THE TRUTH MAKES FREE
Leslie, having once made up her mind what to do, proceeded to do it
with characteristic resolution and speed. House-cleaning must be
finished with first, whatever issues of life and death might await
beyond. The gray house up the brook was put into flawless order and
cleanliness, with Miss Cornelia’s ready assistance. Miss Cornelia,
having said her say to Anne, and later on to Gilbert and Captain
Jim--sparing neither of them, let it be assured--never spoke of the
matter to Leslie. She accepted the fact of Dick’s operation, referred
to it when necessary in a business-like way, and ignored it when it was
not. Leslie never attempted to discuss it. She was very cold and
quiet during these beautiful spring days. She seldom visited Anne, and
though she was invariably courteous and friendly, that very courtesy
was as an icy barrier between her and the people of the little house.
The old jokes and laughter and chumminess of common things could not
reach her over it. Anne refused to feel hurt. She knew that Leslie
was in the grip of a hideous dread--a dread that wrapped her away from
all little glimpses of happiness and hours of pleasure. When one great
passion seizes possession of the soul all other feelings are crowded
aside. Never in all her life had Leslie Moore shuddered away from the
future with more intolerable terror. But she went forward as
unswervingly in the path she had elected as the martyrs of old walked
their chosen way, knowing the end of it to be the fiery agony of the
stake.
The financial question was settled with greater ease than Anne had
feared. Leslie borrowed the necessary money from Captain Jim, and, at
her insistence, he took a mortgage on the little farm.
“So that is one thing off the poor girl’s mind,” Miss Cornelia told
Anne, “and off mine too. Now, if Dick gets well enough to work again
he’ll be able to earn enough to pay the interest on it; and if he
doesn’t I know Captain Jim’ll manage someway that Leslie won’t have to.
He said as much to me. ‘I’m getting old, Cornelia,’ he said, ‘and I’ve
no chick or child of my own. Leslie won’t take a gift from a living
man, but mebbe she will from a dead one.’ So it will be all right as
far as THAT goes. I wish everything else might be settled as
satisfactorily. As for that wretch of a Dick, he’s been awful these
last few days. The devil was in him, believe ME! Leslie and I
couldn’t get on with our work for the tricks he’d play. He chased all
her ducks one day around the yard till most of them died. And not one
thing would he do for us. Sometimes, you know, he’ll make himself
quite handy, bringing in pails of water and wood. But this week if we
sent him to the well he’d try to climb down into it. I thought once,
‘If you’d only shoot down there head-first everything would be nicely
settled.’”
“Oh, Miss Cornelia!”
“Now, you needn’t Miss Cornelia me, Anne, dearie. ANYBODY would have
thought the same. If the Montreal doctors can make a rational creature
out of Dick Moore they’re wonders.”
Leslie took Dick to Montreal early in May. Gilbert went with her, to
help her, and make the necessary arrangements for her. He came home
with the report that the Montreal surgeon whom they had consulted
agreed with him that there was a good chance of Dick’s restoration.
“Very comforting,” was Miss Cornelia’s sarcastic comment.
Anne only sighed. Leslie had been very distant at their parting.
But she had promised to write. Ten days after Gilbert’s return the
letter came. Leslie wrote that the operation had been successfully
performed and that Dick was making a good recovery.
“What does she mean by ‘successfully?’” asked Anne. “Does she mean
that Dick’s memory is really restored?”
“Not likely--since she says nothing of it,” said Gilbert. “She uses
the word ‘successfully’ from the surgeon’s point of view. The
operation has been performed and followed by normal results. But it is
too soon to know whether Dick’s faculties will be eventually restored,
wholly or in part. His memory would not be likely to return to him all
at once. The process will be gradual, if it occurs at all. Is that
all she says?”
“Yes--there’s her letter. It’s very short. Poor girl, she must be
under a terrible strain. Gilbert Blythe, there are heaps of things I
long to say to you, only it would be mean.”
“Miss Cornelia says them for you,” said Gilbert with a rueful smile.
“She combs me down every time I encounter her. She makes it plain to
me that she regards me as little better than a murderer, and that she
thinks it a great pity that Dr. Dave ever let me step into his shoes.
She even told me that the Methodist doctor over the harbor was to be
preferred before me. With Miss Cornelia the force of condemnation can
no further go.”
“If Cornelia Bryant was sick, it would not be Doctor Dave or the
Methodist doctor she would send for,” sniffed Susan. “She would have
you out of your hard-earned bed in the middle of the night, doctor,
dear, if she took a spell of misery, that she would. And then she
would likely say your bill was past all reason. But do not mind her,
doctor, dear. It takes all kinds of people to make a world.”
No further word came from Leslie for some time. The May days crept
away in a sweet succession and the shores of Four Winds Harbor greened
and bloomed and purpled. One day in late May Gilbert came home to be
met by Susan in the stable yard.
“I am afraid something has upset Mrs. Doctor, doctor, dear,” she said
mysteriously. “She got a letter this afternoon and since then she has
just been walking round the garden and talking to herself. You know it
is not good for her to be on her feet so much, doctor, dear. She did
not see fit to tell me what her news was, and I am no pry, doctor,
dear, and never was, but it is plain something has upset her. And it
is not good for her to be upset.”
Gilbert hurried rather anxiously to the garden. Had anything happened
at Green Gables? But Anne, sitting on the rustic seat by the brook,
did not look troubled, though she was certainly much excited. Her eyes
were their grayest, and scarlet spots burned on her cheeks.
“What has happened, Anne?”
Anne gave a queer little laugh.
“I think you’ll hardly believe it when I tell you, Gilbert. _I_ can’t
believe it yet. As Susan said the other day, ‘I feel like a fly coming
to live in the sun--dazed-like.’ It’s all so incredible. I’ve read
the letter a score of times and every time it’s just the same--I can’t
believe my own eyes. Oh, Gilbert, you were right--so right. I can see
that clearly enough now--and I’m so ashamed of myself--and will you
ever really forgive me?”
“Anne, I’ll shake you if you don’t grow coherent. Redmond would be
ashamed of you. WHAT has happened?”
“You won’t believe it--you won’t believe it--”
“I’m going to phone for Uncle Dave,” said Gilbert, pretending to start
for the house.
“Sit down, Gilbert. I’ll try to tell you. I’ve had a letter, and oh,
Gilbert, it’s all so amazing--so incredibly amazing--we never
thought--not one of us ever dreamed--”
“I suppose,” said Gilbert, sitting down with a resigned air, “the only
thing to do in a case of this kind is to have patience and go at the
matter categorically. Whom is your letter from?”
“Leslie--and, oh, Gilbert--”
“Leslie! Whew! What has she to say? What’s the news about Dick?”
Anne lifted the letter and held it out, calmly dramatic in a moment.
“There is NO Dick! The man we have thought Dick Moore--whom everybody
in Four Winds has believed for twelve years to be Dick Moore--is his
cousin, George Moore, of Nova Scotia, who, it seems, always resembled
him very strikingly. Dick Moore died of yellow fever thirteen years
ago in Cuba.”