She believes that, of course.”

  “And why did Uncle Dave tell her that, if it wasn’t true?” cried Anne, triumphantly. “Doesn’t he know as much about it as you?”

  “I think not—though it may sound conceited and presumptuous to say it. And you know as well as I that he is rather prejudiced against what he calls ‘these new-fangled notions of cutting and carving.’ He’s even opposed to operating for appendicitis.”

  “He’s right,” exclaimed Anne, with a complete change of front. ‘I believe myself that you modern doctors are entirely too fond of making experiments with human flesh and blood.”

  “Rhoda Allonby would not be a living woman today if I had been afraid of making a certain experiment,” argued Gilbert. “I took the risk—and saved her life.”

  “I’m sick and tired of hearing about Rhoda Allonby,” cried Anne—most unjustly, for Gilbert had never mentioned Mrs. Allonby’s name since the day he had told Anne of his success in regard to her. And he could not be blamed for other people’s discussion of it.

  Gilbert felt rather hurt.

  “I had not expected you to look at the matter as you do, Anne,” he said a little stiffly, getting up and moving towards the office door. It was their first approach to a quarrel.

  But Anne flew after him and dragged him back.

  “Now, Gilbert, you are not ‘going off mad.’ Sit down here and I’ll apologise bee-YEW-ti-fully, I shouldn’t have said that. But—oh, if you knew—”

  Anne checked herself just in time. She had been on the very verge of betraying Leslie’s secret.

  “Knew what a woman feels about it,” she concluded lamely.

  “I think I do know. I’ve looked at the matter from every point of view—and I’ve been driven to the conclusion that it is my duty to tell Leslie that I believe it is possible that Dick can be restored to himself; there my responsibility ends. It will be for her to decide what she will do.”

  “I don’t think you’ve any right to put such a responsibility on her. She has enough to bear. She is poor—how could she afford such an operation?”

  “That is for her to decide,” persisted Gilbert stubbornly.

  “You say you think that Dick can be cured. But are you SURE of it?”

  “Certainly not. Nobody could be sure of such a thing. There may have been lesions of the brain itself, the effect of which can never be removed. But if, as I believe, his loss of memory and other faculties is due merely to the pressure on the brain centers of certain depressed areas of bone, then he can be cured.”

  “But it’s only a possibility!” insisted Anne. “Now, suppose you tell Leslie and she decides to have the operation. It will cost a great deal. She will have to borrow the money, or sell her little property. And suppose the operation is a failure and Dick remains the same.

  “How will she be able to pay back the money she borrows, or make a living for herself and that big helpless creature if she sells the farm?”

  “Oh, I know—I know. But it is my duty to tell her. I can’t get away from that conviction.”

  “Oh, I know the Blythe stubbornness,” groaned Anne. “But don’t do this solely on your own responsibility. Consult Doctor Dave.”

  “I HAVE done so,” said Gilbert reluctantly.

  “And what did he say?”

  “In brief—as you say—leave well enough alone. Apart from his prejudice against new-fangled surgery, I’m afraid he looks at the case from your point of view—don’t do it, for Leslie’s sake.”

  “There now,” cried Anne triumphantly. “I do think, Gilbert, that you ought to abide by the judgment of a man nearly eighty, who has seen a great deal and saved scores of lives himself—surely his opinion ought to weigh more than a mere boy’s.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t laugh. It’s too serious.”

  “That’s just my point. It IS serious. Here is a man who is a helpless burden. He may be restored to reason and usefulness—”

  “He was so very useful before,” interjected Anne witheringly.

  “He may be given a chance to make good and redeem the past. His wife doesn’t know this. I do. It is therefore my duty to tell her that there is such a possibility. That, boiled down, is my decision.”

  “Don’t say ‘decision’ yet, Gilbert. Consult somebody else. Ask Captain Jim what he thinks about it.”

  “Very well. But I’ll not promise to abide by his opinion, Anne.

  “This is something a man must decide for himself. My conscience would never be easy if I kept silent on the subject.”

  “Oh, your conscience!” moaned Anne. “I suppose that Uncle Dave has a conscience too, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes. But I am not the keeper of his conscience. Come, Anne, if this affair did not concern Leslie—if it were a purely abstract case, you would agree with me,—you know you would
.”

  “I wouldn’t,” vowed Anne, trying to believe it herself. “Oh, you can argue all night, Gilbert, but you won’t convince me. Just you ask Miss Cornelia what she thinks of it.”

