Anne's House of Dreams (23 page)

‘Leslie went one night and the Fiske-man got right after her – oh, he was especially anxious about the souls of the nice-looking girls, believe me! – and he hurt her feelings so she never went again. And then he prayed every night after that, right in public, that the Lord would soften her hard heart. Finally I went to Mr Leavitt, our minister then, and told him if he didn’t make Fiske stop that I’d just rise up the next night and throw my hymn-book at him when he mentioned that “beautiful but unrepentant young woman”. I’d have done it too, believe
me
. Mr Leavitt did put a stop to it, but Fiske kept on with his meetings until Charley Douglas put an end to his career in the Glen. Mrs Charley had been out in California all winter. She’d been real melancholy in the fall – religious melancholy – it ran in her family. Her father worried so much over believing that he had committed the unpardonable sin that he died in the asylum. So when Rose Douglas got that way Charley packed her off to visit her sister in Los Angeles. She got perfectly well and came home just when the Fiske revival was in full swing. She stepped off the train at the Glen, real smiling and chipper, and the first thing she saw staring her in the face on the black gable-end of the freight shed was the question, in big white letters, two feet high, “Whither goest thou – to heaven or hell?” That had been one of Fiske’s ideas, and he had got Henry Hammond to paint it. Rose just gave a shriek and fainted; and when they got her home she was worse than ever. Charley Douglas went to Mr Leavitt and told him that every Douglas would leave the church if Fiske was kept there any longer. Mr Leavitt had to give in, for the Douglases paid half his salary, so Fiske departed, and we had to depend on our Bibles once more for instructions on how to get to heaven. After he was gone Mr Leavitt found out he was just a masquerading Methodist, and he felt pretty sick, believe
me
. Mr Leavitt fell short in some ways, but he was a good, sound Presbyterian.’

‘By the way, I had a letter from Mr Ford yesterday,’ said Anne. ‘He asked me to remember him kindly to you.’

‘I don’t want his remembrances,’ said Miss Cornelia, curtly.

‘Why?’ said Anne, in astonishment. ‘I thought you liked him.’

‘Well, so I did, in a kind of way. But I’ll never forgive him for what he done to Leslie. There’s that poor child eating her heart out about him – as if she hadn’t had trouble enough – and him ranting round Toronto, I’ve no doubt, enjoying himself same as ever. Just like a man.’

‘Oh, Miss Cornelia, how did you find out?’

‘Lord, Anne, dearie, I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? And I’ve known Leslie since she was a baby. There’s been a new kind of heartbreak in her eyes all the fall, and I know that writer-man was behind it somehow. I’ll never forgive myself for being the means of bringing him here. But I never expected he’d be like he was. I thought he’d just be like the other men Leslie had boarded – conceited young asses, every one of them, that she never had any use for. One of them did try to flirt with her once and she froze him out – so bad, I feel sure he’s never got himself thawed since. So I never thought of any danger.’

‘Don’t let Leslie suspect you know her secret,’ said Anne hurriedly. ‘I think it would hurt her.’

‘Trust me, Anne, dearie.
I
wasn’t born yesterday. Oh, a plague on all the men! One of them ruined Leslie’s life to begin with, and now another of the tribe comes and makes her still more wretched. Anne, this world is an awful place, believe
me
.’

quoted Anne dreamily.

‘If it is, it’ll be in a world where there aren’t any men,’ said Miss Cornelia gloomily.

‘What have the men been doing now?’ asked Gilbert, entering.

‘Mischief – mischief! What else did they ever do?’

‘It was Eve ate the apple, Miss Cornelia.’

‘’Twas a he-creature tempted her,’ retorted Miss Cornelia triumphantly.

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 all 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 harbour 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.’

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 harbour 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 Harbour with precious bur-then. 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 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 endeavour 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.