 Chapter 27 OF ANN'S HOUSE OF DREAMS Owen Ford left four winds the next morning. In the evening Anne went over to see Leslie, but found nobody. The house was locked and there was no light in any window. It looked like a house left soulless. Leslie did not run over on the following day, which Anne thought a bad sign. Gilbert, having occasioned to go in the evening to the fishing-cove, Anne drove with him to the point, intending to stay awhile with Captain Jim. But the great light, cutting its swath through the fog of the autumn evening, was in care of Alec Boyd, and Captain Jim was away. What will you do? asked Gilbert. Come with me. I don't want to go to the cove, but I'll go over the channel with you, and roam about on the sand shore till you come back. The rock shore is too slippery and grim tonight. Alone on the sands of the bar, Anne gave herself up to the eerie charm of the night. It was warm for September, and the late afternoon had been very foggy. But a full moon had in part lessened the fog and transformed the harbour and the gulf and the surrounding shores into a strange, fantastic, unreal world of pale silver mist, through which everything loomed phantom-like. Captain Josiah Crawford's black schooner sailing down the channel, laden with potatoes for blue-nosed ports, was a spectral ship bound for a far uncharted land, ever receding, never to be reached. The calls of unseen gulls overhead were the cries of the souls of doomed seamen. The little curls of foam that blew across the sand were elfin things stealing up from the sea-caves. The big, round-shouldered sand dunes were the sleeping giants of some old northern tale. The lights that glimmered palely across the harbour were the delusive beacons on some coast of fairyland. Anne pleased herself with a hundred fantasies as she wandered through the mist. It was delightful, romantic, mysterious to be roaming here alone on this enchanted shore. But was she alone? Something loomed in the mist before her took shape and form. Suddenly moved towards her across the wave-rippled sand. "'Lesslie!' exclaimed Anne in amazement. Whatever are you doing here, to-night?' "'If it comes to that, whatever are you doing here?' said Leslie, trying to laugh. The effort was a failure. She looked very pale and tired, but the love-locks under her scarlet cap were curling about her face and eyes like little sparkling rings of gold. "'I'm waiting for Gilbert. He's over at the cove. I intended to stay at the light, but Captain Jim is away.' "'Well, I came here because I wanted to walk and walk and walk,' said Leslie restlessly. I couldn't on the rock shore. The tide was too high and the rocks prisoned me. I had to come here, or I should have gone mad, I think. I rode myself over the channel and Captain Jim's flat. I've been here for an hour. Come, come let us walk. I can't stand still. Oh, Anne!' "'Lesslie, dearest, what is the trouble?' asked Anne, though she knew too well already. "'I can't tell you. Don't ask me. I wouldn't mind your knowing. I wish you did know. But I can't tell you. I can't tell anyone. I've been such a fool, Anne. And, oh, it hurts so terribly to be a fool. There's nothing so painful in the world.' She laughed bitterly. Anne slipped her arm around her. "'Lesslie, is it that you have learned to care for Mr. Ford?' Leslie turned herself about passionately. "'How did you know?' she cried. "'Anne, how did you know? Oh, is it written in my face for everyone to see? Is it as plain as that?' "'No, no. I can't tell you how I knew. It just came into my mind somehow.' "'Lesslie, don't look at me like that.' "'Do you despise me?' demanded Leslie in a fierce, low tone. "'Do you think I'm wicked, unwomanly? Or do you think I'm just plain fool?' "'I don't think you any of those things.' "'Come, dear, let's just talk it over sensibly, as we might talk over any other of the great crises of life. You've been brooding over it and let yourself drift into a morbid view of it. You know you have a little tendency to do that about everything that goes wrong and you promised me that you would fight against it. But, oh, it's so, so shameful, murmured Leslie, to love him unsought, and when I'm not free to love anybody. There's nothing shameful about it, but I'm very sorry that you have learned to care for Owen, because, as things are, it will only make you more unhappy. "'I didn't learn to care,' said Leslie, walking on and speaking passionately. If it had been like that, I could have prevented it. I never dreamed of such a thing until that day, a week ago, when he told me he had finished his book and must soon go away. Then, then I knew. I felt as if someone had struck me a terrible blow. I didn't say anything. I couldn't speak. But I don't know what I looked like. I'm so afraid my face betrayed me. Oh, I would die of shame if I thought he knew or suspected.' Anne was miserably silent, hampered by her deductions from her conversation with Owen. Leslie went on feverishly, as if she found relief in speech. "'I was so happy all this summer, Anne. Happier than I ever was in my life. I thought it was because everything had been made clear between you and me, and that it was our friendship which made life seem so beautiful and full once more. And it was, in part, but not all. Oh, not nearly all. I know now why everything was so different, and now it's all over, and he has gone. How can I live, Anne? When I turned back into the house this morning after he had gone, the solitude struck me like a blow in the face. It won't seem so hard by and by, dear," said Anne, who always felt the pain of her friends so keenly that she could not speak easy fluent words of comforting. Besides, she remembered how well-meant speeches had hurt her in her own sorrow and was afraid. "'Oh, it seems to me it will grow harder all the time,' said Leslie miserably. "'I've nothing to look forward to. Morning will come after morning, and he will not come back. He will never come back. Oh, when I think that I will never see him again, I feel as if a great brutal hand had twisted itself among my heartstrings, and was wrenching them. Once long ago I dreamed of love, and I thought it must be beautiful. And now it's like this.' When he went away yesterday morning, he was so cold and indifferent. He said, "'Goodbye, Mrs. Moore. In the coldest tone in the world, as if we had not even been friends, as if I meant absolutely nothing to him. I know I don't. I didn't want him to care, but he might have been a little kinder.' "'Oh, I wish Gilbert would come,' thought Anne. She was wracked between her sympathy for Leslie and the necessity of avoiding anything that would betray Owen's confidence. She knew why his good-bye had been so cold, why it could not have the cordiality that their good comradeship demanded. But she could not tell Leslie. "'I couldn't help it, Anne. I couldn't help it,' said poor Leslie. "'I know that. Do you blame me so very much? I don't blame you at all. And you won't. You won't tell Gilbert. Leslie, do you think I would do such a thing?' "'Oh, I don't know. You and Gilbert are such chums. I don't see how you could help telling him everything.' "'Everything about my own concerns, yes, but not my friend's secrets.' "'I couldn't have him know. But I'm glad you know. I would feel guilty if there were anything I was ashamed to tell you. I hope Miss Cornelia won't find out. Sometimes I feel as if those terrible, kind, brown eyes of hers read my very soul. Oh, I wish this mist would never lift. I wish I could just stay in it forever, hidden away from every living being. I don't see how I can go on with life. This summer has been so full. I never was lonely for a moment. Before Owen came, there used to be horrible moments when I had been with you and Gilbert, and then had to leave you. You two would walk away together and I would walk away alone. After Owen came, he was always there to walk home with me. We would laugh and talk as you and Gilbert were doing. There were no more lonely, envious moments for me. And now—oh, yes, I've been a fool. Let's have done talking about my folly. I'll never bore you with it again.' "'Here is Gilbert, and you are coming back with us,' said Anne, who had no intention of leaving Leslie to wander alone on the sand-bar, on such a night and in such a mood. There's plenty of room in our boat for three, and we'll tie the flat on behind.' "'Oh, I suppose I must reconcile myself to being the odd one again,' said poor Leslie with another bitter laugh. Forgive me, Anne, that was hateful. I ought to be thankful. And I am. That I have two good friends who are glad to count me in as a third. Don't mind my hateful speeches. I just seem to be one great pain all over, and everything hurts me.' Leslie seemed very quiet to-night, didn't she? said Gilbert, when he and Anne reached home. What in the world was she doing over there on the bar alone? "'Oh, she was tired. And you know she likes to go to the shore after one of Dick's bad days.' "'What a pity she hadn't met and married a fellow like Ford long ago,' illuminated Gilbert. They'd have made an ideal couple, wouldn't they?' "'For pity's sake, Gilbert, don't develop into a matchmaker. It's an abominable profession for a man,' cried Anne rather sharply, afraid that Gilbert might blunder on the truth if he kept on in this strain. "'Bless us, Anne, girl. I'm not matchmaking,' protested Gilbert, rather surprised at her tone. I was only thinking of one of the might-have-bends.' "'Well, don't. It's a waste of time,' said Anne. Then she added suddenly. "'Oh, Gilbert, I wish everybody could be as happy as we are.' End of Chapter 27. CHAPTER XXVIII. OF ANNE'S HOUSE OF DREAMS. