Anne's House of Dreams

by L. M. Montgomery

  CHAPTER 29

  GILBERT AND ANNE DISAGREE

  Gilbert laid down the ponderous medical tome over which he had beenporing 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 eventhe sunset could redeem the dead, sodden landscape and rotten blackharbor ice upon which he looked. No sign of life was visible, save abig black crow winging his solitary way across a leaden field. Gilbertspeculated idly concerning that crow. Was he a family crow, with ablack 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 thefastest who travels alone? Whatever he was, he soon disappeared incongenial gloom and Gilbert turned to the cheerier view indoors.

  The firelight flickered from point to point, gleaming on the white andgreen coats of Gog and Magog, on the sleek, brown head of the beautifulsetter basking on the rug, on the picture frames on the walls, on thevaseful of daffodils from the window garden, on Anne herself, sittingby her little table, with her sewing beside her and her hands claspedover her knee while she traced out pictures in the fire--Castles inSpain whose airy turrets pierced moonlit cloud and sunset bar-shipssailing from the Haven of Good Hopes straight to Four Winds Harbor withprecious burthen. For Anne was again a dreamer of dreams, albeit agrim shape of fear went with her night and day to shadow and darken hervisions.

  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. Hecouldn't wholly believe yet that she was really his. It MIGHT be onlya dream after all, part and parcel of this magic house of dreams. Hissoul still went on tip-toe before her, lest the charm be shattered andthe dream dispelled.

  "Anne," he said slowly, "lend me your ears. I want to talk with youabout something."

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

  "What is it?" she asked gaily. "You look fearfully solemn, Gilbert. Ireally 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 worldhave you to say about Dick Moore?"

  "I've been thinking a great deal about him lately. Do you rememberthat 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 medicalpoint of view. Lately I've been studying the history of trephining andthe cases where it has been employed. Anne, I have come to theconclusion that if Dick Moore were taken to a good hospital and theoperation of trephining performed on several places in his skull, hismemory and faculties might be restored."

  "Gilbert!" Anne's voice was full of protest. "Surely you don't meanit!"

  "I do, indeed. And I have decided that it is my duty to broach thesubject to Leslie."

  "Gilbert Blythe, you shall NOT do any such thing," cried Annevehemently. "Oh, Gilbert, you won't--you won't. You couldn't be socruel. Promise me you won't."

  "Why, Anne-girl, I didn't suppose you would take it like this. Bereasonable--"

  "I won't be reasonable--I can't be reasonable--I AM reasonable. It isyou who are unreasonable. Gilbert, have you ever once thought what itwould mean for Leslie if Dick Moore were to be restored to his rightsenses? Just stop and think! She's unhappy enough now; but life asDick's nurse and attendant is a thousand times easier for her than lifeas Dick's wife. I know--I KNOW! It's unthinkable. Don't you meddlewith the matter. Leave well enough alone."

  "I HAVE thought over that aspect of the case thoroughly, Anne. But Ibelieve that a doctor is bound to set the sanctity of a patient's mindand body above all other considerations, no matter what theconsequences may be. I believe it his duty to endeavor to restorehealth and sanity, if there is any hope whatever of it."

  "But Dick isn't your patient in that respect," cried Anne, takinganother tack. "If Leslie had asked you if anything could be done forhim, 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 agothat 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 hecalls 'these new-fangled notions of cutting and carving.' He's evenopposed to operating for appendicitis."

  "He's right," exclaimed Anne, with a complete change of front. 'Ibelieve myself that you modern doctors are entirely too fond of makingexperiments with human flesh and blood."

  "Rhoda Allonby would not be a living woman today if I had been afraidof making a certain experiment," argued Gilbert. "I took the risk--andsaved her life."

  "I'm sick and tired of hearing about Rhoda Allonby," cried Anne--mostunjustly, for Gilbert had never mentioned Mrs. Allonby's name since theday he had told Anne of his success in regard to her. And he could notbe 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 saida little stiffly, getting up and moving towards the office door. Itwas 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'llapologise bee-YEW-ti-fully, I shouldn't have said that. But--oh, ifyou knew--"

  Anne checked herself just in time. She had been on the very verge ofbetraying 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 ofview--and I've been driven to the conclusion that it is my duty to tellLeslie that I believe it is possible that Dick can be restored tohimself; there my responsibility ends. It will be for her to decidewhat 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 anoperation?"

  "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 havebeen lesions of the brain itself, the effect of which can never beremoved. But if, as I believe, his loss of memory and other facultiesis due merely to the pressure on the brain centers of certain depressedareas of bone, then he can be cured."

  "But it's only a possibility!" insisted Anne. "Now, suppose you tellLeslie and she decides to have the operation. It will cost a greatdeal. 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 aliving for herself and that big helpless creature if she sells thefarm?"

  "Oh, I know--I know. But it is my duty to tell her. I can't get awayfrom that conviction."

  "Oh, I know the Blythe stubbornness," groaned Anne. "But don't do thissolely 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 hisprejudice against new-fangled surgery, I'm afraid he looks at the casefrom your point of view--don't do it, for Leslie's sake."

  "There now," cried Anne triumphantly. "I do think, Gilbert, that youought to abide by the judgment of a man nearly eighty, who has seen agreat deal and saved scores of lives himself--surely his opinion oughtto weigh more than a mere boy's."

  "Thank you."<
br />
  "Don't laugh. It's too serious."

  "That's just my point. It IS serious. Here is a man who is a helplessburden. 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 wifedoesn't know this. I do. It is therefore my duty to tell her thatthere is such a possibility. That, boiled down, is my decision."

  "Don't say 'decision' yet, Gilbert. Consult somebody else. AskCaptain 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 wouldnever be easy if I kept silent on the subject."

  "Oh, your conscience!" moaned Anne. "I suppose that Uncle Dave has aconscience too, hasn't he?"

  "Yes. But I am not the keeper of his conscience. Come, Anne, if thisaffair did not concern Leslie--if it were a purely abstract case, youwould agree with me,--you know you would."

  "I wouldn't," vowed Anne, trying to believe it herself. "Oh, you canargue all night, Gilbert, but you won't convince me. Just you ask MissCornelia what she thinks of it."

  "You're driven to the last ditch, Anne, when you bring up Miss Corneliaas a reinforcement. She will say, 'Just like a man,' and ragefuriously. 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 intears. "She has ideals of duty, too. I don't see how you can takesuch 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!" scoffedAnne. "That is so like a man."

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

  "Well, if you won't accept Tennyson as an authority, perhaps you willbelieve the words of a Greater than he," said Gilbert seriously. "'Yeshall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.' I believethat, Anne, with all my heart. It's the greatest and grandest verse inthe Bible--or in any literature--and the TRUEST, if there arecomparative degrees of trueness. And it's the first duty of a man totell the truth, as he sees it and believes it."

  "In this case the truth won't make poor Leslie free," sighed Anne. "Itwill probably end in still more bitter bondage for her. Oh, Gilbert, ICAN'T think you are right."