Chapter 29

GILBERT AND ANNE DISAGREE

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 harbor 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 Harbor with precious burthen. 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 endeavor
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.

"Now, Gilbert, you are not `going off mad.' Sit down
here and I'll apologise bee-YEW-ti-fully, I shouldn't
have said that. But--oh, if you knew--"

Anne checked herself just in time. She had been on the
very verge of betraying 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 of view--and I've been driven to the
conclusion that it is my duty to tell Leslie that I
believe it is possible that Dick can be restored to
himself; there my responsibility ends. It will be for
her to decide what 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 an operation?"

"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 have been lesions of the brain itself, the
effect of which can never be removed. But if, as I
believe, his loss of memory and other faculties is due
merely to the pressure on the brain centers of certain
depressed areas of bone, then he can be cured."

"But it's only a possibility!" insisted Anne. "Now,
suppose you tell Leslie and she decides to have the
operation. It will cost a great deal. 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 a living for herself and that big helpless
creature if she sells the farm?"

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

"Oh, I know the Blythe stubbornness," groaned Anne.
" But don't do this solely 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 his prejudice against new-fangled surgery, I'm
afraid he looks at the case from your point of
view--don't do it, for Leslie's sake."

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

"Thank you."

"Don't laugh. It's too serious."

"That's just my point. It IS serious. Here is a man
who is a helpless burden. 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 wife doesn't know this. I do. It is
therefore my duty to tell her that there is such a
possibility. That, boiled down, is my decision."

"Don't say `decision' yet, Gilbert. Consult somebody
else. Ask Captain 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 would never be easy if I kept silent on the
subject."

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

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

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

"You're driven to the last ditch, Anne, when you bring
up Miss Cornelia as a reinforcement. She will say,
`Just like a man,' and rage furiously. 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 in tears. "She has ideals of duty, too.
I don't see how you can take such 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!" scoffed Anne. "That is so like a man."

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

"Well, if you won't accept Tennyson as an authority,
perhaps you will believe the words of a Greater than
he," said Gilbert seriously. "`Ye shall know the
truth and the truth shall make you free.' I believe
that, Anne, with all my heart. It's the greatest and
grandest verse in the Bible--or in any literature--and
the TRUEST, if there are comparative degrees of
trueness. And it's the first duty of a man to tell the
truth, as he sees it and believes it."

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

Chapter 30
Anne's House of Dreams Index