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Then recorded by Betsy Bush, Marquette, Michigan, June 2007. Anne's House of Dreams by Lucy Mod Montgomery. CHAPTER XXVIII. Odds and Ends. "'I've been reading obituary notices,' said Miss Cornelia, laying down the daily enterprise and taking up her sewing. The harbor was lying black and sullen under a dour November sky. The wet dead leaves clung drenched and soddened to the window-sills. But the little house was gay with fire-light and spring-like with Anne's ferns and geraniums. "'It's always summer here, Anne,' Leslie had said one day, and all who were the guests of that House of Dreams felt the same. "'The enterprise seems to run to obituaries these days,' quote Miss Cornelia. It always has a couple of columns of them, and I read every line. It's one of my forms of recreation, especially when there's some original poetry attached to them. Here's a choice sample for you. She's gone to be with her maker, never more to roam. She used to play and sing with joy, the song of home, sweet home. "'Who says we haven't any lyrical talent on the island? Have you ever noticed what heaps of good people died, Anne, dearie? It's kind of pitiful. Here's ten obituaries, and every one of them saints and models even the men. Here's old Peter Stimson, who has left a large circle of friends to mourn his untimely loss. Lord, Anne, dearie, that man was eighty, and everybody who knew him had been wishing him dead these thirty years. Read obituaries when you're blue, Anne, dearie, especially the ones of folks you know. If you've any sense of humor at all, they'll cheer you up, believe me. I just wish I had the writing of the obituaries of some people. Isn't obituary an awful, ugly word? This very Peter I've been speaking of had a face exactly like one. I never saw it, but I thought of the word obituary then and there. There's only one uglier word that I know of, and that's relict. Lord, Anne, dearie, I may be an old maid, but there's this comfort in it. I'll never be any man's relic. It is an ugly word, said Anne, laughing. Avonlea Graveyard was full of old tombstones sacred to the memory of so-and-so, relict of the late so-and-so. It always made me think of something worn out in Moth-Eten. Why is it that so many of the words connected with death are so disagreeable? I do wish that the custom of calling the dead body the remains could be abolished. I positively shiver when I hear the undertaker say at a funeral, All who wish to see the remains, please step this way. It always gives me the horrible impression that I am about to view the scene of a cannibal feast. Well, all I hope, said Miss Cornelia calmly, is that when I'm dead nobody will call me our departed sister. I took a scunner at this sister-and-brothering business five years ago when there was a travelling evangelist holding meetings at the Glen. I hadn't any use for him from the start. I felt in my bones that there was something wrong with him and there was. Mind you, he was pretending to be a Presbyterian. Presbytarian, he called it. And all the time he was a Methodist. He brothered and sistered everybody. He had a large circle of relations that man had. He clutched my hand fervently one night and said imploringly, My dear Sister Brandt, are you a Christian? I just looked him over a bit and then I said calmly, The only brother I ever had, Mr. Fisk, was buried fifteen years ago and I haven't adopted any sense. As for being a Christian, I was that. I hope and believe when you were crawling about the floor in petticoats. That squelched him. Believe me. Mind you, Ann Deary. I'm not down on all evangelists. We've had some real fine earnest men who did a lot of good and made the old sinners squirm. But this Fisk man wasn't one of them. I had a good laugh all to myself one evening. Fisk had asked all who were Christians to stand up. I didn't. Believe me. I never had any use for that sort of thing. But most of them did. And then he asked all who wanted to be Christians to stand up. Nobody stirred for a spell. So Fisk started up a hymn at the top of his voice. Just in front of me poor little Ike Baker was sitting in the Millison pew. He was a homeboy, ten years old, and Millison just about worked him to death. The poor little creature was always so tired he fell asleep right off whenever he went to church or anywhere he could sit still for a few minutes. He'd been sleeping all through the meeting and I was thankful to see the poor child getting a rest. Believe me. Well, when Fisk's voice went soaring skyward and the rest joined in, poor Ike wakened with a start. He thought it was just an ordinary singing and that everybody ought to stand up. So he scrambled to his feet mighty quick. No one he'd get a coming down from Maria Millison for sleeping and meeting. Fisk saw him, stopped and shouted, Another soul saved, glory hallelujah. And there was poor frightened Ike, only half awake and yawning, never thinking about his soul at all. Poor child. He never had time to think of anything but his tired, overworked little body. Leslie went one night and the Fisk man got right after her. Oh, he was especially anxious about the souls of the nice looking girls. Believe me. And he heard her feeling 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. Leviot, our minister then, and told him if he didn't make Fisk stop that I'd just rise up the next night and throw my hymnbook at him when he mentioned that beautiful but unrepentant young woman. I'd have done it too, believe me. Mr. Leviot did put a stop to it, but Fisk kept on with his meetings until Charlie Douglas put an end to his career in the Glen. Mrs. Charlie 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, Charlie packed her off to visit her sister in Los Angeles. She got perfectly well and came home just when the Fisk 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. With her ghost, thou, to heaven or hell. That had been one of Fisk's ideas, and he had got Harry Hammond to paint it. Rose just gave a shriek and fainted, and when they got her home she was worse than ever. Charlie Douglas went to Mr. Leviot and told him that every Douglas would leave the church if Fisk was kept there any longer. Mr. Leviot had to give in, for the Douglas's paid half his salary, so Fisk departed, and we had to depend on our Bibles once more for the instructions on how to get to heaven. After he was gone, Mr. Leviot found out he was just a masquerading Methodist, and he felt pretty sick, believe me, Mr. Leviot 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'd 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 thought 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. And this world is an awful place, believe me. There's something in the world amiss. We'll be unriddled by and by, quoted Anne dreamily. If it is, it'll be in a world where there ain'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 sandbar. 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 loved to help me through this first dreadful year after mother died when I was 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 had 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 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 berries and blithes and rites assembled to devour a dinner which had cost Mrs. Rachel in Marilla much careful thought in preparation. When they went back to Four Winds, the little house was almost drifted over, for the third storm of the 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 shuffled out doors and paths, and Miss Cornelia had come down and kindled the hearthfire. It's good to see you back, Anne, dearie. But did you ever see such drifts? You can't see the moor place at all unless you go upstairs. Leslie'll be 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 plow 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 to 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 on 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. End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 of Anne's House of Dreams This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read and recorded by Betsy Bush, Marquette, Michigan, June 2007. Chapter 29 Gilbert and Anne Disagree Gilbert laid down the ponderous medical tome over which he had been pouring 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 cumbly 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 Gogg and Magog, on the sleek brown head of the beautiful setter basking on the rug, on the picture frames on the walls, on the vase full of the 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 burden. 