Leslie, after her first anguish was over, found it possible to go on with life after all, as most of us do, no matter what our particular form of torment has been. It is even possible that she enjoyed moments of it, when she was one of the gay circle in the little house of dreams. But if Anne ever hoped that she was forgetting Owen Ford she would have been undeceived by the furtive hunger in Leslie’s eyes whenever his name was mentioned. Pitiful to that hunger, Anne always contrived to tell Captain Jim or Gilbert bits of news from Owen’s letters when Leslie was with them. The girl’s flush and pallor at such moments spoke all too eloquently of the emotion that filled her being. But she never spoke of him to Anne, or mentioned that night on the sand-bar.
One day her old dog died and she grieved bitterly over him.
“He’s been my friend so long,” she said sorrowfully to Anne. “He was Dick’s old dog, you know — Dick had him for a year or so before we were married. He left him with me when he sailed on the Four Sisters. Carlo got very fond of me — and his dog-love helped me through that first dreadful year after mother died, when I was alone. When I heard that Dick was coming back I was afraid Carlo wouldn’t be so much mine. But he never seemed to care for Dick, though he had been so fond of him once. He would snap and growl at him as if he were a stranger. I was glad. It was nice to have one thing whose love was all mine. That old dog has been such a comfort to me, Anne. He got so feeble in the fall that I was afraid he couldn’t live long — but I hoped I could nurse him through the winter. He seemed pretty well this morning. He was lying on the rug before the fire; then, all at once, he got up and crept over to me; he put his head on my lap and gave me one loving look out of his big, soft, dog eyes — and then he just shivered and died. I shall miss him so.”
“Let me give you another dog, Leslie,” said Anne. “I’m getting a lovely Gordon setter for a Christmas present for Gilbert. Let me give you one too.”
Leslie shook her head.
“Not just now, thank you, Anne. I don’t feel like having another dog yet. I don’t seem to have any affection left for another. Perhaps — in time — I’ll let you give me one. I really need one as a kind of protection. But there was something almost human about Carlo — it wouldn’t be DECENT to fill his place too hurriedly, dear old fellow.”
Anne went to Avonlea a week before Christmas and stayed until after the holidays. Gilbert came up for her, and there was a glad New Year celebration at Green Gables, when Barrys and Blythes and Wrights assembled to devour a dinner which had cost Mrs. Rachel and Marilla much careful thought and preparation. When they went back to Four Winds the little house was almost drifted over, for the third storm of a winter that was to prove phenomenally stormy had whirled up the harbor and heaped huge snow mountains about everything it encountered. But Captain Jim had shovelled out doors and paths, and Miss Cornelia had come down and kindled the hearth-fire.
“It’s good to see you back, Anne, dearie! But did you ever see such drifts? You can’t see the Moore place at all unless you go upstairs. Leslie’ll be so glad you’re back. She’s almost buried alive over there. Fortunately Dick can shovel snow, and thinks it’s great fun. Susan sent me word to tell you she would be on hand tomorrow. Where are you off to now, Captain?”
“I reckon I’ll plough up to the Glen and sit a bit with old Martin Strong. He’s not far from his end and he’s lonesome. He hasn’t many friends — been too busy all his life to make any. He’s made heaps of money, though.”
“Well, he thought that since he couldn’t serve God and Mammon he’d better stick to Mammon,” said Miss Cornelia crisply. “So he shouldn’t complain if he doesn’t find Mammon very good company now.”
Captain Jim went out, but remembered something in the yard and turned back for a moment.
“I’d a letter from Mr. Ford, Mistress Blythe, and he says the life-book is accepted and is going to be published next fall. I felt fair uplifted when I got the news. To think that I’m to see it in print at last.”
“That man is clean crazy on the subject of his life-book,” said Miss Cornelia compassionately. “For my part, I think there’s far too many books in the world now.”
CHAPTER 29
GILBERT AND ANNE DISAGREE
Gilbert laid down the ponderous medical tome over which he had been poring until the increasing dusk of the March evening made him desist. He leaned back in his chair and gazed meditatively out of the window. It was early spring — probably the ugliest time of the year. Not even the sunset could redeem the dead, sodden landscape and rotten black harbor ice upon which he looked. No sign of life was visible, save a big black crow winging his solitary way across a leaden field. Gilbert speculated idly concerning that crow. Was he a family crow, with a black but comely crow wife awaiting him in the woods beyond the Glen? Or was he a glossy young buck of a crow on courting thoughts intent? Or was he a cynical bachelor crow, believing that he travels the fastest who travels alone? Whatever he was, he soon disappeared in congenial gloom and Gilbert turned to the cheerier view indoors.
The firelight flickered from point to point, gleaming on the white and green coats of Gog and Magog, on the sleek, brown head of the beautiful setter basking on the rug, on the picture frames on the walls, on the vaseful of daffodils from the window garden, on Anne herself, sitting by her little table, with her sewing beside her and her hands clasped over her knee while she traced out pictures in the fire — Castles in Spain whose airy turrets pierced moonlit cloud and sunset bar-ships sailing from the Haven of Good Hopes straight to Four Winds Harbor with precious burthen. For Anne was again a dreamer of dreams, albeit a grim shape of fear went with her night and day to shadow and darken her visions.
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 w
ith 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 spoi
ling 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.”
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 125