فصل 31مجموعه: آن شرلی با موهای قرمز / کتاب: آن در ویندی پاپلز / فصل 31
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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.”
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