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 tiptoe 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, asked Susan. It's not a view, 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 trefining in 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 trefining 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 sanctuary of patient's mind and body above all other considerations, no matter what the consequences may be. I believe it his duty to endeavor and 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 have 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 prejudiced against what he calls these new-fangled notions of cutting and carving. He is 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 Allenby 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 Allenby, cried Anne, most unjustly, for Gilbert had never mentioned Mrs. Allenby'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 apologize beautifully. 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 can she afford to such an operation? That is for her to decide, resisted 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 blithe stubbornness, groaned Anne, but don't do this solely on your own responsibility. Consult Dr. 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 newfangled 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 80 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've 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, or 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. End of chapter 29 For more information, or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Kirsten Ferrari. Anne's House of Dreams. By L. M. Montgomery. Chapter 30 Leslie Decides A sudden outbreak of a virulent type of influenza at the Glen and down at the Fishing Village kept Gilbert so busy for the next fortnight that he had no time to pay the promised visit to Captain Jim. Anne hoped against hope that he had abandoned the idea about Dick Moore, and resolving to let sleeping dogs lie she said no more about the subject. But she thought of it incessantly. I wonder if it would be right for me to tell him that Leslie cares for Owen, she thought. He would never let her suspect that he knew, so her pride would not suffer, and it might convince him that he should let Dick Moore alone. Shall I? Shall I? No. After all, I cannot. A promise is sacred, and I have no right to betray Leslie's secret. But oh, I never felt so worried over anything in my life as I do over this. It's spoiling the spring. It's spoiling everything. One evening Gilbert abruptly proposed that they go down and see Captain Jim. With a sinking heart Anne agreed, and they set forth. Two weeks of kind sunshine had wrought a miracle in the bleak landscape over which Gilbert's crow had flown. The hills and fields were dry and brown and warm, ready to break into bud and blossom. The harbour was laughter-shaken again. The long harbour road was like a gleaming red ribbon. Down on the dunes a crowd of boys who were out smelt fishing were burning the thick, dry sand-hill grass of the preceding summer. The flames swept over the dunes rosely, flinging their cardinal banners against the dark gulf beyond, and illuminating the channel in the fishing village. It was a picturesque scene which would at other times have delighted Anne's eyes, but she was not enjoying this walk. Neither was Gilbert. Their usual good comradeship and Josephian community of taste and viewpoint were sadly lacking. Anne's disapproval of the whole project showed itself in the haughty uplift of her head and the studied politeness of her remarks. Gilbert's mouth was set in all the blithe obstinacy, but his eyes were troubled. He meant to do what he believed to be his duty. But to be at outs with Anne was a high price to pay. All together both were glad when they reached the light, and remorseful that they should be glad. Captain Jim put away the fishing net upon which he was working, and welcomed them joyfully. In the searching light of the spring evening he looked older than Anne had ever seen him. His hair had grown much grayer, and the strong old hand shook a little, but his blue eyes were clear and steady, and the staunch soul looked out through them gallant and unafraid. Captain Jim listened in amazed silence when Gilbert said what he had come to say. Anne, who knew how the old man worshipped Leslie, felt quite sure that he would side with her, although she had not much hope that this would influence Gilbert. She was therefore surprised beyond measure when Captain Jim, slowly and sorrowfully, but unhesitatingly, gave it as his opinion that Leslie should be told. Oh, Captain Jim! I didn't think you'd say that, she exclaimed approachfully. I thought you wouldn't want to make more trouble for her. Captain Jim shook his head. I don't want to. I know how you feel about it, Mistress Blythe, just as I feel myself. But it ain't our feelings we have to steer by through life. No, no, we'd make shipwreck mighty often if we did that. There's only the one safe compass, and we've got to set our course by that. What it's right to do. I agree with the doctor. There's a chance for Dick. Leslie should be told of it. There's no two sides to that, in my opinion. Well, said Anne, giving up in despair. Wait until Miss Cornelia gets after you two men. Cornelia'll rake us for an aft, no doubt. Ascented Captain Jim. You women are lovely critters, Mistress Blythe, but you're just a mytological. You're a highly educated lady, and Cornelia isn't, but you're like as two peas when it comes to that. I don't know if you're any the worse for it. Logic is a sort of hard merciless thing, I reckon. Now I'll brew a cup of tea, and we'll drink it and talk of pleasant things, just to calm our minds a bit. At least Captain Jim's tea and conversation calmed Anne's mind to such an extent that she did not make Gilbert suffer so acutely on the way home as she had deliberately intended to do. She did not refer to the burning question at all, but she chatted amably of other matters, and Gilbert understood that he was forgiven under protest. Captain Jim seems very frail and bent this spring. The winter has aged him, said Anne sadly. I am afraid that he will soon be going to seek lost Margaret. I can't bear to think of it. Four wins won't be the same place when Captain Jim sets out to see, agreed Gilbert. The following evening he went to the house up the brook. Anne wandered dismally around until his return. Well, what did Leslie say? She demanded when he came in. Very little. I think she felt rather dazed. And is she going to have the operation? She is going to think it over and decide very soon. Gilbert flung himself wearily into the easy chair before the fire. He looked tired. It had not been an easy thing to tell Leslie, and the terror that had sprung into her eyes when the meaning of what he told her came to home to her was not a pleasant thing to remember. Now, when the die was cast, he was beset with doubts of his own wisdom. Anne looked at him remorsefully. Then she slipped down on the rug beside him, and laid her glossy red head on his arm. Gilbert, I've been rather hateful over this. I won't be any more. Please just call me red-headed and forgive me. By which Gilbert understood that, no matter what came of it, there would be no I told you so. But he was not wholly comforted. Duty in the abstract is one thing. Duty in the concrete is quite another, especially when the doer is confronted by a woman's stricken eyes. Some instinct made Anne keep away from Leslie for the next three days. On the third evening Leslie came down to the little house and told Gilbert that she had made up her mind. She would take Dick to Montreal, and have the operation. She was very pale, and seemed to have wrapped herself in her old mantle of aloofness. But her eyes had lost the look which haunted Gilbert. They were cold and bright, and she proceeded to discuss details with him in a crisp, business-like way. There were plans to be made, and many things to be thought over. When Leslie had got the information she wanted, she went home. Anne wanted to walk part of the way