  “You’re driven to the last ditch, Anne, when you bring up Miss Cornelia as a reinforcement. She will say, ‘Just like a man,’ and rage furiously. No matter. This is no affair for Miss Cornelia to settle. Leslie alone must decide it.”

  “You know very well how she will decide it,” said Anne, almost in tears. “She has ideals of duty, too. I don’t see how you can take such a responsibility on your shoulders. I couldn’t.”

  “‘Because right is right to follow right

  Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence,’”

  quoted Gilbert.

  “Oh, you think a couplet of poetry a convincing argument!” scoffed Anne. “That is so like a man.”

  And then she laughed in spite of herself. It sounded so like an echo of Miss Cornelia.

  “Well, if you won’t accept Tennyson as an authority, perhaps you will believe the words of a Greater than he,” said Gilbert seriously. “‘Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.’ I believe that, Anne, with all my heart. It’s the greatest and grandest verse in the Bible—or in any literature—and the TRUEST, if there are comparative degrees of trueness. And it’s the first duty of a man to tell the truth, as he sees it and believes it.”

  “In this case the truth won’t make poor Leslie free,” sighed Anne. “It will probably end in still more bitter bondage for her. Oh, Gilbert, I CAN’T think you are right.”

  CHAPTER 30.LESLIE DECIDES

  A sudden outbreak of a virulent type of influenza at the Glen and down at the fishing village kept Gilbert so busy for the next fortnight that he had no time to pay the promised visit to Captain Jim. Anne hoped against hope that he had abandoned the idea about Dick Moore, and, resolving to let sleeping dogs lie, she said no more about the subject. But she thought of it incessantly.

  “I wonder if it would be right for me to tell him that Leslie cares for Owen,” she thought. “He would never let her suspect that he knew, so her pride would not suffer, and it MIGHT convince him that he should let Dick Moore alone. Shall I—shall I? No, after all, I cannot. A promise is sacred, and I’ve no right to betray Leslie’s secret. But oh, I never felt so worried over anything in my life as I do over this. It’s spoiling the spring—it’s spoiling everything.”

  One evening Gilbert abruptly proposed that they go down and see Captain Jim. With a sinking heart Anne agreed, and they set forth. Two weeks of kind sunshine had wrought a miracle in the bleak landscape over which Gilbert’s crow had flown. The hills and fields were dry and brown and warm, ready to break into bud and blossom; the harbor was laughter-shaken again; the long harbor road was like a gleaming red ribbon; down on the dunes a crowd of boys, who were out smelt fishing, were burning the thick, dry sandhill grass of the preceding summer. The flames swept over the dunes rosily, flinging their cardinal banners against the dark gulf beyond, and illuminating the channel and the fishing village. It was a picturesque scene which would at other times have delighted Anne’s eyes; but she was not enjoying this walk. Neither was Gilbert. Their usual good-comradeship and Josephian community of taste and viewpoint were sadly lacking. Anne’s disapproval of the whole project showed itself in the haughty uplift of her head and the studied politeness of her remarks. Gilbert’s mouth was set in all the Blythe obstinacy, but his eyes were troubled. He meant to do what he believed to be his duty; but to be at outs with Anne was a high price to pay. Altogether, both were glad when they reached the light—and remorseful that they should be glad.

  Captain Jim put away the fishing net upon which he was working, and welcomed them joyfully. In the searching light of the spring evening he looked older than Anne had ever seen him. His hair had grown much grayer, and the strong old hand shook a little. But his blue eyes were clear and steady, and the staunch soul looked out through them gallant and unafraid.

  Captain Jim listened in amazed silence while Gilbert said what he had come to say. Anne, who knew how the old man worshipped Leslie, felt quite sure that he would side with her, although she had not much hope that this would influence Gilbert. She was therefore surprised beyond measure when Captain Jim, slowly and sorrowfully, but unhesitatingly, gave it as his opinion that Leslie should be told.

  “Oh, Captain Jim, I didn’t think you’d say that,” she exclaimed reproachfully. “I thought you wouldn’t want to make more trouble for her.”

  Captain Jim shook his head.

  “I don’t want to. I know how you feel about it, Mistress Blythe—just as I feel meself. But it ain’t our feelings we have to steer by through life—no, no, we’d make shipwreck mighty often if we did that. There’s only the one safe compass and we’ve got to set our course by that—what it’s right to do. I agree with the doctor. If there’s a chance for Dick, Leslie should be told of it. There’s no two sides to that, in my opinion.”

