CHAPTER 31
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."