with her. Better not, said Leslie curtly. Today's rain has made the ground damp. Good night. Have I lost my friend? said Anne with a sigh. If the operation is successful, and Dick Moore finds himself again, Leslie will retreat into some remote fastness of her soul where none of us can ever find her. Perhaps she will leave him, said Gilbert. Leslie would never do that, Gilbert. Her sense of duty is very strong. She told me once that her grandmother West always impressed upon her the fact that, when she assumed any responsibility, she must never shirk on it, no matter what the consequences might be. That is one of her cardinal rules. I suppose it's very old-fashioned. Don't be bitter, Anne-girl. You know you don't think it's old fashioned. You know you have the very same idea of the sacredness of assumed responsibilities yourself. And you are right. Shirking responsibilities is the curse of our modern life. The secret of all the unrest and discontent that is seething in the world. Thus sayeth the preacher, mocked Anne, but under the mockery she felt that he was right. And she was very sick at heart for Leslie. A week later Miss Cornelia descended like an avalanche upon the little house. Gilbert was away, and Anne was compelled to bear the shock of the impact alone. Miss Cornelia hardly waited to get her hat off before she began. Anne, do you mean to tell me it's true what I've heard, that Dr. Blythe has told Leslie Dick can be cured and that she is going to take him to Montreal to have him operated on? Yes, it's quite true, Miss Cornelia, said Anne bravely. Well, it's inhuman cruelty, that's what it is, said Miss Cornelia, violently agitated. I did think Dr. Blythe was a decent man. I didn't think he could have been guilty of this. Dr. Blythe thought it was his duty to tell Leslie that there was a chance for Dick, said Anne with spirit, and she added, loyalty to Gilbert getting the better of her. I agree with him. Oh, no you don't, dearie, said Miss Cornelia, no person with any bowels of compassion could. Captain Jim does. Don't quote that old ninny to me, cried Miss Cornelia, and I don't care who agrees with him. Think! Think what it means to that poor hunted, harried girl. We do think of it, but Gilbert believes that a doctor should put the welfare of a patient's mind and body before all other considerations. That's just like a man. But I expected better things of you, Anne, said Miss Cornelia, more in sorrow than in wrath. Then she proceeded to bombard Anne with precisely the same arguments with which the latter had attacked Gilbert, and Anne valiantly defended her husband with the weapons he had used for his own protection. Long was the fray, but Miss Cornelia made an end at last. It's an iniquitous shame, she declared, almost in tears. That's just what it is, an iniquitous shame. Poor, poor Leslie. Don't you think Dick should be considered a little too, pleaded Anne? Dick! Dick more! He's happy enough. He's better behaved and more reputable member of society now than he ever was before. Why, he was a drunkard, and perhaps worse. Are you going to set him loose again to roar and devour? He may reform, said poor Anne, beset by foe without and traitor within. Reform your grandmother, retorted Miss Cornelia. Dick more got the injuries that left him as he is in a drunken brawl. He deserves his fate. It was sent on him for a punishment. I don't believe the doctor has any business to tamper with the visitations of God. Nobody knows how Dick was hurt, Miss Cornelia. It may not have been in a drunken brawl at all. He may have been way late and robbed. Pigs may whistle, but they've poor mouths for it, said Miss Cornelia. Well, the gist of what you tell me is that the thing is settled and there's no use in talking. If that's so, I'll hold my tongue. I don't propose to wear my teeth out gnawing files. When a thing has to be, I give in to it. But I like to make mighty sure first that it has to be. Now I'll devote my energies to comforting and sustaining Leslie. And, after all, added Miss Cornelia, brightening up hopefully, perhaps nothing can be done for Dick. CHAPTER XXXI The Truth Makes Free Leslie, having once made up her mind what to do, proceeded to do it with characteristic resolution and speed. Housecleaning must be finished with first whatever issues of life and death must await beyond. The grey 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 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, shuttered away from the future with more intolerable terror. But she went forward as unswervingly in the past 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, Ms. 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 will manage a way 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 maybe she will from a dead one. So it'll 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 that one thing would he do for us. Sometimes you know he'll make himself quite handy, bringing in pales 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, Ms. Cornelia! Now you needn't Ms. Cornelia me, Anne Deery. Anybody would have thought the same. If the Montreal doctors can make a rational creature out of Dick more, there 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 a 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 Ms. Cornelia's sarcastic comment. Anne only sighed. Leslie had been very distant at the 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. Ms. 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 a little better than a murderer, and that she thinks it's 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 Ms. Cornelia, the force of condemnation can no further go. If Cornelia Bryant was sick it would not be Dr. 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, Dr. Deere, 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, Dr. Deere, 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'm afraid something has upset Mrs. Doctor, Dr. Deere, 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 under feet so much, Dr. Deere. She did not see fit to tell me what her news was, and I am no pride, Dr. Deere, and never was. But it is plain something is 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 there grazed, 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 life 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? 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 12 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 13 years ago in Cuba. End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 of Anne's House of Dreams This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sarah Jennings Anne's House of Dreams by Lucy Maud Montgomery Chapter 32 Miss Cornelia discusses the affair And do you mean to tell me, Anne, dearie, that Dick Moore has turned out not to be Dick Moore at all, but somebody else? Is that what you phoned up to me today? Yes, Miss Cornelia, it is very amazing, isn't it? It's—it's—just like a man, said Miss Cornelia helplessly. She took off her hat with trembling fingers. For once in her life, Miss Cornelia was undeniably staggered. I can't seem to sense it, Anne, she said. I've heard you say it, and I believe you, but I can't take it in. Dick Moore is dead, has been dead all these years. And Leslie is free? Yes, the truth has made her free. Gilbert was right when he said that verse was the grandest in the Bible. Tell me everything, Anne, dearie, since I got your phone I've been in a regular muddle, believe me. Cornelia Bryant was never so curflemics before. There isn't a very great deal to tell. Leslie's letter was short. She didn't go into particulars. This man, George Moore, has recovered his memory and knows who he is. He says Dick took yellow fever in Cuba, and the four sisters had to sail without him. George stayed behind to nurse him, but he died very shortly afterwards. George did not write Leslie, because he intended to come right home and tell her himself. And why didn't he? I suppose his accident must have intervened. Gilbert says it is quite likely that George Moore remembers nothing of his accident or what led to it and may never remember it. It probably happened very soon after Dick's death. We may find out more particulars when Leslie writes again. Does she say what she's going to do? When is she coming home? She says she will stay with George Moore until he can leave the hospital. She has written to his people in Nova Scotia. It seems that George's only near relative is a married sister much older than himself. She was living when George sailed on the four sisters, but of course we do not know what may have happened since. Did you ever see George Moore, Ms. Cornelia? I did. It is all coming back to me. He was here visiting his uncle Abner 18 years ago. He and Dick would have been about 17. They were double cousins, you