  “Well,” said Anne, giving up in despair, “wait until Miss Cornelia gets after you two men.”

  “Cornelia’ll rake us fore and aft, no doubt,” assented Captain Jim. “You women are lovely critters, Mistress Blythe, but you’re just a mite illogical. You’re a highly eddicated lady and Cornelia isn’t, but you’re like as two peas when it comes to that. I dunno’s you’re any the worse for it. Logic is a sort of hard, merciless thing, I reckon. Now, I’ll brew a cup of tea and we’ll drink it and talk of pleasant things, jest to calm our minds a bit.”

  At least, Captain Jim’s tea and conversation calmed Anne’s mind to such an extent that she did not make Gilbert suffer so acutely on the way home as she had deliberately intended to do. She did not refer to the burning question at all, but she chatted amiably of other matters, and Gilbert understood that he was forgiven under protest.

  “Captain Jim seems very frail and bent this spring. The winter has aged him,” said Anne sadly. “I am afraid that he will soon be going to seek lost Margaret. I can’t bear to think of it.”

  “Four Winds won’t be the same place when Captain Jim ‘sets out to sea,’” agreed Gilbert.

  The following evening he went to the house up the brook. Anne wandered dismally around until his return.

  “Well, what did Leslie say?” she demanded when he came in.

  “Very little. I think she felt rather dazed.”

  “And is she going to have the operation?”

  “She is going to think it over and decide very soon.”

  Gilbert flung himself wearily into the easy chair before the fire. He looked tired. It had not been an easy thing for him to tell Leslie. And the terror that had sprung into her eyes when the meaning of what he told her came home to her was not a pleasant thing to remember. Now, when the die was cast, he was beset with doubts of his own wisdom.

  Anne looked at him remorsefully; then she slipped down on the rug beside him and laid her glossy red head on his arm.

  “Gilbert, I’ve been rather hateful over this. I won’t be any more. Please just call me red-headed and forgive me.”

  By which Gilbert understood that, no matter what came of it, there would be no I-told-you-so’s. But he was not wholly comforted. Duty in the abstract is one thing; duty in the concrete is quite another, especially when the doer is confronted by a woman’s stricken eyes.

  Some instinct made Anne keep away from Leslie for the next three days. On the third evening Leslie came down to the little house and told Gilbert that she had made up her mind; she would take Dick to Montreal and have the operation.

  She was very pale and seemed to have wrapped herself in her old mantle of aloofness. But her eyes had lost the look which had haunted Gilbert; they were cold and bright; and she proceeded to discuss details with him in a crisp, business-like way. There were plans to be made and many things to be thought over. When Leslie had got the information s
he wanted she went home. Anne wanted to walk part of the way with her.

  “Better not,” said Leslie curtly. “Today’s rain has made the ground damp. Good-night.”

  “Have I lost my friend?” said Anne with a sigh. “If the operation is successful and Dick Moore finds himself again Leslie will retreat into some remote fastness of her soul where none of us can ever find her.”

  “Perhaps she will leave him,” said Gilbert.

  “Leslie would never do that, Gilbert. Her sense of duty is very strong. She told me once that her Grandmother West always impressed upon her the fact that when she assumed any responsibility she must never shirk it, no matter what the consequences might be. That is one of her cardinal rules. I suppose it’s very old-fashioned.”

  “Don’t be bitter, Anne-girl. You know you don’t think it old-fashioned—you know you have the very same idea of sacredness of assumed responsibilities yourself. And you are right. Shirking responsibilities is the curse of our modern life—the secret of all the unrest and discontent that is seething in the world.”

  “Thus saith the preacher,” mocked Anne. But under the mockery she felt that he was right; and she was very sick at heart for Leslie.

  A week later Miss Cornelia descended like an avalanche upon the little house. Gilbert was away and Anne was compelled to bear the shock of the impact alone.

  Miss Cornelia hardly waited to get her hat off before she began.

  “Anne, do you mean to tell me it’s true what I’ve heard—that Dr. Blythe has told Leslie Dick can be cured, and that she is going to take him to Montreal to have him operated on?”

  “Yes, it is quite true, Miss Cornelia,” said Anne bravely.

  “Well, it’s inhuman cruelty, that’s what it is,” said Miss Cornelia, violently agitated. “I did think Dr. Blythe was a decent man. I didn’t think he could have been guilty of this.”