see. Their fathers were brothers and their mothers were twin sisters. They did look a terrible lot alike. Of course, added Ms. Cornelia scornfully. It wasn't one of those freak resemblances you read of in novels where two people are so much alike that they can fill each other's places and their nearest and dearest can't tell between them. In those days you could tell easy enough which was George and which was Dick if you saw them together near at hand. Apart or some distance away it wasn't so easy. They played lots of tricks on people and thought it great fun, the two scamps. George Moore was a little taller and a good deal fatter than Dick. Though neither of them was what you would call fat, they were both of the lean kind. Dick had higher color than George and his hair was a shade lighter. But their features were just alike and they both had that queer freak of eyes, one blue and one hazel. They weren't much alike in any other way, though. George was a real nice fellow, though he was a scallow egg for mischief, and some said he had a liking for a glass even then. But everybody liked him better than Dick. He spent about a month here. Leslie never saw him. She was only about eight or nine then and I remember now that she spent that whole winter over Harbour with her grandmother West. Captain Jim was away too. That was the winter he was wrecked on the Magdalans. I don't suppose either he or Leslie ever heard about the Nova Scotia cousin looking so much like Dick. Nobody ever thought of him when Captain Jim brought Dick, George I should say, home. Of course we all thought Dick had changed considerable. He'd got so lumpish and fat. But we put that down to what had happened to him. I no doubt that was the reason for, as I said, George wasn't fat to begin with either. There was no other way we could have guessed for the man's senses were clean gone. I can't see that it is any wonder we were all deceived. But it is a staggering thing. And Leslie has sacrificed the best years of her life to nursing a man who hadn't any claim on her. Oh, drat the men. No matter what they do, it's the wrong thing. And no matter who they are, it's somebody they shouldn't be. They do exasperate me. Gilbert and Captain Jim are men, and it is through them that the truth has been discovered at last, said Anne. Well, I admit that, conceded Miss Cornelia reluctantly. I'm sorry I raked the doctor off, so it's the first time in my life I've ever felt ashamed of anything I said to a man. I don't know as I shall tell him so, though. He'll just have to take it for granted. Well, Anne, dearie, it's a mercy that Lord doesn't answer all our prayers. I've been praying hard right along that the operation wouldn't cure Dick. Of course, I didn't put it just quite so plain. But that was what was in the back of my mind, and I have no doubt the Lord knew it. Well, he has answered the spirit of your prayer. You really wished that things shouldn't be made any harder for Leslie. I'm afraid that in my secret heart I've been hoping the operation wouldn't succeed, and I am wholesomely ashamed of it. How does Leslie seem to take it? She writes like one dazed. I think that, like ourselves, she hardly realizes it yet. She says, it all seems like a strange dream to me, Anne. That is the only reference she makes to herself. Poor child. I suppose when the chains are struck off a prisoner he'd feel queer and lost without them for a while. Anne, dearie, here's a thought keeps coming into my mind. What about Oaten Ford? We both know Leslie was fond of him. Did it ever occur to you that he was fond of her? It did once, admitted Anne, feeling that she might say so much. Well, I hadn't any reason to think he was, but it just appeared to me that he must be. Now, Anne, dearie, the Lord knows I'm not a matchmaker. I score in all such doings. But if I were you and writing to that Ford man, I'd just mention, casual like, what has happened. That's what I'd do. Of course I will mention it when I write him, said Anne, a trifle distantly. Somehow this was a thing she could not discuss with Miss Cornelia. And yet, she had to admit that the same thought had been lurking in her mind ever since she had heard of Leslie's freedom. But she would not desecrate it by free speech. Of course there is no great rush, dearie, but Dick Moore's been dead for 13 years, and Leslie has wasted enough of her life on him We'll just see what comes of it. As for this George Moore who's gone and come back to life when everyone thought he was dead and done for, just like a man, I'm real sorry for him. He won't seem to fit in anywhere. He's still a young man, and if he recovers completely, as seems likely, he will be able to make a place for himself again. It must be very strange for him, poor fellow, as opposed all these years since his accident will not exist for him. CHAPTER 33 Leslie returns. A fortnight later Leslie Moore came home alone to the old house where she had spent so many bitter years. In the June twilight she went over the fields to Anne's, and appeared with ghost-like suddenness in the scented garden. Leslie cried Anne in amazement. Where have you sprung from? We never knew you were coming. Why didn't you write? We would have met you. I couldn't write somehow, Anne. It seemed so futile to try and say anything with pen and ink, and I wanted to get back quietly and unobserved. Anne put her arms around Leslie and kissed her. Leslie returned the kiss warmly. She looked pale and tired, and she gave a little sigh as she dropped down on the grasses beside a great bed of daffodils that were gleaming through the pale, silvery twilight like golden stars. And you have come home alone, Leslie. Yes. George Moore's sister came to Montreal and took him home with her. Poor fellow. He was sorry to part with me, though I was a stranger to him when his memory first came back. He clung to me in those first hard days when he was trying to realize that Dick's death was not the thing of yesterday that it seemed to him. It was all very hard for him. I helped him all I could. When his sister came it was easier for him, because it seemed to him only the other day that he had seen her last. Fortunately she had not changed much, and that helped him too. It is also strange and wonderful, Leslie. I think we none of us realize it yet. I cannot. When I went into the house over there an hour ago I felt that it must be a dream, that Dick must be there with his childish smile as he had been for so long. And I seem stunned yet. I'm not glad or sorry or anything. I feel as if something had been torn suddenly out of my life and left a terrible hole. I feel as if I couldn't be I, as if I must have changed into somebody else and couldn't get used to it. It gives me a horrible lonely days to helpless feeling. It's good to see you again. It seems as if you were a sort of anchor for my drifting soul. Oh, Anne, I dread it all, the gossip and wonderment and questioning. When I think of that I wish that I need not have come home at all. Dr. Dave was at the station when I came off the train. He brought me home. Poor old man, he feels very badly because he told me years ago that nothing could be done for Dick. I honestly thought so lessly he said to me today. But I should have told you not to depend on my opinion. I should have told you to go to a specialist. If I had, you would have been saved many bitter years and poured George more of many wasted ones. I blame myself very much lessly. I told him not to do that. He had done what he thought right. He has always been so kind to me. I couldn't bear to see him worrying over it. And Dick, George, I mean, is his memory fully restored? Practically. Of course, there are great many details he can't recall yet, but he remembers more and more every day. He went out for a walk on the evening after Dick was buried. He had Dick's money and watch on him. He meant to bring them home to me along with my letter. He admits he went to a place where the sailors resorted, and he remembers drinking and nothing else. And I shall never forget the moment he remembered his own name. I saw him looking at me with an intelligent but puzzled expression. I said, Do you know me, Dick? And he answered, I never saw you before. Who are you? And my name is not Dick. I am George Moore, and Dick died of yellow fever yesterday. Where am I? What has happened to me? I, I fainted, Anne, and ever since I have felt as if I were in a dream. You will soon adjust to this new state of things, Leslie, and you are young. Life is before you. You will have many beautiful years yet. Perhaps I shall be able to look at it in that way after a while, Anne. Just now I feel too tired and indifferent to think about the future. I'm, I'm, Anne, I'm lonely. Isn't it all very strange? I miss Dick. Do you know, I really was fond of poor Dick. George, I suppose I should say, just as I would have been fond of a helpless child who depended on me for everything. I would never have admitted it. I was really ashamed of it, because, you see, I had hated and despised Dick so much before he went away. When I heard that Captain Jim was bringing him home, I expected I would just feel the same to him. But I never did. Although I continued to loathe him as I remembered him before. From the time he came home I felt only pity—a pity that hurt and wrung me. I suppose then that it was just because his accident had made him so helpless and changed. But now I believe it was because there really was a different personality there. Carlo knew it, Anne. I know now that Carlo knew it. I always thought it strange that Carlo shouldn't have known Dick. Dogs are usually so faithful. But he knew it was not his master who had come back, although none of the rest of us did. I had never seen George more, you know. I remember now that Dick had mentioned casually that he had a cousin in Nova Scotia who looked as much like him as a twin. But the thing had gone out of my memory, and in any case I would never have thought it of any importance. You see, it never occurred to me to question Dick's identity. Any change in him seemed to me just the result of the accident. Oh, Anne, that night in April when Gilbert told me he thought Dick might be cured. I can never forget it. It seemed to me that I had once been a prisoner in a hideous cage of torture, and then the door had been opened and I could get out. I was still chained to the cage, but I was not in it. And that night I felt that a merciless hand was drawing me back into the cage, back to a torture more terrible than it had once been. I didn't blame Gilbert. I felt he was right. And he had been very good. He said that if in view of the expense and uncertainty of the operation I decided not to risk it he would not blame me in the least. But I knew how I ought to decide. And I couldn't face it. All night I walked to the floor like a madwoman, trying to compel myself to face it. I couldn't, Anne. I thought I couldn't. And when morning broke I set my teeth and resolved that I wouldn't. I would let things remain as they were. It was very wicked, I know. It would have been just punishment for such wickedness if I had just been left to abide by that decision. I kept to it all day. That afternoon I had to go up to the Glen to do some shopping. It was one of Dick's quiet, drowsy days, so I left him alone. I was gone a little longer than I had expected. And he missed me. He felt lonely. And when I got home he ran to meet me just like a child with such a pleased smile on his face. Somehow, Anne, I gave way just then. That smile on his poor vacant face was more than I could endure. I felt as if I were denying a child the chance to grow and develop. I knew that I must give him his chance no matter what the consequences might be. So I came over and told Gilbert. Oh, Anne, you must have thought me hateful in those weeks before I went away. I didn't mean to be. But I couldn't think of anything except what I had to do. And every thing and everybody about me were like shadows. I know. I understand Leslie. And now it is all over. Your chain is broken. There is no cage. There is no cage, repeated Leslie absently, plucking at the fringing grasses with her slender brown hands. But it doesn't seem as if there were anything else, Anne. You remember what I told you of my folly that night on the sandbar? I find one doesn't get over being a fool very quickly. Sometimes I think there are people who are fools forever. And to be a fool of that kind is almost as bad as being a dog on a chain. You will feel very differently after you get over being tired and bewildered, said Anne, who, knowing a certain thing that Leslie did not know, did not feel herself called upon to waste over much sympathy. Leslie laid her splendid gold head against Anne's knee. Anyhow I have you, she said. Life can't be altogether empty with such a friend. Anne, pat my head just as if I were a little girl. Mother me a bit, and let me tell you why my stubborn tongue is loosed a little just what you and your comradeship have meant to me since that night I met you on the rock shore. CHAPTER 34 OF ANNE'S HOUSE OF DREAMS. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mary Anderson. ANNE'S HOUSE OF DREAMS by Lucy Maud Montgomery. CHAPTER 34 THE SHIP OF DREAMS COMES TO HARBOR. One morning when a windy golden sunrise was billowing over the gulf in waves of light, a certain weary stork flew over the bar of Four Winds Harbor on his way from the land of evening stars. Under his wing was tucked a sleepy starry-eyed little creature. The stork was tired, and he looked wistfully about him. He knew he was somewhere near his destination, but he could not yet see it. The big white lighthouse on the red sandstone cliff had its good points, but no stork possessed of any gumption would leave a new velvet baby there. An old gray house surrounded by willows in a blossomy brook valley looked more promising, but did not seem quite the thing either. The staring green abode further on was manifestly out of the question. Then the stork brightened up. He had caught sight of the very place. A little white house nestled against a big whispering firwood, with a spiral of blue smoke winding up from its kitchen chimney, a house which just looked as if it were meant for babies. The stork gave a sigh of satisfaction and softly alighted on the ridge pole. Half an hour later Gilbert ran down the hall and tapped on the spare-room door. A drowsy voice answered him, and in a moment Marilla's pale, scared face peeped out from behind the door. Marilla, Anne, has sent me to tell you that a certain young gentleman has arrived here. He hasn't brought much luggage with him, but he evidently means to stay. For pity's sake, said Marilla blankly, you don't mean to tell me, Gilbert, that it's all over. Why wasn't I called? Anne wouldn't let us disturb you when there was no need. Nobody was called until about two hours ago. There was no passage perilous this time. And, and Gilbert, will this baby live? He certainly will. He weighs ten pounds. And why listen to him? Nothing wrong with his lungs, is there? The nurse says his hair will be red. Anne is furious with her, and I'm tickled to death. That was a wonderful day in the little house of dreams. The best dream of all has come true, said Anne, pale and rapturous. Oh, Marilla, I hardly dare believe it, after that horrible day last summer. I have had a heartache ever since then, but it is gone now. This baby will take Joy's place, said Marilla. Oh, no, no, no, Marilla. He can't. Nothing can ever do that. He has his own place, my dear wee man-child. But little Joy has hers, and always will have it. If she had lived she would have been over a year old. She would have been toddling around on her tiny feet and lisping a few words. I can see her so plainly, Marilla. Oh, I know now that Captain Jim was right when he said God would manage better than that my baby would seem a stranger to me when I found her beyond. I've learned that this past year. I've followed her development day by day and week by week. I always shall. I shall know just how she grows from year to year. And when I meet her again I'll know her. She won't be a stranger. Oh, Marilla, look at his dear darling toes. Isn't it strange they should be so perfect? It would be stranger if they weren't, said Marilla, crisply. Now that all was safely over, Marilla was herself again. Oh, I know. But it seems as if they couldn't be quite finished. You know, and they are, even to the tiny nails. And his hands. Just look at his hands, Marilla. They appear to be a good deal like hands, Marilla conceded. See how he clings to my finger? I'm sure he knows me already. He cries when the nurse takes him away. Oh, Marilla, do you think? You don't think, do you, that his hair is going to be red? I don't see much hair of any color, said Marilla. I wouldn't worry about it if I were you until it becomes visible. Marilla, he has hair. Look at that fine little down all over his head. Anyway, nurse says his eyes will be hazel, and his forehead is exactly like Gilbert's. And he has the nicest little ears, Mrs. Dr. Deere, said Susan. The first thing I did was to look at his ears. Hair is deceitful and nose and eyes change, and you cannot tell what is going to come of them. But ears is ears from start to finish, and you always know where you are with them. Just look at their shape, and they are set right back against his precious head. You will never need to be ashamed of his ears, Mrs. Dr. Deere. Ann's convalescence was rapid and happy. Folks came and worshiped the baby as people have bowed before the kingship of the newborn since long before the wise men of the east knelt in homage to the royal babe of the Bethlehem manger. Leslie, slowly finding herself amid the new conditions of her life, hovered over it like a beautiful golden crown Madonna. Miss Cornelian nursed it as knackily as could any mother in Israel. Captain Jim held the small creature in his big brown hands and gazed tenderly at it, with eyes that saw the children who had never been born to him. What are you going to call him, asked Miss Cornelian. Ann has settled his name, answered Gilbert. James Matthew, after the two finest gentlemen I've ever known, not even saving your presence at Ann with a saucy glance at Gilbert. Gilbert smiled. I never knew Matthew very well. He was so shy we boys couldn't get acquainted with him. But I quite agree with you that Captain Jim is one of the rarest and finest souls God ever clothed in clay. He is so delighted over the fact that we have given his name to our small lad, it seems he has no other namesake. Well James Matthew was a name that will wear well and not fade in the washing, said Miss Cornelian. I'm glad you didn't load him down with some highfalutin romantic name that he'd be ashamed of when he gets to be a grandfather. Mrs. William Drew at the Glen has called her baby Birdie Shakespeare. Quite a combination, isn't it? And I'm glad you haven't had much trouble picking on a name. Some folks have an awful time. When the Stanley Flag's first boy was born there was so much rivalry as to who the child should be named for that the poor little soul had to go for two years without a name. Then a brother came along and there it was big baby and little baby. Finally they called the big baby Peter and the little baby Isaac after the two grandfathers and had them both christened together. And each tried to see if it couldn't howl the other down. You know that Highland Scotch family of McNab's back of the Glen? They've got twelve boys and the oldest and the youngest are both called Neil. Big Neil and little Neil in the same family. Well I suppose they ran out of names. I have read somewhere laughed Anne that the first child is a poem, but the tenth is a very prosy prose. Perhaps Mrs. McNab thought that the twelfth was merely an old tale retold. Well there's something to be said for a large family said Miss Cornelia with a sny. I was an only child for eight years and I did long for a brother and sister. Mother told me to pray for one and pray I did, believe me. Well one day Aunt Nellie came to me and said, Cornelia, there is a little brother for you upstairs in your ma's room. You can go up and see him. I was so excited and delighted I just flew upstairs. An old Mrs. Flagg lifted up the baby for me to see. Lord Anne, dearie, I never was so disappointed in my life. You see, I'd been praying for a brother two years older than myself. How long did it take you to get over your disappointment asked Anne, amid her laughter? Well I had a spite at Providence for a good spell, and for weeks I wouldn't even look at the baby. Anne knew why, for I never told. Then he began to get real cute and held out his wee hands to me, and I began to get fond of him. But I didn't get really reconciled to him until one day a school chum came to see him and said she thought he was awful small for his age. I just got boiling mad and I sailed right into her, and told her she didn't know a nice baby when she saw one, and ours was the nicest baby in the world. And after that I just worshiped him. Mother died before I was three years old, and I was sister and mother to him both. Poor little lad, he was never strong, and he died when he wasn't much over twenty. Seems to me it I'd have given anything on earth, Anne, dearie, if he'd only lived. Miss Cornelia sighed. Gilbert had gone down, and Leslie, who had been crooning over the small James Matthew in the dormer window, laid him asleep in his basket and went her way. As soon as she was safely out of earshot, Miss Cornelia bent forward and said in a conspirator's whisper, Anne, dearie, I had a letter from Owen Ford yesterday. He's a Vancouver just now, but he wants to know if I can board him for a month later on. You know what that means. Well, I hope we're doing right. We've nothing to do with it. We couldn't prevent him from coming to Four Winds if we wanted to, said Anne quickly. She did not like the feeling of matchmaking Miss Cornelia's whispers gave her, and then she weakly succumbed herself. Don't let Leslie know he is coming until he is here, she said. If she found out, I feel sure she would go away at once. She intends to go in the fall anyhow. She told me so the other day. She's going to Montreal to take up nursing and make what she can of her life. Oh, well, Anne, dearie, said Miss Cornelia, nodding sagely. That is all as it may be. You and I have done our part, and we must leave the rest to higher hands. End of Chapter 34. Chapter 35, Anne's House of Dreams. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Bergoine. Anne's House of Dreams by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Chapter 35, Politics and Four Winds. When Anne came downstairs again, the island, as well as all Canada, was in the throes of a campaign preceding a general election. Gilbert, who was an ardent conservative, found himself caught in the vortex, being much in demand for speech-making at the various county rallies. Miss Cornelia did not approve of his mixing up in politics, and told Anne so. Dr Dave never did it. Dr Blythe will find he is making a mistake. Believe me, politics is something no decent man should meddle with. Is the government of the country to be left solely to the rogues, then? Asked Anne. Yes, so long as it's conservative rogues, said Miss Cornelia, marching off with the honours of war. Men and politicians are all tarred with the same brush. The grits haven't laid on thicker than the conservatives. That's all considerably thicker. But grit or Tory, my advice to Dr Blythe, is to steer clear of politics. First thing you know, he'll be running an election himself, and going off to Ottawa for half the year and leaving his practice to go to the dogs. Ah, well, let's not burrow trouble, said Anne. The rate of interest is too high. Instead, let's look at little gem. It should be spelled with a G. Isn't he perfectly beautiful? Just see the dimples in his elbows. We'll bring him up to be a good conservative. You and I, Miss Cornelia. Bring him up to be a good man, said Miss Cornelia. They're scarce and valuable. Though, mind you, I wouldn't like to see him a grit. As for the election, you and I may be thankful we don't live over harbour. The air there is blue these days. Every Elliott and Crawford and McAllister is on the war path, loaded for bear. This side is peaceful and calm, seeing there's so few men. Captain Jim's a grit, but it's my opinion he's ashamed of it, that he never talks politics. There isn't any earthly doubt that the conservatives will be returned with a big majority again. Miss Cornelia was mistaken. On the morning after the election, Captain Jim dropped in at the little house to tell the news. So virulent is the microbe of party politics, even in a piece of old man, that Captain Jim's cheeks were flushed and his eyes were flashing with all his old time fire. Mistress Blythe, the liberals are in with a sweeping majority. After 18 years of Tory mismanagement, this downtrodden country is going to have a chance at last. I never heard you make such a bitter partisan speech before, Captain Jim. I didn't think you had so much political venom in you, Lafdan, who was not much excited over the tidings. Little Jim had said, wow, God, that morning. What were principalities and powers, the rise and fall of dynasties, the overthrow of grit or Tory, compared with that miraculous occurrence? It's been accumulating for a long while, said Captain Jim, with a deprecating smile. I thought I was only a moderate grit. But when the news came that we were in, I found out how gritty I really was. You know, the doctor and I are conservatives. Ah, well, it's the only bad thing I know of either of you, Mistress Blythe. Cornelia is a Tory, too. I called in on my way from the Glen to tell her the news. Didn't you know you took your life in your hands? Yes, but I couldn't resist the temptation. How did she take it? Comparatively calm, Mistress Blythe. Comparatively calm. She says, says she, well, Providence sends seasons of humiliation to a country, same as to individuals. You grits have been cold and hungry for many a year. Make haste to get warmed and fed, for you won't be in long. Well, now, Cornelia, I says, maybe Providence thinks Canada needs a real long spell of humiliation. Ah, Susan, have you heard the news? The Liberals are in. Susan had just come in from the kitchen, attended by the odour of delectable dishes, which always seemed to hover around her. Now, are they, she said, with beautiful unconcern? Well, I never could see that that my bread rose just as light when grits were in, as when they were not. And if any party, Mrs. Doctor, dear, will make it rain before the week is out and save our kitchen garden from entire ruination. That is the party Susan will vote for. In the meantime, will you just step out and give me your opinion on the meat for dinner? I am fearing that it is very tough. And I think that we had better change our butcher, as well as our government. One evening, a week later, Anne walked down to the point to see if she could get some fresh fish from Captain Jim, leaving Little Jim for the first time. It was quite a tragedy. Suppose he cried. Suppose Susan did not know just exactly what to do for him. Susan was calm and serene. I have had as much experience with him as you, Mrs. Doctor, dear. Have I not? Yes, with him, but not with other babies. Why? I looked after three pairs of twins when I was a child, Susan. When they cried, I gave them peppermint or castor oil quite coolly. It's quite curious now to recall how lightly I took all those babies and their woes. Oh, well, if Little Jim cries, I will just clap a hot water bag on his little stomach, said Susan. Not too hot, you know, said Anne anxiously. Oh, was it really wise to go? Do not you fret, Mrs. Doctor, dear. Susan is not the woman to burn a wee man. Bless him. He has no notion of crying. Anne tore herself away finally and enjoyed her walk to the point, after all, through the long shadows of the sun setting. Captain Jim was not in the living room of the lighthouse, but another man was a handsome middle-aged man with the strong, clean shave and chin, who was unknown to Anne. Nevertheless, when she sat down, he began to talk to her with all the assurance of an old acquaintance. There was nothing amiss in what he said or the way he said it, but Anne rather resented such cool taking for granted in a complete stranger. Her replies were frosty and as few as decency required, nothing daunted her companion talked on for several minutes, then excused himself and went away. Anne could have sworn there was a twinkle in his eye and it annoyed her. Who was the creature? There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she was certain that she had never seen him before. Captain Jim, who was that who just went out? She asked as Captain Jim came in. Marshal Elliott answered the Captain. Marshal Elliott cried Anne. Oh, Captain Jim, it wasn't. Yes, it was his voice. Oh, Captain Jim, I didn't know him and I was quite insulting to him. Why didn't he tell me he must have seen I didn't know him? He wouldn't say a word about it. He'd just enjoy the joke. Don't worry over snubbing him. He'll think it fun. Yes, Marshal shaved off his beard at last and cut his hair. His party is in, you know. I didn't know him myself first time I saw him. He was up in Carter's flake's door at the Glen the night after election day along with a crowd of others waiting for the news. About 12 the phone came through. The liberals were in. Marshal just got up and walked out. He didn't cheer or shout. He left the others to do that and they nearly lifted the roof off Carter's store. I reckon. Of course, all the Tories were over in Raymond Rutherford's store. Not much cheering there. Marshal went straight down the street to the side door of Augustus Palmer's shop. Augustus was in bed asleep, but Marshal hammered on the door until he got up and come down, wanting to know what all the racket was about. Come into your shop and do the best job you ever did in your life, Gus said Marshal. The liberals are in and you're going to barber a good grit before the sun rises. Gus was mad as hops partly because he'd been dragged out of bed, but more because he's a Tory. He vowed he wouldn't shave any man after 12 at night. You'll do what I want you to do, Sonny, said Marshal, or I'll just turn you over my knee and give you one of those fankings your mother forgot. He'd have done it too and Gus knew it, for Marshal is as strong as an ox and Gus is only a midget of a man. So he gave in and towed Marshal into the shop and went to work. Now, says he, I'll barber you up, but if you say one word to me about the grits getting in while I'm doing it, I'll cut your throat with this razor, says he. You wouldn't have thought my old little bus could be so bloodthirsty, would you? Shows what party politics will do for a man. Marshal kept quiet and got his hair and beard disposed of and went home. When his old housekeeper heard him come upstairs, she peeked out of her bedroom door to see whether it was him or the hired boy and when she saw a strange man striding down the hall with the candle in his hand, she screamed blue murder and fainted dead away. They had to send for the doctor before they could bring her to and it was several days before she could look at Marshal without shaking all over. Captain Jim had no fish. He seldom went out in his boat that summer and his long-tramping expeditions were over. He spent a great deal of his time sitting by his seawood window looking out over the gulf with his swiftly whitening head leaning on his hand. He sat there tonight for many silent minutes keeping some twist with the past which Anne would not disturb. Presently he pointed to the iris of the west. That's beautiful, isn't it, Mistress Blythe? But I wish he could have seen the sunrise this morning. It was a wonderful thing, wonderful. I've seen all kinds of sunrises come over the gulf. I've been all over the world, Mistress Blythe, and take it all in all. I've never seen a finer sight than a summer sunrise over the gulf. A man can't pick his time for dying, Mistress Blythe. Just got to go when the great Captain gives his sailing orders. But if I could, I'd go out when the morning comes across that water. I've watched it many a time and thought what a thing it would be to pass out through that great white glory to whatever was waiting beyond on a seed that ain't mapped out on any earthly chart. I think, Mistress Blythe, that I'd find lost Margaret there. Captain Jim had often talked to Anne of Lost Margaret since he had told her the old story. His love for her trembled in every tone. That love that had never grown faint or forgetful. Anyway, I hope when my time comes I'll go quick and easy. I don't think I'm a coward, Mistress Blythe. I've looked an ugly death in the face more than once without blenching. But the thought of a lingering death does give me a queer, sick feeling of horror. Don't talk about leaving us, dear. Dear Captain Jim, pleaded Anne, in a choked voice, patting the old brown hand, once so strong, but now grown very feeble. What would we do without you? Captain Jim smiled beautifully. Oh, you'd get along nicely, nicely, but you wouldn't forget the old man altogether, Mistress Blythe. No, I don't think you'll ever quite forget him. The race of Joseph always remembers one another, but it'll be a memory that won't hurt. I like to think that my memory won't hurt my friends. It'll always be kind of pleasant to them. I hope and believe. It won't be very long now before Lost Margaret calls me for the last time. I'll be all ready to answer. I just spoke of this because there's a little favour I want to ask you. Here's this poor old mate here, mate. Captain Jim reached out a hand and poked the big, warm, velvety golden ball on the sofa. The first mate uncoiled himself like a spring with a nice throaty, comfortable sound. Half purr, half meow, stretched his paws in air, turned over and coiled himself up again. He'll miss me when I start on the voyage. I can't bear to think of leaving the poor critter to starve like he was left before. If anything happens to me will you give mate a bite and a corner, Mistress Blythe? Indeed I will. Then that is all I had on my mind. Your little gem is to have the few curious things I picked up. I've seen to that. And now I don't like to see tears in those pretty eyes, Mistress Blythe. I'll maybe hang on for quite a spell yet. I heard you reading a piece of poetry one day last winter, one of Tennyson's pieces. I'd sort of like to hear it again if you could recite it for me, softly and clearly, while the sea wind blew in on them, and repeated the beautiful lines of Tennyson's wonderful swan song, Crossing the Bar. The old captain kept time gently with his sinewy hand. Yes, yes, Mistress Blythe, he said, when she had finished. That's it, that's it. He wasn't a sailor. You tell me, I don't know how he could have put an old sailor's feelings into words like that, if he wasn't one. He didn't want any sadness though, farewells, and neither do I, Mistress Blythe, for all will be well with me and mine beyond the bar. End of chapter 35